In Laapataa Ladies, a simple family from a small village is jostled into a state of confusion after their new bride is accidentally swapped with another. India’s official entry for the Best International Feature Film at the 97th Academy Awards and Kiran Rao’s second directorial venture, thirteen years after her acclaimed debut, Dhobi Ghat, is the most heartwarming Indian film of the year. With a host of positive characters, light-hearted banter, engaging drama, and feminist undertones, the film captures a utopian version of middle-class, rural India that is appealing to the dreamer within all of us.
The story follows the journey of both women simultaneously as they are thrust into an environment outside their comfort zone. Fresh faces, Nitanshi Goel and Pratibha Ranta, do a splendid job at highlighting the contrasting personalities and growth of their respective characters. But the heart of the film lies not just in these two brides. It is also in all the people around them, Deepak, Phool’s husband who becomes Jaya’s confidante, Manju Maai, a tea stall owner who pushes Phool to stand on her own feet, and all the other family members, police officer, station master, villagers, who were instrumental in their path towards freedom. Laapataa Ladies is a sensitive, emotional film that aims to restore our faith in humanity.
2. Do Aur Do Pyaar
Do Aur Do Pyaar is a brilliant portrayal of the messiness of modern day relationships. In this romantic drama, a couple in a stale marriage look for intimacy elsewhere until a passionate night reignites the spark between them and reminds them of the love they have lost. Directed by Shirsha Guha Thakurta and written by Suprotim Sengupta, Amrita Bagchi, and Eisha Chopra, this remake of 2017 Hollywood film, The Lovers, maintains a morally ambiguous perspective on infidelity. It’s a mature take on the impermanence of love, showing how loneliness and dissatisfaction can slowly turn a love marriage into a loveless one.
Apart from the stellar writing and direction, highlighting humanely flawed characters that are as fickle as any of us, the story’s relatability also hinges on the performances and chemistry between the lead actors. Vidya Balan and Pratik Gandhi exhibit a strong range of emotions with limited expressions, fully engrossing us in their muddled lives. They make the journey from a distanced long-term couple to a revived teenage romance believable. With their raw infectious energy and a thematic narrative on the complexities of the institution of marriage, Do Aur Do Pyaar is a delightful watch.
3. Merry Christmas
When one thinks of neo-noir thrillers in India, the first name that comes to mind is Sriram Raghavan. The film director has established himself as an auteur in the genre with works such as Andhadhun, Johnny Gaddar, Badlapur, and Ek Hasina Thi. Merry Christmas is the latest addition to this list. Based off a French novel Le Monte-Charge (Bird in a Cage), the story follows a tentative romance between two strangers on Christmas Eve that soon takes a dark turn involving a serious crime, manipulative individuals, and uncomfortable pasts.
Unlike his previous films that were filled with rapid movement, this plot unfolds in a slow but clever fashion. It focuses more on character development and emotional connection than on surprising twists and turns. In fact, some fans of the filmmaker may be disappointed if they expected content as exhilarating as his previous work. But if we take off our biased lenses and look at the film with a fresh perspective, we witness a masterful romantic thriller that exudes a passion like no other. From the unusual chemistry between the starkly different Katrina Kaif and Vijay Sethupathi, to the emphasis on a burden of empathy that forces people to make unfortunate decisions, to a convoluted arc of redemption, this is Raghavan’s most raw, emotional, and grounded film. Merry Christmas requires patience but the satisfaction we feel by the end is worth it.
4. Girls Will Be Girls
There are few Hindi coming of age dramas where female characters are at the forefront. Udaan, Dil Chahta Hai, Wake Up Sid, Lakshya, all feature young boys journeying towards maturity, and the one or two films that center on women, like Queen or Gippi, don’t veer deeply into female sexuality. Girls Will Be Girls is a refreshing change in this genre. In director Shuchi Talati’s debut feature film, a teenager dabbles in romance with a charming new student at boarding school while navigating a tense relationship with her mother. The story tackles the transition from girlhood to womanhood as Meera experiments outside her comfort zone, experiencing a sexual awakening in this conservative environment.
It’s a deeply personal film that resonates with all women who have once been young girls teetering on the brim between obedience and rebellion. The way the writing captures the transformation of the mother-daughter relationship as the daughter’s understanding of womanhood gives her a greater insight into her mother’s pains and struggles is remarkable. Girls Will Be Girls is an important watch for women, for daughters, for mothers, but also for men who have little understanding of the subtle pressures that plague young girls. The biggest irony is in the title itself. Boys often use the phrase ‘boys will be boys’ as an excuse, but the film shows that girls don’t have the liberty to rely on the similar ‘girls will be girls’.
5. Amar Singh Chamkila
Biopics have become a common sight in Indian cinema. With the typical character arc of birth, growth, obstacle, and triumph, this genre captures the lives of celebrated sports stars, artistic personalities, political dignitaries, and many other known figures. Despite their commercial success, these cliched films have little to no novelty remaining. The constant concerns of accuracy when converting reality to fiction also constrains filmmakers from experimenting and attempting something new within the genre. But Imtiaz Ali is not one to be restrained by boundaries. After a temporary career downfall in which he delivered a slew of subpar content, Ali makes a comeback with Amar Singh Chamkila, a refreshing biopic on the influential Punjabi musician of the same name.
Chamkila’s life may have been short lived, but it was eventful. In this non-linear narrative, the acclaimed writer director makes use of animated frames and visual dramatics backed by a powerful score, to highlight the character’s vivacious journey. We are immersed in an ethereal musical experience, which alone elevates it beyond the realms of a typical biopic. But thematically as well, the film is remarkable in the way it explores the political ramifications of his music. Neither does it place Chamkila on a pedestal, nor does it tear him apart for his controversial lyrics. Instead, it offers a multi-faceted perspective of his career in lieu of the socio-political climate of that time. Chamkila was a unique individual, in a unique world, at a unique time, and this biopic with its offbeat measures expresses just that.
6. Berlin
Berlin is a masterclass in storytelling. It’s a perfect example of how cinematic techniques and meticulous writing can be used to elevate a simple plot into a magnificent entertainer. This spy thriller, written and directed by Atul Sabharwal, follows a sign-language teacher who discovers a web of lies & deceit when he is appointed by the government to interrogate an accused deaf and mute spy on a confidential case.
Thematically, the film attempts nothing new with a focus on government unreliability and the struggles of a common man. The predictable revelations further expose the feeble foundation of the screenplay. However, the way sign language, flashbacks, shot composition and music are used to establish the mood is commendable. We are instantly transported into the murky world of politics, crime, and corruption in 90s Delhi. Technical elegance emphasizes the sullen atmosphere and the fantastic performances of Ishwak Singh, Aparshakti Khurrana, and Rahul Bose engross us in this otherwise basic plot. Berlin turns the mundane into the extraordinary, making it, undoubtably, one of the best films of the year.
7. Fairy Folk
Indie cinema is still seldom appreciated in India. With a strong commercial hub dominating, there is little room for small-budget, experimental cinema. Fairy Folk is one such film that traversed festival circuits and had a limited theatrical release but received little to no recognition from the public. It is so unknown that even streaming platforms are unwilling to give it space, prompting the makers to share it for free online with an at will donation. However, despite its obscurity, the film is one of the strongest of the year and deserves credit for the way it tackles themes of love, sexuality, and entitlement in a marriage. In this poignant drama, a couple finds the dynamics of their relationship shifting after a strange encounter with a mysterious being. This supernatural figure with no gender and queer transformational abilities permeates their lives forcing them to address uncomfortable attractions and growing distances.
Writer-director Karan Gour expertly blends fantasy and reality by grounding the weird, otherworldly occurrences with raw conversations. He emits authenticity in the interactions by using improvisation over written dialogue, which allows the actors, real-life couple Mukul Chadda and Rasika Dugal, more room to explore and build upon their characters and their reel romance. The magical elements only serve as metaphors for relevant issues that plague these individuals. At the core, Fairy Folk is a human story that deserves acknowledgement for its original premise, wacky plot development, and thought-provoking themes on modern relationships.
8. Kill
If brutal, gut-wrenching violence is not your cup of tea, then this film is not for you. Kill, the story of an army commando facing off against a team of bandits on a moving train, has been touted the most violent film made in India and relies heavily on its tantalizing gore to engage the audience. But it is far more than just that. It is an energetic hostage thriller, a middle ground between the survival drama, The Burning Train, and the serious real-life tragedy, Neerja, as well as a thematically relevant narrative that questions the basis of vengeance.
Instead of parroting the typical good vs. evil trope, writer-director Nikhil Nagesh Bhat blurs the lines between perpetrator and aggrieved. Stunning performances by debutante Laksh Lalwani as the commando and dancer/actor Raghuv Juyal as the psychopathic bandit animate the intense rivalry which begins on clear moral grounds but soon shifts towards an animalistic furor, prompting the audience to question whether violence is truly the answer. This powerful theme packaged within well-choreographed, chaotic action sequences and mind-numbing carnage is what differentiates Kill from the scores of action films out there.
9. Khel Khel Mein
It has been a while since a good, entertaining, ensemble Hindi film has graced the theaters. We have grown so accustomed to the average commercial affair that our expectations from any comedic film with a large cast is severely low. But Khel Khel Mein raises the bar once again. As the 28th remake of 2016 Italian film, Perfect Strangers, the story follows a group of friends that discover a plethora of secrets about one another while engaging in a playful game over the course of a night.
What could have easily become a routine, meaningless slapstick comedy ends up emerging as a sharp entertainer. Writer-director Mudassar Aziz, in his best work till date, seamlessly balances comedy and drama. Hilarious events are intermingled with meaningful conversations on marriage and relationships. Though many of the twists are predictable, the chemistry between this group of seven, whether it is the different situations of each couple, or the deep female friendships, or the brotherly affection between the elder men and the younger boys, draws us into this world where each character’s reaction to the secrets is far more exciting than the revelation itself. With witty humor, a smartly composed screenplay, and fabulous performances, Khel Khel Mein is a delightful watch.
10. Agni
Indian cinema is bereft of firefighter representation. While police, hospitals, army, and other emergency life-saving services are a regular part of our stories, fire safety is a rare sight. Hence, Agni’s premise itself makes it an anomaly. In this engaging action-drama, Vitthal, a fire chief investigates a series of unexplained fires while battling society’s flippancy towards his profession. He additionally navigates a contentious relationship with his acclaimed police officer brother-in-law, Samit, who is much more highly regarded by the public, including by Vitthal’s own son.
The adrenaline filled chaos of fire rescue and emotionally charged themes of sacrifice build a thrilling atmosphere. Despite a plain and predictable plot, it is hard not to get invested in these firefighters, their family dynamics, and personal camaraderie, as they regularly put their lives on the line without being designated as ‘heroes’. The story further explores the tense power dynamics between the police and fire department, through Vitthal and Samit’s uncomfortable familial bond. By delving deep into the inner workings of the fire department and the mental strain on those who work there, Agni is an engaging tribute to an under appreciated profession.
The way Superman depicted complicit civilians is gonna stick with me.
Because usually when you have your villain, usually the civilians working for them are gonna be largely faceless or cowed. And then when the hero crashes the scene, only the armed goons are taken out while said civilians flee to remove any questions.
In here though, you can tell they all enjoy working for Luthor. The technicians in his hq have fun plugging in directions to Ultraman. And those in the base camp wear tropical shirts while listening to music and playing games on their downtime. Nobody is working with rigid confirmity nor are there moral reservations (the only objection shown was when his obsession almost got them killed).
So when Mr. Terrific arrived on the scene, it is actually fitting that he wiped out the workers alongside the armed goons.
Also the way Superman's fellow prisoners not only attempted to snitch on him but actually tried to out snitch each other deserves a whole other analysis.
Where older brothers do sometimes know best… (potential superpower lore for future fics?)
Masterlist
Bruce’s study was cold.
Dark.
Pragmatic.
A contrast to Clark’s ever-present warmth— or at the very least his cosy apartment, filled to the brim with your trinkets mixed with his own.
Sometimes he wondered how you both were related, but he stood his ground.
Sweaty hands clenched at his sides, jaw uncharacteristically tight, but when it came to you, he wouldn't back down— not even to your brother.
Bruce’s voice cut through the silence he thrived in (even though he definitely was finding some cruel enjoyment in the way the man before him squirmed).
“You need to end it.”
Clark blinked slowly, calmly. “I’m not going to do that Bruce.”
Bruce’s glare was sharp as ever. “She’s not safe with you. You know that.”
Clark’s tone stayed quiet, but steady. Something Bruce lacked. “I protect her. All this time—”
“For the record, I’ve never been okay with it.” Clark tilted his head, like a confused puppy. “Even when I thought you were just some snivelling photographer—“
“Journalist.”
Bruce abruptly rose from his chair— expensive, leather. “You draw attention. You have enemies— galactic ones, Kent. They’ll use her to get to you. That makes her a target.”
Clark didn’t flinch.
“And what about you?” His typically warm eyes flashed with a foreign iciness— a hint of steel beneath all the mellowness. “You live in a manor with a cave under it filled with weapons! You…You go out every night picking fights with…With psychopaths! She’s your sister— everyone knows that! Do you think she’s safer with Batman?”
Bruce’s expression darkened. “That’s different. I control my world. You bring in things we can’t even understand…For God’s sake you aren’t even human—“
Clark stepped closer now. “She knows who I am, Bruce.”
Silence.
“She knows. I told her.”
Bruce’s fists tightened. “You what?”
“She has the right to know who she’s trusting her heart with— you think I could hide something for this long? From the person I love? I don’t lie to her.”
The accusation was unspoken— but it was there.
Clark’s voice softened. “She knows I’m Superman. She knew before we ever…” He became coy. “B-Before this became serious. She’s smarter than you give her credit for and she chose to stay. Just like she chooses to pretend she doesn’t notice her brother who disappears every night with cracked ribs and blood on his shoes.”
Bruce’s lip twitched, but he said nothing.
“If you’re going to call me dangerous,” Clark said, his voice calm but unyielding, “then at least be honest about what she’s already survived. From both of us.”
Bruce’s expression twisted— not with hatred, but with that rare, vulnerable rage he only showed when he was scared. He would’ve weaponised it if he had seen it flicker across the face of the man in front of him, but luckily that man was a better one.
Clark took a breath, gentler now. “I love her. And I would die before I let anything happen to her.”
“Don’t make me bury her.” Bruce said, voice rough, not a threat— a plea. Acceptance…Almost.
“Then stop pushing away the people who’d die to protect her too.”
You knew the moment you waltzed into the room that something had happened.
Your brother was stood— not sat in that ugly old chair you knew he liked to pose in, dramatically role playing his Godfather-esque fantasies of intimidation from; jaw ticking in that ‘I just threatened someone’ manner and Clark— oh, your poor Clark.
That sweet, gentle, usually soft-spoken good boy was standing a little too taught— too calm. Even for him. Like he was trying not to look rattled, and failing spectacularly.
Your brother was a good actor, your Kryptonian lover…Not so much.
“…You two are so weird.” You couldn’t even be bothered to dissect it. “The vibe is totally off in this room. Clarkie did you interview him about his Mommy issues again?”
Bruce scoffed and Clark’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “N-No…I— We were uh— were just...talking.”
Bruce, not even attempting a cover-up, huffed. “Debating.”
Clark side-eyed him, unimpressed. “Discussing.”
You crossed your arms. “Right…” You were impatient. A trait Clark regularly found amusing but mildly frustrating at the best of times— not that he could ever hate you for it. “So are you both just going to stand there and continue to pretend you didn’t just lie to me or…Can we leave? Because I must say, you are looking particularly delectable—“
Bruce didn’t bother to mask his expression of disgust as you made heart eyes at your boyfriend. “You shouldn’t be involved with someone like him.” You didn’t catch the double-meaning. “I have rich friends you know. Powerful, too.”
Clark looked mortified, your direct bluntness flustering him even after all this time.
But how could you help it? He was so gentle— so calm. Even after clearly being scorned by your brother (no wonder his only friend was Alfred). You felt a rush of protectiveness disguised as affection so strong it nearly toppled you over.
You pulled a face at the only other Wayne and draped yourself over your boyfriend’s deliciously muscular bicep, wanting nothing more than to smother him with kisses.
“Ignore him. He’s just jealous that money can’t buy gentlemanliness and he’ll be single and lonely forever.”
Clark tried to interject but you had already spun on your patent kitten heels, throwing a vulgar gesture behind your back (one Clark couldn’t see of course).
“Not jealous.”
“Yeah you keep telling yourself that Brucey.”
—
The barren snowscape surrounding the Fortress was quiet.
Eerie.
As though it was all too aware of the true horrors inside the otherwise pristine crystal enclosure— one now stained with you.
Clark held your body in his arms, rocking slowly on his knees, tears rolling down his own bloodied cheeks.
He was a man unafraid of crying.
He had fought— hard.
Hell, even the Justice Gang couldn’t hold off what Luthor had thrown at them this time.
His cape was torn, the city burned, he needed to heal…but he didn’t care. Blood was everywhere— yours. Too much. Too fast. His hand was pressed hard to the wound in your side, but it was too late.
Superman had found him— on that roof, and Lex had taken his winning shot. Not at him this time, but at what mattered most.
You.
Bruce had been right.
“No…No, no, please—” Clark’s voice cracked with his resolve. “Sweetheart stay with me, please— please don’t leave me—”
Your skin was cold.
Colder than the floor he cradled you upon.
Lips blue.
Pulse fading.
His yell was guttural, begging 4, no— Gary to help. To do something— anything.
He felt as though his insides were borne of Kryptonite, a stingingly cruel fate watching you helplessly drift from him and there was nothing he could do.
Bruce— Batman stood over you, his face like stone.
The fight had been long.
Catastrophic.
He knew Clark wasn’t to blame, there had been other casualties. Failed heroes.
It had spilled into Gotham, some joint masterplan, so he had answered the call.
He hadn’t expected his sister to be at the forefront.
His gloved hands moved fast, already poised at the alien console, keying in commands Clark didn’t even want to know how he knew.
Bruce’s stoicism betrayed the ache in his own chest— he was distracting himself. Holding back his own panic by doing what he knew best.
“We can bring her back,” Bruce said lowly. “But it’s risky. And it’s going to hurt.”
Clark looked up, eyes red. “She’s dying Bruce—“ he couldn’t find the air he desperately sought with every choked gasp, “I can’t— She’s—”
“I said I can save her. I mean it.”
A machine unfolded from the wall— The solar infusion chamber. Originally meant to restore Kal-el’s cells…Now hacked. Reprogrammed. Kryptonian tech mixed with Wayne modifications— A gamble.
Clark didn’t have the energy to fight.
He didn’t care to know what your brother had been trying to do— how he knew its location or why he so quickly was able to take control of the system. That wasn’t important now.
“You…You want to fuse her with solar energy?” Clark instinctively shielded your limp form. “She’s human— her…her body can’t—”
“She won’t be for long.”
Clark faltered.
Bruce locked eyes with him. “Joker tried taking everything from me,” he began, wistful, though that appeared to be the extent of his emotional outpouring as he quickly quietened.
Especially to the heartbroken man snivelling in front of him.
“I’m not letting Lex do that to you.” His voice was stern “Put her in the chamber Kent.”
Clark hesitated. You were still. Barely breathing. And yet—
A murmur.
The smallest whisper of a heartbeat only his super hearing could detect. You were still there— just.
He let himself cradle your jaw, thumb shakily caressing the apple of your cheek he wished more than anything would glow with life once more.
He couldn’t live without you.
“Clark!”
The taller man trembled as he gently placed you inside the pod like you were made of paper, hands still shaking even as he pulled away, wanting nothing more than to shield you from harm.
The machine came alive.
Blazing white and gold light poured down on you. The chamber filled with heat so intense even Clark— whose contraption it was, staggered back in suprise.
Then you screamed.
It was worse than anything. Ever.
Clark wished he had never heard it because he knew it would haunt him forevermore, a ghostly memory that would keep him awake for countless nights to come.
Your back arched.
Body convulsing and light pouring from your skin as you wailed in agony, as though it was setting you alight from the inside. He didn’t know whether to cry out in hope— your pain proof of life, or in despair at the sheer suffering.
Clark surged forward, skin prickling as you burned before him. “Turn it off! Bruce she’s—she’s screaming! It’s hurting her—“
Your Brother’s voice reminded steady. “If I stop it now, she dies. You want that Kansas?”
Clark’s dirtied hands clawed at the machine, fruitlessly in an attempt to reach you in some way— anyway. “S-She’s in pain!”
“I know.”
Clark was shaking. His fists against the chamber. “Please...Please…” He closed his eyes as your screeching persisted, desiring only to help you— take the pain away, absorb it himself if he could. Trade his life for yours.
He had failed you.
Silence.
The chamber unlocked.
Your body slumped forward.
Clark dropped to his knees again, catching you just before you fell. He cupped your face, memorising every feature— picturing the way you would wake up every morning with a sleepy frown and bleary eyes, his name on your lips. “Sweetheart please…Please come back to me. Please…” His begging was pathetic, but he didn’t care.
Your eyes fluttered open.
Gold.
Not human.
Like the sun had stolen your soul and refused to let it go until you surrendered to its magnitude— alight.
You gasped in his arms as you caught your breath and Clark choked out a cry— half-laugh, half-sob, burying his face into your bloodied hair.
“You’re here,” he rocked you in disbelief. “You’re here, you’re alive! I’m— I’m so sorry I—“
You reached up, dazed, your hand dusting his cheek, “C-Clark?” A glittering warmth blooming where your fingers had touched— the bruises on his jaw begging to fade.
Clark stilled.
You blinked.
“S-Sunshine has a whole new m-meaning to it now huh babe?” Your voice was meek— an attempted joke at the fond nickname he had taken to giving you. Jesus you sounded rough (not like you had died or anything).
His dimples showed but the joy didn’t quite reach his eyes which were still wet with tears— as if he couldn’t quite believe you were talking.
Bruce cleared his throat, face unreadable. “You’re glowing.”
Your neck ached as you turned, surprised at the sound of your brother’s voice.
“…Does that mean I’m a Superhero?” Another joke to mask the unease you felt crawling across your pearlescent complexion, your Lover’s familiar hands a welcome distraction.
Clark pulled back to look at you properly— tear tracks down his cheeks, still holding you like you might vanish.
“You’re part solar now,” Bruce said, a little too casually. “Your cells absorbed it. Mutated.“ Clark held your hand to his heart, afraid of ever letting go again. “The look is temporary. You’ll go back to normal soon. Until you use your…powers, again. I imagine.”
“You saved me,” you whispered, your forehead touching the man’s above you. “You were hurt but you brought me all the way here—“
Clark shook his head, eyes full of awe. “You saved me. You always do.”
“So nobody is going to thank the genius?” A grumble came from behind you.
You leaned into his touch. “So….” You swallowed nervously, “I suppose I’m an alien too now.”
Clark let himself grin, slowly, nose brushing yours. “You’re still you, just...brighter.”
You did a double take at your hands, still glowing faintly, rotating them gently with a mirroring twinkle to your eye. All it took was one more look at Clark for you to wrap your arms around him as tightly as you could.
“I’ll never let him touch you again.” He knew you meant it. You could be scarier than any villain he had ever faced.
“Isn’t that supposed to be my line Sunshine?” He shook his head in disbelief, not quite believing you were still safe or you had the strength to joke at a time like this. “You’re really somethin’ huh?” His accent slipping as his heart did to his stomach— adrenaline dissipating.
“But you love me.”
“That I do darlin’,” a deep kiss to your cooling cheek, “That I do.”
For a moment there was silence again— this time peaceful.
“…Brucey?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you dressed like Batman?”
…
—
The Fortress was quiet now. Well, save for the hum of the solar chamber cooling down and the distant echo of Gary milling around.
Your brother— Batman, which you were still too dazed to even process, had left (after a very awkward hug from an even more grateful Clark who had to be practically peeled off of the disgruntled man).
You sat on the edge of the healing table, legs swinging, wrapped in a soft Kryptonian cloak Clark had draped around you— his cloak, despite protests you were fine and he still needed to be coddled too.
Your skin faintly glowed, like your veins were drawn in gold, but your hair had returned to a more natural shade and your fingers had stopped sparking— thank God.
Clark hovered at your side— figuratively and literally.
He hadn’t stopped touching you.
His hand on yours. His shoulder against yours. His eyes never leaving your face— like if he looked away for even a second, you might slip through his fingers again.
You weren’t complaining, but it was starting to feel a little stifling— especially considering the other circumstances which had your flesh itching like a wildfire.
“You keep staring,” you mumbled, voice hoarse.
“I…I almost lost you,” he murmured back, as if the words were too painful to admit. “I’m going to keep staring for a while.”
You smiled softly. “It’s strange…” You let a nails run across your exposed thigh (you could kill Lex yourself for ruining an archival Dior piece). “Not bad. Just... like there’s something burning under my skin.”
Clark gently took your hand— as if you were made of glass and not pure sunlight. “I’ll help you figure it out. Every step.” And he meant it. Wholeheartedly.
You closed your eyes. “What if I can’t control it?” It came out so quiet you were surprised you had even said it.
“Then I’ll be your anchor. You’ve been mine this whole time.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re so mushy Smallville…”
He guffawed and you giggled as he flapped around, bewildered how you could turn it into a bad thing, so flippant whist your blood still stained his suit.
But he loved you, and you loved him.
With everything in you both.
“So…The Batman thing—“
“Can we talk about that later?” He sighed, his stray curl limp against his temple. You glared as his eyes widened in error. “P-Please?”
—
Miles away, in a lair just as bleak— in a different way, Lex Luthor reviewed the security footage.
It should’ve been victory.
The final blow against Superman.
Instead he watched you scream— burning. Rising from the ashes like an otherworldly being…glowing, golden— alive.
His face twisted in frustration. “No…”
He had intended to kill, but instead had created a new weapon— a creature of pure light. Bonded to Superman, more powerful together than either had been apart.
“Enhanced cellular regeneration…” He spat. “She’s radiating controlled solar output now. Like a living Kryptonian capacitor!” His hand swiped across the desk, shattering whatever had innocently lay before him.
“She can heal him,” Lex growled. “He’ll never bleed again!” His hand curled into a fist. “I gave him a god.”
The monitor he cursed was cracked— screen frozen on the moment his camera had captured you looking utterly ethereal.
Golden eyes bright with unrestrained power…And love.
Lex knew, then, he had made the biggest mistake of his life.
There's a lot of debate right now on if Count Orlok represents Ellen's shame/trauma/abuse, or if he represents her repressed erotic desires, and in turn there's debate on whether or not viewers who find the Ellen/Orlok dynamic alluring are "missing the point." Eggers and Lily-Rose Depp have both said in interviews that there's a mutual pull between Ellen and Orlok, and even that there's a love triangle element, but obviously the experience is terrifying for Ellen. How can we reconcile the sexual tension and the horror?
I think the broader theme is that Orlok represents everything in a woman's inner world that men refuse to acknowledge and accept - fear and shame and trauma, yes, but also our appetites . After the prologue, the story starts with Ellen begging Thomas to stay in bed with her; she says "the honeymoon was yet too short" and tries to pull him in and kiss him (obviously trying to start some nuptial bliss). But Thomas is anxious to meet with his boss and get his promotion, because he has a narrative he's going to fulfill: he's going to pay Friedrich back, buy a house, and then start having kids (he and Friedrich touch on this a bit later. Notably, Friedrich discloses Anna's pregnancy to Thomas before Anna has made it public.)
It's the start of Ellen and Thomas' married life and she just wants him to prioritize her sexual desire, but he chooses to focus on his ideal of success, which sets him on this path to confronting Orlok. We know Ellen doesn't care about having a house or fine things and she begs him not to go, but Thomas listens to Herr Knock and Friedrich, who tell him that as a husband he has to provide materially. He ignores Ellen's stated desires, and so fails to provide sexually and emotionally. When Thomas gaslights her about her nightmares and calls them childish fancies, he shuts down her vulnerability, which kills the intimacy she was enjoying in the literal honeymoon phase.
On a related note, there's a defence in here for Aaron Taylor Johnson's performance, which I've seen a few male critics call "over acting." In this story Friedrich represents the masculine ideal of the time, he's a rich business owner with a beautiful wife and kids. Thomas clearly looks up to him and wants to emulate him - he wants to give Ellen the life "she deserves." But Friedrich's elevated masculine status is why he refuses to listen to Ellen's "hysterical, sentimental" worries, he's too rational for all that of course. And his stubborn "rationality" leads to the death of his entire family. Friedrich IS the patriarchal ideal that crumbles when confronted with nuance and uncertainty. Some people see Friedrich and assume that a character like him is meant to come across as dignified, and that Aaron Taylor Johnson is messing up by making him look annoying, but really he is giving a great portrayal of a really common, annoying kind of guy. The kind of guy who melts down and has childish tantrums whenever they lose control of a situation, or their manly skills and values are shown to be irrelevant.
The men in the movie (excluding Professor von Franz) frame Ellen as childish for speaking about her dreams candidly, but their own childishness is revealed when her dreams manifest in the form of Orlok and become unavoidable. Ellen (partially? possessed in the moment by Orlok) tells Thomas how "foolish and like a child" he was in Orlok's castle. In the literal context that's cruel, and obviously that shit was scary as hell, but it hits on Thomas' failure in the metaphorical reading. He was a child playing house: 'I'll be the husband and make money, you be the wife and make babies.' When it came time to confront his wife's inner world and all the scary, traumatized, lustful complexity of it, he was completely inept. The message isn't that Orlok is what Ellen really needs, or that Thomas is a wimp, but he's not a perfect husband either. I think "the point" is that a real healthy marriage with sexual, emotional, and spiritual mutuality is impossible in that society with Thomas/Friedrich's ideals. In that kind of society, a spiritually and sexually potent woman like Ellen ("in heathen times you might have been a Priestess of Isis") will always be caught in a "love triangle" with her husband and her own inner world.
pairing: fwb!logan howlett x fem!reader; 2nd person pov
summary: logan and reader have been sleeping together for a while with an unspoken rule to keep it casual, but that goes to hell when logan catches feelings. however, reader is an independent boss bitch and hates men<3
warnings: heavy swearing, hella mentions of sexual situations, substance abuse, brief sexual content(nothing serious fr), creepy guy in a bar, blood, bar fight, mentions of sex trafficking and resulting trauma, daddy issues, fluff, angst asf, lowkey scott slander (i dont mean it i love him)
word count: 9.1k
a/n: reader has light manipulation abilities but theyre not mentioned that often lol, also reader takes a lotta shots at jean just cuz she pisses me off. side note: idk the true meaning of the song i used as the title, there are many different interpretations. i found the song after i had alr written the story and the lyrics resonated pls don’t jump down my throat if it doesn’t align <3
there’s not a millimeter of space between you and logan as he holds you against his body. you’re sleeping soundly, and he watches you breathe all night, not bothering to even think about sleep for himself. the sun came up three hours ago, he felt it on his back.
when you drink, you always wake up early the next morning. you two drank a lot together last night. and like every time you drink with logan, you ended up in his bed.
he tries to block the sun from your face with his body so it won’t wake you up. he knows when you finally do, this little illusion that you're his will all be over. everything you said last night won’t matter. you’ll go back to your room. he’ll stay in bed. you’ll both go back to acting like it never happened.
you always leave him swiftly. you always go downstairs and drink coffee from the same mug and act like nothing happened. without a stutter, it’s a routine.
since he moved into the mansion, he wasn’t ignorant to the fact that the female teachers were attractive. and, of course, he was first drawn to jean. he won’t deny that he still harbored some feelings for her when you came to his room all those months ago, but she made it abundantly clear that she loves scott.
then one night, you slipped a bottle of whiskey into the mansion and invited him to join you in drinking it. you said some things that made him sit closer to you. that was just the beginning. he woke up the next morning to an empty bed but distinctly remembers you falling asleep next to him, so he assumed you woke up and left.
logan is a pro at acting like some things never happen, but he wasn’t expecting you to act the same. he dismissed it as a one-off, drunken night.
then it happened again… and again and again, and you continued to act like it never happened.
which, he was fine with. this wouldn’t be the first time he’s had a with-benefits situation, but there’s something different about you. you’re badass. you’re beautiful. he really respects you. you fit him perfectly.
and you’re mean. you don’t smile all that much, really only when you’re drinking is what logan soon found out. you’re not always outright mean to people, it’s usually deserved. you don’t take anybody’s shit. you’ll let people know when they’re in the wrong or they’re pissing you off. you’re sarcastic and rudely witty.
that was just another thing that attracted him to you. but, God, were you the meanest in the mornings, especially when you’re hungover.
unfortunately for logan, he has developed a small, tiny, itty bitty, barely-there crush on you. just catching a scent of your perfume has him rolling his eyes in the back of his head and white-knuckling whatever is directly in front of him.
the thoughts of you under him, on top of him, in front of him, on your knees for him plague his mind all. day. long. then last night, you had him rock solid from just a few drunken words.
“you’ve ruined all men for me,” you said as he kissed down your neck.
“hmm?” he hummed as his hands roamed your body under your shirt.
“nobody could ever fuck me like you do,” you told him, pulling at his hair roughly. he lets out a deep groan at the feeling.
he’s never picked up his pace of getting someone’s clothes off so quickly. he ripped your favorite pair of pj shorts in the process, mumbling that he’ll buy you a new pair.
with him deeply inside you, one hand wrapped around your throat and the other sending you over the edge with his mouth leaving marks all over your chest, you say breathily, “fuck, you’re perfect for me.”
the moment hasn’t left his mind since.
“i’m hot,” you mutter, pushing the sheets from your legs. “you’re hot.”
“oh, yeah?” he whispers in your ear, his lips turned up.
“i’m about to have a heat stroke,” you return, squirming around and shoving his arms from around you.
he lets go of you and gives you some space, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. a deep sigh leaves him.
“i’m gonna throw up,” you tell him, groaning and curling up into the fetal position.
“are you serious? don’t puke in my bed,” he says, leaning up to look at you.
you roll your eyes. “no, i’m not serious,” you snap at him.
“‘you wanna take a shower?” he asks, his lip curling up at the thought of you ruining his sheets (and not in the way he usually prefers).
“i feel like shit right now, logan. i don’t want to fuck you in the shower,” you tell him roughly, sitting up and glaring over at him.
he watches you stand up out of his bed and put yout shirt on. “‘s not what i meant,” he grumbles, looking away from her. he throws the sheets off his body and grabs his jeans from the night before.
he runs his hands down his face and then looks up only to see the door closing behind you as you leave him. again.
“whew, late night?” ororo asks you as soon as you walk into the kitchen, changed into some presentable clothes rather than the ripped shorts and oversized tshirt you walked back to your room in.
you ignore the woman as you open the cabinet to grab your mug. the same one you use every morning.
but it’s not there.
“where’s my mug?” you ask, glancing around the kitchen to see it’s not just ororo but also jean and scott there.
“is this yours?” scott asks, holding up the mug in his hand.
your gaze darkens. “yes,” she grits out, tightening her jaw.
“that’s my bad. i didn’t know this was yours,” he says, standing up and walking over to the sink. “i’ll wash it and you can use it.”
you feel your skin crawl as he turns on the hot water. “stop,” you say lowly, walking to him and turning off the water. “you can’t—.” you stop yourself as you breathe heavily. you rip the cup from his hands.
“hey, it’s just a mug,” ororo says to you, “what’s up?”
“it’s not—,” you cut yourself off again and take a deep breath, shaking your head. you turn on the cold water from the sink and carefully wash the mug.
“seriously, what’s going on with you?” jean asks as scott rejoins her side.
you roll your neck. “i’ve been here for years, and you don’t know which one is my mug?” you ask scott, not looking anywhere but your mug until you’re sure it’s clean.
“i never noticed before, ‘sorry,” he says then turns to jean with a shrug.
the light beaming in through the window shines a little brighter as you continue to shake your head, muttering things under your breath that the others can’t make out.
“it really is just a mug,” ororo says carefully, looking over your figure in concern.
“except it’s not,” you retort, attentively drying off the ceramic with a towel. you then pour some coffee into the mug and hold it close to your chest, turning back to the other mutants.
“what—,” jean begins but logan walks into the kitchen just as she starts and she stops herself.
her surveys everyone’s demeanor then looks at you. “what’s wrong with you?” he asks, walking to the cabinet and grabbing whichever cup is closest to his hand when he reaches in. he pours himself some coffee and turns back to them expectantly.
“scott was using my mug,” you tell him, leaning against the counter.
“why?” he asks scott, eyeing the man.
“to drink coffee. why does it matter?” he asks in return, scoffing.
“it’s hers,” logan returns, his stare hardens and he looks at scott like he’s an idiot.
ororo laughs humorlessly. “what does that mean? it’s just a mug,” she asks, looking between you.
you glare at her. “it was my father’s and now it’s mine.”
“the same father that sold you?” jean asks, her face contorting. you shift your weight uncomfortably. “why would you want that?”
“why don’t you just back the fuck off, bitch?” you snap at her, stepping toward her.
“woah, girl, calm down,” ororo intervenes, holding her hand toward you like you’re a wild animal. you scoff. “we get it. it’s special to you. that’s all you had to say.”
you roll your eyes at them. you leave the group and return to your room. logan watches you go then turns back to the others with his eyebrows raised. “did you say sold her?” he asks jean.
“when he found out she was a mutant—,” she begins.
“jean,” ororo interrupts her, shaking her head at the girl.
jean continues, “—her father sold her into a mutant sex trafficking ring,” she reveals, looking only at logan, “that’s where we found her and then brought her here.”
his face contorts, and he looks down into his coffee. “shit,” he comments.
“she doesn’t talk about it to anybody, and, out of respect, we don’t talk about it either,” ororo says pointedly at the telepath.
logan is seething all day over the new information. he hates to think you went through that for God knows how long.
after the incident, logan doesn’t see you for a while. he doesn’t know how. you’re a teacher and you live down the hall from him, yet he still doesn’t even catch a whiff of your perfume.
“logan, meet me in my office,” he hears charles’ voice in his head. he obeys and within a minute, he’s standing before the professor. “you should leave her alone for a bit.”
her brow furrows. “come again?”
charles says your name and logan clenches his jaw. “she’s destructive right now. you should let her be.”
“is she okay?” the wolverine asks, concern growing in his stomach, and it makes him feel sick.
“she’ll be just fine. this happens from time to time,” he tells him, pressing his lips into a thin line. “you know of her circumstances.”
“her circumstances?” logan growls, scowling down at the old man, “you knew what she went through and didn’t think to tell me? you know what’s going on between us and didn’t think maybe i needed to know that? what if she had a breakdown when we were together? i wouldn’t have known what was happening.”
charles’ lips turn down into a small frown. “that’s not my information to tell.”
logan storms off in a huff, muttering under his breath.
that friday, he’s smoking a cigar in his bed, looking out the window at the moon, which is shining rather bright tonight. he hears a few quiet knocks on his door. he opens the door, expecting it to be a student.
“hey,” you say, waving a bottle of jack in his face before pushing past him into the room. “'hope you don’t mind, i got started without you.”
“you always do,” he comments, closing the door, putting out the cigar, and following you to sit on his bed. “listen —.”
“i think i like that vodka more than this. this one makes my mouth taste weird,” you tell him, taking another sip out of the bottle before handing it to him.
he holds it and sighs. “look, we should—.”
“—take our clothes off?” you finish his sentence, smiling darkly at him. “i mean, it’s a little early, but i agree.”
“that’s not what i—.”
“—was going to say?” you guess his words, cutting him off again. “look at us finishing each other’s…” you trail off, looking at him expectantly. he sends you a deadpanned glance. “this is the part where you say ‘sentences.’ i think i’m better at this game than you are.”
he takes a long sip from the bottle before he looks at you. “can you be serious for a second?” he asks.
you scoff and take the bottle from his hands. “i don’t come to you like this to be serious, logan,” you say, putting the whiskey to your lips again.
“why do you come to me at all?” he asks quietly and gruffly.
you take another sip and place the bottle on the floor, scooting closer to him. “because you’re hot,” you say in a sultry voice, putting a hand on his thigh and slowly dragging it up, “and you call me ‘princess’ and ‘darling’,” you continue, reaching for his belt buckle. he doesn’t do anything to stop you, “and your hands.” you push the buckle out the way and unbutton his pants, dragging down the zipper slowly. “and your tongue.” you reach your hand into his pants. “and this.”
he breathes heavily, completely lost in the euphoria that is you.
he forces himself to snap out of him and shakes his head. he pushes your hand away and stands up, taking a few steps away.
“what’s wrong?” you ask him, grabbing the bottle and standing also. “do you need some more?” you ask, holding the drink out for him, confusion written all over your face.
he holds his hands out in front of him as if to deny the offer. “it’s…,” he trails off, pushing a deep breath through his nose.
your shoulders drop along your face. you tilt your head in disbelief. “oh, my fuck. they told you,” you conclude. you turn around and sit back down on the bed. he stays silent, just looking at you. “okay, so what now? you don’t want me anymore ‘cause i’m used up?” you ask, slurring your words a little.
“no,” he denies without hesitation.
your sober personality is back even though you’re still drinking the whiskey like you’ve been in the dry desert for weeks without water.
“then what is it, logan? you don’t wanna do this ‘cause my hair isn’t blood red?” you ask next, raising your brow and looking at him expectantly.
his face contorts. “what’re you talking about?” he asks gruffly.
you chuckle at him. “i’m not a fucking idiot, old man. i know you want jean so bad, but she doesn’t want you so i'm second choice” you say, then you shrug with one shoulder. “i’d’a gone with ororo, to be honest. have you seen her? i’d show her a good time,” you add.
“that’s not what this is,” he tells you, taking a step forward but not within arm's length of you.
“then what is it? just fucking tell me,” you say loudly, the room lights up as the moon shines brighter. “d’you want me to tell you ‘bout how i was a good, little daddy’s girl until i almost blinded my brother when i first got my powers? how about how my dad gave me away like he didn’t love me? d’you want me to cry in your arms about how i was passed around by mean men like a blunt when i was 14? why do you think i can only let you fuck me when i’m drunk?” you ask him sarcastically, but your voice breaks on your last words. you let out an unsteady breath. logan watches you cautiously, unsure of what to do. “is that what you want, logan?! you wanna be the big, strong man here?!” you ask him, crying now as you yell at the man in front of you.
your body slumps forward as you let the tears drop from your eyes, and you grip the bottle in your hands like a lifeline. you feel the bed dip beside you and the bottle pulled from your hands. you move your hands to your face, trying to pull yourself together.
you feel his big arms envelope you and pull you into his chest. that’s when the waterworks really break out.
logan’s never been to best with tears. he hasn’t had to deal with them too much, but his first instinct was to hold you as close as you would let him. he hates to see you like this. in all honesty, he wants to hunt down every man that ever put a finger on you and rip them to shreds. but, for now, he’ll hold you. as long as you would let him.
you wake up with araging headache. you’re hot, burning up, actually. you kick the blankets from your legs and turn over in the arms of the incredibly attractive man in bed next to you. you look at his sleeping face and sigh.
this is the part where you leave, but this time, you just snuggle into his chest and fall back asleep.
logan wakes up later than he usually does after nights like the last one. it’s normally the sound of the door closing wakes him up. but, this time, he sees your cute face smushed against his pec. he doesn’t fight the smile on his face.
you stir quickly after he wakes up. you rub your eyes and look around the room, then to logan. “i’m gonna puke,” you tell him, the remnants of the smile fall from his face. you pull away from him as your face blanches. “seriously,” you add and sit up quickly.
he reaches for the trash can beside his bed and holds it in front of you just in time. he holds your hair back with a look of absolute disgust while you clutch the bin close to your face and your body jerks with each gag.
once you're done, you wipe your mouth with the bottom of your shirt. you groan loudly and stand up from the bed. “i’m gonna take this with me,” you tell him, holding the can in your arms and moving toward the door.
“keep it,” he remarks, his lip curled up.
monday morning rolls around quicker than anybody wants. you walk into the kitchen and grab your mug, pouring coffee and looking around at others in the kitchen.
they’re talking amongst themselves, mentions of grading papers and some stupid answer a kid put as their answer on an assignment.
you just listen and sip your coffee peacefully. that is, until logan walks in. you move from in front of the coffee pot for him to get some. he nods in thanks as he joins your side.
“this coffee is awful,” you comment, pouring it out in the sink next to you. he chuckles at your comment but doesn’t say anything. “scott, did you make the coffee this morning?” you ask him. the three look over to you, almost as if they didn’t see you come in.
“yeah,” he answers.
“don’t do it again,” you tell him, filling the mug with water and leaving the kitchen.
as you watch a group of students take a test, you see logan walk back in his jacket he usually only wears when leaving campus.
“hey,” you call out. all the students look up at you. “keep taking your tests. i’m going to the hallway for a second,” you tell them and move into the hallway. “logan,” you call and he turns around, walking back toward you. “where are you going?”
“to pick up some more cigars,” he answers, gesturing over his shoulder.
“will you pick me up a pack of cigarettes?” you ask him, reaching into your pocket for some money.
his brow furrows. “you smoke?” he asks.
“sometimes, yeah,” you reply, handing him $20.
he shakes his head. “i’ll cover it,” he answers.
“thanks,” you reply, placing a hand on his forearm before returning to your classroom.
he looks down to his arm and blinks. that’s new.
“brad, i know you’re not talking during a test. are you begging for a failing grade?” he hears you say before he turns back toward the front door of the mansion.
logan returns a while later, after the school day is over and the students are training. he finds you in your classroom, grading papers.
“hey,” he greets. you look up at him.
“hey,” you return, eyes dancing all over his body.
“these are for you,” he says, holding out the page of cigarettes.
“right, thanks,” you say and reach for them, your fingers brushing his as you grab them.
“‘you need any help?” he asks, looking at the papers before you.
“do you know anything about math?” you ask him, pursing your lips.
“uh, no,” he answers, shaking his head. “don’t you have an answer key or something?”
“i have to check their work to make sure they didn’t just get the answer from the person beside them,” you reply, looking back down to the papers. “some of these kids are dumbasses.”
he chuckles. “no kid wants to do math,” he comments.
“how would you know? weren’t you born before there were schools?” you ask him without looking up. there’s a beat of silence before you eventually glance up at him. “was that insensitive?” you ask instead.
he just shrugs. “i’m not that old,” he says, sitting in the desk in front of yours.
“sure,” you respond and go back to grading.
the two of you sit in without a word as you grade, and he watches you in complete admiration. after a while, he stands up and walks toward the door.
“you’re leaving?” you question.
“‘didn’t think you wanted your room smelling like cigars,” he replies.
“i’ll join you,” you say, grabbing the pack he bought you and putting the tests in a drawer. he doesn’t object and you two walk outside, to a bench in the gardens, away from the students.
the two of you sit in silence as you inhale smoke and slowly release it from your lungs.
“i’ve never seen you smoke before,” he comments after a while.
“i only smoke when i give up drinking, i only drink when i give up smoking,” you answer, tossing the burnt cigarette onto the ground and stepping on it, then picking another one from the pack.
you pick up your lighter and flick it a few times but it won’t light. you put your head and lighter inside your shirt to block the wind, trying again and failing again.
“motherfucker,” you mutter as you try to cover the lighter.
“here,” he offers his lighter with the fire shining brightly above it. with the cigarette between your lips, lean toward the lighter, looking up into his eyes as you do. he meets your eyes and clears his throat, closing the flame into the top of the lighter and shifting his eyes to the cigar between his fingers. you let a small smile rest on your face afterward.
“so you’re not drinking anymore?” he asks you.
“figured i should go on a sobriety cleanse for a bit,” you reply, “‘t’s probably for the best.”
“probably,” he adds and silence takes over again.
he glances over at her for a second and he sees you bite at the skin of your bottom lip the way you always do when you’re thinking, contemplating. he’s tempted to ask what’s on your mind but before he can break the silence, you let out a hard sigh.
“i don’t apologize for things,” you begin and pause, biting at your lip again.
“okay…?”
“i don’t apologize for my actions or words because i stand by every decision i make,” you continue and pause again. he’s looking at you and you’re looking directly ahead of you. “i’m not good at apologizing,” you sigh again, “but i’m…sorry for some of the things i said the other night. there’s no excuse. i apologize. take that how you will.”
“you don’t have to apologize,” he replies.
you huff. “so i just said all that for nothing? you could at least accept the damn apology,” she snaps at him then rubs the crease between her eyebrows out.
“you called me an old man. i don’t know if i want to accept your apology,” he teases with a crooked smile. you send him a look that turns into a hint of a smile before turning your head away.
“i need to get back to grading those tests. i’ll see you later, logan.” you stomp out another cigarette and stand up from the bench.
“see ya, sweetheart,” he says lowly but you still hear it.
as you look over tests, ororo enters your classroom. “ooh, what’s got you all smiley?” she asks as she strolls in.
the previous smile you didn’t even realize you were wearing falls when you look up at the mutant. “huh?”
“don’t try to deny it. i saw that smile,” she says teasingly. you just roll your eyes lightheartedly. ororo’s brow furrows as she sniffs the air. “are you smoking again?”
“yeah, i quit drinking,” you answer, “what’s up?”
“i was coming in here to ask you if you wanted to go out with the rest of us friday night. we’re planning on going that bar we always go to,” she says, “but if you’re not drinking, i don’t wanna make you go.”
“yeah, no. that’s okay,” you decline the offer.
“alright, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us. sober or not,” she adds before leaving out.
the week drags on painfully slow. it’s a week of tests and starting new units in all your classes and you really just want to bang your head against a wall and tell the kids class is canceled.
by the end of it, you actually do want to join your colleagues in going out to that bar in town that they love so much. you offer to be the designated driver, not trusting anyone but yourself to drive you anywhere.
“are you going with us to the bar?” you ask logan as he rummages around the cabinets for something to eat.
“no,” he answers, opening the fridge, “are you?”
“yeah, i’m driving,” you tell him. there’s a beat of silence before you add, “you should come.”
he turns toward you at your words with a crooked smile. “oh yeah?” he questions, “why? ‘you want me there?”
you scoff with no heat behind it. “i was just trying to be nice,” you say.
“you? nice?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.
“what? you don’t think i’m nice?” you ask him defensively, crossing your arms.
“no,” he replies, not skipping a beat.
“i’m very nice,” you counter.
“no, you’re not,” he denies again, also crossing his arms.
in his white beater, crossing his arms makes his arms flex and you can’t help but let your eyes wander to the veins of his biceps.
“you have nice hair. there, nice,” you compliment, then add right after, “you’re not balding or anything, which is quite common for men your age.”
“you’re not good at this,” he tells you, looking at your plate to see what you're eating.
“do you want some?” you ask him. you hold your plate across the counter for him to pick off of. he grabs one of your chips and eats it.
“thanks,” he mutters.
“look at me being nice,” you comment and he chuckles deeply.
“shut up,” he returns playfully.
the five of you go to the bar that night, logan joining at your request. he sits at the bar, ordering drink after drink and scanning the bar every so often to make sure you’re alright.
you spend most of your time at ororo’s side. before long, you’re accompanied by a couple of men. you and ororo share side-eyes as they continue to tell stupid jokes. ororo excuses the both of you to go to the bathroom only to move next to logan at the bar.
“having fun?” he asks sarcastically, looking at you then glancing to ororo.
“they could’ve at least been funny, but they weren’t. there terribly unfunny,” you tell him, sitting next to him on a barstool and ororo laughs.
“yeah, that was awful,” she comments and sips her drink. “oh, i see jean and scott. i’ll be back later.” she leaves the two of you. you order a club soda and turn to logan, who is hunched over his drink.
“you have really bad posture,” you tell him as the bartender hands you your drink. he just shrugs and refills his glass with the bottle the bartender left in front of him. you dig your finger into his spine and he straightens up, looking at you wildly.
“why?” is all he asks.
“it’ll help you look more presentable. you’re not looking for anybody tonight?” you ask and glance around the bar for women.
“no, i’m not,” he answers and slumps back down. you dig your finger into his back again and he looks down at you. “stop,” he says seriously.
“oh, what’re you gonna do? stab me?” she asks him challengingly. he looks back down to his drink and shakes his head dismissively. “oh, come on. you’re good-looking, you’re good in bed, you’ve got this hot, animalistic thing going on. why not look for somebody?”
“‘cause i don’t want anybody,” he answers. “did you say i’m good in bed?”
“well, yeah,” you confirm with a one-shouldered shrug.
he stares at you for a beat. this is the first time you’ve ever mentioned it before. you don’t talk about the things you two have done. ever.
“i would know,” you add after he stays quiet.
“you would know what?” ororo asks as she rejoins you, along with scott and jean. they all stand directly behind the man, looking at you expectantly. logan’s waiting for you to make up a lie.
“that logan’s good in bed,” you answer, gesturing to the man next to you. his eyebrows raise and he looks directly in front of him, a smirk playing on his lips as he drinks down all of what’s left in his glass and refills it again. you surprise him more and more every day.
“he’s what?” ororo questions, shock written all over her.
you roll your eyes. “you don’t have to do the clueless bit. jean reads minds and i know she’s told you two,” you state, pointing between ororo and scott.
“what? i haven’t—i didn’t—,” jean stutters over her words, laughing through them.
“liar,” you clock it in a high-pitched tone, sipping your drink. “i’ve heard you talk about it before. i’m just surprised you haven’t mentioned it yet.”
the three of them exchange glances. “okay, yeah, we knew. we thought you would deny it anyway so we didn’t bring it up,” ororo admits.
logan stays silent, drinking like he’s been thirsting for days. why are you doing this? “so…you two are…,” scott trails off. you shrug as your answer. “hmm.”
“hey, sweetheart, you never came back,” the guy from early comes up behind you and wraps an around your shoulders. you tense up at the feeling.
you remove his hand from you. “don’t touch me, and don’t call me sweetheart,” you tell him. he laughs and looks at your colleagues.
“why not? looks like everybody’s got a matchup here but you. let me help you fix that,” he says and runs the knuckles of his finger across your collarbone. he points at scott and jean, then logan and ororo. “i can make you feel good,” he whispers in your ear.
“seriously, don’t touch me,” you tell him firmly, pushing his hand off your shoulder and shifting your seat away from him.
logan doesn’t watch the encounter but he’s squeezing the glass in his hand so hard it’s about to shatter. he feels the red-hot rage crawl up his neck as he does every time he encounters some asshole in a bar.
“don’t be like that, sweetheart,” the man continues and reaches for the strap over your shoulder. chills cover your arms and legs and a shiver runs down your spine. you grab his hand roughly and shove it away from you.
“touch me again and i’m gonna break your fucking nose,” you tell him.
“ooh, i got a feisty one,” he comments to the rest of your group, laughing. “i like that.”
scott takes a step forward. “you need to lay off, man,” he tells him, trying to keep this civil and contained.
the man only laughs harder. “what are you gonna do, glasses?” he asks him and slings his arm over your shoulders. “come on, baby, let’s get out of here. i got a real nice spot for you in my bed.”
“she already told you not to touch her, bub,” logan chimes in, still looking straight ahead and not sparing the boy a glance. there’s a tightness in his shoulders as he uses all his self control to stay in his seat.
“woah, tell your bodyguards to stand down,” he says to you but your only response is to rear back and deck him directly in the nose.
he stumbles back, holding his nose as blood drips into his hand. “you dumb bitch—,” he lunges toward you but logan whips around and grabs him by the front of his shirt, shoving him up against a wall.
“what’d you say?” the mutant asks him lowly, a growl deep in his throat.
“hey, take it outside!” the bartender yells at the man.
“why don’t we do that? you wanna take it outside?” logan asks the scared man in his grasp, shoving him harder into the wall.
“logan, let’s go,” ororo tells him as she walks with you toward the door. he doesn’t move. “logan!”
he drops his hold on the man and turns his back to him. he doesn’t even take a step before the dumbass says, “yeah, listen to your bitch.”
logan turns back around and absolutely socks him in the jaw. the man falls to the ground. logan walks after his friends, rolling his shoulders.
when logan gets out to the car, he sees you in the driver's seat, holding your hand closely to his body. he sits in the passenger seat and looks at you.
“are you okay?” he asks you carefully.
“did you kill him?” you ask him flatly without meeting his gaze, and he shakes his head. “you should’ve,” you say coldly and start the engine, driving out of the parking lot and back to the mansion as quickly as possible.
when you arrive, logan accompanies you to the lab for jean to look at your hand. he wasn’t going to say anything but watching you cradle your hand makes him change his mind. “are you alright?” he asks you.
“fine,” you reply sharply, clenching your jaw tightly. he watches you bite at your lip.
“speak your mind,” he tells you, just outside the hidden elevator. you just shake your head at him. “if you don’t, you’ll take it out on jean.”
“why can’t i just do that?” you ask lowly.
“‘cause she doesn’t deserve it,” he reasons.
you take a deep, frustrated breath. “what happened tonight was stupid,” you say, “dumb fucking men thinking they can get whatever they want whenever they want. now my hand might be broken because i couldn’t—,” you cut yourself off and take another deep breath to steady yourself. “i’m done talking about this,” you say and open the door to the hidden elevator.
he blocks your path. “no, you’re not,” he says and waits for you to continue. that’s when the dam really breaks and you last out at him.
“it’s stupid. all of this is fucking stupid. i could’ve handled myself back there. i didn’t need you to step up and be my big, strong savior,” you tell him angrily, voice rising.
“i know,” he returns.
you’re shouting now, “then why couldn’t you just let me do it? i could’ve stopped him. i’m stronger now. i know how to fight now. i don’t need anybody to save me. i can save myself. i don’t need you. i don’t need any of you.” your voice cracks as the anger starts to shift into the feelings you hate to feel. “i’m not gonna let anyone take advantage of me ever again. and i’ll break every bone in my body before i let some drunk narcissistic man ever put his hands on me again,” you say your peace and breathe heavily and unsteadily.
there’s a long pause, the weight of your words hanging between you. logan doesn’t interrupt, giving you the floor to get it all out.
“i know,” he repeats himself deeply, “but you shouldn't have to.”
you feel that familiar ache in the back of your throat as tears threaten to spill out. you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, pushing all the emotions back down. “my hand really hurts,” you tell him quietly, not trusting your voice. he puts his hand gently on your back and leads you into the elevator then into the lab.
by the time you’re in front of jean, you’ve pulled yourself together and let her examine your hand. you did break your hand. she wraps it up for you and sends you to your room with some pain meds.
logan doesn’t leave your side until you’re at your bedroom door. “i don’t want you to come inside,” you tell him quietly. he stays silent. “it’s just that you’ve never seen my room before and this is mostly where i use my abilities and it’s messy right now and—.”
“‘t’s fine,” he interrupts your rambling. “i don’t have to come inside.”
“right,” you mumble, hand gripping the doorknob. “good night.”
“‘night.” he doesn’t make his way to his room until you slip into yours, locking the door behind you.
the next mid-morning, logan walks into the kitchen to see jean scolding you like a child. he’s surprised you’re just sitting there and taking it without a word.
“i’m serious,” jean says, finishing her tongue lashing.
“i know,” you mumble before jean offers logan a soft ‘good morning’ as she leaves.
“what was that about?” he asks you, moving over to the table where you sit with paper spread in front of you.
“i need to grade these papers but my hand is broken and dr grey told me it would only cause more damage,” you explain, sighing heavily and holding the pen in your healthy hand.
“let me help,” he says, snatching the pen from your fingers and the paper from in front of you. the numbers on the sheet are all greek to him. he doesn’t know what the hell he’s looking at.
“you can’t,” you tell him, pulling the paper from his hands. “you don’t know how to do it.”
“then tell me,” he offers, moving his chair next to yours. “tell me what’s wrong and i’ll write it down.”
you shake your head a few times before giving in. “fine,” you cave and look over the student’s work. you place the page in front of the man and point a certain part of a problem. “okay, so he should’ve foil’d here but he didn’t so the rest of the work is wrong. put a line through it and write ‘foil’,” you instruct him and he follows your orders.
“like that?” he asks, showing you. you nod in approval.
“your handwriting actually isn’t that bad. i was expecting a lot worse,” you comment, leaning into him as you look over the next problem. “that one’s right, so put a check,” you tell him and he follows.
the process continues on. every time there’s a gap of silence as you examine the math that he would never even try to understand, he watches you in complete admiration. there are practically hearts in his eyes while the gears turn in your brain.
as the next few days progress, you and logan spend more time together than you ever have. whether he’s in your classroom during your free period or you watch whatever movie’s on tv together on the couch, if someone’s looking for logan, you’re right beside him and vice versa.
of course, the others have taken notice of it. it’s new and after you confirmed you had been sleeping together, they draw their own conclusions about the two of you.
“‘y’know what i would like to see?” you prompt logan as you watch a show with a lumberjack in it.
“what’s that, darlin’?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“you chop wood,” you tell him, looking up at him from your spot under his arm.
“chop wood?” he questions.
“yeah, like, axe, wood, outside, shirtless, sweaty, and muscly, chopping wood,” you tell him, “lumberjack style.”
“lumberj—.”
“with the cigar,” you add excitedly, cutting him off. “maybe add in a little dehydration too.”
“i think you’re drooling a little bit,” he tells you, pointing at your mouth as a lazy smile rests on his face.
“probably, that’s hot,” you tell him, looking back at the screen.
as the credits roll, logan looks down to see you sound asleep with your head resting on his chest. he carefully picks you up in his arms and carries you to your room.
he opens the door and pauses his movements, eyes dancing across your room. there are no personal touches on the walls or shelves. it looks exactly like his did when he first got to the mansion. well, except for one obvious difference.
your room looks completely dilapidated, like an abandoned home that the sun and time have destroyed. the dark color of the wooden floors and furniture has faded, every surface dry and brittle. in some parts, mostly near the window, the wood is completely bleached of its color.
he lays you in your bed and covers you up, taking in the room once more before he leaves.
“why don’t you have another name like everyone else?” he asks as you sit next to him on the bench where you now regularly take your smoke breaks on.
“like a last name? i do have one,” you answer, flicking the butt of your cigarette onto the pavement.
“scott has cyclops, marie’s got rogue,” he elaborates, glancing over at you. you’re sitting right beside him, his arm thrown over the back of the bench in a way that your head rests on it.
“i don’t know. i guess i never understood why i have to change my name just because i’m a mutant. i am who i am, human or mutant,” you answer, messing with a loose thread on your pants. “plus, seeing the way you made fun of the others when you first got here for their names—i’d never even try to think of one now,” you tell him, making him chuckle. you smile proudly at making him laugh. “you looked so cute when you first got here.”
“are you saying i’m not cute anymore?” he asks in mock offense, looking at you sideways.
“i mean, when i first saw you, you had that big jacket on and you were so clueless. a little less muscle too,” you recount, poking his toned stomach to which he curls to the side. your jaw drops. “are you ticklish?” you ask him, a smile growing on your face.
“no,” he replies sharply and gruffly, straightening his posture.
“oh, my fuck. you so are ticklish,” you accuse and dig your fingers into his ribs, attempting to tickle him.
a deep laugh leaves him, and he grabs your hand in his, his facial expression dropping quickly. “stop,” he tells you in warning. you just laugh in his face, reaching toward him with your other hand, cigarette still between your fingers. he grabs your other hand before you touch him, cigar between his fingers. “no,” he denies you.
you look toward the mansion and see the sun reflecting off a window. you bend the light so it’s shining directly in his eyes, almost burning them. he shuts his eyes tightly and brings one of his hands up to his face. as quickly as you can, you reach back into his side.
he quickly stands up and looks down at you. “enough,” he says and points a finger in your face.
you stand up also, but you’re shorter than him so he’s still looking down at you. you decide to stand on the bench, now a little taller than he is. you don’t say anything, just look down on him with a straight face.
logan can’t help the smile that breaks his scowl. “you’re an idiot,” he tells you, raising his eyebrows at you.
you mimic his gesture then flick the cigarette butt onto the ground. “you are cute, wolvie,” you say and ruffle his hair. “i get the whole towering over people know. this is a power trip for sure,” you comment.
“oh, really?” he questions and puts the cigar between his lips. he grabs you around your waist and throws you over his shoulder like you’re as light as a feather.
you let out a surprised squeal as he walks away from your bench with you in his hold. “put me down. bad boy, bad dog,” you chastise him hitting his lower back. he doesn’t listen so you just hang over his shoulder as he drags you into the mansion.
you grab his ass abruptly and he stops in his tracks. he places you on the floor and tilts his head as he looks into your eyes, taking the cigar from his mouth. “‘bad dog’?”
“yeah, wolverine,” you say, gesturing to him.
“a wolverine’s not a dog,” he tells you, smiling down at you.
your brow furrows. “yeah, it’s like a small wolf, right?” you wonder and feel like an idiot when he laughs at you.
“no,” he answers, shaking his head.
“liar,” you accuse.
he tells you, “go to the zoo. there’s some there.”
you look up at him in disbelief. “you’re fucking with me,” she states and he shakes his head in complete amusement. “if you’re lying to me, i’ll—.”
“what? try to blind me again?” he asks, cutting you off.
“maybe i will,” you challenge, crossing your arms.
he pauses for a moment, considering. “maybe i want you to,” he says and his tone drops, like, two octaves when he says it.
you’re suddenly aware of how close the two of you are, how his hands gripped your waist just a moment before, how effortlessly he carried you. the playful atmosphere shifts and you feel heat creep up your neck and across your cheeks. you don’t blush, especially not around him.
“logan,” is all you say softly. he notices the change in tone. he notices everything about you, every detail, every flaw, every perfection.
for a moment, neither of you speak. the air between you is charged. your eyes travel all over his face. he really is such an attractive guy. and when you peel back the tough guy layer, he’s a sweetheart.
“thanks for the ride,” you say lightly, trying to break the tension.
he nods, gaze still locked on you. “anytime,” he remarks, his voice rougher than it was a moment before.
you both stand there for a few more seconds, not really sure where to go from here. his eyes shift from yours to your lip as you chew on it. his jaw tightens and he looks away from you, taking a step back to give you some space.
your heart pounds against your chest unfamiliarly. everything about this feels so new to you.
“see you around, pup,” you say, your voice back to its teasing tone.
“yeah,” he adds, watching as you turn away and walk back toward the mansion.
more days pass and you spend more time with logan. he notices that you make fun of him more, teasing him for small stuff.
it’s only when he’s in the laundry room that ororo catches him alone. “hey, logan,” she greets. he mumbles something of the same. “so…you look pretty cozy with a certain mutant.”
“huh?”
“you know what i’m talking about,” she says, leaning against a washing machine.
“it’s nothing,” he tells her, starting the machine he threw his clothes into haphazardly.
“‘doesn’t look like nothing,” she returns.
“leave it alone,” he grumbles, turning to leave the room.
ororo steps in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. “please, don’t hurt her, logan,” she requests.
“she doesn’t want me the way you think,” he tells her.
“you can’t seriously believe that,” she says, looking back and forth between his eyes.
at that very moment, you turn the corner and your eyes widen. you ignore the sting in your chest as you let out a loud “woah.” ororo quickly turns around and takes a step away from logan. “i didn’t mean to interrupt,” you tell them with your hands up in surrender, but that was exactly your intention when you spoke up.
“you weren’t interrupting anything,” logan tells you, watching you move past him to grab a laundry basket.
“i’m not judging,” you reply, walking back to the door. you turn back last second and look at ororo. “hey, if he asks you to wear a red wig, say no,” you tell her with a wink before leaving.
“i never—,” logan cuts himself off, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. “i never did that,” he says to her.
“God, i hope not. what the hell,” she remarks, shoving his arm. “she was jealous. you need to go tell her nothing happened.” he sighs deeply and takes a step forward. “‘you really still think she doesn’t want you?”
he doesn’t reply and follows after you. you’re walking as quickly as you can up the stairs when he catches up to you. “hey,” he calls after you.
“don’t worry, buddy. secret’s safe with me,” you tell him, picking up your pace as you reach the top of the stairs but he keeps in step with you.
“there’s not a secret. we were just talking,” he says.
you place a hand on your bedroom doorknob. “really, you don’t have to defend yourself to me,” you say and open your door, slipping inside. before you can shut it, logan stops the door with his hand. you look at him through the crack in the door, pushing your lips into a thin line. “uhm…”
“there’s nothing going on between me and storm,” he tells you.
“i’m not gonna tell anybody,” you return, frustration rising in your tone. you push against the door but your strength is in no way comparable to his.
“i’m serious,” he tries again, almost pleading. “i don’t want her, i want—.”
“jean? look at that, finishing each other’s sentences again,” you cut him off with a false laugh.
“come on, darlin‘,” he says, tilting his head to the side.
you groan. “i just thought—,” you stop yourself, sighing. “it doesn’t matter what i thought.”
“it does matter,” he tells you, pushing the door a little wider. you move into the space between the doorway and the door, trying to block his view into the room. “tell me,” he encourages, getting closer to you.
“i thought you weren’t a whore,” you retort, giving him a hardened look.
“that’s not what you were gonna say,” he states lowly, looking deeply into your eyes. “what was it?” you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, biting into the skin. he reaches his hand to your jaw, his thumb pulling the lip from between your teeth. “don’t do that. you know it drives me crazy.”
“i thought maybe you wanted me for more than sex,” you admit, feeling embarrassed as the words slip out. you clench your jaw, preparing for the rejection. a smirk slide onto his face and you drop your head. “okay, bye.”
you move back and push against the door again, but this time he pushes the door all the way open. your eyes widen as he takes a long stride toward you and pulls you back to him by the back of your neck. he presses his lips against yours feverishly to which you obviously reciprocate.
he pulls away and rests his forehead against yourself, breathing heavily. “i want you in every way possible, sweetheart,” he says.
you swallow thickly, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him away. “you don’t want me,” you tell him. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back into him, your chest pushing against his.
“i do,” he counters.
“you don’t,” you respond.
there’s a beat of silence. “i do,” he says again. you just look up into his eyes. “i want you. i’m not the best person for you, i know that. i’m older and unhappy and i probably can’t be there for you emotionally,” he lists then shakes his head at you, looking at you like you make the world go round. “but i want you, i want every part of you—the good, the bad, the hot and sexy, and the rude and snappy. everything.”
you’re quiet. you don’t know what to say, what is there to even say? in your head, he’s always wanted jean and you were just a place filler. you’ve been under the impression that you caught feelings and he didn’t reciprocate them at all. maybe you’re wrong just this once.
“i want you too,” you tell him in a whisper. he watches your brow furrow as you look away from his eyes. his face falls. “but—.”
“no ‘but.’ don’t say ‘but’,” he begs, loosening his grip on your waist.
“logan, i can live with you not being there for me emotionally, but i don’t know if you can live with me not being for you sexually,” you tell him. dread takes over your body. this beautiful, morally grey, perfect-for-you man is in the palm of your hand and you’re letting him slip through your fingers.
her visible confusion deepens. “you’ve been perfect for the past few months,” he tells you, misinterpreting your words as insecurity.
you shake your head. “i meant it when i said i can’t fuck you sober,” you tell him slowly, avoiding his gaze completely. you feel his hands move from his loosened grip to a hover over your hips. you can’t read his mind like you usually can. logan wears his thoughts on his face, perfectly readable when he’s mad or happy or just his normal grumpy. but now, it’s like trying to read a book in a language you didn’t know existed. “i’m sorry,” you add when his silence becomes too much.
“i don’t care,” he tells you as soon as you finish the last syllable.
“you know i don’t apologize for shit and you don’t care that i’m sorry?” you ask him. you go to push him off again but he pulls you back in, this time wrapping his around your neck, smothering your face in his burly chest.
“i don’t care about sex,” he tells you as he rests his head atop yours. you return the embrace and hold him around his ribs. “i don’t care if you never touch me again. i love you.” your eyes widen and he feels your body tense up. he chuckles, pulling away and smiling at you. “too soon?”
“a little,” you tell him, nodding. you then smile back at him.
———
a/n: i haven’t written in a long time . pls don’t rip me up if u hate this🙏
summary: under the immense pressure of the suburbs, you and patrick deal with the fallout of an argument.
word count: 1.9k
warnings: domesticity, PTA, a little angst, mostly fluff, you have a (currently unnamed) child, you’re a little emotionally constipated
author’s note: shoutout to 🫀 anon for breaking my writers block and inspiring this fic! i’m thinking that this will be part of a series of vignettes so let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any future fics!
Every couple that had been married for a long time always gave you the same piece of advice: Never go to bed angry.
Though this advice seemed simple, it was much easier said than done. Since your move to suburbia, the den of your home had become somewhat of a second bedroom to Patrick, a place where he could retreat in the aftermath of your arguments.
While you hadn’t argued much while you were hopping from city to city, living out of hotel rooms with your daughter and your athlete husband, the pressure of your small town had changed that completely. Now, your Cold War style arguments felt commonplace, and often left you sleeping alone in a bed that felt far too big for one person.
Like many recent nights, tonight was one of those nights. You and Patrick had gotten into a small disagreement after he’d been much too outspoken at a PTA meeting, stirring up unnecessary drama with a few other parents for no real reason. That small disagreement spiraled while the two of you drove home, with Patrick insisting that his dispute at the meeting was completely necessary. You strongly disagreed.
Your disagreement wasn’t made any better once you arrived back at home. The minute you relieved the babysitter of her duties, Patrick went right back to insisting that he was in the right in a situation where he was very obviously in the wrong. He continued to bring this up as he cooked dinner, leaving you no other option but to remove yourself from the situation.
For the rest of the evening, you kept your negative thoughts to yourself. Clearly, your disagreement wasn’t very productive.
While you were technically still in an argument, it was by far one of the more tame arguments you’d been in—which was why it came as such a surprise when you stepped out of the shower to find Patrick’s side of the bed vacant and pillowless.
Disappointed, but not particularly surprised, you sat down in bed and patiently waited for sleep to take you under.
Turning to your side, you secretly hoped that your daughter would burst into the room, seeking solace in you and her father after having a bad dream. As much as you’d love her company, you knew that this outcome was unlikely, since your daughter was starting to grow out of her phase of coming to you after having a nightmare.
Part of you wished that Patrick would stroll right back in, ready to argue with you and plead for you to fight for your relationship. Though there was a time in your relationship where most of your arguments ended that way, Patrick hadn’t been doing much of that lately, realizing that you would rather ice him out than confront him with your feelings. With that in mind, you realized that you were likely on your own for the rest of the night.
You sighed as you curled further into yourself, missing the weight of Patrick’s muscular arm holding onto you possessively and the practically unbearable heat of his body behind you. Even if you ended up separating during the night, it was rare that the two of you didn’t start your bedtime routine with a romantic cuddle.
You glanced at the door to your bedroom, as if you could produce your husband from thinking about him hard enough. Despite your best efforts, Patrick did not come out to talk to you, nor did your daughter.
In an abrupt movement, you sat up and got out of bed. You hastily began to walk towards your door, knowing that if you thought too hard about your actions, you might end up backing out.
You shuffled out of your room, listening for the telltale sound of Patrick’s soft snores. When you didn’t hear them, you kept moving forward, passing your daughter’s bedroom and peeking into the room to find her sleeping peacefully. You reminded yourself that you weren’t just doing this for you, but for the sake of your family.
The den was your next stop, where Patrick was lounging on his makeshift bed for the night. He looked up at you from a book as if he was surprised, although he’d certainly heard the sound of you making your way through your home. Maybe he thought you were stopping by the fridge for a midnight snack after your tense dinner ended in neither of you eating much.
“Hey,” you greeted casually, as if you weren’t in the midst of a tense, domestic battle.
“Hi,” Patrick replied, setting his book down and blinking up at you. You knew him well enough to recognize his confusion. You were never the person to break the ice after an argument, so what you were doing now clearly took him by surprise.
“Can I sit?” you asked, feeling a little awkward standing above your husband. You slipped your hands into your pockets, hoping that having something to do with your hands would quell your anxieties.
“Of course,” he said, scooting over on the couch-turned-bed and patting the spot he made for you.
“I always forget how soft this is. We made a good furniture choice,” you commented as you sat, making polite small talk that easily danced around having to apologize or talk about your feelings.
“It’s like we picked it knowing that I’d be sleeping on it every other night,” Patrick joked, though you didn’t find it particularly funny. “Sorry,” he followed up once he noticed your lack of laughter.
“No, it was funny,” you assured him, not wanting to make things any worse. “It was just…” you trailed off.
“Too soon?” Patrick asked, picking right up where you left off. He always seemed to be better at expressing these things than you were. That was one of the many things you loved about him.
“Yeah. Are you staying out here tonight?” you asked, hoping your question would tell Patrick that you didn’t want him to sleep in the den without explicitly expressing it.
“Depends. Do you want me to?” he asked, leaning over and pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. You leaned into his gentle act of affection.
“No?” you replied after a bit of hesitation. You didn’t want to pressure Patrick if he was angry enough with you to stay away from you, but you also didn’t want to be alone.
“Honey,” Patrick began softly. “Just be honest with me. Do you really want me to sleep in here or come back to our room?”
You blinked at him, unsure of why it was so difficult for you to just be forthcoming with your emotions. It was always so much easier to express yourself when Patrick anticipated your needs. Surely, he knew that you wanted to sleep next to him. You always did.
“You should come back. If you want,” you added the last part abruptly, hoping you weren’t pressuring him one way or another.
“What do you want?” he pressed you further.
Just as you opened your mouth to respond, you heard the familiar pitter-patter of your daughter’s feet. The two of you turned your attention to the girl, who was currently clutching a stuffed animal and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
“Did you guys build a pillow fort without me?” she asked, sounding a little offended as she approached the two of you.
“Never! We were just about to invite you,” you lied easily, somewhat appreciative for the interruption in the midst of Patrick trying to teach you how to be direct.
“Uh-huh,” she said, unbelieving as she crawled into your lap. Even as young as she was, she’d already taken on her father’s sass.
“We’d never make a pillow fort without you, Bug,” Patrick told her, moving to sit next to the two of you.
“Clearly, you just did,” she said with a pout. Her theatrics reminded you of Patrick, and how he always seemed to have his emotions written all over his face. You broke into a soft smile as you thought about the resemblances between your beloved husband and daughter. “It’s not funny, mommy.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not,” you assured her. “How about this: We can go back to sleep tonight, and tomorrow we’ll all work together and make the most amazing pillow fort ever. Deal?”
“Hmm…” she pondered, putting her hand to her chin as she pretended to think about it, though she’d already made up her mind. “Deal.”
As soon as you began to move your daughter off your lap, Patrick swooped in and grabbed her, picking her up and standing up at the same time. “You and Mr. Teddy are gonna have so much fun tomorrow,” he told her as he carried her to her room, your daughter giggling as Patrick booped her nose.
“What are we gonna do?” she asked.
“Maybe another tea party? What do you guys wanna do?” he asked, their voices fading as they made it back to her room.
You figured that you would take this opportunity to gather Patrick’s bedtime belongings back to your bedroom. If Patrick really wanted to know what you wanted, it couldn’t get more straightforward than you wordlessly moving all of his items.
As you walked back to your bedroom with blankets and pillows in hand, you caught a quick glimpse into your daughter’s room, where Patrick was quietly talking to your very sleepy child. You wanted to linger, to watch him and remind yourself of how special your family was, but you decided against staring for too long.
Still, it was an extremely cute sight. Overwhelmed with many emotions, you felt grateful that you picked Patrick to start a family with, despite some of the drama that the two of you stirred up.
When Patrick returned to your bedroom, you were fluffing out his pillow on his side of the bed. He opened his mouth to speak, surely preparing to ask you about his moved belongings. Not wanting to deal with that conversation, you beat him to the punch with a simple, “C’mere.”
He didn’t need to be told twice, as he obediently climbed into bed with you. He looked at you expectantly, as if he was waiting for the next directions that would leave your mouth. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for you, you weren’t in the mood for words.
You practically launched yourself at Patrick as you pulled him into a hug, tense PTA meeting, car ride, and dinner completely forgotten as you melted into his solid embrace. When the two of you slotted together like puzzle pieces, it was hard to remember why you were mad at him in the first place.
Maybe you should talk about your argument, or how difficult it was for you to talk about your feelings, or how your husband’s outspokenness at meetings was beginning to take a toll on some of your friendships with other moms in the neighborhood—but none of that really mattered to you once you were back in Patrick’s arms.
“I love you,” he told you as you buried your nose into your neck, soothed by his familiar scent and solid, comforting body.
It was exactly what you needed to hear, a reassurance that at the end of the day, he would still be by your side, no matter the antics you’d put each other through.
“I love you too.”
It wasn’t addressing the elephant in the room, but in that moment, it was enough.
