#Bishop Takes Knight

[voltaical-art]

urghh im just gonna post this… some Bishop lore…

[finiteuniverse13]

Day 2: Chess

Day 1

For Gus and Apple, chess is a conversation. It’s a series of statements and responses - rebuttals, acceptances, deferring - that make up their own kind of language. 

Gus makes a quiet comment to Haysey when he comes below deck to get a jacket to help with the biting atlantic winds, and Apple moves his black knight in response - you’re soft on him. Gus considers this for a moment, and the fact that Apple’s queen could be easily taken. He moves his own knight to mirror Apple’s - you’re soft on him too - which Apple hums in reply.

Apple uses his bishop to take one of Gus’ pawns (Freddy too), prompting Gus to move his rook to take Apple’s bishop (who had been locked in a stalemate with some pawns and the other rook for the last 6 turns) - and Lassen, but he won’t admit it even if we force him.

Apple takes his remaining bishop and takes Gus’ rook, speaking his first words in over an hour. “And we both know who Lassen’s also soft on.”

This comes from this promptober post

[astar123456]

This is the first look into my next project after I finish up For Tomorrow’s main storyline.

Knight Takes Bishop takes place a half a year after the attempted invasion. While some scars remain, both mentally and physically, the turtles are on the road to recovery. However when the government becomes a bit too nosy, Donatello takes it upon himself to deal with the problem himself. After all, he needs to protect his brothers. His king.

Anyways! The animatic was just stuck in my head and I had to get it out before it went poof! I plan on making a master post later but for now take this!! Please like, reblog, or even criticism! I feed off of attention on the internet lol

[anime-scarves]

3am chess just hits different.

[lesbian-rook]

Local adults become gods, complain about outfits

(classpects under the cut incase it's unclear)

Knight: Muse of Breath

Bishop: Rogue of Rage

Rook: Seer of Hope

Castel: Knight of Time

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

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

[theroundbartable]

Uther hates playing chess.

It's not that he hates the game, he just has terrible opponents. His son, Arthur, is a worthy match, but his prince duties are increasing lately and Uther is tired of Arthur's complaints that Uther 'only wins because he's the King'.

The problem is that it's true. No one wants to win against a King except another King. But how often does Uther get to challenge one except for endless bouts through letters?

Until -

Arthur: he's a terrible servant! He doesn't listen to me and treats me like a commoner!

Uther: *perking up* that servant?

Arthur: *realizing whom he's talking to* ... Yes, but- he's not that bad! An idiot, one who doesn't care about propriety but he's a good one. And it's sort of refreshing to not be-

Uther: You misunderstand. It's fine. Do you think he knows how to play chess?

Arthur: ... I don't know? I mean, he can read and write, which is surprising, and he speaks more languages than you'd expect, so maybe?

Uther: wonderful. I'd like to try it our

Arthur: *irritated* yes, Sire.

...

Uther: go on then. You do know how to play?

Merlin: *nervous* A little. My mother taught me

Uther: wonderful. And do not be afraid to put in a fight, I'm so bored of easy wins.

Merlin: am I not being executed if I win?

Uther: *shocked at Merlin's bluntness* excuse me?

Merlin: ... Am I being executed for asking?

Uther: ... I think this is gonna be fun. You take the white pieces.

Merlin: alright, Sire.

...

Uther: *shellshocked*

Merlin: may I leave, Sire?

Uther: how on earth did you-

Merlin: I was allowed to win, right?

Uther: of course. But how-

Merlin: it's in the strategy. You like to sacrifice your pawns to make space for your knights and bishops. And you barely move your Queen.

Uther: I'm protecting the King! The most important piece on the field!!!

Merlin: A good King wouldn't sacrifice his people for no reason. There is no shame in trying to save them all.

Uther: that's what Arthur would do and how he would keep losing. You didn't do that at all! You basically sacrificed every single piece on the field in a suicide mission!

Merlin: *blinking dumbly* I'm protecting my King. The most important piece on the field.

Basically...

[reidrum]

castling | s.r.

A/N: another deeply self indulgent hurt comfort angst who’s surprised…i wrote this kinda fast so if it’s messy and cheesy sorry :/

cw: gn!reader (pls lmk if i missed something that doesn’t make it gn), hurt comfort, mentions of depression, ambiguous sadness, trivialization of chess, inaccurate chess jargon?, spencer is a darling

summary: in which reader finds it hard to open up and communicate their feelings with spencer, so he comes up with an idea to help

wc: 1.4k

not proofread sry

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3

_______________________________________________

It started during a game of chess, when Spencer was showing you different special moves.

“It’s called castling, the idea is that you move the king two spaces towards the rook and then switch their places to allow more protection for your king than if it was in the center.”

“Why would you want to move the king towards the outside, that seems counterintuitive.”

“Smart girl, that’s a good question,” he says fondly, “It’s kind of a last ditch effort in a sense, the rook is essentially expendable but the castling moves the king out of the line from key pieces like the other king and queen.”

“So, it’s like a rescue mission.”

He smiles, “Like a rescue mission.”

You smile back and continue with your next move. Spencer watches you in earnest as you deliberate the best plan of attack, even though he knows he’s gonna let you win by the end anyway.

“How was your day today?” He watches your demeanor change quickly, your shoulders sagging slightly and your eyebrows furrowing. He knew the answer, he’s a great observant and even more so when it comes to you.

“It was…fine.”

“Just fine?” he challenges, moving his bishop.

You nod and move your knight. You’re waiting for him to move his next piece when you realize he’s not looking at the board anymore.

Looking up you see hazel eyes staring right back at you, “Sweetheart,”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He sighs, “You know,” he moves his pawn, “this isn't the first time that you’ve had a hard time communicating with me how you feel.”

A deep sigh leaves you now, it had always been a struggle for you to show emotion so openly to those you love, mainly Spencer. You just didn’t want to worry him with the throes of your mind, and while Spencer appreciated the sentiment he reminded you repeatedly that he’s there for you through it all and just really wants you to take advantage of that.

“I just want to help you, angel.” he says softly, “I can’t do that if you don’t let me in. You don’t even have to tell me what’s wrong, just that something is wrong.”

Tears well up in your eyes, “I know Spence. I—It’s just, saying out loud that I’m—whatever—makes it real. A—And then you get so worried and I get more anxious—“

“Hey. It’s my job to worry about you. Because I love you,” he places his hands on yours, “But, I was thinking what if we had a code word or something, just a single word, and you can say it or text me or anything and I’ll know that you’re not feeling well.”

Your face softens at his proposal. The irony you face is that your brain has convinced you healing can be done alone, that if you’re the one who fucked up the road you should be the one to repair it. While you know logically healing is more effective when you have support, it doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept the help you need, that Spencer feels you deserve.

“I think…that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah?” he replies, “Do you want to pick the word?”

You think about it for a few minutes. You don’t want to do a silly word like banana or chicken, you want something that maybe doesn’t sound serious but would still convey the intent of the code word.

“Does castling work?” you offer softly.

Spencer’s face morphs into something you can’t quite decipher, but to him it’s a mix of adoration, love, and pure empathy for you. He’s just so touched by the fact you want to use that word, after just discussing the significance of that move. It’s an honor that you trust him enough to be your protecting rook.

“Yeah, that’s perfect angel.”

You give a small nod, “Check.”

___

You knew he wouldn’t judge you, that’s the whole reason you came up with this system. It felt like an emergency contact, which it was, but in a “How bad is too bad before I call?” type of way.

Laid down in your bed, you stared at the glow of your phone with your messages with Spencer open. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, daring you to make a move.

Nothing even really happened today, it was just one of those periods where you were in a funk. The voices that lingered in your brain fed you disguised truths and cynicism, and it was hard to feel afloat with support when you couldn’t even tell what was pulling you down.

It didn’t matter though, your tear stained cheeks and puffy red eyes amongst the disarray of your room which satirically matched the chaos in your mind were proof enough that maybe, you weren’t okay.

In this moment it would be stupidly easy to ignore it all and wallow in your own sorrow—Spencer was away on a case and you didn’t know when he was coming back.

So in a leap of faith, or perhaps a lapse in judgment, your thumbs twiddle a message out and press send.

castling

You toss your phone aside and try to avoid thinking about it. He’s probably busy, they’re on a case so he’s probably drawing out the geographical maps or maybe he’s on a raid or maybe he’s—DING.

Cautiously grabbing your phone, you slide the notification.

I’m on the plane, going to land in about an hour or so. I need to make one stop and then I’ll come straight to you, okay?

You stare through the blurriness of your eyes caused by your tears, the words blending together. Before the guilt of texting him and making him aware of your depressed state sinks in, another text comes through.

I love you. See you soon, angel.

Another choked sob releases from your throat, and you put the phone down before any more emotions try to infiltrate you. At some point you end up falling asleep on the bed, your body curled in on itself from the lack of warmth a nice blanket or Spencer could’ve provided.

You’re only stirred awake when you feel a soothing sensation on your head, long nimble yet intentional fingers sifting through your hair. You attempt to open your eyes through the thin crust it’s formed from crying so much, and you’re squinting for the first few moments of vision before registering the human in front of you.

“Hi honey.” Spencer whispers softly as you come to.

“Spence…when did you…”

“Just a couple minutes ago,” the hand in your hair comes to rest on your jaw, “How are you feeling?”

Tired eyes finally meet his brown ones and find nothing but reassurance and concern.

Oh. You’ve worried him now.

The last string of resolve snaps as your face crumbles in and you mutter out apologies mixed in with sniffles and sobs. Spencer moves from his knelt position in front of you to slide in next to you on the bed. He gingerly gathers you in his arms and tucks you into his side whispering it’s okay and you’re safe and i’m here.

After a few long minutes your breathing evens out. “You came.” you sniffled.

He pulls back to look at you with watered eyes, “You called. I’m so proud of you.”

You mumble under your breath, “I didn’t even do anything.”

Spencer shakes his head and tucks you right back in place, feeling the floppy fringe of his hair tickling your forehead, “I know a version of you that would’ve held it all in by yourself. Thank you for letting me be here for you.”

You turn your head into his chest further, letting the hot tears and snot stain his nice button up. His hands rub trails up and down your back, his head bent down to your ear whispering sweet nothings to you. With Spencer delicately taking your defenses down maybe you can finally admit to yourself that you were just too soft for all of it.

“Where did you have to stop by?” you wonder.

He smiles and readjusts you against his body, “I picked up Thai food,” “And some candy, sour of course. And there may be a Snoopy stuffie as well because it reminded me of you.”

You feel a different weight on your heart, not one that’s constricting but one that’s embracing, comforting. In a life where you’ve rarely felt taken care of, or even being worthy of that care, you know with certainty that Spencer would never let you go a day without knowing how much love and care you deserve.

[nachrosas]

CHECKMATE | s.reid x reader

summary: in which an unexpected thunderstorm leads you and spencer a afternoon full of chess matches and childhood memories pairing: spencer reid x reader content warnings: none, just pure fluff word count: 1.6k a/n: hi! first time in a long time that i have written a fic over 1k words! this was also supposed to be posted yesterday, but my internet suddenly stopped working. hope you guys like it and feedback is always appreciated! till the next one!

The sound of the rain pounded incessantly against the windows of Spencer's small apartment, it was as if nature was determined to flood the whole world. In the corner of the room, the yellowish light of a lamp cast soft shadows on the various piles of books that seemed to have been strategically placed, something Spencer called “controlled organization”.

You were sitting on the shag carpet, watching Spencer who, with the sleeves of his dress shirt folded up to his elbows and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, was completely focused on preparing the chessboard on the coffee table.

“You know, I'd say getting stuck here is pretty unlucky,” you commented, a playful smile on your lips. “But honestly, I think it's better than being stuck with an unsub.”

Spencer looked up at you, the corners of his mouth curving into a shy smile. “Technically, the probability of being hit by that storm was only 23%, so… we can say we were statistically surprised.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Of course you'd know that.”

He placed the last piece on the board and, with a casual gesture, indicated the place in front of you. “It's ready. But I warn you right now that I'm a tough opponent.”

“Ah, Reid.” you said, approaching and taking your seat. “I may not have memorized 50 chess moves, but I'm great at distractions.”

As the storm roared outside, the feeling of being cooped up was quickly replaced by the warmth of laughter, shared glances, and the certainty that that rainy afternoon would be unforgettable.

Spencer was completely focused on the board. His fingers hovered over the white knight, assessing all the possible moves before moving the piece. His expression was a mixture of absolute focus and slight satisfaction, as if he knew that victory was only a few moves away.

“Do you really think you can beat me so easily?” you asked, leaning forward, resting your chin on your hands.

“It's not a question of 'think'.” Spencer replied, moving his horse with surgical precision. “It's just logic. Three moves, and I put you in checkmate.”

“Three moves?” you repeated, widening your eyes in comic exaggeration. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It's not a threat, it's just an observation.” He gave a discreet smile, adjusting his glasses.

You crossed your arms and tilted your head, pretending to think deeply. “You know, it reminds me of the time I tried to teach my little cousin to play chess. In his words, the king was a 'super pawn' and he kept using it to capture all my pieces.”

Spencer stopped adjusting the bishop and looked at you, eyebrows raised. “A super-pawn? That goes against all the rules of the game!”

“Exactly!” you replied, with a mischievous grin. “But it was very amusing to see him shouting 'super champion on the attack!' before losing miserably.”

He let out an unexpected laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. He tried to regain his composure, but you could see that he had lost his train of thought.

“Oh, and there's more!” you continued, pointing to the board. “Did you know that his queen was having an 'affair' with my queen and was allied to my side? Because, according to him, 'she liked my team better'.”

Another laugh escaped Spencer, now louder, and he had to take off his glasses to wipe his eyes. “That's ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous or genius?” you said, nonchalantly moving a piece. “Maybe I should adopt the super champion strategy.”

He blinked, realizing too late that you had distracted him long enough to mount a counterattack. Looking at the board, Spencer let out a resigned sigh, but the smile still shone on his face.

“I can't believe you did that!” he admitted, lowering his head. “You stole my concentration!”

“Distraction is a legitimate strategy,” you replied, triumphantly. “And honestly, it was worth every second just to hear you laugh like that.”

Spencer laughed again, this time without resistance. “All right, but I warn you, next time I'll be prepared for your super pawn.”

After quick and funny chess matches, the chessboard had been put aside, and you were now sprawled on the sofa, warm cups of tea in hand. The storm outside was now a distant, almost comforting sound, while the conversation flowed like rain against the window.

“Okay, my turn,” you began, a smile playing on your lips. “When I was about ten, I had the brilliant idea of building a catapult in the backyard.”

Spencer arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “A catapult? That sounds… a bit ambitious.”

“It was!” you said, laughing. ”I saw it in a cartoon and thought I knew exactly how to make it. I took a plank of wood, a spring from the old sofa we had in the garage, and a big spoon from the kitchen. My idea was to throw fruit in the air, like a mad scientist.”

Spencer was already smiling, but his gaze showed a mixture of genuine curiosity and amusement. “Did it work?”

“More or less,” you admitted, shaking your head. “I didn't calculate the strength of the spring properly, so the first thing I threw — an apple — went straight through the kitchen window. Mom showed up five seconds later, and I was holding the spoon like an unsub caught red-handed.”

Spencer laughed out loud, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “And what happened then?”

“I was grounded for a week, but my mother kept the apple with the spoon mark on it as proof of my flawed genius.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Okay, I admit, it's an impressive story. But I think I can match it.”

You leaned towards him, interested. “Oh really? I want to hear it.”

“When I was eight, I was determined to learn origami,” he began, settling down on the sofa. ”I found a book in the library and decided that the best place to practice would be during lunchtime at school. So I took all the colored papers from the library and started folding them into various shapes. My idea was to create a giant swan.”

You blinked, trying to imagine. “All the colored papers? That's… too much, Spencer.”

He smiled slightly, continuing. “The problem was that I accidentally blocked the canteen's emergency exit by stacking the parts. When the shift inspector saw it here, she called the management, thinking I was sabotaging the school.”

You burst out laughing. “You were accused of sabotage for making origami?”

“Yes!” Spencer replied, his eyes sparkling with humor. “I spent the rest of the day trying to explain that it wasn't an act of vandalism, just an unsuccessful artistic experiment.”

Your laughter filled the room, light and genuine. When you finally calmed down, he looked at you with a soft smile.

“You know,” he said. “it's funny how our silliest flaws say so much about who we are.”

You nodded, smiling back. “And how they bring us closer together. It seems we were always meant to create creative chaos.”

He laughed again, agreeing. The sound of the rain continued outside, but inside that small space, everything seemed infinitely more welcoming.

The storm had died down considerably, and the sound of the rain blended softly with the noise of the cars that had returned to the streets. Spencer, now holding an open book in his hands, was lying next to him on the sofa, their voices alternating as they read aloud. The title was a classic that he always mentioned, and you felt grateful that he had shared that moment with you.

Spencer began to read a passage with his characteristic tone, where curiosity seemed to leap from his words as if he were living the story alongside the main characters. His soft, cadenced voice made the surroundings seem even more peaceful.

You followed along attentively, feeling the familiarity of the moment. There was no rush, no need for anything other than the warmth of mutual companionship and the comfort of the written word. Sometimes you would pause and, with a smile, ask him about details of the characters or what he thought of the plot, and he would always respond enthusiastically.

“What do you think, should it be more unpredictable or deeper?” you asked, leaning a little closer to him.

Spencer looked at you, the shy smile that always appeared in quiet moments like that. “The unpredictability is interesting, but the depth… that really stands out. When you feel you know the character as well as you know yourself.”

You smiled back, touching his hand lightly, the touch simple but meaningful. “I think that's what makes the moment when we're here on the sofa, reading together, so special. It's not about what happens in the book, it's about how you lose yourself in it.”

Spencer was silent for a moment, his expression soft and thoughtful. He turned another page and looked at the book, but then his attention turned to you.

“Yes.” he said with an almost imperceptible lightness. “The best moments are not the big events, but the small ones, when we are simply present.”

The silence between you became comfortable, only the turning of pages filled the space. Outside, the heavy storm had now turned into a light drizzle, but inside the apartment, the world seemed whole in every word you read, in every glance you exchanged.

The day was ending, but you knew that this would be one of the moments that would remain etched in your memory, like a quiet, constant point of light. And as you looked at Spencer, his eyes shining softly in the light of the lamp, you realized that perhaps these little moments, shared with someone special, were the real treasures of life.

[ostrichchariot]

"That's dumb," says Karna. "I think that's dumb. Why can the knight just jump over shit? What's so special about him, huh?"

"Just, uh. Just good at moving, I guess," says Colin, taking the black rook and placing it on his side of the table. It sits there, solid, beside the haphazard array of pawns and a single bishop.

Karna pouts a little. In front of her, on the table, there sit three white pawns, all stood perfectly in line. "'Good at moving.' Urgh. So am I. He's not special." She frowns, and moves a pawn two spaces forward. Colin winces involuntarily, and she glares at him. "What? What did I do?"

"So... I may have forgotten to mention this one. I, uh. I didn't really think it would come up for, uh. Longer than this. To be honest." He gives her a slightly wary look. "You... you ever heard of 'en passant'?"

"'In passing' in Fructeran," she says brusquely. "Now explain."

"Now- ok, I promise I'm not making this one up-" He moves a white pawn to just behind hers, which he smoothly plucks from the board and sets down amongst the cluster of other pieces in front of him.

There is a short silence.

"Are you kidding me," says Karna, voice flatter than the void of space, empty and silent and oh, so deep, and-

"To be fair, that- that's probably one of the stupidest rules I know. If that helps?" says Colin.

"Fine. Fine!" she says. "Sure."

"You know," says Colin delicately, "I could still-"

"No," snaps Karna. "You will not play without a queen." She glares at him with even more ferocity than usual, and lowers her voice to a dangerous drawl. "When I win. If I suspect even for a second that you went easy on me?" Her lip curls into a smirk. "Oh, that would be that last thing you ever did."

"Sure," says Colin. "I mean, sure. I just think it would make the game a bit more fun for you while you're learning. You know?"

Karna rolls her eye. "I want to lose."

"...What?" There is suddenly a deep, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I want to lose," she says. "Because it doesn't matter." She grasps his forearms and stares into his eyes, as though willing him to understand. "I want so badly to know what it feels like for losing not to matter. I want to know the loss that is an annoyance, not an ache, not a scar, not a slit throat or a knife in the gut and bleeding out on the pavement."

The hands holding him start to weaken. Rot starts to creep up her neck.

Her pupils are dark voids filled with spinning blades.

"It was too much," she says. "I was so tired. You saw." Her gaze is level, and he remembers running away, and running away, and running away, and looking back. "I was holding on to the edge for so long."

Colin wants to say something. He doesn't know what to say.

"But you can't hold on forever."

And she lets go.

---

He wakes up, and it is still dark, and he is alone.

He never knew her that well, but- she would have been good at chess, he thinks, if she had ever had a chance to learn. Not straight away, of course, but- in time.

No point in dwelling on it. He doesn't want to risk turning into Raphaniel, and- ok, that's another whole thing he's really not interested in delving into right now.

But- she held on for so long.

It seems like the least he can do, to make sure no one else ever has to stare into the void and cling to life so desperately that the muscle of their fingers rots down to bone.

[dailyadventureprompts]

DM Tip: Lining up the Pieces

A few years ago I saw a video that changed the way I design combat encounters, using chess pieces and 4th edition monster roles as a handy way of conceptualizing the enemy roster and making better combat.

I’ve wanted to refer back to it for ages now, but I can’t seem to find it.  As such, I’m going to reproduce it’s wisdom here for everyone’s benefit and hope I can find the source one day.  ( I feel like it was a Matt Coville video, but my searches have turned up nothing. Seriously, if you can find it I will be extra grateful).

TLDR:  You can break down enemy combatants into six (ish) roles represented by different kinds of chess pieces, and you can mix and match them when designing encounter to create fun tactical scenarios. You can also use this as an alternative to CR picking a “budget” of these enemy roles based on how many players are in the fight.  Check out the types below the cut: 

Infantry (pawn):   Generally weaker and mechanically simpler than any other type of combatant, the infantry uses teamwork or sheer numbers to overwhelm the party. This can be anything from rank and file soldiers to a necromancer’s skeletal minions to a pack of wolves, anything that takes up space on the battlefield and prevents the party from targeting who they want or generally getting their way in a fight. 5e combat is a numbers game, and the infantry is there to swing the numbers in the enemy’s favour (until the party cut through them to even the odds).  Infantry likes battlemaps with chokepoints they can hold and crossroads they can use to outflank opponents. When budgeting they’ll have a balance of 2 infantry per 1 player they’re matched against , but the weaker they are, the thinner you can spread them.

Brute (rook): High defence, high offence, the brute is an outright threat that the party should not want to take in a head to head fight. Giants, beasts, constructs, and heavy armoured warriors are your traditional brutes, but you could also go with a buffed to hell battlemage getting all up in the party’s face. Conversely, every brute has some kind of weakness that the party can exploit. They might be slow, or be unable to maneuver as easily, or like a werewolf, fiend, or troll, have particular weapons or damage types that overcome their natural resilience. Their job is to force confrontation, blunder into the middle of combat and force the party to act defensively rather than proactively. They soak up the party’s frontline’s attention while forcing the mid/backlines to scatter under the threat of too much raw damage.  The brute Likes open spaces where they can have a direct path to the party and dead ends they can corner their targets against. Budget: Around 1 per 3 players

Skirmisher (knight):  A very broad type of opponent, the skirmisher’s job is to bully  the party’s weapsots whenever they’re exposed. They can do this by being ranged fighters ( traditional archers, magic users) or by being highly mobile (stealthy, mounted, flying, teleporting). They’re the bane of the party’s backline, generally targeting whoever has the lowest armour/or least health, then using their evasiveness to deny any kind of retaliation when the group rallies to protect their squishy friends. Skirmishers have great offence but are generally pretty weak, made helpless when you can deny them their movement/terrain advantages.  Skirmishers like unfair fights, terrain that gives them a movement advantage, cover, or allows them the highground over their foes.  Budgeting: 1 per 1-2 players. 

Controller (bishop):  The controller’s job is to fuck with the party, Either by locking down some of their stronger options (counterspelling, mind control, status effects, grapples),  by manipulating the battlefield in some way that disrupts planning (aoe spells to prevent grouping together, summoning to reinforce numbers,  barriers and banishment to single targets out), Or by advancing the baddies’ goal while the party is otherwise occupied (the cult priest finishing the disastrous ritual, the master thief making off with the mcguffin) forcing them to split their attention. The controller likes to distinctly be away from combat, and will usually be on the otherside of some kind of hazardous/hard to bypass barrier, sometimes of their own making. Budgeting:  1 per 2-3  players: 

Support (king): Usually a healer, bodyguard, or some kind of buff-bot, the support wants to piggyback on other sorts of units or make them better at doing their jobs. Generally this means they’ll ignore whatever the party is doing to focus on staying with effective range of those who most benefit from their abilities. Supports will stay back in safety while throwing out buffs, bodyguards will put themselves between the party and their designated defendee. They tend to prefer whatever type of terrain most benefits their partners. 1- 2-3 players

Elite (queen): Something to be reckoned with, an Elite mixies the strength and abilities of two other kinds of combatants and uses both to devastating effect. Combine a brute and a support for an unstoppable frontline commander, or infantry and a skirmisher for an elite striketeam that attacks in perfect coordination before fading back into the shadows.  Mix and match for whatever combination you think would be most interesting for a situation, then supplement it with a different unit or two for contrast.  Elites make up your traditional “big bad and minions” bossfight, without escalating to the full party challenge of “solo” monsters. Budgeting: 1 per 3-4 players. 

Picking the right Pieces:

Generally what you're going to want to do when planning a combat is to first think of what the baddies are trying to acomplish with the fight then pick 2-3 different types of baddie that you think would work well in concert to achieve that goal. "Kill the party" is an all too common goal, but you could easily imagine others that provide for dynamic stakes:

A group of forest bandits intend to rob a caravan, so they unleash a captive warbeast as a distraction while their archers rain chaos from above (Infantry, brute, skirmisher)

A villain abducts an important npc into a carriage while their dutiful muscle run interference (controller, brutes)

A necromancer hurls curses from behind a barricade of gravestones while their undead minions pour from surrounding tombs ( Controller/infantry)

While the party is ambushed by an archer in a tower, a cloaked figure waits in the underbrush, waiting for them to thin out and begin picking them off one by one (paired skirmishers of different types)

After the fighter is tricked into single combat against the mounted arena champion, the rest of the party will have to search the crowd for the caster secretly channeling healing magic to their opponent. ( combined brute/skirmisher elite, support)

Once you've got your pieces picked out, you can start designing the battle arena taking the desires of each combatant into account while also throwing in any environmental flourishes you'd like to enjoy.

As an added benefit for DMs like me who don't have the inclination or budget to collect huge batches of minis, it's SUPER easy to pick up a second hand chess set or two and use them as stand ins. Your players will have an instinctive understanding of what each piece does which will help them understand the roles outlined above.

Artsource

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

and it's the chaggie ladyhawke AU with the steel chair!!!!!

A knight by day and beast by knight, a hawk who's lady only in moonlight: two lovers cursed to be always parted even when when they're never apart-

-and the quest to undo this curse before it, and their separation, becomes permanent >:)

Extra twists I'd add to the original film canon:

Ironic Curses - Charlie, who never wanted to hurt anyone and used her noble title to speak up for the downtrodden, turns into a monstrous wolf creature filled with bloodlust that goes on the rampage every night (except for the hour directly after sunset and before sunrise, when she is tame around Vaggie) - Vaggie, ex-guard who was more loyal to Charlie than to the corrupt officials who paid her enforce their cruel laws, each day turns into a wild hawk desperate to escape (except for the hour right after sunrise and before sunset, when she is fiercely protective of Charlie and refuses to fly out of sight from her)

Extra Suffering - Hawk!Vaggie won't take food from people, or leave long enough to hunt when she's more herself at dawn and dusk, so Charlie has to repeatedly risk losing her forever by taking off her hood and setting her loose- then desperately chasing after her- trying keep track of her long enough for the sun to start setting again ---- Sometimes Charlie can't find her before nightfall and Vaggie wakes up alone in the woods to the sound of a distant inhuman howl of despair (not fun, but, it makes it easier to get back to Beast! Charlie) - Beast!Charlie spends most of the night trying to kill everyone and everything around her- so if she wasn't able to lock herself away before sundown, Vaggie has to grab her spear and do her best to keep Charlie from doing murder- by fighting her, leading her on long chases until sunrise, or trapping her ---- Sometimes Charlie wakes up at dawn to find Hawk!Vaggie crumpled next to her in a nest of bloody rag bandages, and the first thing she does before anything else is try her best to at least rebandage the wounds she gave her

They Go Around Rescuing People (against the law) - Vaggie mainly does this by not letting Beast!Charlie eat people as midnight snacks - During the day, a guilt wracked Charlie goes out of her way to free imprisoned people, save them from punishments, and fight Vaggie's former fellow guards every chance she gets ---- she gets this chance A Lot, since the reason they have to keep traveling is there's a warrant out for her head and the dead body of her hawk

The Other Roles Go To - Evil Bishop Guy: split between Adam and Lute, with Adam pissed that one of HIS guards got with the daughter of the woman who turned him down, and Lute wanting Vaggie to suffer and die for leaving the exorcist guards - Nice Monk: Emily is the one who accidently let slip about chaggie to Sera, who told Adam, who did the curse thing on them. After that all happened, Emily left her comfy position and locked herself up with all the old texts she could find, searching for a cure to the curse. She finds one, yay! - Loveable Rouge Who Helps: All the hotel crew. Charlie rescues / helps them each in turn, and they tag along with her for protection (meaning Vaggie then has to protect THEM from HER)

after the gang is assemble, the film plot plays out as expected

blah blah blah, holy shit the bird just got hit by an arrow, what the fuck the knight lady is REALLY freaking out about that, oh no it's almost sunset- uhhh lady knight says leave her here take her horse and the hawk and ride to the nearby abandoned tower where someone named Emily should be, because Emily can help the hawk.

AHHH the bird turned into a woman!!! A woman with the same injury as the hawk?

AAAAH that monster thing from before is outside howling and screaming, kill it-! Nope, never mind, the injured lady says she'll stab us if we hurt the big scary monster thing, and Emily says to leave it alone it'll be gone by sunrise.

blah blah blah, during the next eclipse, if chaggie can make Adam and Lute look at them standing together as themselves during the few moments they'll both be human at the same time, the curse will be broken! If this fails, they both stay in their cursed forms forever! Great!

.... how are we getting inside the castle for that? Oh right. Chaggie has been adopted by a rag tag band of criminals. This should be fun.

[astar123456]

1k in to the last chapter of For Tomorrow this is going to take forever lmao

For Tomorrow - Chapter 1 - A_Star1234 - Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018) [Archive of Our Own]

[pastorfutureletthembe]

Checkmate ♚

Apparently a temporary AR (Otome) game is coming soon and the artwork for it is just breathtaking! It is also full of details I want to explore OF COURSE. My brain is doing tetris things again, oops.

Looking for a senseless meta about chess pieces? You're in the right place, come on in~

>> Chess Theme

White vs Black

The first topic is obviously the chess theme. Of course, this part is to be taken with a grain of salt since the pieces aren't correctly disposed on the board. However, the characters themselves are walking on their respective squares except for Vein (because he's all powerful and he's above your stupid rules. Probably). Notably, Liu Xiao himself seems to be leaving a white square. And if there is any meaning to it, I'd like to believe it makes a gray character out of him.

Now, what can we say about the chess pieces themselves?

White: rook, pawn, knight

Black: rook, mystery piece, king

Each character is paired with a chess piece.

The most reassuring clue to me is that a white piece has been given to Xia Fei. Which, there is a fat chance this makes an ally out of him. He might be only a Pawn ♙ for now. For those who are not familiar with chess, a Pawn can only move ahead, never back, one square at a time. It has some cool moves too but it depends on the game you want to play. If the path is open, a Pawn can reach the other side of the board, turning it into a Queen ♕. If a Pawn can only move ahead in small range, a Queen literally rules over the whole board. She's quick, vicious and dangerous once she has enough space to move as she pleases. Of course, he can also be a mere Pawn, a tool to manipulate Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi.

[Edit: since I always turn mine into Queens because I like to inspire fear and admiration from my brother, a Pawn can also turn into a Rook, a Bishop, or a Knight. I like to think of Xia Fei as a Queen but it's very interesting that he could turn into either Vein/CXS, Liu Xiao or Lu Guang by the end of Yingdu Chapter. ]

Cheng Xiaoshi and Vein both getting paired with a ♖ Rook ♜ could mean they use the same kind of power or are equivalent in some ways. Rooks have a large range, can move horizontally and vertically, ahead or back. They are better used when paired with other pieces, though, cause a lonely Rook ♖ is an easy pray. I think the main focus here is the similarity more than the piece itself. Lu Guang seems to be the one being punished and haunted, but Vein probably offered his power to Cheng Xiaoshi (or Lu Guang, according to the last Yingdu Chapter PV). My personal theory is that Vein mirrors or shadows Cheng Xiaoshi's shape because he is the source of his power. Vein's position, if there is any relevance to it, keeps Lu Guang's Knight ♘ from moving at the center, his natural and most efficient position.

Toppled King

Liu Xiao has two pieces by his side, a King ♔ and a mystery piece. The merch revealed the later to be a Bishop ♝.

Note that only amateurs tend to topple the King. It is regarded as some kind of pop culture-only approach to chess. Because of this, let's take a look a what an actual checkmate is (where we don't get to step on the vainquished).

Checkmate is any game position in chess in which a player's king is threatened with capture and there is no possible escape. In chess, the king is never actually captured. Checkmating the opponent wins the game. The player loses as soon as their king is checkmated. In formal games, it is usually considered good etiquette to resign an inevitably lost game before being checkmated. (cf. wikipedia)

If Vein, the current character we might recognize as the ultimate villain of the season, is only a Rook ♜, equivalent to Cheng Xiaoshi, who does the King ♔ represent? My personal opinion is Time, Fate itself. The song "Mastermind" supports this theory, and Lu Guang himself really is defying the natural order to save Cheng Xiaoshi, after all. It would make perfect sense. Stopping the clocks at a tournament is the sign of surrender. So basically, the game is over when one gives up and stops when the King has nowhere to go.

The character of Liu Xiao is given a lot of care in this specific artwork. He actually always stood out, since his very first appearance in the season 2 artworks, walking past Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi's portrait, looking away from us. Here, again, he's not interested in the audience, focuses on the photograph of what fans reckon as Lu Guang from "Dive Back in Time".

The truth is, he's playing the long game, he has no time to spare, and he regards people as puppets. There has been theories about him having a hidden agenda, independently of Vein, using/working with Li Tianchen and Li Tianxi for his plan. His intervention in "Trial Train" speaks volume of his strategic mind, "they wanted to escape but didn't realize I blocked the exit a long time ago". Also, one hundred years wouldn't be enough to escape.

This merciless sharpness makes the Bishop perfect for Liu Xiao. Funny story, the Bishop ♝ is not actually a priest, but it represents a war elephant. Historically, the war elephant's main use was to charge the enemy, break their ranks, and instill terror and fear. That's fitting.

Another possibility regarding the toppled King could be that it refers to Liu Xiao's background. The fallen piece could be a resolved situation but the motivation behind Liu Xiao's intent to manipulate the timelines. Perhaps he played this game before and lost. Does Lu Guang know him or is Liu Xiao a mere stalker? Did they play this same game together or against each other?

There's a lot that can be speculated but it is hard to say what these pieces represent for now. As I said before, this read is based on popular imagery of what chess is, not on the actual strategy on the board itself. Secondly, these three new characters we have yet to meet, they don't have a defined role in the canon, not until Yingdu Chapter finally aires.

>> Tokens

Each character is giving a object. I guess it might be relevant to the type of gameplay the AR game will offer but for the sake of this meta, we're still gonna try to understand why those in particular.

Cheng Xiaoshi has a camera. I don't think it deserve further analysis, his powers exist through the lens after all.

Xia Fei has a clock. Guess the time? 10:10. For those unaware, it is a very recurrent time. Put the promotional poster aside, I recommend you pay attention to the time on the clock in the Studio, above Lu Guang's head, right before the gang gets a ominous call from Xu Shanshan's phone at the end of 1x09. If it should mean anything about Xia Fei himself: I won't say it enough but, really: DO NOT TRUST HIM. Or, you know, perhaps he's doomed: it is worth mentioning that except for Xia Fei's Pawn ♙, each character is affiliated to a piece which can move forward and backward on the board.

Liu Xiao has a gear. I find this one intriguing because, so far, this object has belonged to Cheng Xiaoshi's imagery (cf. "BREAK!"). For someone on an ambitious project such as controlling timelines, he is giving a small tool that cannot be used on its own, is part of a machine. Could be relevant to the way he does things, never getting his own hands dirty, working through others. Or it could be that he's himself just another player, played by Fate. Or perhaps, he has the missing piece that Lu Guang needs to save Cheng Xiaoshi, who knows?

Vein is already using his own item: the pipe. He's the only one owning his object and aware of it.

>> The Case Study of Lu Guang

Because of course, our favorite character is actually the shadiest of all, I will dedicate a whole section about him specifically. Why do I insist on calling Lu Guang shady? We know and we see his chess piece is white. But you have to take a closer look to make out the White Knight ♘. The value of a Knight ♘ is equivalent to the Bishop's ♝. But ultimately, its worth less than Cheng Xiaoshi's Rook ♖.

L shaped path

Moving only in an 'L' shaped path, Knights ♘ are the most effective from the center of the board. This is because they get a broader reach in all directions from the central part.

Now, this is very important. Why should it be a mystery that Lu Guang's piece is a knight? What is a Knight ♘? The answer resides in the mechanism of his maneuver.

Part of the idea of the knight maneuver is to flank. And since the Knight is not a horse but a man on a horse, the odd maneuver reflects the knight's ability to guide the horse he's riding (to an extent). In other words, since the Knight comprises two entities (the man riding the horse), the move should sensibly consist of two parts as well, to reflect the added agility of the athletic horse. Conversely, the Knight has access to a maximum of 8 squares (as opposed to the "equal" Bishop's maximum of 13) because the horse is still an animal with a mind of its own.

Note that if you place a Knight ♘ somewhere on the margins, its efficacy will diminish exponentially. Additionally, if he only moved two squares, straight or diagonally, the Knight ♘ would always be restricted to the color squares that he started the game on.

Lu Guang being the Knight ♘ doesn't only means that he moves unconventionally. It is reflective of his duality. Perhaps, the fact he's using his power and Cheng Xiaoshi's. There is another aspect of him we could address here:

Burning Palace

For one thing, "BURNING PALACE" brings back the theme of strategy board game with the checkers this time (you see black pieces falling). It also introduce the Four Heads from playing cards. The fact they bothered to mention it implies a Fourth character.

Xia Fei: ♠

Liu Xiao: ♣

Vein: ♦

The fourth color ♥ is missing and I'm secretly convinced that it's Lu Guang's color.

Enygmatic Tokens

The portrait behind Lu Guang is Lu Guang himself, from "Overthink". This image appears in the first bridge, when the lyrics goes "how did my sight got stolen once more?", superposing Lu Guang's face with mysterious shapes, erasing his eyes/power. This particular line comes to confirm what we already know: Yingdu Chapter isn't a resolution, let alone a happy ending, but a repeat of a tragic event in an unchangeable node. The end is the same, once again. Lu Guang's hope and happy ending has been stolen once more. And STOLEN also implies that there is an intent behind this failure.

A portray is still a photograph though, and it can be used to dive back in time.

What is the most curious to me is the familiar eagle on Lu Guang's chest. Eagles belongs to Cheng Xiaoshi's imagery so why does Lu Guang is wearing them here?

An interesting take would be that Yingdu Chapter isn't actually from Lu Guang's perspective, but from Cheng Xiaoshi's, diving in a picture taken by Lu Guang. This would be some kind of plot twist and would definetely makes the big reveal easier but not less painful.

I'll probably make a whole meta about this symbol at some point but in the meantime, I'll let you know the eagle is associated with strength, power, wisdom, and freedom. The eagle's ability to soar high in the sky was believed to be a symbol of divine protection and spiritual guidance. Additionally, eagles are tied to the sun. Some people see them as signs of a bright future on the horizon. As a symbol of light, they embody both the intensity and heat of the sun as a fearsome force of nature, as well as the warmth and benevolence of the heavens.

This positive symbolisms are deeply rooted in Cheng Xiaoshi's nature, but if Yingdu Chapter actually brings us back to one earlier repeat, we can assume that Lu Guang had initially a brighter outlook on his mission.

The glasses are back and I'll say it again: once is weird, twice is a coincidence and thrice it's a pattern. The portrait shows Lu Guang without eyes but his item is a pair of glasses. Might be a subtile hint of denial there. As far as glasses go, pink is a peculiar color. It helps to 'voir la vie en rose', as the french says: "look at the world through rose-coloured glasses." Meaning, being delusional.

Might it be the eagle or the glasses, I'd say they're both representative of Lu Guang's state of mind at the time: hopeful.

~

[Edit: I recommend you take a look to these threads regarding this very same artwork: | X | X | X | I don't agree with everything but it's always cool to have other perspectives.]

[ouiouimochi]

Touch-move! Game for two

pairing: gen narumi x reader

genre: slice of life, romance(?), teen narumi

wc: 3k+

warning/s: profanities, manga spoilers for non-readers, no beta we die like (redacted), wonky format yey

note/s: takes place before narumi got recruited into the JAKDF. no mention of kaiju in this part. inspired by something I apparently experienced that I was unaware of until my friend hilariously told me (a better ending ig?)

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⊹

Gen Narumi was left on his own once more as his highschool peers chattered amongst themselves in their own groups. He paid them no mind, walking through the bustling hallways and up the stairs leading to the rooftop while absorbed into his handheld console. The male reached for the door handle and turned it, slightly wincing at the amount of light that greeted his face upon opening the entrance to the top of the school.

He strides over to his usual spot only to find it was occupied by a girl that he figured was his senior as indicated by the colored stripe on her uwabaki. She was staring intently at the familiar checkered playing board and its signature pieces

You didn't hear the rooftop door opening, nor did you notice someone walk up to your spot. Very immersed in the game of chess you were playing…

with yourself

Gen was curious as to why this senior of his was playing a game meant for two on her own. He would've thought you were quite the sad sight but he spectated you silently, watching as you moved the chessmen of both sides in turn. He eventually gets engaged as well, impressed at how you move the pieces as if you were placing two chess experts against each other— without having a bias as to which side to win either.

You thought hard about the next move, in a predicament. It was taking you quite a while to decide until a hand smoothly took a piece and carried the ivory knight to a specific coordinate.

You processed the whole setup, in agreement that the action was the best one at the moment. You were delighted, only noticing the person that joined you on the rooftop had crouched on the ground to impose themself in your game.

You allowed your eyes to trail from the unknown person's green-striped uwabaki before settling on the person’s face. He doesn't seem familiar to you, heck you think you'd never be familiar with anyone even in your year level. However, you can't help but think he was pleasant to look at.

“Make your move,” his voice rumbled, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You blink a few times before placing your attention back to the chessboard. You scanned the pieces before making a bold move of threatening the ivory queen. The unnamed boy comfortably settled himself on the side where the white pieces were positioned.

You look up at him as his red eyes surveyed the board. It was intriguing for you to see how focused he seemed to be in the spontaneous game. You may as well be delighted that another person has joined you in your lonely session, he seemed to be good at it too.

Clack.

You snap your attention back to the board before using the ebony bishop to take his pawn. The male raises an eyebrow at the move, making you unknowingly grin.

He scoffs and confidently moves his rook, challenging to take your knight. You lick your lips, excited to have a thrilling chess game with an actual opponent. You moved a pawn, confusing the other player immensely. You two continued to play the game silently, not even a word of introduction to each other.

Narumi stares blankly at the chessboard, gobsmacked at the turn of events. He had realized a few turns in that your actions all had a purpose— the unsuspecting pawn from earlier had upgraded itself into replacing the ebony queen he took from you. The gears in his head going into overdrive, he realizes that no matter what he moves, you'd be able to counter and corner him closer and closer to checkmate. His pride didn't allow him to lose, no it wasn't in his dictionary to lose.

You surprisedly blinked at his decision to move his remaining bishop. You furrowed your eyebrows, staring intensely at the board as if with intent to bore a hole into it.

The boy became impatient, “Move,” he had crossed his arms to tap on his bicep.

“I can't,” your soft-spoken voice echoed, making him realize this was the first time you talked. “It's gonna end in a stalemate no matter which piece I'd touch.”

Narumi gazed at your delicate face before evaluating the game, figuring out that you were right. A dulcet laugh pierced through the silence, sounding like the pleasant tinkling of bells to his ears.

The two-toned haired boy stared at the hand outstretched to him. You introduced yourself.

“Gen Narumi,” he huffed out, tone having no hint of respect meant for someone older than him. You cracked a small smile, not liking the stiff dynamics of this school hierarchy anyways.

The bell rings, signaling the end of your lunch break. You were slightly disappointed, wanting to play an actual match against Narumi. You started neatly fixing up the chessboard.

“Rematch tomorrow, got that?” you gaped at the male’s suggestion, secretly ecstatic that you found yourself a player to go against without judgment or underestimation. He helped you pick up the other pieces to place inside the board.

You nod.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

“No fucking way, I lost again!” Narumi cursed, not believing that someone as great as himself was capable of experiencing losses back-to-back. Although he won a few rounds and got a lot more of stalemates, his pride didn't allow him to have such a bad W/L ratio.

You giggled and sat up proudly, finding it amusing to defeat your…

‘Can we be considered as friends?’

You shook your head at the thought. Poking your tongue out when he accuses you of cheating. You ruffled his already messy two-toned hair, making him glare at you like an angry cat.

“A million years too early to beat me,” you hummed.

“We're the same age, you just skipped a grade,” he argued back, not liking how you were treating him like a kid.

“Fuck this game, I challenge you to a different one!” he exclaimed, tired of losing. He wanted to rub in your face that chess would be the only thing you can have over his head.

He takes out his Nimtemdo Sweetch, positioning the screen to be propped up on a stand. He gave you the blue controller, taking the red for himself. You tilted your head curiously, although video games were not a foreign concept to you, you were not well acquainted with them.

“Don't fucking tell me you've never played any other games,” he raised an eyebrow.

You look at him, a bit offended, “I have, actually! Go, Scrabble, Game of the Generals, and so much more.” You crossed your arms and harrumphed.

“All of which you play alone,” he rebuked, making you blow a raspberry.

“Hey! I play with people sometimes, like the nice elderly at the park…and…” you trail off, unable to keep up the confidence when he continues to stare at you expectantly. You scrunch your eyebrows and pout.

Narumi rolls his red eyes, “Not video games then, fine I'll teach you. It's not satisfying to win against someone who knows little of the game,” he flippantly said. Despite his brash comments, you knew he meant no harm at all. If anything, you found it cute that he was willing to patiently teach you how to play.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

“OI, Why aren't you doing the combo I taught you?? It'd defeat the boss so easily too!” Narumi continued to smash his controller’s buttons as he angrily barked out orders to you. You get irked, focusing on the boss you two decided to fight in co-op.

The male cursed as his character died due to being unable to dodge the monster’s specialized attack, leaving everything up to you.

“Go, go, go! Use your items for fuck’s sake!” he commented, scooching himself close into your space.

“Can you please stop backseating?” you exasperatedly responded, still focused on surviving and ending the fight.

“I wouldn't have to if you had stuck to the plan!”

“Oh my god, my skills were on cooldown to do the combo! The boss was also transitioning to its next phase, stop hounding me!”

Silent falls over as the screen showcases the ending cutscene, indicating a successful boss raid. You smugly look over at him, making him irritated.

“If you just stop being a metaslave, you would've responded easier to unexpected situations.” You tutted at him as though he wasn't the expert in video games among you two.

He growls(I can't AHSHDH I CAN IMAGINE HIM AS A GROWLING CAT), but otherwise stays quiet since you made a point. You made it clear to him during the gaming sessions that you were quite quick on the uptake, soaking in game mechanics like a sponge.

He feels miffed, as your mentor, when he can't help but notice how you were better in certain aspects of gaming than him. Another jab at his pride. However, he couldn't ignore how he's enjoying your presence and skills in different gaming mediums.

“Congrats on winning the judo tournament, by the way,” you caught his attention as he raised his eyebrow in question. You then dangled a small keychain, a trophy with the ‘#1’ engraved on it, in front of his face, urging him to accept it.

Narumi does not know how to react, he had already grown accustomed to not receiving praise or even acknowledgements for his feats. This was quite new, you even gave him a token of congratulations.

His ears burn pink as he accepts the gift. He does not allow himself to be caught lacking so instead of straight out thanking you, he hits you with a

“It's only expected for me to win the tournament,” he smugly huffed out, raising his chin arrogantly while straightening his back to look taller.

You jokingly rolled your eyes, “Confident? Play chess against me, then.” You challenged him.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

You were pleasantly surprised when Gen progressively improved in playing against you, slowly and surely bridging the skill gap between the two of you. He steadily gained more wins over losses recently too.

You furrowed your eyebrows, admittedly having a bit of a hard time. You zoned out for a while but noticed Gen’s lips moving from your peripherals.

Your eyes then lit up, before taking your bishop to check his king. You looked up at the two-toned haired male for his reaction only to be greeted with an intent stare from his carmine orbs. Confused, you tilted your head to one side as he pushed a hand on his forehead to mess up his locks. He muttered something too incomprehensible to reach your ears.

You didn’t dwell too much on it and took a bite out of the school cafeteria’s lunch sandwich he bought for you. It was quite delicious, actually — you could've sworn you've seen the limited promotion for this specific menu item. You shook your head and focused back on the board as he made his move. You smiled, a sign of guaranteed victory.

“Checkmate.”

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

It was too cold to chill at your usual spot on the rooftop. You two didn't want to go anywhere filled with busybodies either, so you and your friend agreed to stay at the stairs before the entrance to the roof.

Despite being indoors, you still shivered, covering your arms for a little morsel of warmth. You closed your eyes before you felt a cozy weight drape itself across your back and shoulders. When you opened your eyes, Gen was already settling himself back to his spot. He didn't have his outer coat on anymore, finding that it was what he placed on you.

“Won't you be cold, then?” you asked, concerned for him.

“The cold’s nothing, you're just overreacting.” he rolled his eyes as he leaned backwards, his arms supporting him.

You can't help but smile, wanting to rebuke but decided against it.

“Thank you,” you gratefully said instead, knowing the male doesn't like to outwardly express his true emotions and intentions.

He wasn't making eye contact, instead bringing out the familiar gaming device and setting it up for you to play together.

You remember something and turn to your bag, rummaging through it, pulling out a small but well decorated package. You then extended it towards the two-toned haired male for him to take as he looked at you a bit weirdly.

“And what the fuck’s this for?” he suspiciously asked, eyeing the bag cautiously like a cat.

You rolled your eyes, “Just take it!” you urged. Excitedly anticipating his reaction.

He opens the bag to take out its contents as his eyes widen in surprise before turning to you in disbelief.

“Happy early holidays! Consider it as an early birthday gift as well,” you gave a thumbs up, but he shifted his body away to hide his facial expression.

It might just be from the cold but you can't help but notice how his ears were tinged a little red.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

Spring has arrived with the cherry blossoms blooming and scattering its petals into the wind. The front of the school was filled with a solemn atmosphere of tearful goodbyes among friends and the good memories made on campus. There were also students hounding other students to confess their dearest adoration for their crush and ask for their uniform button. You could've seen people confessing under the romantic blossoms if you squinted.

You sighed at your spot on the rooftop overlooking the front yard on your lonesome. Yet again, you didn’t notice someone sneaking up on you until they plopped themself beside you on the railings. You immediately recognized the messy black and gray mop of hair belonging to your only friend in this school.

“Shouldn't you be down there?” His question pierced the silence.

“I don't want to, to be honest.” you hummed out as he turned his head to look up at you, still resting on his crossed arms on top of the railings. You continued to watch the other students below hugging each other.

You heard a deep sigh before some rustling of clothes as Gen shifted his position to stand. He gets something from his pocket, catching your attention.

“Your hand,” he commanded as you placed your hand palm side up, awaiting what he'd give you. He unceremoniously drops a little accessory on it.

You inspected it, bringing it closer to your eyes. It was a very pretty keychain of an ivory queen chess piece made out of a crystalline material. It glinted beautifully in the sun as some refracted stray lights managed to hit the surface of your face. Gen might as well have had his breath stolen away right there and then, but refused to surrender.

You looked at him and gave him a smile wider than any he'd seen from you. You were quite giddy, more than happy that there was at least one person who was there to make memories with— to make your last year in this school more enjoyable than the previous years.

“Gen,” you called out his name so softly, the boy might have as well allowed his knees to give up on him.

“Thank you so much.”

“Why'd you need to thank me for a small, shitty gift?”

You shook your head.

“No… I mean to thank you for all the memorable lunch breaks of playing chess, of teaching me new games— of just hanging out with my lonely ass…” You spoke, perhaps his vocabulary may have rubbed off on you at some point.

Gen ran his hand through his hair, pushing it upwards as he looked away. He failed to muster up the words he wanted to respond with, being really bad with people for a long time. He didn't want to speak like he usually did, lest you'd burst into tears at his harsh tone even when you spoke with such sincerity.

Your phone rang, interrupting the moment. After picking the device up to your ear, Gen noticed how displeased you were getting each second that passed even if the call only had lasted for around 30 seconds at best. You clicked your tongue in distaste after the call got dropped.

“That's my signal to go,” you turned to your only friend, a bit hesitant. “See you around, I hope?”

He nods his head, waving goodbye when you start to leave. His carmine eyes can only watch as you disappear through the rooftop door.

You arrive at the front where the crowd has significantly dwindled already, only a few stragglers left behind. The sleek black car awaited you beyond the gates of the highschool. You continued making your way towards the vehicle but got stopped when you heard your name being called from behind you.

You rotated to be met with Gen standing tall with his hand on his chest. “Your hand.”

You follow as he placed the small item in your hand, it was a button— more specifically a button from his uniform dress shirt. You look up at him to ask but get interrupted by a beeping horn, reminding you to get in already.

You hesitate again, but end up having to go and leave the two-toned haired male. You get in the car, the vehicle immediately driving off as the damned highschool grew farther and farther from your visuals.

You open your palm and inspect the button. More questions forming rather than answers. It was more of a common tradition for the graduating students to give away their shirt buttons to either friends and admirers in order to symbolize leaving a piece of themselves with these people. However, you cannot forget the crucial detail you noticed when Gen removed his hand from his chest.

The second button, symbolizing the piece closest to the heart, was absent from its spot on his uniform— and it was right there sitting in your hands.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⊹

i was supposed to be working on something else lmao-

will post part 2 someday when brain juice comes back

[mentos-or-mentoes]

Headcanons! Cult of the lamb

Leshy, Heket, Shamura, Kallamar, Narinder and The lamb.

General:

(this will be in follower form for the bishops)

Leshy

Dude is definetly not happy upon being indoctrinated into the cult.

Like first he gets killed by the lamb and NOW he has to follow their commands? Yeah to say the least he might be a bit annoyed at first.

When you first introduce yourself, he might be a little skeptical mainly because he was a bishop so what were you gonna do? Make fun of him? Pull a ''prank'' Just because you could?

Surprisingly, no! You were kind, just trying to get to know him better, and trying to get him to know the cult a little better.

He is forever greatful if you help him around the place.

Romantic:

If Leshy smells anything he thinks is something like a flower, then he might try and guide you towards them.

Mainly because it might be difficult picking them, when he cant see where the hell he's going.

9.5 / 10 hugs and you cant convince me otherwise.

He might be a bit moist because of all the stuff growing on him but he definetly smells nice. (or atleast i headcanon it as such).

He can and will be a living scarf if he REALLY craves your attention.

He will just snuggling up to you in the middle of whatever you were doing.

Heket

General:

Heket was not the happiest when she awoke in the lambs cult to say the least.

Allthough she was hungry, (cant blame her tbh).

When you approached her and offered her a couple of berries as a little welcome gift you definetly became one of her favorites.

She probably didn't even want to try and care for someone that isn't her siblings, at this point.

She especially appreceates if you basically speak for her, mainly because you can get to the point (and the words) alot faster then her.

Heket will do absolutely anything to avoid you or anyone else finding out anything that embarrases her that isnt known, like her losing to the lamb.

She enjoys all meals with either you or her siblings.

Romantic:

If you pick her up in front of others for no reason you are getting the frog equivilent of a bitch slap.

She does still have a reputation to uphold to prevent the followers from being too cruel even as a member of the cult.

Okay but seriously, Heket is basically your knight in shining armor.

Someones bothering you? just tell Heket, and she will take care of it.

She loves it when you bring her snakcs while waiting for a meal to be done whenever you cook.

Can and will pass you notes of what she wants you to say to someone, if she's really annoyed bcause of something they did.

Might be dissapointed if you rephrase it, to not be as rude as what she wrote.

Shamura

General:

Them always seeking knowledge was definetly one of the things that allowed you to bond with them quickly.

You telling them about things they might find interesting, and them sharing some of the things they remember.

Shamura likes it when you remind them of small things they might forget.

They also like sharing stories of their past with you, or giving you small gifts.

Not that they cant defend themselves against other cult members who might be looking for payback (they probably can't).

But you talking some sense into the cultists heads definetly does not go unoticed.

Romantic:

Shamura probably does like cuddles, especially when comforting them.

Might forget that you gave them something and try to return it to you.

If you remind them, then well they'll probably feel a bit ashamed that they forgot one of your gifts.

Please comfort Shamura if this happens.

(sorry i couldn't come up with much for them Shamura fans).

Kallamar

General:

Kallamar is a very nervous person so you showing them kindness was definetly unexpected.

you being nice? To him, and this quickly? You must be plotting something, he thought. but when you continuesly kept showing kindness and defended him from any rude cult members, he quickly realized that it wasn't the case.

he likes it alot when you reassure him that everythings gonna be fine. This man isn't much for standing up for himself. So if you do stand up for him, when other cultists come to do whatever they'd wanna do, he'll be very thankful.

If you went through the trouble of learning sign language just to communicate with him easilier his heart basically melts (not literally though).

Romantic:

He loves holding your hand. he likes the comfort of you being around.

expect him to be with you for a majority of the time.

will hug you whenever he feels nervous if he is allowed to (usually he is).

If he's trying to talk to you about something personal he'll usually use sign language with you when alone.

Kallamar spends so much time with you that half of his stuff is probably at your place.

Narinder

General:

He was not letting anyone even try and converse with him, after his indoctrination.

Not like people were gonna try anyway, considering what he tried to do.

But theres always someone different, and that just so happened to be you.

You kept trying to start a conversation, pestering him untill he finally tried to actually speak with you.

He wasn't very happy when he finally did start talking.

Despite that you just kept coming back.

Soon he actually started trying to engage the conversations, not really having much else to do.

Small conversation became a small friendship.

Soon Narinder found himself actively trying to spend time with you , and you were more then happy to do so.

Atleast the place wasn't as bad now for Narinder.

Romantic:

This dude is for close to anything but PDA (Public displays of affection).

Will purr if you hug him.

Narinder will never admit it but he's a total cuddle bug when in private.

Will do anything to prevent the lamb from finding out because he already knows he's gonna get teased for eternity the second they find out.

May or may not actively seek you out if he's getting really needy for some cuddles.

Will have orange cat level stupid behavior if he somehow gets his hands on catnip.

The lamb / Lambert.

General:

upon first meeting you, for whatever reason you were wandering around the lands of the old faith, they immidietly asked if you wanted to become part of their cult.

Likes your dedication to the crown and the cult

If you're especially dedicated to the cult then they might read your mind (and might find out you're in love but who knows).

Definetly tries to become closer with you.

They might ask if you wanna go on walks to take a break from all the work.

If you have any problems then the lamb will be willing to do just about anything to help (not everything though).

Romantic:

The lamb definetly makes the first move.

They shower you in gifts, kisses and cuddles whenever they're not busy.

Will do a marriage ritiual as soon as you feel comfortable with it.

Will spend lots of time with you in their free time.

You're probably being put in charge of taking care of things whenever they go on crusades, mainly because they trust you the most.

Doesn't have alot of time when they're not working but they spend almost every second that they're not busy beside you

Expect surprise hugs.

Lots and lots of surprise hugs.

Alot of people are probably both jealous and happy for you because of you being with the lamb.

The lamb does not care because they got the most wonderful person in the world as their partner aka you <3.

(Hope you enjoyed my first ever headcannons)