#''love'' in the way that if you've had someone in your life for that long of course you love them you have to.

[norikuna]

LAST FRIDAY NIGHT — choso kamo

welcome to the christmas tour ! take a seat in section (d) and let the show begin !

prologue. → it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

but it's been years since choso had started silently loving you.

want to try sitting somewhere else ? take a look at the ticket chart again !

pairing. choso kamo x afab!reader

warnings. vírgin!choso, spítting, kíssing, makíng out, thígh kínk (mild), yuuji being a menace 😭

word count. 8k! song inspiration. last friday night — katy perry

a/n. i can't believe i don't write for choso more. i really put a lot of love into this fic but i wish i had expanded on it a bit more 😭 one thing abt me is that i love adding side characters to cóck block

mp3. think we kissed, but i forgot!

"did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion? breakups happen every day — you don't have to lose it."

you jab at the skip button like it's personally offended you, cutting off the mournful strains of the evermore bonus track mid-verse. normally, you'd let the singer's poetic misery hold your fragile heart in a pretty gentle chokehold, for she understood your heartbreak like a nobel laureate in emotional devastation. but not today.

not on this particularly dreary friday, right before christmas, where even ms. swift's dulcet agony felt obnoxiously on the nose.

pinned under the suffocating weight of your quilt, you let out a dramatic sigh that could rival a victorian heroine wasting away from heartache and humiliation.

with the theatrics of someone clawing their way out of a shipwreck, you work one arm free, waving it weakly into the air like your tragic signal of defeat.

the cocoon of your quilts and covers isn't warm nor comforting. it's a smothering trap, a quilted tomb of your own making.

"this is it," you mumble to the empty air of the apartment, your voice muffled by layers of fabric, "this is how i go."

the universe, for its part, remains unbothered by your suffering.

with a theatrical groan that would earn you a standing ovation in a one-person tragedy, you yank the quilt over your head. plunging yourself into darkness once more.

but unfortunately, the muffled strains of your 'sad girl winter' playlist refusing to take the hint seep through, like overly persistent ghosts of your bad decisions in the past. it seemed that evermore was feeling less like a balm for your soul, and more like the soundtrack to your public humiliation.

somewhere in the tangled chaos of your bed, half pillows and half-sulking regret, your poor and neglected nintendo switch lies face down like it gave up on your hours ago. its screen has long since gone dark, but if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear your animal crossing villagers whispering conspiratorially, drafting a formal petition to evict you.

no doubt tom nook is already sharpening his capitalist claws, repossessing your house with an unsettling amount of glee.

but the rest of your room is not much better. the string lights on your walls flicker half-heartedly, casting an uneven glow over the wreckage of the past week.

it's not the charming nor dramatic kind of mess that makes for an artsy photo dump. no, this is the slow and unflattering unravelling of someone who let life beat them up with zero resistance. if rooms could file restraining orders, yours would have done it by now.

teetering laundry piles of discarded sweatshirts are haphazardly stacked in the corner. nearby, an empty hot cocoa mug sits, sticky with the remnants of whipped cream. candy cane wrappers are strewn across the room, the aftermath of a peppermint explosion that made your jaw ache.

but the true centrepiece of this disaster? your phone, face down on your nightstand. neglected and on silent. the one object in this room that's probably begging for attention, and one that you've been skilfully ignoring. and yet, right on cue, it buzzes again.

lighting up with a contact number that you've been ignoring all week.

choso.

and you squint at the notification, at the glowing screen that makes your eyes sting in the dim light.

sweet, dependable and utterly loyal choso.

your best friend of over a decade. the one person that you can't bring yourself to face.

the one person that also deserves so much better than this radio silence, and yet the last person that you can humanly confront. especially not after what happened last friday night.

and here, good friends, lies the crux of your problem.

that doomed night, seven days ago, has mostly dissolved into a series of blurry and fragmented snapshots. like a bad, half-finished film that you'd walked out of halfway through.

but the lead up? oh, you remember that part with the kind of clarity that should have been reserved for more important moments.

you could still feel the heat of storming out of that overpriced restaurant, half-drunk and fully pissed off, tears streaming down your cheeks and thickening your throat.

your ex-boyfriend? well, he had been your current boyfriend, before he decided to break up with you. in public. for all that classy, emotional damage that was so in character for him.

and with a line so perfectly cliché, it practically begged to be immortalised on a 'worst breakup excuses' list in cosmopolitan: i'm sorry, baby. i just don't see it working anymore. we're just too different. oh! and i found someone else.

oh, sure. but you should have been glad to have been rid of the man-child that thought frankenstein was the monster's name, the man who commented 'oxford study' on innocent tiktoks, and called pinterest 'girl instagram.'

god, what a fuckin' loser.

fuelled by a mix of public-induced heartache and questionable tequila choices, you had practically charged across street crossing. your feet hitting the pavement with the reckless kind of abandon reserved for teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

and there choso had been in your apartment. your best friend had been sitting cross-legged on your rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and ribbons. probably wrapping yuuji's christmas gifts with military precision. he had been balancing a roll of tape in his mouth, scissors over his lap dangerously close to the family jewels. but you had barrelled through the door like a feral cat in a downpour.

his eyes had widened, a little startled, as you made your entrance. the tape had fallen out of his mouth, chestnut hair falling over his face as he gaped. you couldn't blame choso, of course. you had looked entirely like a bedraggled, disheveled mess in a storm. cheeks streaked with mascara trails, but then everything went...fuzzy?

what did you remember? crying. lots of it.

and boy, was it a show. the kind of weeping where your face contorts into a puffed-up, berry-red disaster, and you would feel the headache creeping in even before the tears had finished.

choso's arms had caught you before you could face plant into the couch. solid, broad. warm and familiar.

you had caught the scent of clove and pepper, alongside faint citrus that you had been associating with him over the years. you had been saying something, raw and desperate.

your words had spilled out of you like water from a broken faucet.

and here you were now, reaping the glorious consequences of your own unfiltered word vomit.

seven days of stewing in your own shame and regret. but seven days were not enough to undo this level of self-sabotage. you briefly considered the options: faking amnesia, dropping out of university entirely, or best case scenario — moving to antarctica and herding emperor penguins.

you groan, sinking deeper into the abyss of your covers. and then, of course, your phone buzzed again. the dull and persistent vibration drilled into your skull like a tiny, digital drill.

cho 💜

(01:09am) hey, are you doing okay? (08:42am) tell me if you need anything! (04:23pm) hello? did i do something?

you peek at the screen, trying to avoid making eye contact with the tiny and terrifying letters. your sheet mask scrunches uncomfortably, making you look like a particularly pathetic mummy. choso's sweet and utterly patient messages were a sharp control to your gross sulk, and his concern makes you want to curl into a ball and crawl into a snowbank.

outside, christmas snow fell gently, blanketing the world in a soft and untouched white. it was like something out of a dream, a world of calm and peace. peace that your trifling ass didn't deserve.

if choso wanted to speak to you, he'd have to drag you out of your self-imposed misery himself. and even if he were to arrive at your apartment door, he'd only find a note tacked to the wall. with a map leading to the south pole.

so, what exactly had happened last friday night?

the memory rolls out like an old film reel, all jagged and distorted. the kind that you can't skip, even if you wanted to. it comes in fragments, each one more excruciatingly clear than the last. the haze of vodka-infused whipped cream shots over hot drinks slowly melting away like a bad handover.

the door to your apartment? you remember that part with embarrassing clarity. you had kicked it open with awful, ragged flair. your heel slipping on the floor, and you had nearly stacked it. face-first into your own doorway, standing there with the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

the second the door had slammed shut behind you, a gust of frigid winter shot through the apartment like a chill reminder of your situation.

choso had been sitting cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, in the midst of complete, barbaric chaos. the roll of mauve wrapping paper teetered precariously on his dark jeans, and scissors dangled from his lap while a stripe of tape was wedged between his teeth. in between the mess of clippings and discarded tape, he seemed more like an absurdly morose-looking christmas elf that had been tasked with being santa's helper after an entire bottle of mulled wine.

but as you had walked in, or rather stumbled in, his gaze had shot up. his chestnut hair falling in messy curtains around his face, with one unruly strand intertwined with a red-white rogue ribbon. choso's face had twisted in alarm, his usual solemn manner replaced by someone who looked like they were trying to figure out whether they needed to brace themselves for good or bad news.

"hey," he had said, voice soft but sharp, like he was trying to handle fragile glass. choso had spat the tape out of his mouth unceremoniously, and he had been tugging the ribbon free rom his hair, concern all over his fine features, "what's wrong? are you okay?"

and you? a disaster. drunk, crying, furious. the recipe for an emotional molotov cocktail.

"i hate him," you had snarled, yanking off your beige coat, hurling it in the general direction of the couch. instead, your aim missed entirely. flopping halfway onto the floor, and halfway across choso's knee.

choso simply plucked the coat off his leg with two fingers, gingerly draping it over the arm of the couch. your best friend was frowning as he set down his oversized scissors, rising to his feet in a fluid motion. amber-hazel eyes flicked to yours, wide with alarm as he stepped closer, "are you hurt? is this about —?" he was hesitating, "your boyfriend?"

"no, my ex-boyfriend!" the words were ripped out of you, and your voice pathetically cracked halfway through as tears spilled down your flushed cheeks, "and 'm not hurt, cho. unless you count emotional damage," punctuating your statement with a tragic, breathy hiccup.

choso's perpetual frown deepened, as thick and unruly brows knit together, "okay," he said, voice low and steady, "do you want to sit down? i can get you some water, wait." his steps are slow, purposeful as he closes the distance between you gently, with measured care. or like he was defusing a bomb.

but you were having none of his gentle care, "no, i don't want water! i want — i want to un-date him," you wail, arms flailing as you start pacing like a caffeinated hamster, "god, i'm so stupid for dating him in the first place. and yes, i know, stop looking at me like that. i know you want to say i told you so, but he's such a —," you pause mid-rant, clawing the air for the right word, "a troll. a goblin, an ogre."

choso blinks, "maybe you should just get some fresh water in you," but there's an underlying layer of grimacing amusement painted over his quiet features, "and i didn't even say i told you so."

"no," you blurt, your head snapping so fast that your neck immediately files a complaint in the form of a sharp crick, "i don't want water. i want —"

and then, your brain short-circuited. because that's when you'd actually looked at him. like really looked.

warm hazel eyes framed by dark, sleepless circles that seemed to follow choso around like cursed ghosts. soft, feathery strands of mahogany hair that refused to stay tied back, and tumbled rebelliously into his face. that damn sweatshirt, loose and charcoal gray, and perfectly slouched over his broad shoulders. the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal forearms so solid that they could make a renaissance sculptor pack and quit.

and like a freight train at full speed, like whee-woo, the realisation hit you. choso kamo.

your best friend in the entire world. your steady and reliable, and kind to a fault best friend. better than any stupid ex that you'd ever had.

and because tequila is the nectar of chaos, and heartbreak has no filter, your mouth decided to unleash the words that you would haunt you for the next week.

"i should have been dating you."

the room is silent, as choso freezes entirely. like someone had smacked the pause button on him, and his hand, mid-reach for a glass of water, stops cold. his eyes are wide, mouth parting as though he hadn't yet processed what you had said.

"what?" choso finally manages, the words soft and stunned, like he wasn't sure that he had heard you correctly.

you, in your infinite wisdom (or rather, drunken idiocy), barrelled on like a bull who had just seen red cloth, "i'm so serious! you're the one i should've been with all along!"

you wave a hand at him, as if showcasing him to an invisible jury, "you're smart and you're sweet, and you actually care about me, unlike him!"

choso blinks, his expression unreadable, "okay," he says slowly, setting the glass back down on the table, "i think maybe, uh, you should sit down?"

"i don't wanna sit down, i want you to stop looking so perfect right now."

there's a faint flush creeping up choso's neck, like red pigment staining cream watercolour canvas, "perfect?"

"yes!" you hiccuped, teetering over the couch, "you're supposed to be my best friend, and instead you just stand there with your stupid forearms, and your everything, and it's not fair!"

choso doesn't move, doesn't even speak. just stands there, vaguely dumbstruck. like you had hung the moon, and then yanked it back down to earth to hurl it at his chest.

"i should've been dating you, cho," you declare again, louder this time, and your finger jabs his broad chest like it was somehow his fault, "you're the best, y'know that? and you're so hot, how did i not realise this sooner?"

your best friend's expression goes on a journey of varying emotions, shock and disbelief, panic and confusion. all while his candied pink lips open and close, "uh," because by now, eloquence had left the room for both parties. his hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to steady you or flee. his ears noticeably red, the flush creeping down his neck.

but drunk-dumped you wasn't done. oh no, this was your oscar moment. the hill you were going to die on. the ted talk that no one asked for.

and you were on a roll now, "i mean, look at you! you've got the broody, hot guy thing down so well, and you know that's my type. and everyone knows it, like why aren't we dating already?"

choso's mouth curls again, but no sound comes out. he looks like he wants to crawl into a snowbank and bury himself there forever, "okay, i think maybe you should sit down before you hurt yourself, or, uh, the furniture."

"i'm fine!" you'd declared, throwing your arms up in defiance just as your knees decided that they were absolutely not fine. you wobbled, and in an instant, choso's warm hands are on your shoulders, steadying you with ease.

the searing heat of his touch makes your heart lurch in a way that felt far too real for comfort. you look up at him, his face close enough that you could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, and your breath hitches.

he's close enough now that his lips could press against yours with the mere turn of his head. but you know that choso's just too kind and thoughtful to kiss you in this state right now. he also looks like he's about to gently suggest that you pull yourself together. you wouldn't know, because you've just bulldozed right over him with zero brakes.

tears stream down your face still, but they're starting to slow. sticky and hot, tacking to your cheeks, as you deliver the final blow, "if i asked you to kiss me now — like genuinely right now, would you, cho?"

you would never know what choso's reply would be, because you hiccup violently. the kind that punches your chest and makes you sway. fate was never done with you, because your stomach lurches in warning. you had clamped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with panic.

choso, bless his heart, had looked ready to throw himself in front of you, "bathroom. now," he'd commanded, his voice taking on a rare, firm edge.

and that's right where your memory cut off, mercifully plunging you into the black void of your vodka-soaked brain. no idea if you'd made it to bathroom. no idea if you'd thrown up all over him, classy as always.

but the last thing you did remember, the thing that haunted you eve now, like a ghost tapping on your shoulder, was the look on choso's face. wide-eyed, jaw slack. like you had flipped his entire world upside down.

choso sits cross-legged on the cold dorm floor, the faint creak of wood beneath him. in his hands is a neatly wrapped gift, small and unassuming. but painstakingly chosen for you. the crimson ribbon, shiny and festive, catches the light of the desk lamp.

it wasn't extravagant, nothing flashy nor pricey. but it was thoughtful, personal. something that he had picked out weeks ago, back when everything between you two had been normal.

back when you didn't look at your phone, and decide he wasn't worth answering.

choso's thumb grazes the corner of the box, smoothing over the edges of the paper that he had meticulously folded after watching youtube tutorials. but now? the box felt heavier than it had any right to. would you even want this anymore? would you even want to see him?

choso sighs, letting his head tip back against the edge of his bed frame. it was a tight and awful feeling, something small and sharp that had wormed its way into his chest.

it wasn't just the silence. it wasn't even the unanswered texts or the way you’d been avoiding him like he was the human incarnation of bad news.

it was the fact that you were you. his best friend. the person he always knew how to read — until now, when everything felt scrambled.

he stares at the gift again, his brows furrowing. he'd been turning this over in his mind for seven straight days, wearing grooves into his thoughts like a track stuck on repeat. did you regret it? did you even remember what you said?

and worse — what if you did mean it?

that last thought was the one that always hit hardest. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, the dark strands falling back into his face. somewhere on his desk, his phone buzzed softly, and for a second, his pulse jumped. but when he checked, it wasn't you.

because of course it wasn’t.

"pathetic," choso muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

seven days.

seven long, agonising days since you'd stumbled into your apartment like the ghost of heartbreak past — tear-streaked, half-drunk, and dropping words so raw they’d knocked the air out of choso's lungs.

seven days since you’d looked at him like he was everything good in the world — right before nearly puking on him and passing out on the couch in a heap of drunken devastation.

and seven days of brutal radio silence ever since.

choso groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he slouched against the edge of his bed. he got it — why you'd be embarrassed. he, he was still processing it, the memory looping in his head like a cursed highlight reel.

"you're amazing, cho. you're perfect."

the words echoed, soft and slurred, over and over like a broken record choso couldn’t shut off. a selfish part of him — a really shameful, awful part — had been glad your ex was out of the picture. not that it was a surprise; choso had never liked that guy. too loud, too cocky. the kind of guy who thought buying overpriced cologne absolved him of skipping deodorant.

but then there was the other part of him — the one that made him feel like a jerk. the part that felt guilty for feeling anything at all. because he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about you.

choso wasn't supposed to have spotify playlists privately curated with all your favourite songs. wasn't supposed to have started buying extra hair ties, just because the thought of you stealing one was so annoyingly appealing.

and he definitely wasn't supposed to have been quietly, hopelessly in love with you for five years and counting.

how many times had he messaged now? four? five? enough that he was starting to feel like that guy, the one who couldn’t take a hint. what if you'd sobered up and realised last friday was just drunk nonsense? what if you didn't like him like that at all?

had he not spent seven days drowning his misery in tubs of mango and pistachio ice cream? enough was enough.

choso's thumb hovered over your contact for a long, stupid second, debating whether to send one more pointless text. but before he could add another "hey, just checking in," he swiped away and hit a different contact. a boisterous teenager with a shock of pink hair.

he shoots off a quick text, almost grimacing as he hits send.

Choso Kamo: Need advice. Got a hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: if this is smth weird i'm not googling it for u

choso rolled his eyes, already regretting this decision. but he needed to hear an outside opinion.

Choso Kamo: It's not weird, serious this time. If someone confesses something private to you while they are drunk, then avoids you for a week, what do you do? Hypothetically?

a pause, and then:

yuujithegoat2003: is this someone a hot girl lol

choso sighed, his dry lips twitching despite himself.

Choso Kamo: Yes. Also, serious answers only. yuujithegoat2003: ok ok. do they remember what they said? Choso Kamo: Most likely not.

yuujithegoat2003: huh...so did they say something good? or was it rude? Choso Kamo: It was good. Really quite good. yuujithegoat2003: bro this seems easy, just ask if they meant it.

choso blinked at his phone, at the...almost reasonable response. suspiciously reasonable, coming from his younger brother.

Choso Kamo: And if they freak out? Or say that they didn't mean it? yuujithegoat2003: then u say 'just kidding' and blow the place up and leave the country. i can get u a fake id, i know a guy. i know lots of guys.

Choso Kamo: You need to stop being influenced by Gojo Satoru. Just because his public break-up landed on national news does not make it a premise for my own situation. Hypothetical situation. yuujithegoat2003: ok, gojo just said no one gaf abt your love life anyway. seriously tho if u like this hypothetical person, just be chill. don't be all intense and scare them off bc its never that deep.

Choso Kamo: Love is that deep. Especially when you care for the other person a lot. yuujithegoat2003: ur so dramatic bro. anyway good luck.

yuujithegoat2003: also if you get rejected don't tell me bc i can't handle second hand embarrassment. thx. gtg to work. these pizzas don't deliver themselves ay

choso glances down at the gift still in his lap, the ribbon he'd so painstakingly tied now a little crushed — much like his pride. the box stares back at him accusingly, as if to say, what's the plan here, genius? wait for her to magically show up?

choso exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. sitting here wallowing wasn’t doing him any favours, and neither was yuuji's unhelpful voice.

"yeah, sure," he mutters under his breath, shoving the box into his jacket pocket. he stands abruptly, grabbing his jacket off the back of his desk chair.

if you weren’t going to talk to him, fine. he'd bring the conversation to you. answers, he thought, stepping out into the cold. the winter air bit at his face, but it was bracing, grounding even. one way or another, tonight was going to settle this.

the knocking was relentless.

you tried to ignore it at first, clutching your blanket like it was a shield against all outside forces. whoever was at the door would get the hint eventually. probably. hopefully.

but no, the knocking persisted, evolving into a deliberate rhythm, like some overzealous drummer auditioning for a garage band.

"unbelievable," you groaned, peeling your headphones off and tossing them onto the pillow where they landed with a hollow clatter. if this was the pizza guy you'd ordered from two hours ago, he was wildly late, and you were too broke to tip him anyway.

dragging yourself off the mattress felt like an olympic event. your legs wobbled, your blanket fortress collapsed behind you, and your pride was buried somewhere under the covers still. at least you'd showered earlier — small victories.

your damp hair dripped cold trails down the back of your oversized sweatshirt, and you caught a whiff of cocoa butter as you shuffled to the door. that was…something acceptable at least. but then the mirror by the entryway betrayed you, reflecting sleep-swollen eyes, and the faint ghost of face mask residue clinging stubbornly to your skin.

perfect. a vision of grace and dignity.

you yank the door open, ready to unleash a pointed what do you want? — but the words lodge somewhere in your throat.

smooth. and oh, just your luck.

there stood choso, a walking anomaly in the drab matrix of your sad little existence. his tall frame fills the doorway, backlit by the flickering hallway light, clad in a baggy black tee and faded denim that didn't quite match the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. his hair was tied up in a messy bun, spiky strands sticking out like an afterthought, and of course, he looked unfairly good for someone who had probably spent the past week avoiding the sunlight.

"uh, hey," he says, his voice softer than usual — careful, even. like he thought you might throw the nearest piece of furniture at him and sprint into the night.

"hey?" you echo, voice brittle as you folded your arms tighter. the sweatshirt you were wearing — his sweatshirt, one that he had left here weeks ago — suddenly felt two sizes too big and painfully obvious, "what are you doing here?"

choso scratches the back of his neck, his gaze flickering over you briefly before darting to the floor, "i needed to see you."

"at…eight at night? without warning?"

"would you have answered if i'd texted you?"

the air between you stilled as your brain scrambles for a retort, but he had you dead to rights. with a reluctant huff, you step aside. "fair point. just come in."

choso hesitates for half a second before stepping inside, his presence making your already small apartment feel even more claustrophobic. he's taking a quick glance around, and you watched, mortified, as his eyes landed on the pile of crumpled tissues precariously close to a half-drunk mug of cocoa and a bottle of jack daniel's teetering on the edge of the coffee table.

"sorry for the mess," you mutter, your voice defensive as you crossed your arms tighter.

"it's fine," choso says, a little too quickly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. his gaze lingers on you for a beat longer than necessary, "i didn't mean to…interrupt."

"you didn't interrupt anything." you wave vaguely at the disaster zone that was your apartment.

choso's lips twitch, almost like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if now was the time, "look, i just —" he trails off, his usual dull voice faltering as he pulled something small and neatly wrapped from his pocket, "i came to give you this. and talk."

you stare at the gift in his hands, shiny crimson ribbon and all, your pulse kicking up like it had somewhere urgent to be, "christmas came early? thanks, cho," you say, mirroring his words with the kind of ease that only comes from too many shared silences. "i'm fine, though. i wasn't up to much."

choso cracks a small, half-hearted smile, but it's like watching a flicker of light in a dim room — there, but not really there. "i tried texting," he says, glancing at you, searching for something.

"i know," you murmur, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, "i just wasn't in the mood for much talking."

choso huffs, a sound halfway between exasperation and amusement, "i noticed," he says dryly, and that only makes the air in the room more thick and uncomfortable.

you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you flop back onto the couch, curling your knees up to your chest like you're trying to make yourself small enough to disappear, "so, what? you came here to check if i'm still breathing?"

"kind of," choso admits, settling awkwardly on the edge of your coffee table, his long legs folded beneath him in that way that makes him look like he’s trying to physically contain himself. his knees bump into yours, and you have to fight the urge to pull away, like you could get too close, "but mostly...i came to talk about last friday night."

your stomach does a horrifying little flip, the kind that sends cold fingers crawling up your spine. you stare at him, silently willing him to read the begging look in your eyes and back off, but he doesn't. he's never been the type to take the hint.

"i've been thinking about it all week," he continues, his voice quiet but steady, as if he's preparing himself for something big, "and i need to know if —"

"nope," you interrupt, holding up a hand, "nope. we're not going there."

choso blinks at you, like he's trying to process the sudden barricate that you've just put up. but you're so not ready for this conversation, not now, nor ever. and you'll be damned if he gets any closer to the minefield. he scowls, his brows knitting together like he's resisting the urge to push you off the couch, "why not?"

"because it doesn't matter, okay?" you lean your head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like you can will this conversation away, "i was drunk as hell, cho. you're overthinking it."

he scoffs, his voice sharp now, like he's cutting through your flimsy deflection with a blade, "i don't think i am."

you wince, shrinking a little under the weight of his stony gaze, "why does this even matter?"

"you think i can just brush it off like it didn't happen?" and there's a rawness in choso's voice that hits you harder than expected.

your cheeks heat up, a fiery blush creeping up your neck, "i didn't mean it," you mutter.

"yes, you did," choso snaps back, with uncharacteristic heat, and he leans forward, enough to close the distance between you two, "and you know how i know? because you've been ignoring me all week. if it was just some drunk nonsense, you would have laughed it off by now. but you haven't."

you open your mouth to argue, to push back. but the words stick heavy in your throat. nothing comes out, and it must prove choso all the more right, because you watch as his bottom lip is captured by his teeth, suddenly watching plush skin split.

"do you want me to apologise?" you ask finally, voice a little too sharp for comfort, "because i will. i'll say i'm sorry for putting you in that position and —"

"i don't want an apology," choso cuts you off, and the dim light of your apartment makes the dark circles under his eyes stand out like bruises, "i want the truth."

you freeze, your heart thudding like a drum in your chest, "what truth, cho?"

"that you meant it," choso says softly, "that you meant it when you said that you wish it had been me."

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. your breath catches, as your mind goes blank. an entire power outage, as you blink at him like a fish out of water. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you force the knot in your throat to loosen just enough to speak, "yeah," you whisper, "i meant it."

choso's whole body seems to deflate, like he's been holding up the weight of the sky. his shoulders slump, and the sheer relief on his face hits you like a tidal wave. it's almost enough to undo you. there's a sound, soft and shaky and far too vulnerable that escapes him.

neither of you move. the moment stretches out, fragile. like it could snap in half if either of you dared to breathe too loud.

then, choso is the first to move.

there's no hesitation, no uncertainty. just pure intention, like a dam finally bursting open. he shifts forward, hands finding their way to your waist with an urgency that makes your pulse go into overdrive. choso's grip is firm, but there's a reverence to it, as if you're something he's waited his entire life to touch. he pulls you to him, and you can feel the heat of him flood your chest, your blood, your bones.

"what if you regret this?" you murmur into his chest, voice muffled as your arms slip around his necks, holding onto the beautiful man like he may float way.

"not a chance," choso replies, and his voice is raspier than you've ever heard it, like he's saying it more to himself than to you.

choso kamo finally kisses you.

the kind of kiss that feels like a storm is finally breaking over clear skies, with an unrestrainted longing that crashes over the both of you.

his sweet lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your head spin, raw and real. choso clearly doesn't want to hold back, and neither do you.

his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging lightly at russet strands.

choso groans into your mouth, a soft and burning thing that ignites every nerve in your body.

without breaking his hold on your lips, his wide hands slide down, finding the back of your thighs, making you shamefully clench them closer together.

but he's tapping them in silent invitation, and you leap into him, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. the world around you blurs as he stumbles backwards.

and when the back of his knees hit the edge of your bed, gravity does its job. you both tumble into the mattress in a jumbled mess of limbs and muffled laughter, your heart pounding so loud, as you muster up the courage to prod your tongue at his lips, letting him part his mouth so you can take up more of choso.

you land beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the best way possible, sending sharp spikes of heady arousal through you. and you blink up at him, breathless.

choso is so close now, his hazel eyes locked on yours with a rare intensity, like the calm façade is entirely shattered now. but there's a smile on his lips, a crooked little thing that sends a rush of warmth through you.

"hi, choso," you whisper, your voice soft yet breathless as he chases your lips again, a desperate hunger in his eyes. it's as if he can't bear to be apart from you, even for a heartbeat.

"hey," he murmurs back, that low rumble sending shivers down your spine, igniting a heat you can't ignore.

you keep pressing kisses to his glossy lips, the world narrowing down the press of his mouth and how choso's hands cradle your waist like you might slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

without breaking contact, choso shifts, his strong hands guiding you gently, firmly.

"don' wanna crush you," he spills against your mouth, his voice low and rough, and before you can reply, he flips you effortless.

the movement is seamless, fluid even. and you're suddenly perched atop him, straddling his thighs and sinking into the worn denim of his jeans.

he's leaning back against the covers beneath him, as his chest rises and falls in unsteady waves as he gazes up at you. expression caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

choso looks so completely, heartbreakingly in love with you that it leaves you breathless. his hands tighten on your waist, fingertips pressing with a near bruising intensity into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt that clings to your frame.

his cheeks are flushed a deep, telling pink, and you can't help the soft, teasing coo that slips from your lips as you trace the curve of his temple with gentle fingers, "is something wrong, cho?" you murmur.

his lips, swollen and glistening from your kiss, part slightly, his breath uneven and catching on the edges of unspoken emotions, "nothing. nothing, i swear," he says, the words tumbling out rough and raw, his voice pitched low and vulnerable.

his hands slide you closer, his grip firm but trembling slightly, and his next confession nearly undoes you, makes your core moisten even, "just…never done this before."

"really?" you whisper, eyes widening as you take him in — the flush on choso's cheeks, the way he won't quite meet your gaze, the way he holds you like you're something precious.

the realisation that he's never shared this part of himself with anyone else tugs sharply at your heartstrings, "never?"

choso swallows thickly, nodding once, his voice a quiet hum as he admits, "mhm."

"ah, you're so cute, cho," you giggle, watching as the man scrunches his nose in mock protest.

"tch, 'm not meant to be cute."

you huff, feigning disappointment, "and here i was, wishing you a very merry christmas eve." he whines as you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck, right where his heartbeat thrums beneath his pale skin. your lips find their home at the juncture, and you can't help but smile at the way he whines at your touch, bucks his hips up into yours.

"must have been real good to get a holiday gift like this."

you pull back just enough to admire your handiwork, a little red bloom that blossoms on thin skin, bruised petals that mark him now. choso's swallowing thickly, his adam's apple bobbing, as a soft whine escapes his lips again as you lean in, this time closer to the jaw. leaving a trail of kisses in a messy that makes choso squirm.

you press your thumb against his lower lip, feeling the soft and trembling skin quiver under your touch, "hey. open up," you coax, a teasing lilt colouring your voice.

choso looks up at you, his wide eyes clouded with desire as dark strands of hair fall across his forehead, "huh, what?"

you tap his lip again, impatience bubbling in your chest, "c'mon, open your mouth. properly," and the way he immediately obeys, parting his glossy lips sends a thrill through you. the scent of clove and citrus envelops you as you lean in closer, running your tongue over his lower lip.

you let a glob of spit fall from your lip into his mouth, with a thick thwack! echoing in the air. you deliberately miss, just a little bit, to watch him squirm as he swallows, eyes fluttering shut and inky lashes staining his cheeks.

"so good, aren't you? good at playing nice, hah," you use your thumb to smear the slick over his lips, just a bit. to watch him shudder, entirely captivated by you. it's exhilarating and makes your cunt clench around nothing. probably seeping through the thin material of your shorts and onto his thick jeans.

bang bang bang!

a sharp knock that booms at your door, enough to make your ears ring. you hear choso groan beneath you, shifting slightly so you can feel the full, thick curve of his bulge right where you need him most.

"think we can ignore that?" he rasps, his voice rough and low, the sound of it leave slick strands clinging between your thighs.

you spread your legs just a little wider over him, watching as his frown dissipates and his jaw drops, distracted by the preview you've given him, "i'm really hoping so."

but whoever is at the door has no intention of being ignored. another knock rattles the wood, followed by an all-too-familiar voice yelling, "hey! open up! delivery!"

your brows furrow, recognition sparking, "cho, isn't that—"

he cuts you off with an apologetic sigh, lifting you off his lap with surprising gentleness. choso sets you down on the quilt, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before muttering under his breath, "it better not be."

you watch him go, more than a little distracted by the sight of his broad shoulders and the way his messy hair bobs with each step. already, you're plotting exactly how you’ll get your hands back in it once he returns.

choso swings the door open, and you hear a collective, "what the hell?" echo through the apartment — one part you, one part choso, and one part…

"itadori yuuji?" you blurt, leaning over to get a look. sure enough, there's choso's younger brother, standing in the doorway in a bright red pizza delivery uniform, balancing three large boxes in one hand and his phone in the other.

yuuji blinks at the two of you, then raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and something vaguely accusatory before reading off his phone in a robotic voice, "uh…merry christmas eve. i have three pizzas. extra cheese. stuffed crust," he pauses, not able to keep the act up as his golden eyes narrow, "but, uh — bro, what happened to your face?"

you bite your lip to keep from laughing as choso straightens, his expression caught somewhere between mortified and furious, "yuuji—"

but the younger man's attention shifts to you, his gaze taking in the oversized sweatshirt you're wearing, choso's sweatshirt, and his jaw drops, "oh hell no. this is the hot girl you texted me about?"

choso visibly flinches as you burst into giggles.

"that's like your best friend? that's like my sister-in-law!" yuuji throws up his hands in mock disbelief, "you really keep your circles tight, huh, man?"

before choso can even respond, yuuji leans in closer, squinting at his older brother, "and seriously, dude, what's all that on your face?"

choso groans, snatching the pizzas from yuuji with one hand and shoving him toward the hall with the other, "okay, that's enough. get out."

"you haven't paid me! that's against the law!" yuuji protests, but choso grabs the scruff of his brother's uniform collar, steering him out the door.

"i'll pay you double. triple. just leave."

"my pizzas are probably cold now anyway," you call out, adding fuel to the fire.

"yeah? well, you look a bit too busy to eat them anyway," yuuji swivels his head over his shoulder to wag a finger at you with a grin, before choso finally shoves him fully into the hallway.

as the door slams shut, you hear yuuji's muffled voice echoing, "i'm telling everyone. i'm telling dad. i'm telling sukuna. i'm telling gramps, gojo, nanami —"

you can hear their bickering voices fade down the hallway, to where choso is probably gonna pack him into the car and send him off.

you glance down at the box you'd set aside earlier, your curiosity getting the better of you. carefully pulling at the ribbon, you open it to find a small scrapbook, beautifully made. inside are photos and clippings of you and choso: movie ticket stubs, receipts from late-night takeout runs, train tickets from your trip to the coast.

your chest tightens as you run your fingers over the familiar handwriting scrawled in the margins, a quote from a cheesy romantic movie that you had forced choso to watch with you a few months ago. what an honour it is to be loved like this.

[unpretty]

If, hypothetically, someone was a 26 year old virgin who’s never been kissed at what point should they tell a new partner that if they wanted to avoid looking incredibly lame but also wanted to explain why they’re incredibly awkward

you shouldn't ask me for advice because i'll based it on my own life experience and say "that's none of their business" which is probably not what you're looking for

you don't have to, like. warn people that you might be bad at it because of inexperience. you can just let them think you're bad at it normally. i have done a lot of kissing and sex and i still don't feel like i know what i'm doing. you can have good and bad sex at every experience level. you can be a guy in a long term committed relationship who thinks listening to cbat during sex is a good idea.

in high school i made out with some people who did a weird thing with their teeth that i KNEW they learned from fanfic, and then i got older and made out with grown-ass adults that i knew got laid who still did the teeth thing, so either it's a Real Move and that's why it's in fanfic or else no one ever asked them what the fuck they were doing. i'm not into it. ask before you get your teeth in there. every new partner is starting over from scratch anyway, you're going to have to ask for their likes and dislikes regardless. or just bite their whole fucking mouth with confidence and see how that goes.

if you want to let them know because you want it to be Special i guess that's a thing you can do, but mostly i think that would be putting a lot of pressure on both of you for no reason. you can let them know you like to take things slow and prefer for them to take the lead, but i don't see why you'd need anything more than that.

there's so many different ways to fuck, if it's penetration you feel awkward about you can always just say, "hey, i've had trouble in the past getting penetration to work for me so i'm going to need some help here." the trouble could be performance anxiety, could be weird anatomical incompatibilities, or it could be that you didn't have a partner. they don't need to know the details. if you've had many loving committed relationships where you've done nothing but frot, that's still sex and also no one's business. if they insist on details about your sexual history, they're the weird one and you're allowed to nope out.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

a/n: this is honestly a hot ass mess, and more like an info dump with some loose plot on the side. it's also ridiculously long because i have been wanting to write about this for so long, but i was lowkey too scared too. i also want to say that i don't condone the reader's actions, mean girls aren't cute nor are they funny, it's just for the morally gray plot 😭

i literally cannot stop thinking about what if Spencer Reid had a childhood best friend that was a mean girl.

realistically, i'm aware that spencer looks down on people like that, but for the sake of this au, imagine if the both of you grew up together, and you protected him from bullies and whatnot.

of course you're not a moral person, you're mean and you have a wicked tongue, and you're all around not nice, but spencer loves you.

i'm imagining a typical LA valley girl; that once you both get older, your clothing gets sluttier and you get meaner, while he gets nerdier.

your dynamic i imagine would be a really loose adaptation of the 'mean to everyone else but you' trope.

it's kind of funny to an outsider looking in, because you feel the need to protect your boy genius from people like you.

spencer helps to reel in the bitchy tendencies in you, because you typically lose your cool fast and say whatever's on your mind, which usually comes at a cost of the other person's feelings.

when you guys were younger, he was definitely scared of you.

though you were this chunky girl that should have been bullied right along with him, you were downright worse than what he had to deal with.

the poor boy nearly shit himself when you sat with him at lunch the day after you had saved him from getting his ass kicked.

he was too nervous to say anything, and you've never left him alone since.

now that spencer's older, he figures that your friendship kind of tracks; he always did attract trouble.

the strange part about it was that, yes, you were snappy, but you had never purposely tried to hurt his feelings.

he knows how you get, especially when you go on your tangents or if your buttons had been repeatedly pushed.

you lash out and say things you don't mean, then slink back into his arms with that charming pout on your face, and an apology thick on the tip of your tongue.

spencer sometimes forgets that people kind of fear you because you're sweet on him.

like let's be honest, you're a judgy bitch. no one likes those.

so when he's exposed to that side of you, he gets whiplash.

you took well to the team though, and i only think that's because you can tell how much they mattered to him.

your main thing had always been to try and defend him against people that have ill intentions.

so when see the sheer amount of camaraderie and familial energy that surrounds all of them, you ease up.

but not when they cut him off. that's when you get ugly.

you guys were in separate grades due to spencer jumping ahead, but you still hung out on a daily basis, you had heard his statistical chattering for the majority of your life.

so, you knew it was something he found pleasure in doing, and you'd be damned if someone upset him.

you really did try and bite your tongue! but sometimes morgan's ego was too big for his body, or maybe jj gave him one too many looks for your liking.

luckily spencer can catch the cat-fight bubbling in you from a mile away; he can see the way your eyes narrow first, a disbelieving smile on your face while your exceptionally done nails tap on the nearest surface in irritation.

have you ever seen a cat when its hair stands up on the back of its neck? yeah, that's you.

all it takes is a warm hand on your naked thigh and a small shake of his head to make you huff and cross your arms, the clinking of your bangle bracelets moving along with you.

of course he'll hear all about it on the ride home.

spencer's feelings for you had always been there, but there was a difference between you being his best friend and his lover.

and honestly? that grade school intimidation that he had felt would came back.

because at the end of the day you were you, and he was him.

it was a ridiculous thought, one that you had dismissed when you had confessed to him yourself.

"do you like me back or not, spence?" you had asked out of the blue one day. "because you keep looking at me and not doing anything about it. It's kind of pissing me off."

his wide, shocked eyes met yours, practically tearing his gaze away from the book he had been engrossed in.

"i... do."

"do what?"

"yes, i do like you back."

"good."

dating wasn't all that different than being your friend, he had come to realize.

the only thing that was different was that you were sweeter than ever.

always complimenting him and buying him shit, posting him all over your social media, and even making him your lock screen.

you were so proud to be his partner, that he had forgotten what being loved out loud had felt like.

your relationship came as a shock to no one, of course.

y'all are the epitome opposites attract.

your skimp wear compared to his cardigans, your bite to his soft ask, your scoff to his chuckle.

that's what spencer's come to love. the fact that you guys are so different.

yes, you're a handful, yes you're mean to him sometimes, but like i said before:

he loves you. and that's all that matters.

[sinister-sincerely]

hi sin... :3c ... >:3c

we care youuuuuuu 💜💜💜

much sillies!! & much lovely art!! from @midnight-mourning @luckyyyduckyyy @soupdweller @wyervan & i, for you!!! 🫵

we hope that you are doing well! and that you are taking care, giving yourself grace through the highs & lows alike. it's not always easy, but you're not alone. hopefully this gets a laugh for ya to enjoy 💜

& in the future, if you'd like to draw together, or simply chill ambiently... the offer is always open!

... In full disclosure this took me a wretched amount of time to pull myself together to actually respond to.

(Its a long one, just a heads up. I do think its worth it though)

To say I was floored~ moved~ touched~ The words pale in comparison.

I believe the saying that a measure of someone being a good person is how they treat those that can do nothing for them.

And here I am, a stranger, being shown a kindness that I am not so sure I deserve but am grateful nonetheless.

To think that anyone, let alone all of you, amazing writers, artists, … people I respect and admire thought of me for even a moment to do something like this.

Depression- it holds me back a lot of the time.

It convinces me, like I am sure it does MANY of those readin' this, that your absence in this community, in this world, would not be felt.

There is a reason that I am a part of this community.

Its because it has a way of pulling together some of the most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know.

Now. I wanna return some of that kindness and talk specifically about the ones that pulled together to do this for me. (And also a few that are never far from my mind too)

@divinit3a

You are one of the only people I know that can just be there and your presence felt. Charismatic in the most brilliant way, I love the way your personality shines through everything you interact with (whether that be your writing or something as simple as a Tumblr post)

There is a reason that when you entered the community that people were drawn to you. You have an ability that is both captivating as it is striking in how powerful that magnetism is.

I am so grateful I get to know you, and I am so excited to see what else you create whether that be in this community or elsewhere.

I will always be a supporter, a fan, and most importantly a friend.

Read their stuff!

@midnight-mourning

Sometimes I get caught up in the fact I actually get to speak with the person who has wrote one of my favorite works on AO3.

I first stumbled upon your fic the day it was published and immediately fell in love with the snarky depiction of Sun (and the beautiful mysterious Moon) that you created in a world that has so much more left to be uncovered.

You manage to balance your life along side updating which in of itself seems like such a superpower that I envy to the core.

You also floored me with the kindness you've shown through out us chatting back and forth. Sometimes I feel just in awe that I can say we know eachother…

@luckyyyduckyyy

Talk about someone I've been actively following for awhile- Lucky, your ANE fanfic was one of the very first I read when stumbling upon the DCA community! It inspired me to take a chance at writing myself and posting it for the first time.

If I hadn't come across you- well, I wouldn't be here now… How do you even begin to pay that back?

I have no idea how I can thank you enough for doing that for me, let alone thank you for doing the above for me…

Its my hope that I get to continue to be friends with you, learn more from you and maybe one day manage to give back a fraction of what you've given me…

@soupdweller

AHH! Hi! So- I have no words but thank you.

I've admired your art for a very VERY long time and its such a cool, (and a bit) intimidating (but in a good way) gesture to have this coming from you too.

Your rendering is beautiful.

The way you laid out the DCA's internals still give me steampunk vibes in the BEST way with the colour palette~ I can gush forever but I also wanna seem cool and somewhat mysterious in that 'kinda quiet way'…

… I'll cut that out for now ^^

on a serious note, thank you, you don't know me very well but you still did this and what I mentioned before about the measure of being a good person- that describes you.

@wyervan

… Would it be weird for me to say that anytime I think of the DCA as humans I can't for the life of me not picture the AU forms that you created that has single handedly metamorphosized into a community Slasher Y/N multiverse?

That is an amazing talent, I am just in awe at what you've managed to not only do, but also how you've brought so many people together!

I have so much to say, and yet I don't wanna put my foot in my mouth by actually following through with the amount of admiration I wanna express.

Thank you for taking part in this for me, we don't really know each-other much just yet but I hope that changes. You seem like such an amazing person, I'd love to gossip about skinny, scrawny, somewhat unhinged guys with you sometime.

-

I have a few people I wanna shout out too

@amarynthian-chronicles:

Thank you for always supporting me, even when I don't think I deserve it. You've been an amazing person to me, and I hope I get more opportunities to return the favor

@gniteruirui

Gosh. You've been such a beautiful person to get to know this past year or so. Your artwork gives me life, and seeing your name pop up in all the ways it does makes me smile.

@lets-zofifi-stuff

I hope you continue to have more good days vs bad- I hope the sun shines on you and you always find random luck whenever its needed.

You were one of the first people I made friends with here on Tumblr… I may have also looked back and saw that you even made a post about me when I left Tumblr the first time.

@bubbiethesaur

I don't have enough words to express how much I adore you for just being you. Thank you, I hope I can be a friend that deserves you.

I just wanted to tag you- You are so talented, wonderful, and kind.

Something about you just makes me smile whenever I see your username come up. I've always wanted to get closer to you, friendship wise, but I also get scared because you're so cool.

I've been working on it.

Just know that our conversations in Qwille's discord have always been some of my favorite moments in this community.

@maldefekt

Thank you for reaching out to me- even that most recent time when you saved me from something I know would have haunted me forever!

I am looking forward to getting to know you more

[thewistlingbadger]

Adding onto this. Silco is probably THE definition of "it's not always about the money spiderman." I hate the take that he's only doing things for his own self interest because it so violently goes against what we're told about him. If Silco was truly in it for the personal power, money, influence, etc, he could and WOULD have stopped a long time ago. If it's just about ego then he doesn't need Zaun to become independent. If he only cared about zaun independence for his own glory and not for his own people then he'd be no better than the chem barons, and we see how Silco views them as parasites who are beneath Silco. Silco loves Zaun for what it is, which is why his vision of a better Zaun is not a Zaun with peace, it's a Zaun with freedom. Silco sees nothing wrong with the under city's chaos and violence, which is why he perpetuates both and doesn't try to stop either. This contrasts Vi, who as a child viewed Zaun as being inferior to Piltover. This contrasts Ekko, who actively tries to improve upon the Undercity. Silco is devoted to his nation not in spite of its flaws but because of its flaws. To him, it's perfect as is, the only problem is that they're oppressed. Silco already views Zaun and Piltover as equals even though they don't have equal power or influence or ability. To him, Zaun is just as good and potentially better than Piltover. All they need is a chance to excel, the opportunity to rise above the hardships that they wouldn't have if not for Piltover. Silco's okay with putting down and harming individual zaunites if it means the collective group will be better off. It's why he sees no problem with shimmer, because even though it's actively destroying the community, it's boosting their economy and furthering themselves from Piltover.

Silco's hatred for topside really can't be understated. It's important to remember that his generation grew up in a much worse zaun. Of course he's willing to use any means necessary to be free from those assholes, especially after all he's sacrificed and the sacrifices of others he's witnessed. Silco seems to really admire his generation for all the shit they had to put up with. He tells Finn before zaun became an enterprise all they had was the loyalty of zaunite brothers and sisters helping each other. "And now I'm forced to share the air with parasites like you who leech off their memory." Personally, in light of season 2, this line makes extra sense because of Felicia. Felicia was one of Silco's closest friends and she laid down her life fighting for the cause ("so you'll die for a cause, but you won't fight for one?!" Now this line makes more sense too), she's the perfect example of a true Zaunite. Silco also used the gray against the chem barons to not only highlight his superiority to them but also to once again differentiate between his generation and the newer generation.

"Oh, you don't recognize it? Have you forgotten where we came from? The mines they had us in? Air so thick it clogged your throat, stuck in your eyes? I pulled you all from the depths and offered you a taste of topside and fresh air. I gave you life. Purpose. But now you've grown fat and complacent. Too much time in the sun. We came from a world where there was never enough to go around, Finn. That is why we fight."

Yes silco does have his own ego and he is doing things for his own selfish interests but he's not doing things ONLY for himself. His own selfishness is truly not his priority, it's the nation of zaun. "I'm doing this for us, Jinx. For the sons and daughters of Zaun."

I don't see Silco as someone who "lost his way" bc there's no evidence to suggest that this wasn't always his way. We know that he wasn't once always this fucked up and evil but from my perspective he's always been the radicalist. He's always been the one behind the Nation of Zaun, the one that's always been willing to do anything to get his goal. Not even the death of Felicia stopped him or even gave him any pause from pursuing his goal. And of course it didn't, Felicia is the one that told him "I don't care if you have to carve it out of the bedrock covered in blisters." Additionally, silco does just see himself as better than the chem barons, he sees himself as better than most zaunites too. Silco has literally gone through hell and back and is now the most powerful man in the undercity. If he can do that, then what's other people's excuse? Of course he's toying with the drug addicts, to him they're the weakest link in the zaunite societal chain. He's literally standing above them as they're at his feet. The fact that some of these drug addicts where Vander supporters also plays into I think (we know at least Huck had a past with Vander). Another reason why I think he sees himself as superior is because he's basically the only person actively trying to get independence. When Vander was their leader, all he cared about was maintaining the status quo. We know some maybe most of Silco's supporters initially joined him because of his promises of Independence and rebellion but we see after the time skip most of them become washed up and no longer care for the goal. The Firelights also don't seem to care about zaun independence either. They're anti silco and anti Piltover and their main goal is rehabilitating the community.

When Silco died, so did the nation of zaun- that idea, that ideology. NO ONE tries to achieve independence after his death. The zaunites start to rally against piltover because of the new oppressive conditions they're being subjected to, not because they're trying to achieve independence. The Firelights I've been trying to get rid of him since day one and what do they do when he's actually gone? Nothing, they don't make a single play for power in the Undercity. The fact that sevika ends up becoming a council member implies that Zaun is still a state under piltover and not its own nation.

Oh yeah I forgot that there's this opinion that Silco "was blindsided by power and wealth" and "lost his way" and "he only did what he did to benefit himself all along" etc etc. Uh. Where- where did you get that from? I'm not even being sarcastic or something, I'm genuinely curious how you can come to this conclusion.

He operates from a crappy office in The Last Drop and the only attributes of wealth he has are cigars and whiskey(?). My man had one pair of pants for 10+ years and only got a fancy coat to look more intimidating. Besides, when chembarons proposed to give back the gemstone to Piltover so their sales don't drop even harder Silco refused. Also he was ready to give up his power when Jayce made imprisoning Jinx a requirement for Zaun to gain independence. Sure, he IS motivated to keep his daughter safe, but it would also mean that his goal will finally be achieved, so there's nothing left for him to do. Both wealth and power are only means to achieve a goal to him. He also doesn't really display that he gets the kick out of it, unlike councilors in Piltover.

"Well yes he wants Zaun to be independent, but only as he personally sees it" when did he EVER say that??😭😭😭😭 Every time he speaks on the topic he only mentions how he wants Zaunites to have opportunities, respect, "more than (Piltover's) runoff". Like- that's literally everything he ever said about this. All that matters to him is independence, he couldn't care less about everything else.

As to "losing his way"...idk I think this can only be attributed to pre-drowning Silco. Because after it he pretty much decided to stick to what he now believed in forever, and at no point except the finale he went south from his beliefs.

Silco isn't "misguided" or "corrupt" or any other similar definition. He's a character who chose to become a monster to bring change to his people. And as s2 didn't do anything about resolving this conflict, he was never really proven wrong.

[dragon-in-a-fez]

I'm really sorry if this is out of line, but I keep ruminating on this and I just... need to ask. As someone with chronic health problems and also PDA (a profile of autism that is characterized by demands invoking a distress response), I worry *very* much about being doomed to be a hurtful lover because I legitimately *can't* contribute to household chores and such at least 90% of the time. And hearing about your abusive ex (who was an asshole and I'm so sorry that you had to deal with that) just makes me worry more. Do you... think that it would be possible for someone who can't contribute to household chores to be in a healthy relationship? If so, do you have any advice on pitfalls to avoid or the like...? Sorry again if this is out of line; I've been debating asking this for months probably and I just. I know this is probably hugely inappropriate, but I think... that my worry about hurting my boyfriend (who is the love of my life, very sweet, and I worry about him because he's a self-proclaimed people pleaser and worry that he doesn't tell me when I do stuff he doesn't like because of that; it's unfortunately a long distance relationship right now) is just too important. Sorry.

first off, don't worry about asking. I applaud you for taking the time to think about these tough questions. not knowing much about your exact situation I'm gonna try and make this a somewhat generic response.

the short answer? I don't believe there's any disability that precludes you from being in a healthy relationship, but you have to do 2 things:

first, contribute to the relationship in the ways that you can. the thing with my ex was, they didn't just not do chores. they contributed fuckall to the relationship in every possible way. everything from emotional support to money to help with insurance paperwork flowed overwhelmingly in one direction for 5 years. talk with your partner about what you can do to make their life easier and happier. I like to think about good relationships as communist, in a "from each according to ability, to each according to need" sort of way. my problem was I let someone set me up as the partner with all the abilities and none of the needs, which frankly, you're not gonna do to your partner if you're operating in good faith.

second, show some appreciation for the things your partner does for you. to be clear, I don't mean treat it like they're doing you a huge favour when they do the things you've agreed are their jobs. but like...I'm thinking about the day I spent four hours cleaning my ex's room while they sat on their bed doing nothing, and then they complained about how tired they were from watching me clean their room, and when I got mildly salty about them saying that, I got yelled at for two hours about how ableist I was. just like...don't do that. if your partner takes a whole afternoon to wrangle all your shit off the floor for you, maybe be like "I really appreciate that, you must be exhausted, do you wanna come cuddle and watch a movie now?"

ultimately, as long as your partner feels like they're cared for and supported how they need to be, and they're okay with caring for and supporting you in the ways you need to be, then you're gonna be fine.

[bokutosbabe]

actually I was just passing by and scrolling on tumblr (using the school computer cuz I dont wanna go to class yet and because it has wifi) and I wanted to try and take my chance in your recnt post which I just saw and it made me pretty interested in who you would pair me up with

I have "take a chance with me" by Niki as my top song (of course) and Seventeen as my top artist for this years spotify wrapped, very interested to find out who you would pair me with, thank you again!!

if take a chance with me by niki was your top song and seventeen was your top artist, i'd pair you with...

isagi yoichi

જ⁀♡⊹｡° say what we we want, say what we feel

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event - masterlist -

♡ content — isagi yoichi x gn! reader, gn! reader, childhood friends, friends to lovers, awkward isagi, unrequited love for a second, mention of picking soccer and reader

♡ synopsis — you've always loved isagi yoichi, but when he finally tells you how he feels, your friendship could crumble.

You and Isagi always shared a quiet understanding. While the world saw him as a rising star, someone who was destined for greatness, you were the person who saw his true self—the quiet boy who feared failure and the overwhelming pressure to be the best.

It had always been like that, even when you were younger. He’d train, head down and focused, always trying to get better, and you’d be the one who kept him grounded, reminding him of the simpler things in life—the fun of just playing without the weight of expectations.

But those days felt so far away now. You’d grown up, he’d grown into a national hero, and the distance between you both seemed unbridgeable. Still, you couldn’t help the way your heart beat faster every time you saw him. Even now, after all this time, that same rush of emotions stirred inside you.

It was a rare thing, this moment—a simple, quiet day. Isagi had invited you over to his apartment after a long day, the kind where he'd just played a big match with his team, and you, as always, attended from the sidelines, cheering him on. Now, you sat on the couch, the warm glow of string lights and Christmas decorations creating a peaceful atmosphere as you both relaxed. You didn’t know why he insisted on movie nights like this. Maybe it was the closest thing to normal he had.

You hadn’t seen him in a while. With the constant traveling and the endless responsibilities that came with his career, you knew it wasn’t easy for him to keep in touch with everyone, but somehow, he always made time for you. There was something so familiar about him, but also, he felt like a stranger at times.

"Hey," Isagi's voice breaks through the silence. He's looking at you, his gaze soft but intense, like he’s deciding something, something important.

"Yeah?" You glance over at him, heart skipping a beat.

He shifts uncomfortably, one leg crossed over the other, eyes tracing the floor before meeting yours again. "I don’t know when things changed. When... you became more than just a friend. But I realized I’ve been putting this off for too long."

You blink, your heart hammering. "What are you talking about?" Your voice is barely above a whisper, betraying the sudden nervousness settling in your chest.

"I’ve never been good at expressing myself," he chuckles softly, the sound both familiar and a little sad. "I thought maybe I could just ignore it, or maybe it would go away, but... I don’t think it will." He looks at you, eyes full of something you can’t quite place, but it’s vulnerable. Raw.

You swallow, trying to make sense of what he's saying. It feels like he's been talking around this moment for years, and now, it’s finally come to the surface. "Isagi..."

His gaze softens, and for the first time, you see that faint trace of doubt in him—the same doubt you used to reassure him about back in the day. "I don’t want to regret this. I don’t want to look back and think that maybe I could have... I don’t know... tried something with you. I’ve been holding back because I didn’t want to mess things up, but now..." He exhales shakily. "I can’t pretend like I don’t want you in my life, in my future. I want to try, but I... I’m scared. I don’t know what to do with all these feelings."

His words hang in the air, and your heart feels like it’s been pulled in two directions. Part of you wants to reach out to him, to tell him that you’ve felt the same way for so long, that all of this time spent apart hasn’t dulled your feelings for him. But the other part—the part that’s always been afraid of taking that leap—wants to stay safe in the distance, to preserve what you have, even if it means holding back.

"You’re scared?" you finally manage to say, laughing softly. "You’re the one who’s been scoring goals in front of thousands of people, and you’re scared of this?"

Isagi chuckles nervously, his eyes bright with a mixture of relief and frustration. "Yeah, well... this is different. You’ve always been someone who just... made sense to me, you know? But now it feels like everything’s spinning so fast, and I’m not sure how to make it stop."

You let out a slow breath, your heart racing as you finally let yourself speak the words that have been trapped in your chest for so long. "I feel the same way, Yoichi."

His eyes widen, as if hearing it out loud for the first time is what makes it real. "So... does that mean you’d...?"

"I don’t want to pick," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t want you to choose between soccer and the future we could have, or... whatever we are now."

Isagi’s expression softens as he inches closer, the tension between you both now palpable. His hand brushes against yours, fingers lightly grazing your skin. "I don’t want to pick either, but I have to try. So, let's just... try."

You can see it now, the sincerity in his eyes, the way he’s finally letting himself be vulnerable with you. And in that moment, you realize that even though the future may be uncertain, you’re both standing at the edge together, finally ready to leap.

With a shaky breath, you reach for him, your fingers curling into his hand, offering him the chance you both deserve.

soft isagi they will never make me change you

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[deathdetermineslife]

No one cares about how you think being ficto isn't harmful because you're an anti. Your opinion doesn't matter anyways. Antis have done a good job of invading this historically proshipping space. You sure did do a good job at ruining this community. You've only been in this community since July and you've done nothing but indoctrinate children into your fucking cult. There is no safe space for real selfshippers anymore because you've made this community harmful. You can act like you do good by making templates and inbox games and "spreading positivity" (Which, you can't do by wishing death to an entire harmless community, by the way. But you're too stupid to understand the gravity of you hurt.) but you do nothing but spread harm through your posts by gatekeeping. There's no safety in gatekeeping. You've spread more indirect hatred through this community than anyone else ever has. I hope you sleep well at night knowing these victims of abuse you pretend to care about are being hurt because of you. Continue lying about being a victim yourself for internet brownie points. We all just feel so bad for you, an anti with no common sense. We built this community by hand and you've destroyed it. I hope you feel good about yourself knowing you've made all of us feel unsafe.

Go ahead and block me, I don't care. Just know we all want you gone. And whine and cry about how this is harassment, I really don't care at this point. Someone needs to say it to you.

there's so much I could say about this, but since it's Christmas eve, I'm quite tired, and I don't feel like trying to refute all of this gobbledygook, instead I'll just say this;

I just got out of church with my family, and while I am pagan, I had a lovely time at Christmas Eve service. at the end we held candles and sang silent night (which has been my favorite Christmas song since I was a kid, fun fact about me :]), and had a nice time seeing people I havent seen since last year. whether or not you folks out there celebrate Christmas, I hope tomorrow is a good day for you! and if you do, I hope you get all the presents you could ever ask for !!!

do something kind for someone this holiday if you can :) go say something nice in someone's inbox, draw them their selfship, whatever. kindness gets you a long way in life, no matter what other people may think.

have a holly jolly Christmas teeehhehehehe >:D

(also I know I said yesterday I would get out more pride stamps but I didn't have time today to finish the rest of them so instead I'll probably get them out tomorrow as a Christmas treat! :3)

[thetardisisnotourdivision]

When you see a post about romance or kissing or sm and just for a second you can't help but think of the person you're in unrequited love with.

[dimensionhoppr]

they were so so right when they said bkdk is a gay ship for gay people

[imaginedisish]

Lover, You Should've Come Over (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Get ready to cry. This is based on a request I received yesterday where the reader gets jealous of Jean. I tried to take this in a different direction just because I feel like this is a popular trope that has been done by many fantastic writers. It's also inspired by "Lover, You Should've Come Over," by Jeff Buckley. Hope you guys enjoy.

Summary: You've been pining after Logan since you joined the X-Men, and you're convinced he'll never love you back. He’s obsessed with Jean—always has been. Or...maybe he's not.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Oral (f!receiving), fingering, PIV (unprotected...pls WRAP IT UP THIS IS FICTION!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, f!reader/afab!reader, telepathic!reader, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan (kinda? yeah.), non-canon compliant (you'll see what I mean...no spoilers), cursing, angst, feelings, implied mutant trauma (kinda a given in X-Men), probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,197 sorry

Wanting someone you can’t have—it’s that crying in the shower, pulling your legs into your chest, screaming into your pillow kind of heartache. You’ve come to know the feeling intimately. It’s an awful, horrid, stomach-churning kind of pain.

But you want him. Despite all the pain, you want him. Logan Howlett. You can’t seem to keep him off your mind. For the few months you’ve been one of the X-Men, Logan has been a constant. He’s always there—whether it’s to train or just to talk. But you know he’ll never want you. You see the way he looks at Jean. You wish you didn’t. You wish you were oblivious to that sort of thing. But you don’t need to use your telepathy to reach inside his mind for proof—you just know. 

You keep holding on, savoring every moment, every interaction you have with Logan. You sit on the lawn of the mansion with him, watching the sunset. You’ll come down to the living room late at night to find him sitting in front of the T.V. and join him. Sometimes he’ll drape an arm around your shoulder. He’ll draw circles into your side as you drift off. You’ll wake up the next morning back in your bed, Logan having carried you there long after you’ve fallen asleep. 

You’ve decided you’ll take all he’ll give you, even if it means nothing to him—even if it's platonic. 

But tonight, you wish something would come up through the floor and swallow you whole. A void, a black hole maybe. That would do the trick. Disappearing would make everything so much easier. The second-best thing to disappearing is sitting in the kitchen of the mansion, alone, with a pint of ice cream. You decide to practice your powers, moving the silver spoon with your mind, concentrating as you dig the spoon into the top of the pint and into your mouth. 

You hear a warm, familiar chuckle from the doorway as the spoon lands on your tongue. You look up, and there’s Logan, arms tucked across his chest. “Wish I could do that.”

You can’t help but smile around the spoon as he strides over to you, taking a seat on the stool next to yours. You slide the spoon out of your mouth and rest it on the napkin next to the ice cream. “Hey,” you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

His shoulder brushes against yours. He’s so close it hurts. You try to shove the pain down and enjoy the moment. 

“Was hoping I’d run into you down here. Thought maybe you’d be in bed already,” Logan says, his eyes locked on yours. 

You shake your head, doing your best to keep that fake smile plastered on your face. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

You can see the sudden concern appear on his face. “Everything okay?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. Fuck, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s catching on. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the ice cream. “Just still having a hard time adjusting.” It wasn’t a lie. You had always struggled with your powers, longing to hide, to shove them down. Your whole life, you were either a freak or something to be used—whatever was most convenient in the moment. The struggle between visibility and forcing yourself to be “normal” was an impossible battle. You were no stranger to being taken advantage of or being experimented on.

Logan was the first person who understood that—understood you. He made you feel seen in a way that no one ever had. It’s part of the reason you’ve fallen so hard for him. 

His hand is suddenly on your back, yanking you from your thoughts and back to reality. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, anything.” 

Anything. You wish he really meant it. 

“Thanks, Lo.” You smile up at him, letting your eyes linger on his lips for just a second before looking back down at the ice cream. “Want some?” You ask, nodding at the pint. 

“Only if you feed it to me the way you did when I walked in.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he taps the spoon. You side-eye him incredulously. “I mean it. Wanna see you do it again.” There’s a husk in his voice, a shift in his timber that sends a chill down your spine. You try not to think about it too much as you pick up the spoon with your mind. 

You guide the spoon inside the pint, scraping the top, and lifting it up towards Logan’s mouth. He opens wide as you lead the spoon inside, his tongue hitting the bottom as his lips close around it. The implications of the moment don’t dawn on you until he’s grabbing the spoon with his hands and sucking on the metal. There’s something undeniably suggestive about this. 

Heat rises to your chest as you replay the image of him taking the spoon into his mouth in your mind. It’s so intimate, so domestic. And, certainly, something else—something that makes you tick, that makes that familiar fire grow deep within your belly. 

But—like always—the moment doesn’t last long. You wince, feeling someone itching against your thoughts, prodding at your mental shields, begging to be let in. Suddenly, there’s another voice in your mind. 

I gotta try that myself. You flinch at the sound, taking the spoon from Logan’s hand and shooting it across the room to where you sense the person’s presence. You turn around, and there’s Jean, resisting the spoon’s trajectory with her mind. 

It's almost pressing into her skull, shaking in mid-air, ready to break her skin. You gasp and drop the spoon, embarrassed to have registered her as a threat. “I’m so sorry,” you say, watching as Jean crouches down and picks up the spoon. “I didn’t know that was you in there, I swear.”

You expect Logan to stand from the chair and rush over to Jean, but he stays next to you, glued to your side, the palm of his hand resting gently on your back. “Jean.” His voice is firm, almost cold and harsh. “What was that?” You’re surprised at how curt he’s being with her, surprised he remembered that you’re sensitive to people probing around your mind, even if it’s friendly. 

Jean mutters a curse. “I was just communicating with her. I didn’t think she’d—” 

Logan stands, his hand still steady at your back. “Don’t do that again. Ever.” His voice is louder now, heavier. 

She whispers an apology, setting the spoon on the counter and walking towards the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says. “I should’ve remembered given your…” she pauses, searching for the word, “past…that it wouldn’t be a good idea.” She takes another tentative step. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, and she slips out. 

Logan settles back into the stool next to you. You’re shocked that he’s still here, that he hasn’t run away yet. You can hear him breathe—in and out—gentle, long breaths. You close your eyes and listen, the sound calming you down. You’re still expecting him to leave, to walk away, but he doesn’t. 

“You okay?” He asks, your eyes fluttering open, his voice hanging in the air. His head is tilted to the side, worry painted across his face. 

“Y-yeah. I’m fine,” you stutter, your voice cracking. “You don’t have to stay with me. You can go check on her if you want.” You nod towards the doorway—to wherever Jean wandered off to. 

“And why would I do that?” Is all he says in return, furrowing his brows. 

You put on that fake smile again. “I almost jammed a spoon into her forehead because she spoke to me telepathically.” You shake your head. “Don’t really think my reaction was particularly friendly—or something that good people do.” You break eye contact with Logan and look to the other side of the kitchen. “Plus, you two are…close.”

“Hey.” His voice is firm again, but gentle this time, reassuring. His hand slips across your back and rests on your waist. You’re so shocked by the contact that you almost miss what he says. “First of all, she knows better. Charles warned her about what you’ve been through. And second…” He trails off, smirking at you. “I’d rather be with you.”

Oh? Oh. He’d rather be with you. 

“I just thought, you know, you and Jean were…” You’re too embarrassed to finish the sentence and too nervous to hear him say the words you’ve been dreading most. 

He shakes his head, that smirk still spread across his lips. “No, it’s not Jean I want. Never has been.” 

Your breathing becomes shaky—your heart beating rapidly in your chest. “If it’s not Jean, then—” 

Logan cuts you off as he suddenly moves. His arm lifts from your waist as he stands, turning your stool around so your back is against the cold countertop. He’s gripping the arms of the stool now, caging you in. Your mind is hazy—you can’t concentrate with him this close. 

“You think I do the shit I do with you with Jean too, hm?” He’s towering over you, his head cocking to the side, his voice self-assured and confident. “Think I’m watching movies and sunsets with her? Carrying her to bed, too?” 

You’re overwhelmed, dizzied by his words, his size, him. “Just thought that—”

“Just thought what?” He cuts you off again. “That I didn’t want you, darlin’?” He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, one hand moving from the counter to your hip. “Wanted you this whole time,” he huffs, goosebumps rising on your arms. “Only you.” He presses a kiss to your ear, and then just underneath your jaw. 

“Logan,” you whisper. “W-want you too,” you choke out, your hands coming up and around his back. “B-but someone’s gonna walk in on us.” 

He’s ignoring you, biting your pulse point lightly and licking the pain away. “Let them,” he husks, refusing to stop. You instinctively bring your hands up to the nape of his neck, your nails digging in slightly. He groans at the contact, his chest heaving against yours. 

“One of the kids is catch us in here, or somebody else,” you mutter, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. “W-we should—”

“Go to my room.” He finishes your thought. 

“Please.” 

And then he’s picking you up from the chair, his hands under your thighs, grabbing your ass. You wrap your legs around his waist as he prowls out of the kitchen. He looks both ways as he crosses the hallway and makes his way to the stairs. There’s no one in sight. He carries you up the steps and down the hall to his room, practically breaking down the door as he swings it open and slams it shut. 

And then he’s laying you down on his bed, crawling over you, pressing his forehead against yours. “Wanted you in here sooner,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from yours. “Hoped you’d come over one night. You should’ve.”

His lips crash down onto yours before you can find the words to say. He’s starving for you, swallowing your moans as his hands slip under your shirt, his nails digging lightly into your sides. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps against your lips. Everything is desperate and rushed, hands pawing at bare skin in the dim light of his room. 

Logan tugs on the hem of your shirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the side as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He curses under his breath, looking you up and down. 

“Logan,” you whine, arching your back. You need his hands on you again, his lips. Something. Anything. 

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes, his fingers hooking inside the waistband of your shorts. “Gonna take care of you.” He yanks them down your legs, leaving you in just your bra and panties. 

He pulls off his own shirt, tossing it carelessly, letting it get lost on the floor. He settles back down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand finds your waist. He slides up to the bottom of your bra, teasingly pulling on the fabric before slipping his hand behind your back—skillfully unclasping the bra with one easy motion. You arch your back again, the bra straps sliding down your arms as Logan tosses the bra to the floor, too. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his hand tracing the curves of your breasts, massaging gently. “Perfect.” He captures your lips in another kiss as his thumb ghosts over your nipples, just barely giving you the relief you need before pinching softly. The pressure feels so good, so right, but it’s not enough. 

He draws circles around your nipples with his thumb, the sensation feeding the aching fire between your legs. Your hips involuntarily lift off the mattress, meeting his. “Need me that bad, huh?” He is always so incredibly cocky, even now—especially now. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and what to do next. 

Logan grinds his erection into your core. You can feel how big he is, the weight of him heavy against your cunt even in his jeans. You clench around nothing, whining his name as his strained cock teases your panty-clad pussy. “You want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, biting your lips as his hand leaves your tits and sweeps down your stomach, stopping just above your clit. He slides his fingers down just a bit more, feeling where your arousal seeps through your panties. 

“Already soaking for me, sweetheart.” The bassy timber of his voice stokes that flame deep within your belly. Without warning, he’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your legs. “Can’t wait anymore, pretty girl,” he whispers. “Wanna taste this pussy.” He kisses your belly button, leaving a trail down the rest of your stomach as his mouth travels to where you need him most. 

There’s something depraved about the way he’s crawling down your body, taking in every inch of you. He spreads your legs apart with the palms of his hands—his thumbs brushing against your bare skin, licking teasingly at your inner thighs as he settles in between them. 

He pauses, looking at you under hooded eyes. You can see the want—no, the need—in the way his muscles flex and how he works his jaw. But he’s hesitating, his breath hot against your core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your eyes searching his for his next move. 

He finally presses a kiss to your clit. “You don’t understand how you make me feel,” he mumbles against your heat, licking a long stripe through your folds and back to your clit. “No idea how long I’ve fucking wanted you.” You throw your head back, whimpering his name as he laps again and again. He’s starving, and you’re the only thing that can satiate his hunger. His tongue swirls around your clit, flicking it, taking it in between his lips and sucking hard. 

Your hips lift off the mattress and Logan quickly moves to hold them down. “You’re not going anywhere, darlin’,” he grunts against you, the vibration of his voice going straight to your core. 

His free hand slips up the inside of your thighs, teasingly climbing higher and higher, his nails skimming your flesh. He’s toying with you, leading you on, taking his time. His fingers finally ghost over your folds, exploring you, stroking up and down as his tongue laps at your cunt. 

Logan prods your entrance with two fingers, slipping in just a bit, testing the waters. “Please,” you beg, pushing your hips down in an attempt to sink his fingers deeper into you. He stops you, his hand still firmly holding your hips down, refusing to give you the release you’re dying for. 

“So fucking impatient, aren’t you?” He tuts. And then he’s shoving two fingers all the way inside you, down to his knuckles. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“F-fuck!” You cry out, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets a relentless pace. He’s drinking you in, sucking roughly, his long fingers pumping in and out with a vengeance. 

“’This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks condescendingly in between laps. You’re too fucked out to form a sentence, your legs trembling underneath him. You know he’s loving this—loving that you’re a wet, needy, whimpering mess. 

Your walls squeeze around his fingers, your swollen clit throbbing as he laps at you. You’re so close already. “Lo,” you call out, fisting the sheets of his bed. Everything in here smells like him: pine and mint and musk and tobacco and that thing that’s uniquely Logan. It’s all so overwhelming and overstimulating. You’re ready to fall apart, to melt into nothingness. “S-so close.”

He squeezes your hip. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, his pace unwavering as his fingers fuck into you, scissoring inside you, drawing you closer to your climax with that come-hither motion he does so well. Your walls flutter again. “That’s it,” he coos. “Wanna feel you come—wanna know what it tastes like.” He licks harder, faster. “Let go for me, darlin’.” 

He pushes you over the edge, pleasure warming your belly as you let go. It washes over you in waves, his fingers still pumping in and out, his tongue still hanging on to the taste of you. You ride it out, his thumb brushing your hip, coaxing you through it. His fingers slip out of your cunt, but his head is still buried between your legs. You shudder as he licks long, slow stripes through your folds. 

“So fucking sweet,” he growls, still starving for more. “Not done with you yet.”

Fuck. 

But you need more—need his cock deep inside you, pounding into you. You need him in front of you, his lips on yours. 

“Logan,” you whine, your voice shaky and trembling just like the rest of your body. He finally lifts his head, his hair a disheveled mess, your juices glistening on his lips and his chin. The sight of him makes your breath hitch in your throat. There’s a feral, needy look in his eyes. He’s starving for more of you, and you’re not quite sure he’ll ever get enough. 

But he can see your chest heaving and the desire in your own eyes. He knows what you need—he always does. He sits up on his knees, staring at you while he slowly unbuckles his belt. The tension is palpable, the clinking of his belt against the hardwood floors cutting through it like a hot knife—the only sounds the melding of your quick breaths and the shuffling of bed sheets as Logan finally comes up to meet you. 

He's balancing on his forearm as he unbuttons his jeans, undoing the zipper and shoving the denim and his boxers down his legs. You swallow at the sight of his cock springing against his stomach. You had felt his erection before, but he is far bigger than you ever anticipated. 

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself in between your thighs. You instinctually spread your legs for him, inviting him in. He nudges against your entrance, taking his time. 

His forehead meets yours, your chests flush against each other’s, panting in sync. You’re both waiting with bated breath, his tip slipping inside, but stopping short before going any farther. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Thought I’d never have you,” he confesses, pushing his tip a bit further in. “Would’ve given up anything for this. Would’ve waited forever.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur.  “I’m right here. I’m yours.” 

“Mine?”

“All yours.”

And then he’s pushing deep inside you, down to the hilt, bottoming out. He swallows your moans with a kiss, biting your lip, drawing blood, and licking it away. “All fucking mine.” He stays buried inside you, unmoving. “Wanna stay inside you forever, sweetheart,” he growls, your heart bursting at the thought.

He pulls himself all the way out and all the way back in, stretching you out, working you open. You look down in between your bodies and watch as his cock disappears inside of you. “Feels s-so fucking good,” you stammer, already drunk off him. 

“Like watching me fuck into you?” Logan husks, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper. His muscles flex as he ruts into you. He takes the hand that was on his cock and brings it in between your bodies, his fingertips quickly finding your clit and giving it a soft pinch. Your back arches off the mattress at the sensation. 

Logan hums at your reaction. “So sensitive,” he groans. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.” You can feel him losing control as he rams into you, his thrusts growing harder with each pump of his cock. He’s drawing firm, fast circles into your core. 

It’s all too much, him, his cock, his fingers. Your skin is on fire, your nipples pushing against his chest—the friction absolutely delicious. You’re already so close, just a few steps away from the ledge, and you’re ready to fall. 

“Know you’re close, darlin’,” Logan moans in between kisses. “Can feel you squeezing me.” 

You hum in response, but Logan refuses to let up. His pace is beyond brutal, pounding into you over and over again, his fingers working your clit in tandem. Your muscles contract around him, gripping tightly. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking tight, so fucking warm.” His praises are more than you can handle. “You gonna come on my cock, just like this?” 

“Yes, fuck, Logan!” You’re a babbling mess, his name the only thing on your mind, on your lips, hanging in the air like it’s a sacred prayer. Everything is him, and it always has been. In this moment and in every other, he is your end and your beginning. 

 “Let go for me, sweetheart. Know you can do it for me.” His deep voice is all you need to walk you through it. You’re breaking down, coming on his cock, the pleasure coursing through your veins, spreading like an untamable fire. 

He’s stroking your clit long after you’ve come, still snapping his hips into yours, still working up towards his own orgasm. His pace is getting sloppier, but he shows no signs of stopping. You can feel yourself growing overstimulated, his cock rubbing against your walls, his fingers circling your clit. “S’too much,” you whine, your nails digging into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

Logan presses himself closer to you, as close as he possibly can be. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart,” he coaxes, not letting up. “Know you can take it.”

You’re breathless, clinging onto him helplessly. You’re clamping down on him again, taking him deeper than you did before. He’s hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. “Lo,” you whimper. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, darlin’,” he grunts. You can feel him throbbing inside you. “Let it happen, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

The tension is snapping again, breaking in half as he pulls another orgasm from you. You shudder as you come for a third time, overstimulated and beyond fucked out. You know he’s close behind, his hips slowing down, his forehead pressed against yours. He slips his hand away from your clit and around your back, pulling you closer to his chest. It’s so intimate, so perfect. 

“F-fuck,” he mumbles. “Where do you want me to—”

You hold him closer. “Stay,” you whisper. “Want you inside. Wanna feel you come.”

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, plunging deep inside you, his muscles tensing as he fills you up, your name on his lips. His thrusts slow, pumping in and out every now and then before finally stopping. 

You stay like this for a few minutes, his arm keeping you tight against his chest, his cock still buried inside you and your foreheads still pressed together. 

He brings a hand up to your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering open and closed. 

He shakes his head. “I always wanted you,” he says, his voice low and raspy. “The whole time. It was only ever you.” 

His words could make you cry. It’s everything you’ve ever hoped to hear. You smile, his hand finding its way to the crook of your neck, his fingers lightly stroking your sensitive skin. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it,” you breathe, your voice laden with sleepiness. “I never knew. Thought you’d never want me.”

“I’ll always want you.” His cock finally slips out of you, leaving you feeling empty. His legs tangle with yours, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “Would’ve waited forever for you, darlin’.”

“Forever?”

“Longer.”

[d1stalker]

All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]

Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.

Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby

----

You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of. 

But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.

Everyone, except for you.

Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.

And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.

Logan Howlett.

You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.

You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.

Jean Grey.

She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart. 

You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.

It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.

Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it. 

The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory. 

Logan was never the same after that.

 —

You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.

As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.

Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.

“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.

It’s Logan.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back. 

You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted. 

But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.

Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-

You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.

“Give me a fuckin’ break.”

----

Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.

After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.

You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.

Brown.

You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.

Why him? Why me? Why now?

You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.

The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.

Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.

It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life. 

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.

Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward. 

The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours. 

“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.

You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.

Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”

“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”

“Logan, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”

His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”

The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over. 

After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.

“Good. Then stay away from me.”

You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.

—

When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.

If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.  

You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another? 

You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again. 

And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?

—

Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.

His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone. 

Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction. 

It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.

But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him. 

And that’s the cruelest twist of all.

So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.

—

The only person you tell is Charles.

“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office. 

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.

“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”

Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does. 

“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”

You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered. 

“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”

The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?

“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”

He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”

Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts. 

“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist. 

Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”

The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”

“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”

Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”

“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it.  “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.

“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”

So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.

The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.

Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.

The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights. 

You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.

You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions. 

But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.

One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.

However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights. 

His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react. 

Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this. 

Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care? 

Because you are the only one who does care.

You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.

—

It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer. 

That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan. 

He’s across from you. Just your luck.

He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown. 

Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up. 

“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.

Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest

“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.

Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak. 

Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you. 

You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall. 

“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.

Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.

Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate? 

It’s not fair.

You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”

“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.

“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.

“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”

“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”

With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”

You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”

He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”

The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”

He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”

You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”

Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”

“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”

“What if it just makes things worse?”

“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”

You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”

“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.

With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.

You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.

Goddamn it.

You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.

Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock. 

There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.

The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.

“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”

He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.

Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”

You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.

“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”

His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”

“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”

He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”

His words hurt. 

“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”

A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”

“That isn’t fair,” you argue.

“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”

“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”

You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him

“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”

You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”

Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”

Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection. 

“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”

What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.

That’s when it really hits you. 

Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start. 

You give up.

This time, it is you who turns your back on him. 

“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”

You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.

— 

You decide to go on the mission.

It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief. 

The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.

Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.

“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”

Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze.  “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”

“I promise,” you assure.

She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out. 

“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”

You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze. 

“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”

Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express. 

It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport. 

—

When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.

The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.

You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.

Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.

He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.

As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.

One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”

You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”

His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”

A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

—

Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.

His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone. 

In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.

This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.

Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.

“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.

Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”

Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”

Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost. 

Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”

Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.

“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”

Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real. 

“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”

The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back. 

There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.

Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”

Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.

The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.

But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.

—

You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants. 

But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.

It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.

“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”

You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.

Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.

Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.

Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”

The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.

“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”

You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak. 

“You won’t get away with this,” you say.

“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”

With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.

You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold. 

Location: Florence. 

Message: Help.

Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.

His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”

Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.

Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you. 

You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.

—

The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room,  and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device. 

Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.

Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”

There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement. 

Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.

“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest. 

“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”

“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”

Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”

The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink. 

“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.

“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”

He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.

Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”

Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”

The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.

Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”

“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”

Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”

Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”

—

Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.

And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”

You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.

He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”

He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”

Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.

“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”

He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”

Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.

The X-Men have arrived.

Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”

The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use. 

Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.

But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.

In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”

You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.

Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving. 

And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze. 

—

Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.

Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.

His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.

You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.

More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.

Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well. 

For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words. 

You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.

Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”

You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”

He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”

You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit. 

There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”

“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.

“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”

—

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.

But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.

It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.

In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.

Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.

It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.

And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.

He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?

At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.

But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.

After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.

You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.

And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.

He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.

So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.

But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.

He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.

"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.

"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.

You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”

You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."

That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.

And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.

The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.

"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."

You nod. "Okay."

Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.

—

The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.

You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.

With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.

With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.

One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush. 

“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.

“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”

Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”

He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”

You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”

Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”

—

It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.

During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.

After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.

Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”

Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”

Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”

Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”

More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.

“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”

And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.

—

“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.

Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”

You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”

His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”

You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you. 

You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown. 

His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.

When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.

This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.

That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely. 

And that makes all the difference.

----

a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual

[rafesproperty]

Rafe Cameron x Shy GF <3

Rafe Cameron x Reader + a little platonic Barry x Reader cuz I just love Barry

Soo Rafe is an ESTP, which is probably the most outgoing personality type and they get along with introverts pretty well. Rafe would so adore his shy girl who’s just so dependent on him for everything. Luckily he’s always got you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Topper and Kelce didn’t really understand why would Rafe date you out of all people. You were always quiet, never speaking up, never showing up to parties, and if you did you’d stay glued to your friends' sides and never really speak to anyone.

It baffled them, actually.

But neither Topper or Kelce actually knew Rafe. He didn’t need a wild fire on top of his own messy chaos of a life. He needed the calmness. He didn’t need a girl who’d party her night away and dance with everyone and leave him hangin’ alone. He needed someone who’d be glued to his side, tug at his sleeve and beg for him to stay there and shield her with his body.

He needed someone he could just keep on his lap when he did lines and talked to people, and you'd just stay there, like an obedient scared puppy, playing with his fingers.

He didn’t need a girl that would be outgoing, speak up for herself, independent, talkative with other people. He enjoyed speaking up for you, ordering your food, picking your deliveries up, giving you rides everywhere because you hated public transport, holding you close to him, knowing feeling that you physically desperately need him everywhere with you. Even if you wanted ice cream that was sold two blocks down the street you'd ask him if he'd join you. Call him selfish, but he loves to be the one you constantly need and hide behind. He is obsessed with it. Always ready to provide and protect his girl.

And it’s not like you were like that all the time. The second you two were alone in his car, house or just away from everyone else you were joking around, dancing with him, calling him mocking nicknames like dude, bro, dummy, or the more intimate ones like baby, Rafey, my sweet boy, you'd jokingly call him my husband, my man, my love (all of these worked him up and you knew it), you’d tease the fuck out of him, crawling into his lap like a desperate bitch, grinding on him because you needed him right now. Pulling him in to kiss him. And God, he loved it. To be the only one to see this side of yours.

You were so polite to everyone too, always saying please and thank you in the quietest voice with a blush on your cheeks, but he knew you could be a loud, moaning, dirty mess under him. He knew you could ride him through multiple orgasms with zero shame. Only he knew you rocked your hips desperately against his mouth and squeezed your legs around his head to keep him there. Only he knew you'd get down on your knees and do absolutely everything for him.

You've met Barry a few times whenever Rafe needed cocaine from him and couldn't wait, he'd just drag you along and tell you to stay in the car. But the wait eventually got long and you followed after him.

Barry immediately offered you drugs and Rafe almost broke his face... but this little incident aside you actually clicked with Barry immediately. He wouldn't even let you speak, he just talked away, spilling info and gossip about Rafe as if he wasn't just standing right there.

"Ah shit, and you like this j-crew lookin' ass?" You giggled. "Yeah, I do," you gave Rafe a smile. "A lot."

You and Barry became friends. Rafe wouldn't let you hang out with him alone but the three of you actually hung out a lot at Barrys. He quickly understood how shy you are and he maybe had a little soft spot for you too, keeping an eye on you in public whenever Rafe needed to take care of something quickly.

You were getting a drink with Rafe at the Country Club, Topper and Kelce were there too, when Barry pulled up on his bike and made his way over to the two of you, ignoring all the Kooks that gave him dirty looks.

"Country Cluuuuub princessssss," he yelled in his accent and made his way over to you, "what's good with you girl?" He chuckled as you two did a quick handshake you've taught him.

Rafe rolled his eyes and immediately threw his arm around your shoulders in a protective manner.

Topper and Kelce stared in awe. You, who barely spoke any words to them, were all of a sudden buddies with the drug dealer?

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Villain!Ghost x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Your husband wants your company..

A/n: GUYS OMG, I know it's been 1 month and a little more since my last official work. I've been procrastinating on this for so long since I only have less than a week till school again.. Also everyone I love on this app is just disappearing, like @ghost-cyphera just deleted her account 4 days ago and I got the notif but didn't see it in time, I didn't even get to say goodbye. Just wanted to apologize to you guys after being gone for so long as well. Also, another villain!Ghost drabble? 👀

Finding it difficult to walk was one of the least things you've suspected you'd be concerned of upon conceiving, always needing your handmaiden's help in such a mundane task was shameful to say the least but your husband insisted.

If it hadn't been the hand maiden then it would've been him instead, you couldn't keep him from his duties from the kingdom as he carried even yours. Wanting you to turn your attention to the health of the babe growing in you and especially yourself..

"My lady.." you were pulled out of your thoughts by the voice of your handmaiden. You took in a breath from the cool air that blew on your face as you stood by the stone railing..

"Yes, Leticia?" You turned to her..

"The prince consort has requested your company.." Leticia announced, you nod as you removed your hand from the cold stone. You glanced once more to the people of your kingdom, going about their day and life before gently lifting yourself off from leaning on the stone.

Leticia offered you her arm to help you walk more efficiently..

...

"You sent for me..?" You asked your husband, he was sat and signing another set of documents and scrolls. You closed the door, palms gently pushing till you heard it click.

"No, I told them to announce my arrival to you. How dare they exert my wife by giving her false instructions.." he huffed to which you laughed. He wouldn't do anything violent about it, as he so usually does with staff that don't comply but he knew it'd upset you if anything gory were to happen to them.

"I am quite alright, I need to move around too. It's proven to be good for our child." You said, sitting next to the graciously comfortable chair next to his working desk that he had someone make for you.

You felt relief from the pressure previously on your back, hand on the bump of your stomach and with that a sigh came from your lips. Peacefully watching your husband, the sound of the satisfying scratching of the quill on the crisp papers.

You felt his hand grasp yours, he pulled it, lips resting on the back. His affection made your heart beat faster and he felt it, the pad of his index finger on your wrist. The thumping made him chuckle as you smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder.

"You should rest for a while, my love. You'd work yourself to sickness at this point." You kiss his cheek softly. He put his quill down, "If that's my wife wants.." he said.

He wrapped his arm around you, the other hand placed on your baby bump. His thumb gently rubbing, you jolted a bit feeling a strong kick..

It made you groan, how restless the rascal is. Your husband adjusted his hand to feel the next kick.. he'd swear it was a girl, not that he'd care for that sort of thing. He'd kill for them either way, especially for you. He could stare at you all day, swollen with his child.

How glowing you looked wrapped in the finest silk and the gold and jewels in your hair and body clicking upon contact with another piece, he wished he could tell you how utterly speechless you'd leave each man by just walking passed them but to him no word is enough to describe you.

At least he could spend these small intimate moments with just you and you alone, free of the world for even just a few minutes as he needed a break from the work he very much was eager to do to be able to receive praise from his wife..

My CoD Masterlist

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam @drewsmusee @konigceo @duck-a-doodle

[livingthedragonlife]

you know. the conclusion of "the monsters we eat and digest lose individuality and can't be resurrected" and killing something and eating it to make it part of you, and specifically in relation to falin eating the monstrous half of someone you love to save their humanity... felt profound to me before i even finished the manga and it's taken me this long to put my finger exactly on why

it's processing something horrible, accepting it into yourself, but not giving it any power over you. digesting the terrible things that happen in life is the only way to truly kill them. perhaps you've had people help eat them, share the burden of processing when it's too much to bear on your own. they lose their individuality once they've been eaten. they can't be reanimated once you process them. they become part of you, and you are alive because you've eaten them.

[petricorah]

I love "i would kill for you" ship dynamics but what about "i would stop killing" ship dynamic??

I would lay down my sword for you. I would change my nature and go against everything i've known. I would resist the easy way out of solving my problems. I would give up the adrenaline of battle to stay by your side and make tea instead. I'm not sure I know who I am without a weapon in my hand because I've had to fight for so long but for you I'm willing to try and figure this out.

It must be hard. To put down your weapon that's protected you for so long. It's allowed you to stay alive it's kept you from getting hurt--physically and mentally. Because you've never had to worry about a real relationship if you think you'll be dead at the next battle. And you feel naked without it and it feels like you're ripping off an extension of yourself. Are you even whole without it? Are you worthy of being loved if you can't prove it by risking your life? And yet they've found someone who's asking them for something much harder than dying in battle on their behalf. They've found someone who wants them to live. And that's much more terrifying.