#BUT I would save so much money for a year. and that’s really the only pro in the scenario

[glassrowboat]

Letters For You

Valentine’s Day letters from Anaxa, Aventurine, Gallagher, Jing Yuan, Phainon, Ratio, Reca, Sampo, Sunday

Wrote these for my online friends, so I hope you all have a lovely Valentine’s. Love you all, xoxo

Anaxa

My fellow scholar,

I won't lie and pretend as if I wouldn't rather be spending my time doing something actually worthwhile like studying, but whenever I finally bring myself to put pen to paper in my hectic schedule I find myself unable to use my quill for its intended purpose. I bought it for note taking and truly wished to use it for that purpose, only for me to find myself unable to focus on the words before me as I am stuck thinking of you.

You see, these were originally meant to be notes, so excuse the scribbling at the top. It's all mindless drivel and half-baked theories I'm certain you're already planning to jump at. Your curious mind never rests, just like mine. Which is why I'm so loath to admit that even us scholars need a break.

With that in mind, I ask that you find me at our usual spot to enjoy the current festivities. I'm sure once we're done, it will leave us both refreshed and ready to return to work.

In best regards,

Anaxagoras

Aventurine

Dearest friend,

I already know what you're going to say about the gifts I have left for you. “It's too much or you should save your money on something else, Aven.” To the point I can almost hear the words ringing in my ear in that scolding tone of yours. It's just as bad as the higher ups scolding me for breaking the cornerstone and yet I can't help but want to spoil you.

But I'll be nice. Just this once.

Instead of dinner at another fancy restaurant you'll roll your eyes at, let's just get takeout from your favorite place and we can play dress up with all the clothes I got us. And yes some are for me, too. I'm sure if you dig around a bit you'll find a particular lacy item you and I can both agree has its merits.

Until tonight,

Aventurine

P.S. No overtime. I promise.

Gallagher

Babe,

I'm sure you've already figured out the bag of candy is for you. I even wrapped it up with a neat bow and everything for ya, so I hope you like it. If you want, we can even try making a drink out of a few of them like we did with the cotton candy vodka. Remember that? It was interesting, that's for sure.

We can even have what's left after dinner tonight. I'm cooking. Just for you, too. I was thinking of Clockie Pizza with all those toppings you like, and we could have it at the lounge? I'm sure Dreamjolt Hostelry will have open seats even on Valentine’s Day, knowing how dead the place usually is. I'll even dress up if you want me to. Though it might just be best to put myself in your or Sioban care to choose an outfit. Either way, I'm trusting you here, so don't let me down.

Your man,

Gallagher

Jing Yuan

My darling,

It's a beautiful day out, don't you think? The sky is clear and bright blue, the wind is just right, and the sun as artificial as it might be is perfect for dozing under its shining rays. I even found a record to play a song I remember from days long past. The only thing missing on this perfect day is you. And my work to be done, too.

I take it you're wrapped in endless stacks of paperwork just as I am, aren't you? Even after all the time, they managed to keep you this week. I'm merely lucky I'll have you all to myself once the day ends. The weekend will be ours to enjoy the garden, eat good food, play with our adorable little lion, and each other.

While we may not get Valentine’s Day together between your work and mine, I am happy to make sure we still get to enjoy being together. Besides, choosing only one day to love you when I would rather do so every day for every year you're willing to share with me is far more appealing than showing you appreciation only on special occasions.

Yours,

Jing Yuan

Phainon

My favorite shopkeeper,

Time really does flash by in an instant, huh? It feels like only yesterday that I came to The Holy City with the weight of the prophecy, both bearing a heavy weight on and lifting my shoulders all at once. Back then, I was ready to face the world as a Chrysos Heir alongside the others of golden blood without daring to think anything could stop me. I was going to be the one who takes Nikador's Coreflame, and I'll be the demigod of Strife. It will be a title I wear with honor.

And that is still my intention, mind you, but I've found something else that fills me with just as much conviction as being a hero to the masses. Do I even have to say what it is? It's you.

Ever since we first ran into each other at your shop and you were giving me a side eye (yes, I saw that) at all the questions I was asking about your collection of antiques I knew I would be willing to take a moment to step away from the duty I have sworn to uphold to simply be with you.

So I guess what I'm asking is: will you be my valentine?

Your hero,

Phainon

Ratio

My dear,

Today has already been full of one headache after the next from students deeming fit to load my desk with gifts to dealing with Aventurine texting me about how many roses is “too much.” At this point, all I want to do is go home and fall into your embrace.

Still, I have tests to grade. And from what I've seen of them, it's looking like some of them have finally learned how to pick up a thing or two after I started to use the method you suggested last time. As loath as I am to admit, I never would have thought to have my student role play as great mathematicians from the past to keep them engaged. It worked.

You truly astound me. Always finding new ways to show that creative thinking plays a part in being knowledgeable as well. You put the term genius to shame, my dear.

Sincerely,

Veritas Ratio

Reca

My love interest,

I have met countless actresses and actors who have been praised as if they were Aeons themselves. Looks, skills, the way the camera is naturally drawn to them, why you could name it all! Yet they all pale in comparison to you, my snookums.

No shot is truly complete without your radiance, without your smile, or without just the thought of you lingering in the back of my mind and changing how I see each scene laid out before me. You have changed how I view romance, entirely flipping the genre on its head for me to make something entirely new and unique. You inspired me in a way I never would have thought possible despite all the stories of star-crossed lovers I know. You have simply made me, for lack of a better word, more.

The only thing I could possibly regret about you is not meeting you sooner.

So allow me to make up for all the time we have had apart, my honey bee, by coming to a play with me as my valentine.

Your charming director,

Reca

P.S. I have entrusted the Assistant Director to be in your care today while I am away. She shall take care of you in my stead while I am away, my valentine.

Sampo

Boss,

It's me, your good old buddy, your pal, your bestest guy, Sampo! Now, now, before you go and throw this letter in the trash or worse yet, set my poor heartfelt words on fire, hear me out. I only have the purest intentions for you today, and that is on my honest word as a businessman.

It is Valentine’s Day, after all, and I can't have such a profitable holiday be soured for my favorite customer. That would just hurt my coin purse. So to ensure that doesn't come to pass, I took it upon myself to give you a gift as a show of gratitude for all you've done for me these past few years.

I'm sure you've noticed them by now.

Now, I hope you like the roses I left for you. They have a bit of an extra boom to them if you know what I mean. Just not the bomb kind. Though you do always manage to blow my heart away so who knows, maybe it is.

Your number one guy,

Sampo

P.S. Okay you can light the letter on fire now just know that if you do I'll be left with nothing to do but drink at the bar until I'm crying my eyes out all by my lonesome. Orrrrr…you could join me. I would never complain about getting some time in your delightful company.

Sunday

My dove,

This is my first Valentine’s Day away from Penacony, let alone on the Astral Express with a lover I can call my own.

I find myself still adjusting to the sudden change. There's no one watching my every move and expecting utter perfection from me now but me. I still find myself checking my clothes, assuring my feathers are neat, and shining my halo to the point that it shines in the light of the stars surrounding us. They remind me of just how vast this galaxy truly is. How my past choices were a flicker of a flame to everyone else, but to me, it was my last ditch effort at saving a dying light.

Everything is different now.

I find myself mourning.

Only for you to walk in the room and wash each thought away like the oncoming tide to a cluttered shore just with your gaze and a twitch of your lips. It's like I'm hit with a revelation again: that things do in fact get better.

So please, keep smiling as you always do, my valentine.

All the best,

Sunday

[gloomweed]

Eddie Loved Valentine's Day (eddie munson x bestfriend!reader)

a/n: I got the idea for this story last valentine's day, but I didn't finish it until today and I'm still not quite satisfied with it but I had to just get this out there already. This fic is more angsty than romantic, but it didn't feel right trying to shoehorn in some romance, so this is just how it's going to be.

summary: Eddie deals with some bad childhood memories on a valentine's day he spends with you.

w/c: 3.7k

Eddie loved Valentine’s day. Loved, as in, he used to. Specifically, when he was still in elementary school. Back then, the class would spend the whole day creating little mailboxes to hold all their cards. Decorating the recycled shoebox with stickers and markers, writing his name in big scrawling letters over the top. His mom would help him the night before, preparing the cards he was going to hand out. She would tell him how to spell each name, going one letter at a time. When she would ask if he needed help spelling his name, Eddie would hold out his little hand saying very confidently, “No, I know how.” Her voice was always gentle when reminding him ‘Eddie’ has a second ‘D’ after the first one.

Although there was little variety in the pack his mom bought from the store, Eddie made an effort to pick the card he thinks the recipient would like best. A Garfield card for Sindy, since she is always borrowing his orange marker. It’s her favorite color. An Odie card for Josh, since he spends recess digging with sticks and rocks. Something about wanting to find dinosaur bones. It would go like that until all the cards were signed, folded, and held together with little heart stickers.

The following day, Eddie would pass out all his cards and return to his seat to find his makeshift mailbox stuffed. In those days, he would get a card from every single classmate. He’d be filled with excitement as he opened each one. The puns and characters on the cards were fun to see, but really Eddie just enjoyed the thought that someone made him something. Some cards even came with a little candy. It was a fun day all around, and doing less school work was also a big plus.

After his mom passed, Valentine’s day kind of lost its charm. His dad said buying Valentine’s cards that kids were only gonna look at once and throw away afterwards was a waste of money and effort; however, that didn’t stop Eddie from participating anyways. He spent the night making his own cards out of notebook paper, drawing hearts and smiling faces on each one. Despite all the care he put into them, the finished product looked pretty messy. The cards weren’t all the same size, there were some misspelled words, marker ink bleeding through the paper, and since he didn’t have stickers, they were held together with regular translucent tape. Give him a break, he was nine. It wasn’t much, but Eddie put his heart and soul into it.

Once all the cards were passed out, everyone began digging into their boxes, reading cards and opening candy. “What even is this?” Eddie looked up from his pile of valentines to see one of his classmates holding up one he homemade, a disgusted look on their face. Another kid laughed. “Why does it look like that?” Eddie felt red, hot shame fill his cheeks as others began to join in the laughter. He sank further into his seat, wishing to disappear completely. Seeing Eddie’s name on the card gave the boy a target. “What’s the deal, Eddie? Couldn’t afford real valentine’s this year?” 

Eddie shot up from his seat. “No! My dad just forgot to buy them, is all,” he lied. “I just thought, you know, something is better than nothing, right?” His eyes darted between his classmates, hoping they bought it. 

“Next time, don’t even bother. It’d save us the time of throwing them away,” they laughed. It was then that the teacher made the announcement to return to their seats to resume the rest of the learning day. As Eddie sat back down he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. He put a lot of effort into those cards, only for his classmates to laugh at him and throw them away. His dad was right. What a waste.

That was the last time Eddie ever participated in Valentine’s day. Ever since then, he would spend the day doing anything else besides celebrating it. This year, he was at your house helping you get a head start on spring cleaning. You wanted to turn your life around, starting with a more organized living space. February 14th is as good a day as any to get started, and it wasn’t like you had any big plans. Which is totally fine and doesn’t depress you at all. 

Although he never told you exactly why, you knew Eddie didn’t particularly like the Hallmark holiday. You assumed it was because of how commercialized it had become since its inception. Of course it could be the matter of keeping up with his image. Soft petalled roses and candy hearts are pretty far from ‘metal.’ Whatever the reason may be, you hated the idea of your friend being alone on a day celebrating love, so inviting him to clean was the next best thing. While it took some convincing, eventually you coaxed him into it with the promise of beer and snacks.

You were both currently working in your bedroom. Eddie would hold something up and ask if you wanted to keep it or throw it away. Meanwhile, you sit on the hardwood floor creating piles all around you as you sift through the contents of your room. He did most of his work while sitting on your bed, a beer in his hand. 

Sometimes he would try on clothes you were feeling unsure of, saying that having someone model it would make it easier to decide its fate. Of course, this theory might have been successful if they actually fit him. The mental image of him in your too small knitted red cardigan is something that will bring a smile to your face for years to come. 

Running out of things to hold up to you, he looked in his direct vicinity and noticed a round tin by his feet, mostly under your bed. When you heard him gasp you turned to see what he had found. “Oh, that’s just my-”

“Cookies!” he shouted as he opened the blue butter cookie tin only for his face to fall in a confused frown.

You laughed. “Yeah, sorry. I reused that old cookie tin for my sentimental crap.”

Instead of delicious cookies, the tin was full of old birthday cards and handwritten messages left by people who cared about you. A letter from your now deceased grandmother, movie stubs from big releases, and Polaroid pictures of some childhood friends. Eddie smiled to himself. It was cute how you would keep stuff like this. From the outside, you didn’t look like the type of person to hold on to birthday cards from your 5th birthday. He looked at you with a playful pout, his eyebrows pulled together. “Aww. You do have a heart.”

Your offended face only made Eddie grin wider. “Shut up,” you laugh before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal and throwing it at him.

Laughing as he dodged your attack, he couldn’t stop some of the cards from jostling out. As he was gathering them back into the tin, he took a closer look at the one made of notebook paper. ‘From Eddie’ was written on the back in big messy letters.

Noticing his sudden silence, you stand to get a better look at what’s in his hands. You peek over his shoulder to see the valentine he hand made in the 4th grade. Immediately you become overwhelmed with embarrassment thinking Eddie was completely freaked out by the fact you kept the card so long, like some kind of stalker weirdo. Words vomit out of your mouth as you try to save your dignity. “Oh! That's- that's so weird! I can't believe I still have that. I thought I threw that out years ago. I’ll just take that back-”

Eddie instinctually snatches the card against his chest, his chin tucked in as he searches your eyes. When it's clear to you he isn't going to give it up, your hand falls limp at your side. Glancing at the card once more, he tries his best to keep his voice steady. “You kept this?” 

The change in demeanor feels unsettling. “Yeah, of course I did.” You look at your feet shyly. “It, uh, means a lot to me.” When you look back up, you see Eddie staring back with confusion.

You’ve gone through this scenarios hundreds of times in the late hours of the night when your brain just couldn’t stop running. How would Eddie react if he found out you kept something he made you when you were kids? The scoff that slips past his taunting lips was the last thing you expected from Eddie. He stands from the bed, looking down on you with a humorless smile. “This shitty scrap of paper means a lot to you?” The sudden scrutiny feels harsh and full of malice. You’ve never had the displeasure to be on the receiving end of Eddie’s anger, and from what little you’ve seen thus far, you hope to never face it again.

Shrugging like it was no big deal, you try your best to downplay your defensiveness. “Well, yeah. I thought it was really sweet of you.” You can’t stop yourself from squinting at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you mad at me for keeping it?” Why is he upset with you over this? It was given to you as a gift. You should be able to decide what you do with it without his approval. 

Despite being the one who asked the question, Eddie doesn’t really hear your answer, nor the following question. As he stares down at the messy writing on old, yellowed notebook paper, he feels his chest tighten in an overwhelming stifled rage. Having to be face to face with a reminder of his failure fills Eddie with so much self-hatred that he can’t think straight. It’s a reminder of his shitty dad. A reminder of his shitty childhood. It wasn’t fair. Every imperfect line and patch of bleeding ink stared back at him, mocking him. It all congeals to a point of no return in his gloomy head.

Eddie stares in silence for a moment too long and you can see the emotions shift in his face into something darker. “What are you-” You are cut off by the sound of a quick and quiet crunch, the paper crumpling in his first. It’s a knee jerk reaction that has you gasping at the sight, and Eddie immediately regretting. A piece of his heart shatters at the sound of yours doing the same. “Eddie!” Your high pitched squeal of anguish around the syllables of his own name has him filling with that same sinking heat of shame he felt all those years ago. 

Your hands dart at him, taking the paper from his grip as fast as it was destroyed. You do your best to smooth the paper back into some semblance of its former glory, but the creases on the old, thin paper still remain. It makes it difficult to see the handwritten words on the page, especially since your eyes are welling up with tears. You turn away from Eddie, too angry to face him. Too hurt to let him see you cry over this. Instead you kneel on the floor, slumping over the valentine you hold with the same delicacy as you would hold a baby bird with a broken wing.

Eddie feels his heart racing with anxiety. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to make you cry. He didn’t mean to. All he wanted was to get rid of the stupid reminder, not ruin your priceless keepsake. Eddie stands there for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He fucked up, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how to make it right. Your name falls from his lips in a stuttering mess. “I- I didn’t mean-” 

Whipping your head back to shoot him a teary eyed glare, you cut him off. “Don’t.” A sad shake of your head, “Just don’t, Eddie.” You didn’t want to hear how he was just trying to make some kind of joke. It wasn’t funny. It was just cruel. You turn back to stare at the ruined item in your cupped hands.

Eddie backs up towards the door, eyes wide and voice small. “Sorry.” You don’t say anything, but of course he doesn’t really expect you to forgive him. He leaves you be, silently making his way out of your house. 

On the drive home, he’s mentally kicking himself the entire time. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Why do I have to find a way to ruin everything? When he pulls into the gravel driveway of his uncle’s trailer, he cuts the engine and contemplates in silence.

He has to make this right. That valentine meant something to you. You kept that shitty scrap of paper for years while the rest of the class threw it in the trash where it belongs.  That has to mean something, right? You wouldn’t keep trash for this long unless it was important, right?

Eddie runs a hand down his face as he belatedly processed what you said about him. I thought it was really sweet of you. You thought he was sweet? The tiny compliment is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, and it only makes him feel worse about the whole situation. It’s going to take more than an apology to make it up to you.

It’s a few hours after the incident when you hear a knock at the door. “Coming!” You yell down the hall as you race to answer it. Seeing your kind smile fall when you realize it’s him, Eddie feels like you twisted a knife in his chest. He’s holding a modest bouquet of flowers towards you, gaze struggling to meet your own. “Well, look who it is.” You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’ve got some nerve, Eddie Munson.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, his breath visible in the frosty February evening. “I know. I know I don’t deserve to see you, but you deserve an apology. I came back to explain myself. Not that I had any right to do what I did.” He looks up at you from under his lashes. “Can I come in so we can talk?”

There’s a pout on your lips as you consider. The flowers do look very pretty, and he was thoughtful enough to have your favorite color as the centerpiece. Getting flowers last minute, on Valentine’s Day no less, was likely no easy feat, making the gesture more grand than usual. You hum in thought a moment before finally taking pity on the man practically groveling on your doorstep. “Fine.” You step aside to let him in, looking reluctant to do so. 

Relief washes over him as you make room. The warmth of your home felt like a welcoming embrace upon his bone chilled body. Once the door is closed, Eddie outstretches the bouquet towards you again. “Uh, these are for you.”

Doing your best not to show how pleased you are, you take the flowers from him wordlessly. Eddie turns to walk towards your living room, and you take the moment to smell the sweetness of them while he isn’t watching. You sit on the couch, laying the bouquet on the coffee table for the time being. 

Eddie continues to stand, feeling unworthy of your comforts. It feels reminiscent of when he first visited your home. The awkwardness of being new friends was evident as he stood in the corner, waiting for permission to sit on the couch or even enter the room. Now it’s like he wouldn’t sit even if you asked him to. Eddie preferred to pace while he talked. He has too much energy to expel to be still.

You give him your attention finally, arms crossed again, waiting for the apology he owes you. He clears his throat, hands nervously wringing together. “So first of all, I’m sorry for ruining your valentine. And your Valentine's day, for that matter. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He chuckles dryly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Shit, I wasn’t thinking at all. I just got caught up in my stupid bullshit. But I swear, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. It was just-” You raise an eyebrow, not quite believing him yet. Eddie releases a breath like it was struggling to get out. “Seeing that valentine I made that everyone gave me shit for…” he sighs again, struggling to find the words. “It just brought it all back. I was a kid again being pointed and laughed at in front of everyone.” 

As he says this, your features soften when you recall what he’s talking about. You heard what some of the other kids were saying about Eddie’s valentines, but at the time you didn’t think he cared what they thought. He was always unapologetically himself to the point that the thought of Eddie being embarrassed or ashamed never even crossed your mind.

Eddie looks at you with a sad tilt of his head, wild curls bunching at his shoulder. “That doesn’t make it right, but I thought you ought to know why I did what I did.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It had nothing to do with you and I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself. I’m a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart.” He smiles ruefully, “but you already knew that.” His eyes dim a little at his self-deprecation.

You nod in understanding, a small smile on your face. “I appreciate your apology.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to forgive him just yet, and you wanted to be sure he realized that.

Although Eddie knew it wouldn’t be easy, he can’t help but feel disappointed he hadn’t earned your forgiveness yet. Regardless, he nods with a tight lipped smile in acceptance before reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “I wanted to make it up to you,” he pulls an envelope out, “with this.” 

You blink owlishly at Eddie’s outstretched hand, surprised he brought more than flowers. Standing from the couch, you gingerly take the card from him, watching him for any signs of what it might be. 

As you open the package, Eddie is already explaining his reasoning. “Now, I know it’s not the same, and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as the original, but I tried my best to remake it for you.”

Pulling the card from the envelope, you gasp at what you find. The writing is much neater, the drawings more detailed, and even the paper feels like it’s made of thicker material, but there is no doubt that this is Eddie’s reconstruction of the card he destroyed. 

The premise of the card was the same. A penguin (your favorite animal at the time) wearing sunglasses, surrounded by icebergs with bubble letters saying ‘U R COOL’ after your name. The sketches are much more sophisticated than any nine year old could make. It was clear that Eddie had honed his art skills over the years by doodling in the margins of all his school work instead of paying attention in class. But it wasn’t what the card looked like that made it special. It was the thoughtful gesture itself. 

When you look back up at Eddie, he shifts on his feet uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He’s unsure what to make of your expression. “So, uh. Do you like it?” Before you can answer, he’s already speaking for you with a defeated slump of his shoulders. “You hate it, don’t you? I’m sorry, I know it’s not-”

“I love it.”

His eyes go wide, genuinely surprised. “Yeah?” He perks up when he sees your beaming face. “Really?” Eddie lets out a small ‘oof’ when you crash into him with an enthusiastic hug. His chuckling rumbles against your ear as you hold him tightly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Parting from the hug, you admire the valentine some more. “And I do forgive you, Eddie. I just wish you would have told me what Valentine’s Day really means to you sooner.” You search his dark chocolate eyes. “We’re friends, right? You know I would never make fun of you like that.”

And Eddie did know that, but in that moment, he couldn’t rationalize his intrusive thoughts away. It’s easier to hear that you’re loved versus actually believing it. All he can muster is a shrug, unable to put his inability to trust into words. “Yeah I know.”

With his unconvincing answer, you try a different approach to get him to understand what he means to you. Wordlessly, you leave the room leaving Eddie standing there wondering what you’re up to. You’re back before he gets the chance to overthink your departure, a picture frame in hand. As you fiddle with the tiny metal prongs holding the backing in place, you begin to explain. “From now on, I’m gonna make sure everyone sees this.” You slot the valentine into the frame before securing the backing once more. 

You hang your trophy in the center of your living room wall. Once you’re satisfied with the results, you take a step back and admire it with your hands on your hips. “There. Now, anytime someone visits me, I can brag to them about the personal valentine you made me.” Looking back over your shoulder, you see Eddie smirking bashfully.

“Oh come on. No one’s gonna want to see that.” He gestures to the hand drawn image, but you’re already shaking your head defiantly.

“Too bad. They’re gonna have to. Matter of fact, I’m gonna require they marvel at it for no less than 60 seconds before they can even enter my home.” Your arms are crossed with a playful smile on your face.

Eddie chuckles and there’s a small pause as he appreciates you. “You’re such a dork,” is his mumbled response.

You point up at the framed doodled penguin adorned in shades behind you with an astonishing amount of confidence. “Not according to my best friend.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh. “That’s it. I’m taking it back.” Eddie starts towards the wall, reaching above you. “You’re not cool anymore.” 

Instinctually, you put your hands on his chest in an attempt to stop him, but Eddie isn’t one to back down. “No! You can’t!” Giggles bubble out of you as you try your best to stand your ground. “I am cool!”

[fatuismooches]

Thinking about dottore with a reader who was extremely passionate about music

Like even back in the akademiya days. Maybe they only joined to appease their family. Reader would always be rambling about transferring maybe to a music school in Liyue or Fontaine but stuck around to look out for a certain blue haired scholar who could barely remember to eat his meals…

Reader probably never got to fulfil their musical dreams considering they probably moved to Snezhnaya to be in the labs with Dottore (or if it’s fragile reader they kinda lost the ability to perform over the years) which is very sad

Prime + all the segments probably fight just to try to stand the closest to your door to hear you potentially start humming or something, hoping that you don’t notice them and stop

Since you were young, your family was never particularly supportive of your hobbies or pursuit in the art of music, more interested in pushing you toward academics. You fell into the role they wanted you to play but you always hoped to transfer out of the suffocating Akademiya and be somewhere you could openly express yourself, saving money here and there. Even when you met Zandik, that dream was still in the back of your mind - but you didn't share it with him until he found out your talent of his own accord.

He always knew you were hiding something when you woke up early and wouldn't come back until later, and eventually, he just followed you and silently listened to the combination of your instrument and voice. You found it funny that he of all people would be the one to understand your passion, but really, it's not all that unbelievable - of course it'd be him, the one with the most open mind (albeit a bit stubborn sometimes). Since then, you always took Zandik deep into the forests of Sumeru whenever you wanted to play for him, so no one else could risk hearing. He was content to listen while he worked, and he was content to listen to you rant about the latest performance in another nation or go on about how a great school is accepting applications or- you get the point.

Though you don't regret going with Dottore all those years ago, you regret the state your dream is in. Although you don't talk about it much, the scholar is very much aware of your sacrifice to join him for his dreams. Therefore he makes sure you take time to practice your craft and will ban you from work if need be. Or if you're too sick to, whenever there's a musical performance in the nation, he would arrange for a segment to take you with the best seats, or if that's not possible, he would look for the spincrystal of the performance for you to listen to.

Regardless, they still do their best to support you, and at the end of the day, one of the only ways for Prime to fall asleep is due to your soft voice.

"You know, if you want to listen to me, you can just ask. You don't have to creep around in the shadows..."

"I did no such thing, darling. I merely did not want to disrupt you."

[gasolinerainbowpuddles]

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 · · · · 𝚇𝙸. 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚎 ║ ⓒⓗⓐⓟⓣⓔⓡⓔⓓ

𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 || 𝚗 𝚊 𝚟 𝚒 𝚐 𝚊 𝚝 𝚒 𝚘 𝚗 || 𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | PAIRING(s): Joel Miller x fem!OC/reader

| RATING: explicit material | 18+ | CHAPTER CONTENT: POV switching, toxic family dynamics, parental abuse, alcoholism/disordered alcohol use, protective!Joel, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, beauty in the mundane, learning to be peaceful in the stillness WORD COUNT: 6.8k

| CHAPTER SUMMARY: How odd it is to be haunted by someone who is still alive.

“But what if I miss a payment?”

“You’re not gonna miss a payment,” he assures you for the millionth time.

“And the interest is, like, 27%, so if I miss a payment it’s gonna be so much extra on top of the bill,” you stress.

“Your interest is only that high because you don’t have any credit in your name, baby. It’ll get knocked down eventually – once you build up a good history – but that’s just how it starts out most of the time.”

You can tell he’s about to launch into his comforting finance dialogue yet again, but you don’t stop him. You still need to hear him say it, even if it feels like he’s beating a dead horse at this point. You need the comfort in his assurances, and for once you don’t get down on yourself for needing it and seeking it out.

“And you’re not gonna make huge purchases to start, right? You’re gonna put small, consistent charges on there every month and pay it in full every month. After 6 months to a year, you’ll get a low credit utilization ratio, and you might be able to increase your credit limit. It sounds scary, but it’s really simple. I promise. And I can go over it as many times as you need to feel comfortable with it.”

You gnaw your bottom lip and review the little pamphlets and flyers Joel collected for you. He was insistent about having you use your money not for helping with the mortgage or grocery bill or utilities but rather to open your own bank account and then a line of credit so that you could start building credit in your name and your name solely.

Now you were on a Joel Miller crash course about interest rates, utilization ratios, FICO scoring, and all sorts of other financial planning topics that were meant to help you build a firm foundation for lifelong financial independence and security. You constantly doubted yourself and felt overwhelmed with the volume of information, but Joel was adamant about it. After a while, some of it was finally sticking, and you could only pray that you’d pick up more and more of it each time.

Your payments were scheduled automatically now through your online banking, which he also helped you set up, and he helped you get into the habit of keeping track of things on the phone app. “If it’s easy enough for me to do it, I know you won’t have any issue with it” he’d laughed when he first installed it. He was honest to god excited about how much you’d be able to put into savings over the course of the next five years. 

The concept of five years into the future felt hard to conceptualize. You were still getting used to staying on your feet most days and taking more onto your plate when possible. But to Joel, it was something just around the corner. He talked about it as though it was clear as day in his mind’s eye. He saw that future for you – for the both of you – so easily.

The thrum of your pulse felt sticky every time at the casual insinuation that he’d be there to see it, that you and him would still be together and happy and in love, but your stomach lurched at the thought of it. 

He cared an awful lot about you. That much was clear. It was the whole acknowledging the whole being in love thing that made it harder to fathom. It felt dangerously hopeful. It was hard enough to admit to yourself that you loved him, even though there was really no denying it at this point. But that awful, nagging worry still nipped at your heels: would he grow tired of it all one of these days? The mollycoddling and constant instruction for shit you should’ve had all figured out by now?

There was no real concept of losing him in your head because that was even harder to envision than anything else. Your thoughts flipped over to a blank slide when you even tried to imagine what it would feel like to not have him in your life. When the nerves of it all started to prick and sting and make you nauseous, those were the moments you held him a little closer to you until the fear subsided.

Joel doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s watching you, all bent over the edge of the deck with your little stack of porcelain plates that you carefully arrange in a neat line along the step.

“Madeline and Helen, you’re over here,” you call over your shoulder to the two grungy “frenemy” cats, as you’d dubbed them.

He snorts and shakes his head, but you just ignore him and continue with your task. All the plates are dispersed, and your usual hoard of neighborhood cats have come meowing and pawing for the “good brand wet food” you insisted on buying for them. When you first started this habit of spoiling the “cat collective,” Joel had been surprised to learn that so many stray cats roamed the neighborhood. That was, until he noticed that many of them had collars and tags. Despite belonging to a nearby family and having perfectly good homes, they regularly showed up like the greedy, indulgent creatures they were.

You didn’t mind, though. You were delighted to greet them all every night like the informal mayor of some feline city. You gave them names despite some tags displaying an entirely different moniker. They responded to whatever you called them, though, so he really had no room to say anything about that. The corner of his mouth twitched up as he watched you slip into your little routine. You’d taken to giving them all nicknames or new names, mostly from movies you’ve watched together.

When the two “frenemy cats” had gotten into a little brawl on the stairs a few weeks back, you broke up their fight and giggled to yourself when you came up with the grand idea of naming them after characters from Death Becomes Her. He shared in a laugh at the fitting names you chose, and you flashed him a million kilowatt smile that made his knees weak.

He watches in open amusement as you chide Walter –  the rotund, irritable tabby that struggles to play nice with others once he’s gobbled up his own dish and is unable to bully others for theirs. You’d quoted “you’re outta your element, Donny!” to Walter about a half dozen times by now, but he never seemed to find your references to The Big Lebowski as hilarious as you did. The grumpy furball looks up at you, annoyed but put in his place, and allows you to scratch his head.

While you made your nightly circuit, Joel scanned the back deck, surveying a potential spot for a small safehouse unit. Might as well start looking into building a heated, insulated area for all these cats since you’ll probably worry yourself sick over how cold they could get in the winter without proper shelter. They could always carry their asses back to their own houses in the neighborhood, but, knowing you, the thought of “what if?” would make you fret enough that he wants to have a plan and build ready to go when it’s time. He tucks it into his mind for later, just like so many other ideas and dreams and possible futures with you.

For now he enjoys giving you the space to indulge in the things that make you happy, a freedom to do something not because there’s an end goal in mind but because it makes you feel radiant in the moment. He loves to see what you latch onto without the angry voice of a controlling dirtbag berating you and making you feel insignificant and frivolous just for finding joy in things.

Watching you shift from constantly on edge to relaxed was a reward all in itself. It was most noticeable at night. You’d stir so frequently in bed those first few weeks after moving in. It might’ve been the new house noises, sure, but there’s no doubt the learned vigilance was a big part of your tendency to be a light sleeper. When you’d startle awake, he’d wake, too. You’d be apologetic and sometimes even a little embarrassed at being so jumpy “over nothing.” He’d just pull you closer and tell you it was okay and to try to go back to sleep. It took a while before it really sunk in, but eventually falling asleep and staying asleep came easier to you.

He was constantly discovering new ways your upbringing and home life had carved these jagged neural pathways in your mind. He didn’t know what the answer was for some of them, other than time, but for the simpler things, like letting you freely explore hobbies and whims, he’d jump at the opportunity to give you that sort of life.

“Do you think I could just… wear some shorts and a shirt? I mean….”

Your words taper off as you stare down at the dress Sarah had ordered online along with the pretty blue one you wore to Kenzie’s graduation ceremony. You didn’t want to repeat the blue dress when you’d just worn it so recently, but you really didn’t want to be up moving around and socializing in a dress all day anyway. Plus, the temperature had crept up steadily now that Memorial Day had just come and gone. Ideally it was denim cutoffs and tank top weather, but you could deal with some linen type shorts and a t-shirt for the sake of a party.

“I’ll match with whatever you put on, so just go with somethin’ comfortable,” he suggests. “There’s worse things than being underdressed for a college graduation party. I doubt anybody’ll even care, honey.”

He was probably right, but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself and drag Joel down with you. Attending parties and looking the part of a well put-together couple was new for you, and there was only so much “fake it ‘til you make it” bravado that could pull you through these sorts of settings. Joel dons a pair of darkwash, neat jeans with a short-sleeved button up, and you huff loudly at how easy he makes things look. 

He catches your toothless irritation and shoots you a wink before grabbing the dress and hanging it up in your shared closet.

“C’mon, let’s look at the shirt options ya got,” he encourages.

The lack of options ended up being a bit of a blessing because it meant you weren’t overwhelmed with choices.  You wind up settling on a spaghetti strap top that’s nice and flowy with a small bow detail in the back. It wasn’t the fanciest thing, but it was dressier than a plain t-shirt. A once over in the mirror reflected a pretty well put together outfit, and your shoulders relaxed with the crisis having been avoided thanks to Joel. He, of course, looked effortlessly handsome and casual.

The drive to Kenzie’s house for the party is uneventful, as are most of your driving excursions these days. Pretty soon you’ll accrue enough hours of road time to take the test to be an actual, bonafide licensed driver. Joel is in his usual spot in the passenger seat with a hand resting on your thigh, calming and a reminder that you’ve got help if you need it. 

The half-circle drive is full of cars with brands you’re sure you could never pronounce correctly. The front of the house and down the street is lined with more of the same, and Joel takes mercy on you when it’s time to parallel park, swapping seats with you and taking over. You watch the confident stretch of his arm along the back of your seat as he reverses neatly into a spot. He hops out to get the door for you, and you both comment on the lavish decorations as you walk into the party.

There’s way more people in attendance than you anticipated, and you just hope you won’t have to socialize too much with people you’re probably never going to see again. Kenzie’s dad spots you and makes his way over to extend a firm handshake to Joel and a warm side hug to you. He doesn’t stick around for long as he returns to his hosting duties, but he flags down a member of the waitstaff for beverages before politely excusing himself to continue on his rounds.

Joel whistles low and cocks a brow as he takes in all of the setup. “Nice lookin’ party.”

You laugh under your breath at the understatement of the century. “It’s insane. This could be somebody’s wedding! It’s freaking gorgeous,” you gush.

He agrees silently, sipping on his cocktail and wrapping his free hand around your lower back and waist. He points out that most people seem to be either wearing business casual adjacent looks or something more formal, which places you both a little underdressed but not so much that you stick out. You also observe that he was right about people not really seeming to notice or care what you had on. It made you feel a bit more relaxed as you sought out Kenzie.

So far you hadn’t come across anyone you knew, but it wasn’t awkward with Joel by your side. He had that poised, assured air about him like always, and it made everything feel manageable. Under control. Free of chaos.

“Ooohhh, hey!” a high pitched squeal sounds across an open path of people. You turn to see someone you recognize but can’t remember her name. You refresh Joel’s memory that this is Kenzie’s friend who had asked him at the graduation about any single brothers, cousins, or nephews that he might have. She shimmies up to you and waves excitedly.

“There’s my little matchmakers!”

Joel laughs awkwardly and shakes his head. “Sorry to tell you, er….” he trails off, her name clearly not springing to his mind either.

Thankfully she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, and you're not entirely convinced she’s aware of much at all. “Sel,” she supplies with a bright smile.

“Sel, right,” he amends. “Sorry to tell you, Sel, but we are unfortunately here sans eligible bachelors.”

She makes an exaggerated pouty face before busting into a fit of giggles and shrugging. “Aw, dammit. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess. Well, it was good seeing you!”

She struts away without another word, and you and Joel exchange an amused look.

“Wonder how many of these she’s had,” Joel chuckles, shaking his half empty cocktail glass.

You giggle and playfully slap his side. “Oh, shush. She’s entitled to celebrate a little bit. It’s gotta feel good getting that degree after being in school for four years,” you contend.

He bobs his head in passive agreement. “Now remind me again why your friend was workin’ with you in a grocery store when she’s got all this waiting for her back home? Coulda just focused on her studies, couldn’t she’ve?”

It was a fair question. Why on earth would someone work a minimum wage, public facing job if their family could afford this sort of lifestyle? 

“She told me before that her dad wanted her to know what the ‘real world’ was like. I’m pretty sure he didn’t grow up with a whole lot, and I guess he didn’t want his kids to end up spoiled or whatever.”

Joel nods his head like that makes perfect sense to him. “Explains why her dad seems like a decent guy. Doesn’t have that ‘daddy’s money’ attitude. Your friend doesn’t either for that matter, so I guess he’s done a pretty good job keepin’ her level headed.”

When you finally do come across Kenzie, she seems a bit frazzled. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so uptight and serious. She hastily explains that she’s spent the entire party schmoozing with all her dad’s “dumb important friends” and hasn’t had a chance to relax at all. You feel a bit sorry for her, but you know she’ll probably end up with extravagant gifts from said family friends in exchange for a few social niceties. 

Your eye lands on a familiar looking man whose identity isn’t readily placed. Was he at the graduation ceremony, too? Was he the dad to one of Kenzie’s friends? He looks at you for a split second like he recognizes you as well, before he looks away, disinterested. You shrug it off. Maybe he’s just got one of those faces.

Kenzie’s dad comes back around and asks if he can “borrow Joel for a minute,” to which you assure Joel you’re fine without his company for a little while. He shoots you one last worried glance over his shoulder as Kenzie’s dad claps a hand against his back and starts up the construction conversation they’d been having at the ceremony. You watch Joel’s reluctant figure weave through the crowd until he’s following Kenzie’s dad inside the house through a large side door. 

The sea of attendees around you make for good people watching. You wouldn’t admit it to Joel, but not having him by your side feels strange and a bit vulnerable, especially now that you spend practically every waking moment together. It was something you’d become rather accustomed to, and with your nerves starting to pick up again you remind yourself that it’s healthy to do things on your own every once in a while. You’d done it plenty in your life, and being subjected to it now wouldn’t kill you. 

A solid twenty minutes have passed, and you distract yourself with the abundance of ornate decorations.

Deeper into the backyard is a small bunching of rose bushes. The delicate folds of pink petals have you considering asking Joel if he could plant this sort of thing in your backyard. You smile gently to yourself, running a fingertip along the velvet furl of the rosette. Your backyard. Together. A little garden of eden right smack dab in the middle of Texas.

Sentimental musings are cut short with the announcement of a “few words shared on the eastern lawn” in about five minutes. Throngs of guests begin making their way toward the tabled section that you assume is the “eastern lawn,” and Joel is still nowhere in sight.

You hang back and check your phone. No texts or missed calls. You call him, but it rings until it goes through to voicemail. He’d probably muted it for the party. You decide to just go look for him in the house, letting yourself into the same side door they’d used when they went inside almost 30 minutes ago. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten carried away talking business.

A welcomed cool breeze butts against your bare skin when you slip inside, the indoor AC a stark difference to the looming summer heat outside. A pristine and stately kitchen filled with stock for the party greets you: ice filled coolers, wrapped trays of hor d’oeuvres lining the countertops, napkins and utensils and glassware all stacked to the side and ready to go when toasts are made. The smooth marble counters give an air of quiet opulence, made all the more silent with no noise coming from anywhere in the house.

A sliver of a stairwell is visible just around the corner. A separate hallway stretches door after door, no light glowing from any of the rooms behind them. A dull babble of laughter and conversation outside at the opposite end of the house is practically a white noise in this massive, empty space. Joel’s deep timbre is absent. No creaking footsteps from upstairs. No friendly hum of conversation.

It felt a bit intrusive to just waltz upstairs to look for him, but it’s not like you didn’t have a good reason to be looking around. Surely at the very least Kenzie’s dad wouldn’t want to miss whatever was about to happen on the eastern lawn.

“Can’t say I’m surprised to find you hiding out in here.”

The familiar voice cuts through your chest, your heart clenching sharply as you turn to find your dad wearing a nasty, callous expression. He looks more exhausted than you remember, somehow more dead in the eyes. It’s only been a few weeks since you’ve last seen him, but he stands before you more gnarled and sickly than memory serves. His skin shines with a thin layer of perspiration, and his lips are so dry and chapped it’s as if all the moisture in his body is steadily exiting through the gathering beads of sweat along his brow. His eyes are sluggish but malevolent, darting all along your face and body as though he’s taking inventory of your present state.

The words you wish to scream, for him to get away from you, get twisted and caught in your throat. You stand there, infuriatingly mute, and await whatever venom he’s here to deliver. He makes no rush as he walks fully into the room and slides the door shut. He looks so out of place here, in your world. In your life. A living ghost here to haunt you once more.

“Takes guts to be at somebody’s party celebrating everything you’ll never be.” He pauses to let the barb cleave and carve, laughing to himself as he continues, “ I mean, imagine you a college graduate. Barely fucking graduated high school.”

His line of sight wanders around the room as he picks you apart. Although his air is indifferent and unrushed, you have an odd, sneaking feeling that he doesn’t want to look you in the eye again until he’s established a rhythm of cutting you down, as though your absence has left him feeling out of sorts and unpracticed in destruction.

“Some hell of a fluke that the driven, successful young ladies here at this party see anything in common with a loser like you.”

His eyes slip over to yours again, narrowing with palpable hatred. “Can’t imagine any of them are a complete embarrassment to their families.”

“What are you doing here?” you finally manage to spit out.

He bobs on the balls of his feet, stepping around airily with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he found all of this an amusing way to pass the time. Like he hadn’t just cannonballed himself into your life again.

“Got a funny text from an, uh, acquaintance of mine. A picture of you, sticking out like a sore thumb. Surrounded by better dressed people. Way outta your social class.”

Embarrassment warms the back of your neck and the tips of your ears at his astute, cutting words.

“Had my friend wondering if he was imagining it was you - misremembering your face, maybe – especially since he didn’t see me anywhere nearby. Told him he was right and that I’d be sure to come say hello when I dropped in.  He was nice enough to remind me of the address. What a guy,” he finishes in a dry tone.

He laughs, a hollow and mirthless sound, and takes a step forward, hands shoved in his pockets that you now realize are balled into fists. His voice was steady enough, but the fury bubbling beneath the surface was quickly rising to the tipping point. There was no doubt he’d been drinking heavily – that dangerous teetering between being dampened by the alcohol and being livid that it still didn’t make all his problems fade away into a muted, ignorable thing.

“How much have you had today?” you lob at him. “Or has it just carried over from last night?”

He laughs again, just as empty and forced as the first. “It’s funny because, the thing is, I can promise you there’s no amount of whiskey that could make me as delusional as you are. I mean, parading around this party in what? Backyard barbecue clothes? Can’t even put together a decent outfit for one day, but you expect to keep up with these people? College graduates getting real jobs, not just some entry level bullshit you sucked off some old jackass for.”

Heat rises on your chest and neck at the insinuation that Joel only offered you the job in return for sexual favors. You jut your chin out defiantly but can’t find the words to say. Can’t find the words that will defend yourself. Defend Joel. Make your dad leave with his tail between his legs. He takes your silence as another opportunity to tear you down.

“You think you got real friends here? How many times do you think they’re gonna cover your tab? Spot you $100? Invite you to weekend trips? Hm? How many times are they gonna get out their wallets before they see you for the leech that you are?” he hisses.

“I think you need to leave,” you warn with a tremble tacked to the last word.

“And don’t get me started on that middle aged perv you got brainwashed into giving a shit about you,” he continues, completely ignoring your reproval. “He might be giving you a little allowance for now, but I give it a few years max before he dumps you for the next young bimbo he can use to wet his dick. Of course you’re too fucking stupid to realize that. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking pathetic.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” you snap, adrenaline rushing through you now and helping to supply the harsh words. 

His eyes crinkle with a malicious smirk, like he revels in finally having got to you. 

“Or what?” he sneers. “All you can ever manage to do when things get tough is run. So, what are you gonna do now? Run?”

You don’t miss the challenge in his tone, daring you to try to leave before he gives you permission to do so. 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW.”

The curve of his mouth is sickly sweet, a slip of red the only thing standing between you and his corrosive words. His gate is unhurried walking towards the door, leaning against it in a lazy show of provocation as he blocks it. The shrill tempo of your pulse in your ears grows louder while you stare each other down. It’s a dangerous game of calling the other’s bluff, and you know he’s banking on you fleeing. You know he wants to track you down and catch you this time before you can get away, just to prove that your actions wouldn’t go unpunished. Just to remind you of who’s in control. 

But something contrarian and fortified slinks between your ribcage and finds purchase there next to the hum of your heart. 

He doesn’t make the rules anymore. 

This is no longer his game that you’re forced to play just to survive. You don’t live in this nightmare anymore. This isn’t your life now. 

He doesn’t control you anymore.

“You’re a really sad person, dad.” 

The somatic buzz kindling and catching inside you yields a wave of goosebumps all over your body, the shake in your hands and voice just a timid thing that stays barely in check. You still your head and really look at the fractured shell of a man in front of you, and it’s more obvious than ever: he’s more lost than you’ve ever been and ever will be.

“You’re never gonna be happy,” you assert.

It all floods you now, a blurred picture coming into focus. That clarity you’d sought so long but never had with the mind muddling environment of abuse. But suddenly you aren’t searching for the words anymore. They’re all right on the tip of your tongue and ready to depart.

“You’re gonna die sad and miserable and probably alone, and I know that has to eat you up inside to finally realize it. That no matter how much you try to put your anger and your– and your pain onto others, it still doesn’t make it go away inside of you.”

His balled fists rest at his sides, heaving breaths moving his chest like the snap of a rubber band.

“You can’t hurt me anymore. You can’t hurt anybody I care about anymore. You don’t have the power like you used to. You’re just… you’re just nothing, dad. An empty person who’s trapped inside his own mind like a prison. And-And honestly? I feel bad for you.”

The flicker of surprise at your words graces his worn features before quickly being replaced with a deep scowl. For once it’s him cornered into a stunned silence, but you have no intention of letting up.

“I left, dad. Don’t you get it? I’m done. You don’t have power over me like that. Not anymore. The sooner you realize that, the less of your life you’ll waste trying to hurt me again because it’s not going to happen. You tried to break me down and take away everything, and it still didn’t work. I’m not broken like you. I’m gonna be okay, no matter how much you hate that. And you can call me a loser as many times as you want, but it won’t change the fact that it’s really you who’s lost out on everything in life.”

A heavy air lingers, but you feel lighter than you ever have. Your deep, centering inhale punctuates the finality of the meeting.

“I’m gonna go now, and I think you should leave the party before something bad happens.”

The urge to scurry away from the danger rises, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. You refuse to let him see you run from him anymore. 

Of course, it was never likely that he’d just let it go so easily. 

Menacing stomps follow your measured stride towards the stairwell, your exit cut short by his piercing grip around your bicep and the sharp whip of your body as he yanks you sideways to face him. The smell of alcohol comes off him like a foggy wet cloud.

“You think you just get to leave in the middle of the night like a disgusting, slimy rat and not have to answer for it?” he fumes, his nose pressing against yours when he hauls you face to face.

He doesn’t control you anymore. 

He doesn’t control you anymore. 

He doesn’t control you anymore.

There’s no hesitation in your movements, wrenching your arm from his grasp and slamming the butt of your palm into his nose. As clumsy as the unfamiliar motion is, it affords a moment of frozen shock from your father, which you take as an opening to rear back and slap him with as much force as you can muster. Your hand immediately prickles and tingles from the impact.

The few feet of space apart that you gain is quickly closed when he charges at you with a raised, clenched hand ready to strike. The fact that you’ve never fought back before seems to be your saving grace in this moment, the disorientation of you actually resisting and challenging him making his approach unsteady and delayed.

Your hand still stings from the slap as you wad it up and swing it into his gut before he can make contact with you. He sputters and doubles over in shock at the unexpected blow, but the late retribution still comes sooner than you anticipated. He readies to ambush you, lip curled over his bared teeth, when something smashes and shatters into the wall beside his head.

“I was hoping you’d show up one of these days and make trouble just so I’d have the fucking excuse to beat you within an inch of your fucking life,” Joel growls.

It’s a blur of violence as he barrels into your dad, tackling him to the floor in one headlong motion, and lands two punches before it can even register. The clamor draws more people, one of them being Kenzie’s dad who you spot darting back out of the room with his phone to his head — you assume to call the police. A handful of waitstaff hang at the perimeter of the commotion, gawking at the all out brawl taking place in the middle of the kitchen. You aren’t much better, just standing there rooted to the spot in an adrenaline freeze, as your dad manages to topple Joel onto his back and land a punch to his jaw.

By the time they flip again, two men have been alerted to the fight and brought inside to intervene. They aren’t dressed like the other waitstaff, but it’s clear they’re here working the event in some other capacity. A frenzied

yelp pierces the air as Joel digs his knees into your dad’s elbows, pinning him to the ground. Joel yanks a chilled bottle of wine from a nearby bucket and smashes the neck of it against the edge of the counter. The light catches on all the jagged edges of broken glass when he raises it in the air and flips it over in a drive directly into your dad’s mouth, who instantly gurgles and gags at the influx of liquid and serrated opening.

“You look real thirsty,” Joel taunts. “Have a drink. This one’s on me.”

Pockets of liquid jet out from the side of your dad’s mouth as he chokes on it, Joel holding the bottle snug in place as the contents pour out. The two men in matching black uniform shout “break it up, fellas,” which falls on deaf ears. The liquid eventually empties, and the bottle cracks into several more pieces when Joel slams it against your dad’s temple. Blood spills and mixes with the choked out liquid, pooling and smearing across the floor.

The two men quickly lodge themselves between the two when a flurry of fists and kicks and jabs from Joel start right back up. He manages to get one last closed hand strike to your dad’s face and one crushing stomp to his thigh as the bigger of the two uniformed men finally drags him away. Your dad lies motionless on the floor as the man scolds Joel for taking “cheap shots” instead of heeding the calls to break the fight up like they’d asked.

Joel wears a flinty, unrepentant sneer that only deepens when his eyes cast down to your unmoving but groaning dad. He spits a bloody pool of saliva onto him as he’s ushered to the other side of the kitchen.

“Put your hands on her again, asshole. See if you walk away the next time.”

You can feel all the eyes in the room slip over to you, making the connection of what had started this entire mess. Some of the faces lose their look of pity for your dad, all crumpled and thrashed in a feeble sprawl on the floor. 

“You okay, baby? He hurt you?” Joel demands.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, instead running impatient hands all along your body to assess for injury.

“I’m okay,” you answer, and it’s a relief to be able to offer that in truth. “I was holding him off long enough for you to get to me.”

His shoulders sag with the reassurance that you’ve not been harmed, hands roaming up to gently cup your jaw and search your face for any lingering distress. You don’t turn away, content to let him find the undercurrent of peace that swells within you, held in his arms. 

It’s the first Father’s Day since you severed contact. Calum had already gleefully sent you a picture of your dad’s mugshot, framed and hung on a wall in his apartment. Having the advantage of knowing you were safe and sound while he listened to the recap of Kenzie’s party meant he got to enjoy every last bit of comeuppance relayed. He’d cheered you on when you recalled how you’d defended yourself, verbally and physically, and he demanded to complement Joel directly on his part in all of it before he let you hang up.

Kenzie’s dad was the first to press charges, having absolutely no qualms about sending a message to the guy who almost ruined his daughter’s graduation party. It didn’t hurt that he had connections with some law enforcement higher ups, more than enough “fuck you money” to throw around, and a top notch lawyer on retainer ready to let the long arm of the law screw your dad over. With a neutral but supportive nudge from Joel, you also pressed charges.

When all was said and done, your dad was looking at: trespassing, assault, battery, menacing, criminal mischief, disorderly intoxication, disorderly conduct, false imprisonment, stalking, driving while intoxicated, open container in a motor vehicle, property damage, and a smattering of any other offense that the lawyer could manage to unearth, ready to assist his client in rubbing salt into your dad’s wound.

You weren’t sure how much of it was going to stick or what the outcome would be, but it sure as hell didn’t look good to have a pending imputation like that with a job like his. Hell, any employer would look sideways at a string of legal infractions that extensive and that damning. It wasn’t exactly something tenure and bullshitting could smooth over. And if Kenzie’s dad had any say in the proceedings, your dad wasn’t going to get off the hook easily.

“You’re just buttering your old man up now,” Joel chortles to the screen.

You smile to yourself as you listen to his and Sarah’s video chat. She couldn’t make it back home to celebrate in person, but she’d made sure to call and lay the sweet talk on thick.

“Yeah, but it’s obviously working, sssoooooooo….”

“Little shit,” he chuckles under his breath, walking aimlessly through the house and out onto the back deck.

You hear him laugh loudly a couple minutes later, and you can’t help but join in with your own giggle. Eventually the cadence of his voice changes into words of endearment and goodbyes. He tucks his phone into his pocket as he rounds the corner.

“You’re a really good dad,” you observe warmly.

The corner of his mouth ticks up softly at the compliment, but he takes his time walking over to where you’re sat comfortably on the couch before responding. “Ya think so, huh?”

“Yeah. I do.” 

Your voice is steady and pointed. You want him to know you mean it. You might not have a personal reference to defend your position, but you know without a doubt that Joel Miller is the best father and deserves to hear it every day of his life.

He pauses for a moment before asking, “You doin’ okay? Is the day botherin’ you at all?”

You assume he means the fact that it’s Father’s Day and you have a strong contender for worst dad on the planet.

“I actually– it might sound weird, but I actually feel really light. I feel good.”

“Not weird at all,” he assures you, plopping down next to you and scooping your legs to lay across his lap so he can rub your ankles and calves. “Dead weight is dead weight. Not bein’ weighed down by him’s gotta feel like you’re finally able to live the life you deserve. Deserve the damn moon on a string for all the shit he’s put you through.”

You exhale, an amused little sound. “You’re doing it again.”

“What? What am I doin’?”

“Gunning for Best Boyfriend in the World award.”

“Remind me again what put me in the running,” he teases and leans in for a kiss.

“A million things, but today it’s mostly just– seeing you be who you are. Getting to experience that and be a part of it.”

The air of levity dampens a bit when you reach for his hands and draw him closer, and he recognizes the shift from playful to earnest.

“I think sometimes people are just meant to… they’re made for showing love. They’re made to pour their love into special people, people they love. And they are the most happy when they get to do that. I think- I think that’s you. I think you pour your love into people, and that’s when you’re happiest. To see the people you love being filled with your love.”

“Goddamn, honey, Sarah already made me all mushy,” he grouses, suddenly blinking rapidly with glossy eyes. “Y’all are gonna have me a blubbering baby if y’all don’t quit.”

But you can’t stop. You can’t hold it in. You can’t keep yourself from gushing about this beautiful person you’ve been lucky enough to know and create this life with.

“I love you, Joel. I’m in love with you.” 

It comes out without thinking, but it’s meant for this moment. There’s no hesitation or regret in it. You want to say it again.

“I love you,” you repeat, drawing on the intoxication and freedom of it finally being spoken.

“I love you, too, honey,” he returns softly. “So damn much. Love you so damn much.”

tagging:

@copperhalfcent @guelyury @keylimebeag @magpiepills @bizarrelove-triangle

@missladym1981 @wand-erer5 @koshkaj-blog @bubble-pop-eclectic @lovelyladiess

@ellenmunn @lavema @confusedpuffin @getitoutofmymindwrites @getitoutofmymind

@fishingforpike @drunk-and-capable @sheepdogchick3 @pastelpinkflowerlife @bonezone44

@guiltyasdave @toomanystoriessolittletime

[professor-doc-emeritus]

in preparation for the move I went through the deeply healing process of canceling a bunch of monthly subscriptions I had managed to accumulate over the years, turns out I was spending $70.76 on functionally nothing. Annoyed I let it get to that but happy to have the money back in my pocket so I can put it towards more responsible things: warhammer minis

[serpentae]

for the first time ever I set a long term goal for myself to work towards (save enough money for a six month solo backpacking trip) and life really does feel a bit better thanks to it. knowing that there's something I'm looking forward to. that I'm giving this desk job two years. that it has a purpose. so far my life has been very "let's just see what happens idk I don't have plans" but this? this feels good. and for someone who was so depressed I barely got out of the house two years ago it feels like a huge step tbh

[caterpillarinacave]

well this sucks

[h4bit]

do any of y'all use goodnotes and are being faced w the decision to upgrade to goodnotes 6 ?? i'm really on the fence about it -_- and if there are any other recs for pdf annotation / reading apps ... i would love if u slid them my way <3

[thedeviljudges]

got approved for a rental house and will finally be able to move out of this god awful apartment, but the whole process makes me so angry. like moving costs alone are expensive but it’s also all of the unnecessary added fees they tack on. the concert ticket thing is the big discussion but housing application fees? convenience fees for processing a card? like anything extra they can squeeze out of you on top of too expensive rent it’s fucking insane. people can barely (not really) even afford 3x rent, and it’s getting to the point that you need three incomes just to afford one place. like this whole process has made me so angry, and i’ve been angry about it for a long time, of course. but also just looking around and seeing just how many houses are for rent, that aren’t going toward families bc these investors and venture capitalists continue to buy up houses. i genuinely want to know how any of this is going to be sustainable, even within the next three-to-five years.

[onrainynights]

every day that goes by it feels more and more likely that I'll get this promotion and I can't believe I'm at a place in my life where that's even a possibility. like last year I had just the absolute worst time with employment and just had a horrible year in general but I feel like I got so lucky finding this job. except they felt lucky to find ME. like the hiring manager told me she was so happy to have multiple candidates and that I was easily the best out of the group (she's had to hire people out of desperation/only having one candidate before and they never worked out bc they weren't good fits at all) and my confidence has skyrocketed since I started working there because my boss and coworkers treat me like an equal even though I'm young and relatively inexperienced. they treat me like they believe I'm capable and competent and it makes me feel capable and competent and it's incredible. the idea that I could be getting a promotion for the first time in my life after only 3 months at this place is insane but I'm so hopeful because nobody acts like it's a far-fetched idea. I'm taken seriously and it gave me the confidence I needed to actually say that I'm interested in that promotion and that I know I'm capable of doing that position. plus the company itself is great honestly, I feel really lucky to work there. even as a part time employee at the lowest level I feel genuinely important and appreciated. I've already met the person who would be my boss if I get promoted and she seems just as respectful as everyone else. are all employee-owned companies like this???

[neganium]

when I was little, I used to laugh of all those depictions on TV of women with like, giant-ass closets that are small rooms unto themselves. who even needs that many shoes? I don't even like shoes that much, I thought.

nowadays, however, it is all I can dream about. lots of clothing and shoe options, all in an expansive storage space, with room to spare, either for more of its kind or other things I hate to leave lying around but do not wish to part with (namely, all my old drawings and shit, and ig a lot of my old stuffed animals and toys, lmao). sexy, sexy storage space, attached to a room with sexy, sexy floor space, with my own bathroom and its sexy, sexy spacious countertop attached to the sink. hh.

[kerosene-saint]

pov I'm literally gonna ask for maybe two things for Christmas cause I still feel guilty about last Christmas since I was gifted expensive things by my parents and our house needs repairs

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[charminglygrouped]

For the past several years (and perhaps longer) in the P&P fandom I've seen a lot of people who want to rehabilitate Mrs. Bennet: like, sure, she's uncouth and seems greedy, but it's because she cares so much about her daughters' futures; her situation is actually really stressful and uncertain and she's powerless to change it and her husband makes fun of her, and so it's natural that it would cause her to be anxious all the time; maybe she doesn't have the intelligence or social awareness to understand that her behaviour is actually harming her daughters' prospects, but at least her heart is in the right place.

I'm usually not the type of person who argues that fandom is actually being too nice to a female character, but in this case I don't buy the counter-narrative (which I think is popular enough at this point to be fanon / a narrative in itself) about Mrs. Bennet.

For one thing, she was never really powerless in this situation. These people are rich even for gentry. Mr. Bennet's income was always good, at 2,000 pounds per annum (even though I can't believe he isn't neglecting some practices that could raise it higher). Mrs. Bennet had 4,000 pounds from her parents and a further 1,000 from Mr. Bennet. Invested in the 4 per cents (for example), this is 200 pounds per year in pin money that Mrs. Bennet could spend without touching the principle of her dowry, and without affecting Mr. Bennet's income. This is more than some people's entire yearly incomes.

The picture of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet that we get in P&P is not of people who are helpless against their circumstances, but of people who are extraordinarily neglectful. We're told that:

Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. [...] When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy; and her husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income.

We also know that the "continual presents in money which passed to [Lydia] through her mother’s hands," plus her allowance and food, amount to about 90 pounds per year. Rather than saving up from the beginning in case the entail is not broken, rather than beginning to save once it's clear a son will not arrive, rather than making Jane's dowry the full 5,000 from her mother (which would be something) and saving up for the younger girls' dowries thereafter—which is what would be typical, and that's why Lady Catherine was so shocked that all the girls were out at once—Mrs. Bennet's housekeeping, dress, the girls' allowance, presents of money over and above their allowance, plus whatever Mr. Bennet is spending money on (and other expenses relating to servants, carriages, maintenance &c. which are unavoidable), add up to their entire income. The only reason why Mrs. Bennet doesn't overspend even that is that that's where Mr. Bennet puts his foot down.

Mrs. Bennet is actively harming her daughters' prospects, not even of marriage, but of living respectably if they don't marry, because she doesn't have the temperance not to spend all of the income that is allotted to her. It is the role of the woman in a marriage to take charge of the housekeeping, servants, cooking, furniture, and all expenses relating thereto (plus certain attentions to her tenants and any living in genteel poverty in the area, though presumably this will depend on her income and whether there's a parish church with a parson's wife who's doing some of these things). She's an adult who should be competent to manage these things in a reasoned way without needing to be dictated to.

It is supposed to be the role of the woman in a marriage to take charge of her daughters' education—and yet Mrs. Bennet did not hire a governess, and Elizabeth says that she didn't spend much time teaching her daughters anything (it's not clear to what degree she's educated herself). Granted, the girls did have masters—but, from the sounds of things, that was only if they requested them. No one was required to learn much of anything, which will probably further harm the marriage prospects of the girls who "chose to be idle."

I think the "point" of Mrs. Bennet is that she is one half of one type of bad marriage which the novel illustrates, in contrast with the Gardiners' marriage. These marriages are two possible models for the Bennet daughters to look to. At one point, Elizabeth's prospective marriage is explicitly compared to her parents', with her in the role of her father: Mr. Bennet says "My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life" (emphasis original).

We might wonder whether Elizabeth saw herself potentially in the role of her father, in a marriage that was very intellectually unequal, when she rejected Mr. Collins; or whether she also saw herself in the role of her mother, married to a man who insults and doesn't respect her, when she rejected Mr. Darcy. Ultimately, she accepts Mr. Darcy after she realises that he is nothing like her father; that he is diligent in attending to his responsibilities, and that he does evidently respect her mind.

This isn't me defending Mr. Bennet, who is also a bad parent and a bad spouse. I do, however, find it a little disturbing when people suggest that Mr. Bennet is at fault for not controlling or curtailing his wife. His wife is a grown woman. Surely we don't actually believe that a situation where a man is legally in complete control over his wife, merely because he is a man and she is a woman, is in any way natural, moral, or just? (This also goes for people who suggest that Mr. Bingley needs to get his sister 'in line' 😬😬😬.)

Mrs. Bennet should be competent to manage her household and her daughters. Given that she's not, yes, Mr. Bennet, according to Georgian and Victorian ideas of the role of a man in a marriage, "should" have stepped in and started dictating to her. But I don't really think that's what Austen is suggesting went wrong here. The models of good marriages we have—the Gardiners, the Bingleys and Darcys after their weddings—are all ones in which the women were basically sensible people to begin with. In the latter two cases, we are told of particular ways in which the men stand to benefit from some mental quality of their future spouse (Elizabeth's good humour and ease in company; Jane's steadiness and determination).

The ideal which some Georgians had of a husband's role being to shape his wife's intellect doesn't seem to be what's being advocated here. If Mr. Bennet made a mistake, it was in marrying a silly, selfish, ill-tempered woman to begin with, not in failing to browbeat her into submission once he found out that she was silly, selfish, and ill-tempered. The idea is that you should choose your spouse carefully. But that message doesn't work if Mrs. Bennet is just a woman in a difficult situation who has her heart in the right place.

[shadow13dickpistons]

Turns out you can't donate plasma if you have psoriatic arthritis, not cause there's anything wrong with your plasma, but because taking out those proteins is hard on your body, and your body is already going through it, so they don't want to make you worse. Which I appreciate, I really didn't want to get poked anyway.

So recently I went to HomeGoods for the first time and now I'm addicted, and saw they were hiring, so I was like, sure, it's another option. Finally this afternoon I get around to submitting an application, annoying, but not like when I have to apply for my Big Serious Jobs, so whatever, wasn't expecting a response on a Sunday.

About thirty minutes later, the manager texts me. "Oh, uh....yeah, I can be there in about fifteen minutes."

So now I have a second job. Dang, alright.