#Just a pinch of angst :)

[shouyuus]

OH MY FUCKKK. college roomate!vi is fucking killing meeee. the last one made me literally squeal when i read about vi's vape 😩😩 i am a silly little smoker myself and i was wondering if you'd write something about vi introducing reader to smoking? like one night they're sitting and talking on the couch, maybe watching a movie or something and vi whips out her lost mary (i KNOW thats what she'd smoke) and reader asks kinda out of nowhere to have a hit, and vi laughs a little and then teaches her how to use it (it is an art form), and their faces keep getting closer and closer and they're basically kissing because they're hitting from the same vape, right? RAAAHHHHHH 😩

college roommate!vi cinematic universe not me having to google the brand but yES ur rite she woULD

+18, no sex but vape usage, mdni

"l-like that?"

"yeah, just like that -- breathe in -- hold it -- breathe out --"

you let out a soft groan, the "cherry peach lemonade" flavored smoke slipping from the corners of your lips in streams, vi's eyes flickering down and back up again, her own lips parted, her pupils dark.

"it's -- it's a good flavor," you say, blinking as you hand the vape back to vi, who grins and takes a long hit, leaning back slow, one hand on the vape, the other slung lazily across the sofa back, letting the smoke unfurl from her mouth. you watch, mesmerized as she rounds out her lips and blows out little smoke rings just to make you laugh.

"yeah, it's nice," vi says, her voice soft as she glances back at you, at the way your eyes have gone just a bit hazy. she leans forward, tugging your chin towards her with a thumb and forefinger, a mischievous grin sweeping across her face.

"open your mouth for me, pretty girl."

you do, letting your mouth fall slack as vi takes another long hit and blows the smoke into your mouth. like this, you can feel the cool of the smoke, the warmth of her breath, the strange duality sending tingles shooting down your back, a coil tightening in your gut as you breath in.

your lashes flutter as the high slips through your body, the weightlessness gathering in your loosening muscles.

"i-i've seen people do that before --" you say, grasping for something to fill the strange, ethereal silence, "at parties," you clarify, hoping for... you're not entirely sure what.

vi chuckles, "yeah? it's called shotgunning. it's... a bit gentler than just taking a hit straight from the vape so --"

she pulls you towards her again, this time, you lean in and your lips are so close you can feel the heat of her skin against yours.

you open your mouth without her prompting, and you don't miss the way her pupils dilate at the motion. and just for a second, you can taste your own heartbeat -- the sweet cherry peach lemonade tang of it at the back of your throat -- before vi's blowing another steady stream of smoke into you and you're breathing it in, tasting her -- wondering if her lips would be just as sweet without all the flavored smoke --

"there... think that's enough for you for tonight?" vi asks, pulling back with a grin.

you lick your lips, glancing at the tv screen.

"we've missed like... half the movie."

vi laughs, grabbing for the remote, "yeah well. we were busy. luckily, there's a rewind button."

you keep quiet as she rewinds through the parts of the movie the both of you missed, your mind a berry-tinted haze of half-formed thoughts. you inch closer to her, pressing your thigh to hers, letting your head drop onto her shoulder.

"thanks, vi," you say, your eyes cast towards the tv but not really seeing it at all.

she stills beneath your touch.

"what for, princess?"

you nuzzle your head deeper into her neck, "nothing just... glad you're here."

after a beat, vi curls an arm around your shoulder and gives you a squeeze.

"i'll always be here, princess. whenever you need me. and even if you don't. got it?"

you giggle, closing your eyes and letting the bright neons of the movie play out behind your eyelids like the passing of so many days and nights.

"i'll always need you, vi... even if you think i don't." and your voice is so, slow, honest. so honest that vi feels her chest squeeze. she settles for brushing her lips along the seam of your hair.

"then i guess we're stuck with each other for the long haul, aren't we princess?"

you let out a sleepy little laugh, nodding.

"yeah. guess we are."

[lowkeiloki]

cousins...

[cafe--tables]

YAY

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Autumnal doctor/rose, i lov it! How about ninerose and some alien hot cider?

thank you so much for this prompt, nonny! <3 hope you enjoy the fluff! and as always, please forgive any mistakes. i am my own worst grammatical enemy.

[read on AO3]

"That can't be right."

Through the doorway, he watched Rose laugh as she dumped yet another fistful of pseudocinnamon into a giant cauldron. The TARDIS had dug both out of storage—or generated them spontaneously, the Doctor suspected. He certainly would have noticed the cauldron before: the thing was massive, a piping hot shade of orange that assaulted the eyes, tall enough that Rose could barely see over the rim after hauling it up onto the hob. It was so fanciful and absurd he couldn't believe it was supposed to be functional.

It was also exactly what Rose had asked for.

Could hardly be a coincidence, could it?

You spoil her, he thought with a brief, mild accusatory glance upward. But he was not favoured with so much as a blinking light.

Typical.

The Doctor had always known the TARDIS had favourites, but he'd never in all his lives experienced such blatant, unrepentant spoiling of a travelling companion! The first time he'd seen Rose's bedroom—or, more accurately, palatial bedroom suite—he'd been gobsmacked. Her bed was enormous, at least twice the size of his. Though he wasn't much for throw pillows, hardly any aboard the ship had escaped the journey to Rose's bed; it was a miracle she could sit on the thing, let alone sleep there. And the eightieth century hi-fi teledeck?

No longer the centrepiece of the media room.

Which he was still sulking about.

But this was a new level of indulgence. The ship didn't just create matter out of nothing; everything had to come from somewhere—usually her vast stores of past rooms. To come up with something completely new involved energy transference. Effort. Time.

And, to create something as specific as a garish orange cooking cauldron? Care.

Shaking his head, he stepped inside the little galley kitchen. He'd followed his nose thus far, but the scent grew even more potent the moment he passed the threshold and into the sweltering heat of the narrow space.

"What do you mean?" Rose was asking, turning to look at him with big, worried eyes. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, nose and lips a berry pink. "This is exactly what the barista told me to do!" She rapidly dusted off her palms, a cloud of warm brown powder dispersing into the air, carrying with it the spicy, faintly floral scent of the cloned cinnamon root native to Chame. It made his nose itch. "Why would he lie?"

The Doctor scoffed. "To keep you coming back, Rose! All the way across the charted universe—dragging me and my poor ship with you—just to get your hands on the real thing," he said, with a grumbling noise of displeasure as punctuation. "Probably a bit of clever salesmanship."

Rose's smile slipped a little, prompting an unpleasant dip in his own stomach. It wasn't fair to her, him being so obviously jaded.

After all, the barista had been perfectly nice. To Rose.

Specifically.

"Was that a harrumph? Did you just harrumph at me?" Rose's head cocked, and the grin she set loose on him was a true blue Rose Tyler special, top to bottom: eyes sparkling, tongue curled around her teeth, and with a certain jaunty angle to her chin that told him she was gloating for some reason he didn't want to think too hard about, lest he actually find out what in the world she meant by it.

"Here, put this on. You can help," she said, turning to withdraw—from one of the kitchen's many and dangerously full drawers—an apron that didn't quite match her own. Hers had cheerful, smiling Jack-o'-lanterns all over a white backdrop, nestled amidst illustrations of autumn leaves and lit candles and seasonally appropriate candies that nobody he'd ever met actually enjoyed.

His apron... also had pumpkins on it.

"Oi! Is that s'posed to be me?"

He snatched the article from her hands, pulling it up to look closer at the frowny, grumpy-looking illustrations dotting the black fabric. The eyes and mouths of the Jack-o'-lanterns were slightly puckered, like someone had left the pumpkins out in rough weather for a few days, and it gave them a uniformly sour, Scrooge-like expression.

His gaze narrowed, and Rose pressed her lips together, like she desperately didn't want to laugh. "Don't look like that," she managed, raising her hands. "I just asked her for aprons."

The Doctor scowled, even as a part of him perked up. Aprons, plural. Had she wanted him to join her all this time? Why hadn't she said anything?

"Anyway, don't worry," she went on carelessly, "nobody's here to see you in it."

You are, he thought in spite of himself.

His eyes followed her as she took back the apron and motioned for him to bend so she could drape it around his neck. The brush of her jumper-clad arms against his hair made the tips of his ears tingle and grow warm, and he ducked his head nearly to his chest in sudden awkwardness. The few moments it took for her to make a knot would give him just enough time to get hold of his rebellious—not to mention ridiculous—biology, he decided.

Don't be daft, came his stern internal voice.

There. Job done.

When he righted himself, Rose was beaming. "I dunno," she said, tipping her head this way and that, observing him, her ponytail flopping about. "I think it works for you."

"Do you now?" He looked down at the frowning pumpkins spread across his chest; they were even more wrinkled and unpleasant viewed upside-down.

But if Rose thought differently...

"Yeah." She nodded more definitely. "Very good look."

Well, then.

-

Making the cider took more time but was somehow less involved than it seemed Rose had expected.

Aside from grinding up all the pseudocinnamon and quartering the apples—they hadn't picked up any authentic Autogolds on their last grocery stop, but had some lovely Galas to hand—the other steps were quick and simple. Most of the process was a load of hurry up and wait.

Which left them with little to do but hover around the cauldron, breathing in the steam and knocking hips when they got too close. Which was often.

"What's so great about this cider anyway?" the Doctor finally asked, after a few moments of grinning at one another across the cauldron. He dipped the wooden spoon in for another sample, wondering when he'd suddenly taste what made it special enough for Rose to go to all this effort.

He remembered the overly-friendly barista, smiling with all his teeth. He remembered walking around the market stalls afterwards, Rose beaming and pointing out every little thing that caught her eye while the sun set. He remembered sudden warm pressure—how she hid her face against his shoulder when a stiff wind blew through the courtyard, setting all the beads in the jewelers' tents tinkling and flashing. There were no skittering leaves to speak of, but the whole scene had given a passable impression of a mild Earth autumn day.

It had been a good day, yes. But the cider had been rather ordinary.

Rose nudged his hip again, then deftly pulled the spoon from his hand. "Stop messing with it, or it's never gonna brew right. We're s'posed to let it sit." She replaced the lid, closing in the steam and the gentle sound of simmering. Then she sighed. "I dunno. The barista told me all the ingredients and how to make it and it all seemed fairly normal, I guess, but there was just something about it—comforting. Couldn't put my finger on why. Maybe because it was such a perfect day," she added absently, fiddling with the hem of her apron.

The Doctor stilled. "Perfect?"

When he looked at her face, her eyes were on the floor. "Yeah. Think it was."

"Not... boring?" he asked, wishing she'd look up at him. But she was just crossing one foot over another, concentrating on her shoelaces. He wondered why.

After they'd dropped Adam off on Earth, he recalled with a scowl, he had gone a bit mad with the easy trips. Just a little break, he called it. But their "break" had turned into weeks of short stops on interesting—but more importantly, peaceful—worlds. Playing tourists.

At first, neither of them had really known what to do with themselves in these sorts of places. Relaxation was anathema. And Rose had been around long enough to know you never took off your running shoes, not ever, so she didn't quite let her guard down either. They'd wandered around, taking in the sights—Rose was never short on curiosity and clever questions—but it was always with their backs up. Ready for anything. It was a vigilance neither exactly knew how to shrug off.

Especially after he'd nearly lost her.

And she knew it.

They would meet each other's eyes and just know what the other was thinking of. The Dalek, the laser to the back of her head. Incomplete goodbyes over a staticky video. And the fear in her eyes when he'd run toward her with a gun in his hands. He hadn't felt that kind of shame in... a long, long while.

But they'd survived.

It took every moment of those two weeks to make him believe it. And it was only once they landed on Chame, in that market—so familiar, so Earth-like, and yet so different—that the calm finally found them. Arm in arm, meandering through a crowd with warm cups of cider in their hands. He'd realised then he wasn't waiting for the next thing to come around the corner. And neither was she.

Time had passed since that day on Chame. Back to the old life. The adventures. Neither of them could bear to stand still for long, or rest on their laurels. There were so many worlds needed saving, where time and tide of history had to be set right. It was never-ending.

It was their life.

But not the only part. Was that why she wanted to recreate the cider?

"No," Rose said after a moment. "Not boring. Not for me." She finally looked up, eyes soft. Shrugging helplessly. "Could never get bored with you."

The Doctor swallowed. Her proximity was like gravity.

He felt himself tipping into it. Giving in to it. Hands lifting to settle on her arms. and his head falling forward, lips coming to rest gently on her crown. Her hair smelled like apples and cinnamon and warm human.

It would have been impossible for him to say it, but he had no doubt she knew.

That day hadn't been boring for him either. It had been... more than good.

It had been perfect. The day's very ordinariness made it unusual, standing out like a burning star amidst their murkier, often more difficult travels. Its simplicity—its uncomplicated pleasures—made it rare and maybe even worth recreating. Sometimes.

"All right, then," he said. "We'll have cider." He couldn't say all he felt, couldn't tell her he understood, because he didn't know exactly what he felt. Like a pinching deep within him, clenching tight around his hearts. The Dalek had called it love; his people might have called it foolishness.

All the Doctor knew was, he wanted more perfect days with her.

[evolmyheart]

(Goooood afternoon everyone!! Hope everyone slept well! Me? I slept okay. Even if it was only for about 4hrs lol. Anyway! Today we finish some replies! Probably gonna post more moment posts lol ))

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — “don’t need money, don’t take fame.”

APRIL 28, 2011

“Dad?”

Marty is never, ever gonna get tired of hearing that. He immediately stops, setting his pen down and the freshly signed CDs aside and giving his full attention to Emmett, who is hanging around the doorway like he still isn’t sure, after almost thirteen years, if he’s allowed to come in.

“Hey, kiddo,” Marty greets warmly, his son flashing him a small smile. “What’s goin’ on?”

Emmett looks around before stepping inside, and Marty is reminded of when Ellie, after input from Jules and Verne, assigned everyone animals when she was nine. Uncle Doc’s a mantis shrimp, she’d proclaimed, Auntie Clara’s a bear, Dad’s a whale, Mom’s a raven, and Emmett’s a pangolin! While he’s not sure about the rest of her picks, her choice for her brother… Yeah, at times like this he can see the resemblance.

“Dad…” he tries again. “Dad, did we ruin your life?”

Marty’s kind of glad his abject, heart shattering horror at that statement coming from his son outweighs his impulse to laugh in disbelief at a statement that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Of course not,” he reassures, opening his arms just in case his boy didn’t feel like he was too big for a hug. His son folds himself into him, burying his head in his shoulder. “The day you and Ellie were born,” Marty tells him, rubbing his back, “was pretty much the best day of my life.”

“…Even though Mom almost broke your hand?” Emmett asks, voice muffled, and Marty laughs.

“Yeah, even then. Y’know, if I could go back,” which he could, but his boy didn’t need to know that right yet, “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Emmett starts to pull away and Marty lets him go, but still holds him at arm’s length.

“Now,” father asks son, “where’s all this coming from, huh? You’re not hanging around that Tannen kid again, are you?”

Emmett’s face twists in disgust.

“No, Dad, are you nuts? That whole family’s crazy.”

“Attaboy,” Marty says proudly.

“...I found some of your old concert videos on YouTube,” Emmett finally admits. “And Dad… you look like you’re havin’ the time of your life. How come you gave it all up? It was because of us, wasn’t it?” His brown eyes are big and watery and Marty squeezes his shoulders.

“Aw, Em,” Marty sighs. “I had a blast on tour, you’re right. Hangin’ out with the guys, getting to see the world… It was a lot of fun for a while, but when it stopped being fun, we quit. And I have a blast here, too, with you and your sister and your mom. If you ask me… that right there’s the adventure of a lifetime. I love music, and I’m always gonna play music, but it was never about any kinda fame or fortune for me.” What would superstardom be like? He can barely keep up with the merch and the interviews and the producers and the long nights at the recording studios and the music videos as it is. He’d hate being so far away from home, never getting a moment’s peace, never being able to breathe.

“Then… what was it about?” Emmett asks.

“Believing in myself,” Marty says after a moment of thought. “Getting my voice heard. Y’know, I was a lot like you when I was your age.”

“Really?” Emmett breathes, awestruck, as if unable to conceive such a thing. “But everybody says you’re like Ellie.”

“And I am.” It takes the wind out of him sometimes, how similar he and his daughter are. She’s just as fiery, just as creative, just as stubborn. Everyone’s always thought that, just like how people have always compared Emmett to Jennifer. But when he looks at his daughter, so often he sees his wife’s determination and intelligence, and when he looks at his son… sometimes he has to double check he’s not in the DeLorean.

“But I’m also like you, Em. It’s hard as hell being a kid, y’know? I remember. You got so many ideas and so many thoughts and you feel like you’re in this world that you don’t really understand yet and that’s gonna shoot you down every chance it gets. I just wanted somebody to see me, but that’s a scary thing. I tried real hard to pretend like I was tough and to make like I wasn’t afraid of anything… but I was terrified, kid. Still am, sometimes.” Marty rubs the back of his neck. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s okay not to be sure of yourself yet, and it’s okay to be open about your feelings. And whenever you wanna talk, I’m here for you, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Got it?”

“Got it.” Emmett smiles and hugs him again. “I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too. So damn much.” Marty kisses the top of his son’s head and ruffles his dirty blond hair, which is immediately greeted with protest.

[openphrase123]

i was slightly worried that running inutile and the isabeau angst document concurrently would feel too angst same-y because they're both fics that deal with deep dives into the insecurities of the narrator

but oh boy they could not be more different the more i get into the isabeau document

[anon-unofficial]

hey so. um. i was told that lmk didn't have any pain. and. haha. haha. haHa...what the f

[stillcomethenight]

I wrote a little Ladja fic now and it's soft and Nadja centered, I swear. Go check it out pls pls. Because I absolutely want to write in the fandom more and I would love feedback 💖 please, we need more Ladja stuff out there

[naurnaville]

Since WxS has started going around and visiting different theatre groups and all of that after the 3rd anniversary, I wonder how Rui will fit into this for his next event (he needs his 4th focus PLEASE), since he's the troupe's director and all

However, I really hope that they at least touch on Rui's "main character conflict" which I consider to be his internal conflict with handling his past, loneliness, as well as the desire to stay with WxS but also pursue directing to enhance his craft, which is different now since WxS is a freelance group...In Curtain Call, we got to see Asahi and how well of a dynamic he had with Rui between actor and director (similar to Tsukasa, of course), so I'm curious if we'll see anything similar to Rui's next focus, or if things will be different regarding people's thoughts towards his "interesting directing choices", but I'm not as certain that it will be so much of a problem anymore since we heard positive feedback from the director of the theatre group in Tsukasa's recent focus towards Rui, complimenting him on his ability to bring out the best of their acting capabilities for the other members of WxS, showing that it's less of a worry now compared to something like the conflict in the Potato event

Also, I'm still curious about how Rui feels about his conflict of "wanting to stay with WxS but also wanting to further his directing, and wanting to keep those two dreams simultaneously" being somewhat resolved by having WxS stay as a freelance group and searching for new theatre groups; I feel like that was pretty abrupt even if he was the one to come up with the idea of a freelance group and advocating for it; it's basically the ideal "happy end" for everyone including him, but I think it's important for his character to face the realistic possibility of losing something really close, as cynical as I am here

Anyway, I just really hope for a really interesting and heart shattering conflict for Rui in his next event, whatever it may be, and however long it'll be until then...

[sat-in-a-rat-trap]

been thinkin ab my aus, like always, and i think after steve dies claudia would go right to the oracle coven(bcuz the ghosts) and when that doesnt pan out she gets to what shes good at. bard and abomination, eventually using all three to imbue the metronome with some good ol wild magic and bring steve back

[askyeehan]

How did y’all end up together? Mind tellin the story?

Cole: How me and Hanzo got together. I could sit here all day and talk about every single twist and turn, 'cause there were plenty of 'em. It might surprise ya to know Hanzo and I didn't actually get along at first. Not that we hated each other or anythin' like that. But the first time I even heard about Hanzo was from his brother.

It's hard to not be biased in such a complicated situation. Lots of people thought poorly of Hanzo and what he did, but seein' my own background, I was willin' to give him a chance. The more I slowly heard and gathered about how he grew up….it made me sick, to be honest. He deserved better than what those monsters….

Cole shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away.

Anyway, back to us. Our first mission together was a mess. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was definitely more focused on tryin' to show off and impress Hanzo that I got hurt pretty bad. Obviously I'm still alive, of course! Takes a lot to keep me down, that's for sure. He did visit me in the infirmary, which took everyone by surprise.

It was incredibly difficult getting him to socialize with much of anyone. Even all this time later, he doesn't talk to many people, at least not the way he does when I'm around. He's slowly getting better, with more and more gentle nudges.

Part of the reason I'm doin' all this is to hopefully get him out of his comfort zone a bit and be more adventurous. There's so much more to be said about those twists and turns I mentioned, I'll definitely be talkin' about them in depth in the future.

[bladedflower]

@hopewrought // starter call

"Sometimes, I fucking hate days like this." Words flew out under a sigh. The wear of a long day of research (while unable to focus), paired with little to no sleep due to an aching mind that plagues itself with nightmares, led Lily to ever-so slowly lean her head upon the other's shoulder, as though looking for a rare moment of trusted comfort. "Wish I could sleep..."

[somerandomdudelmao]

YOU CALL T H A T LITTLE???

Look. LISTEN. I work with animatics every day, I know VERY well how much time, energy, effort and motivation it takes to do something like this! Holy crap, and this is a gift??? For me??? Like.....FOR FREE??? I really think this is the biggest, greatest and giftiest gift I have ever received in my life, jesus christ.

If I could meet myself from the past, I'd say, hey look, there's a divine level animatic based on your comic book.

The past me wouldn't have believed it. Not for a second at all.

But here we are??? Oh my fuckiNG GOD...

@somerandomdudelmao sensei, here is another little gift ;-; Probably, this is the only work in which I was able to invest more than a couple of hours, and also pour my whole soul into it… how did you do it... now it’s empty inside… I was afraid that something would go wrong, so I set a certain time so that you know when it will be, and can prepare for that moment... Um… well… yes… I don't know what to say ;-; *put it here* See you later, I guess ;-; Based on Cass apocalyptic series "The little things" episode ;-; [The one that broke me one morning]

[mistressandry]

Expeditions and Expectations ⛺

———— Rook and Harding take their new friend Emmrich camping.

the most vanilla shit you've ever seen ⎮ 7k ⎮ AO3 link ————

Day 1

“Right…” Harding slapped the top of her rucksack to verify its integrity. “All ready to go?”

She turned around to see an eager, yet haphazardly packed Rook and far too clean Emmrich, fretting over last minute necessities with Manfred.

“Oh, but.. maybe I was too hasty in getting rid of the letter opener—”

“Emmrich.” Harding snapped, making his shoulders jolt up, caught trying his luck. “It’s two nights! Your letters can wait!”

“We also have like.. so many knives”, Rook chimed in an attempt to help. This tangent that didn’t actually address the overpacking issue at hand, but was much more interesting to her. “So many weapons in general! Axe, daggers. Bet we could even carve you a letter opener!” she continued, though she didn’t seem to expect a response.

Harding watched as Emmrich’s pristine posture deflated with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Harding. I just wanted to get this right! I’m so grateful and filled with excitement to ‘rough it up’ with you two in the great outdoors. But such activities aren't in my usual repertoire, and I’m afraid I might be foolishly trying to overcompensate for inexperience.”

Harding’s stern expression softened into a smile. At least he was aware of it!

“You’ve been too good at too many things for too long. It’s only natural for you to get a bit antsy.”

“Aren’t academics supposed to be comfortable with learning new things though?” Rook added, in her continued less-than-successful attempts to help.

Emmrich looked down at her in doe-eyed, devastated shock. “Oh, please don’t make this worse. Insights into my prideful failings as a scholar are not appreciated at this time.”

The two dwarven ladies immediately looked at each other with glee, unable to stifle a few giggles at the fancy man’s pathetic words. Everything was so promising. They couldn’t wait to see the professor so outside his usual areas of expertise.

Harding smiled up at him. “Oh, Emmrich.. it’s not that bad! You’re excited and that’s a good thing! I know it’s been a while, but you can handle being a novice for a few days.”

“If you want to experience camping, the Inquisitor’s top scout’s the one to do it with. No one can put a tent up as fast as Harding!” The other dwarf reassured him.

“Exactly! And Rook will probably be able to keep you alive while I’m away”.

Rook gave him a thumbs up and wink. It was a bit much, but the intention was there! Their efforts seemingly paid off as Emmrich gave in. “Perhaps I don’t have to do everything perfectly.” “Oh Maker, no.” Rook exclaimed, visibly terrified at the concept.

“That’s the spirit! But we're losing daylight. Can I trust you’re able to carry your bags?” Harding asked so kindly you could barely hear the smugness in her one-rucksack needing voice. That’s including the tent.

“Of course! I am nothing if not independent!” the professor asserted, only slightly struggling to take an assortment of gilded bags from Manfred. Though Emmrich was a bit rattled, Harding knew her new friend wasn’t going to let a little embarrassment keep him from new adventures.

“Manfred! Please make sure to accurately store all my correspondences. Keep track of your tasks in the itinerary and don’t get too rowdy!”

His ward hissed gleefully as he scurried off with the letter opener.

While Rook bent down to hoist up her things, she complimented Emmrich’s creative use of the side pockets on his rucksack.

“I brought a few field guides for our expedition!” Emmrich explained, “I’ve heard such lovely things about the local flora in the Frostback Mountains, and I thought to cross reference them to their Nevarran varieties.” “That’s cute! I’ve got a few books with me too. It’s been a while, but I could vaguely help you with plants in the area.”

“That would be most delightful!” He lit up clapping his hands together as he was one to do. Seemingly wary of their eyes on him, the giddy man gathered himself, announced he was ready, and began walking towards Harding and their exit. Rook patted down her pockets with a look of amusement. Emmrich was fun!

“Pretty, sure I’m good to go too!” Rook called out to Harding.

“Packed all the essentials?”

“Toilet paper? Yes.” 

“Then let’s move out!” The trio walked through the Lighthouse’s eluvian and into the Crossroads. Harding was used to Rook’s various loose tools creating a ruckus, but it paled in comparison to the cacophony of jingling coming from their newest colleague. Each step was scored by a symphony of metal singing and colliding with each other. “I’m never taking you two on a heist” she teased, which was met with shocked offense and excuses. “We could be SO stealthy if we wanted to!” Rook contested, defending herself and her fellow slander victim. That they had allerted more elven constructs than usual was apparently unrelated.

After an hour of travel, feigned indignation and a significant dent in their snack inventory, they reached their next destination. As they passed through the final eluvian and into the greenery of Ferelden, Harding asked Rook, “Just like old times?”

“Like we never left.”

After a moment of silence Rook hurriedly added:

“Alright, there might have been slightly less Blight back then.”

“Just a smidge.” ———— It was mid-day when they stepped out into the small and aged elven shrine, nestled in the cliffside just above the tree line of the Frostback Mountains. If Harding squinted and deluded herself enough, she could swear Lake Calenhad was on the horizon. The remnants of a descending path had eroded over the millennia, but were easily overcome by light stone shaping and gentlemanly hands offering support over the larger jumps. Having left their armour back at the Lighthouse, the trio were sprier than usual.

Rook looked particularly more lively as she jumped along a rocky outcrop, even though they had made it down to a comfortable game path. “You must feel light as anything without your armour and hammer,” Emmrich mused as a challenging leap had Rook furrowing her brow and sticking her tongue out for top-tier concentration. 

“You can say that again! Not to mention the weight of responsibilities. I’m off-duty!”.

“Hey!” Harding playfully exclaimed. “You’re not off that easy! You’ve got very important tasks.” “Yeah, yeah, but these are things I’d happily do anyway: Take care of the camp and keep Emmrich alive.”

“Please…”, Emmrich prayed looking up to the sky in desperation.

“We’re basically the hired help!” Rook added before jumping down with a hefty thud. ”Oh no, I sure hope we don’t have to do any whimsical exploring!”

Harding continued forward with a smile on her face. “Heaven forbid.”

They wandered some more looking for a place to set camp. Harding surveyed the topography and consulted her maps, Rook mined whacking enemies and dangerous trees with her axe, and Emmrich trailed behind, drenching himself in fresh air.

Nice as the Lighthouse was, it was refreshing to have reliable, non-floating ground under their feet. The next few days promised rest, reflection and levity. Even though Harding would have to work, this was still her home and her bedrock. A return to her basics, with friends old and new. She wanted to see Rook unwind and was desperate to see what “letting loose” looked like for Emmrich.

Harding’s bag hit the ground with a thud. “Perfect! This’ll do nicely.” Rook and Emmrich nodded in approval.

“Yep.” Rook affirmed. “Good trees. Great branch. Nice brook.” Rook helped Harding set up the tent. You could tell which knots were Rook’s and which were Harding’s. In between jabs, they kept eagerly glancing over at Emmrich as he reshuffled his essentials: Several sets of clothing, the infamous shaving kit, alchemical bowls, plant samples... He’d brought a lot but been surprisingly compact!

“How many books did you get him down to?” Rook whispered.

“Five!! I was quite proud of myself.”

They pulled at the ropes and gave the tarp a big thwack to finalise the tent. To account for their esteemed guest, they had even propped up a lean-to for.. pondering? The women weren’t quite sure, but it felt like the sort of a thing a senior necromancer would enjoy.

Their instincts proved correct, as he already started placing various knick knacks under it. Mysteries abound as to where he’d managed to store that quilted blanket.

The blanket made a comfortable place to sit as Harding passed around her pre-prepared sandwiches for lunch. Emmrich whipped out a teapot.

“This is really good!” Rook declared between scoffage. “It really is remarkable how a bit of jam can elevate the palette”.

Harding blushed but warmly welcomed her friends’ approval.

“I’ve got to start heading out soon. Didn’t note anything dangerous in the immediate area—”

”Aside from the bears?” Rook chimed in, careful not to let Emmrich see her grin.

“Oh, I only saw tracks for two or three of them around here.” Emmrich’s look of horror shifted into narrowed eyes and a slight frown.

“But beyond those very real concerns, we’ll be alright to conduct ourselves freely?” he grumbled.

“Yeah! You should be able to explore to your heart’s content.”

“Excellent!”

“Just try to keep screaming and fires to a minimum.” It was Rook’s turn to narrow her eyes and frown. “Fine..”

Harding unhooked a smaller kit from her rucksack and convened with Rook on the points of interest she’d be scoping out. Rook promised to save Harding some dinner and wished her luck.

“You’re quite sure she’ll be alright out there?” Emmrich asked Rook.

“Of course! She’s an expert scout and you’ve heard her.. Daughter of Titans.”

————

Warm sunlight dappled the mossy forest floor as Rook and Emmrich admired another flower for his collection. Rook tried to recall its name for her studious companion.

“Thaaat.. is a Lily of the Valley! No, shoot, it’s.. it’s closely related to it. Mostly grow on cliffs? Look it up in your book!”

Emmrich excitedly flipped through the pages, bangles jangling upon success. “Aha! I’ve found it! Solomon’s Seal.” 

“That’s the one! I’m not sure what medicinal uses it could have, but it is quite pretty.”

Emmrich carefully placed the flower in his designated plant sample satchel. Rook’s eyes roved the forest floor for the next hit of dopamine. She’d given him the pinecone with tiny mushrooms on it. Pointed out the very cool lichen formation on a boulder. Found some really interesting scat and explained what could be deduced from it. It was nice having someone enthusiastically involved in this part of her life. It was nice to bond outside of destruction. There!

“This one’s called… fox.. bread…” Fuck did she hate not remembering official terms in a field she was supposedly good in. At least Rook and Emmrich had settled into a solid groove with her giving hazy details on a specimen, and him finding it  in his field guides within two seconds.

“Something vaguely related to the words ‘fox’ and ‘bread’! Basically a clover but that’s not the important bit. Taste it!”

Emmrich smiled and didn’t waste a second taking the plant from her outstretched hand and placing it in his mouth. Rook munched on her own collection while staring intently, eager for his reaction. He regarded everything so genuinely.

“My! What a delightfully sharp flavour…”

“It’s something to do with the acids in it. Goes well in a salad!”  ———— The sky dimmed and the campfire crackled as a chill began to set.

Rook offered Emmrich some of her peppermint liquor. “It’ll keep you warm.”

She’d handed him many new things that day, and each was cheerfully accepted. Taking a swig from her flask, Emmrich began forming the words to thank his travelling companions for humoring him as a guest on this trip. “Rook, I wanted to thank you for being so accommodating.”

“Don't sweat it.” She interrupted before he went further. “This is much more for my benefit. I needed to get away from it all and Harding knew it.”

Emmrich raised his eyebrow in concern, returning the flask. He did not fill the silence, instead waiting for her to continue. Rook flicked at embers along the edge of the fire with her expertly sharpened stick. 

“Truth be told, approved leadership has avoided me all my life. I'm pretty sure Varric appointed me on a fluke. He would have given the same pep talk to any chump who happened to be about. Use his words to mold them into the person he needed. I just happened to be in the vicinity. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here. What I’m contributing..” 

He could not comment on the intentions of a fallen compatriot he’d never met, but her words sounded like the harsh internal thoughts of a heavy heart and a tired mind.

Continuing her monologue, she chuckled, ”But! even if I don’t believe in myself anymore, I'm not giving up my shot just yet.”

“When I left Redcliffe I thought I'd be able to make a name for myself. Influence our history. Uncover our past. A bit hard for a surfacer, obviously! Maker, the way my mom and her dad would talk about Orzammar.. It was hard not to want that connection. But what have I truly accomplished? Harding’s made more of an impact than I ever did. Stone save me, she spent years with Dagna and is on a last name basis with the Inquisitor. And now... Now this.”

Now this was a feeling Emmrich was well acquainted with. “I can empathise basing your value on external standards of accomplishment.” He revealed, careful not to share too many of his insecurities.

Rook smiled and looked at her flask. Silence set again.

“Did you know she can dream now..?” She said so quietly it was almost a whisper.

Over his decades of research on the Fade, he had wondered about the psychological impact caused by a race being completely disconnected from it. Learning that the lyrium dagger in their possession was the tool and that Solas was the perpetrator for this severance had certainly brought it top of mind again. Especially with the revelation that those severed Titan souls had morphed into the Blight. The prospect of reconnecting the tranquilized Titans with some kind of purified blight... Perhaps there were some papers he could revisit? Another day. Potential research and unsubstantiated promises were not what Rook needed right now. She needed a tether.

"You're not missing out on much. Mine are usually just about being chased by a faceless specter." Emmrich shared, attempting to make her feel less alone.

"Vorgoth?"

"Hush!" His bracelets jingling as he instinctively smacked her with a chuckle. 

Rook’s demeanour lightened as she poked at some charcoal. She looked over at him with a smile and a shrug. "I just need some time to get out of my head. Forget the task at hand and return to my foundations. I am more than happy with your added company!"

Emmrich was thrilled for verbal confirmation that he wasn't making a fool of himself out here. 

"Rook, your enthusiasm and care for others is infectious. I may preach the study of the unknown, but in my personal life I am a creature of habit held back by fears of external perceptions. I've travelled more around Thedas in the past month, than I have the past decade, gaining a treasure trove of experiences. I can not speak for the past intentions of others, but thus far your curiosity and compassion have been the best guide I could hope for. I think you've got what it takes."

Visibly flustered, Rook momentarily struggled to reply. "You’re a very kind man, but I have to wonder how much that liquor is sweetening your words!”

Emmrich scoffed at the deflection and implication. "I could drink you under the table.” Remembering the contents of his bags he happily added “However, I did bring some sherry should we run out."

————

The stars were out and their tent had long since blended into the dead of night. Harding discreetly opened the flap and slinked in without a sound.

“Boo!”

"Shitfuc—” Harding’s head flew up, narrowly managing to not bring the whole tent down. Heart recovering from the scare and eyes adjusting to the darkness, she could now see Rook sitting up wrapped in a blanket. Emmrich continued his slumber, apparently none the wiser.

“...Couldn't sleep?"

"Naah.” Rook replied at a more appropriate volume “Get into any trouble?"

"Not too badly! Blight's getting worse, but I managed to find an Avvar camp I can report to Cadash." The warmth of the tent and Harding’s friend were a welcome relief after the chill of the night. She’d been out longer than expected, but achieved results.

"One’s better than none! Left some now-cold stew by your roll."

"Thanks, Aldwir." Harding said, desperate for proper food, regardless of temperature.

"What kind of hired help would I be otherwise?" Rook teased.

As Harding slurped away at her meal, Rook caught her eye and nodded towards the sleeping professor's legs.

"... I miss Varric."

Harding giggled, reminiscing over the advantages of an all dwarf party.

"We did use to have decidedly more leg room with us three." “How was he?” Harding asked mid-chew, with some concern, but mostly just interest in Emmrich’s potential camping antics.

“He's like a very smart puppy. Kept me company. I showed him good rocks.”

“Highest caliber, I’m sure.”

“I’m not an animal.” Rook assured, laying her back on her mattress, while Harding finished her meal. Bowl emptied and discreetly placed at the end of the tent, Harding scooched over to Rook, gave her a kiss on the forehead before snuggling up in her sleeping bag. Rook let out a light-headed sigh. "Minrathous wasn't your fault, Rook."

"... Yeah..." Rook replied begrudgingly. Harding wasn’t convinced her friend believed it.

Emmrich shifted and muttered in his sleep.

"... He brought a nightgown." Rook revealed, in a familiar attempt to change the subject.

"He did not." Harding jeered.

"And a little hat."

Harding shot up to squint past Rook at their intrepid adventurer's night time attire.

————

Day 2

Emmrich emerged from the tent, arms outstretched mid-yawn. The pompom at the tip of his hat jolted at an unexpected greeting. 

“Goooood morning, Professor!”

“Harding!” He cheered, placing a delicate hand on his chest. “What a relief. I must admit, I was quite worried about you last night.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Had a little hiccup, but nothing I couldn't handle. I’m not some delicate lace!” She giggled, amused by her own pun. Emmrich cheerfully accepted a bowl of porridge and cup of tea she’d prepared.

“It was witless of me to cast doubt on your abilities. I should know better by now.” he replied with a light smile, adding a spoonful of jam and a pinch of salt. They sat together and watched as the early morning sunlight slowly awoke the forest.

“Nice slippers.” Harding noted.

“Why thank you! I acquired them from a delightful travelling vendor a few years ago.” Delighted by the interest, Emmrich went into great detail explaining the lining. Harding seemed very amused by his storytelling as she sipped her tea.

“So what’s on the itinerary for you two today?” Harding asked.

“We’re going on a hike!” Emmrich identified the correct map, found their location after a few moments of squinting, and began tracing his fingers along their planned route. “Rook spotted a promising path that’d take us higher up this mountain. With any luck the terrain will allow us to meet with the river that flows down towards us. We’ll then follow along the waters, until we reach the riverbank just north of here.”

Emmrich was glad to receive Harding’s nods of approval, while she scraped the final spoonfuls of her porridge. She wished she could go as well, but still had a few more locations to report on. Laying the map flat to show the larger area, Harding showed Emmrich where she’d been yesterday.

“I don’t like what I’m seeing down this direction, but over here wasn’t as bad as we’d expected,” Harding detailed, circling general areas and showing some of her initial notes. Emmrich listened as she explained how yesterday would inform her route choices. She proudly showed the mage where she’d been able to use her new stone shaping magic to avoid long detours.

“It’s all quite fascinating, Harding.” Emmrich proclaimed, thankful for the insights she was sharing with him. His studies had not required the practical application of such things and now he found himself lacking. While he hated looking foolish at his age, he still loved to learn and was grateful for kind teachers.

“I’m glad you think so! When me and Rook were younger, we’d run away for days to explore these kinds of parts of Ferelden. After all the travelling trying to find Solas.. It’s nice to be home.”

Emmrich felt fortunate he had been trusted with such a meaningful location to his new friends. “This is a special place. There is a magic to the nature and serenity of it all. Different from the peace I might usually find at the Necropolis.”

“I haven’t found the likes of it anywhere else!” Harding shared, loudly inhaling the crisp air, before tilting her head with a caveat. “Arlathan Forest did come close, but the birch trees were a bit too creepy.”

They sat and listened to the early morning bird songs.

“Right! I’m off.” Harding said, abruptly picking herself up and packing up her document pouch.

“So soon? Should we wake Rook before your departure?”

“Don’t you dare, Volkarin!” Harding playfully warned, while shuffling her bow on to her back. “She needs the rest. And you, my junior scout, can update her on my route.”

“I shan’t let you down, Scout Harding.” Emmrich vowed, already refiling his mental notes for best recollection access upon Rook’s stirring.

“Good man! I’ll be back earlier this time, I promise.”

Emmrich changed into more appropriate clothes, placed his quilt on an even surface and began his morning exercises with relish. The peaceful setting melted away anxieties and fears that had previously denied him new experiences. ———— Rook and Emmrich made their way higher up the mountain following a winding path. Still below the treeline, they went at a slow pace. It wasn’t for lack of energy, but because the two kept being distracted by plants, rock formations, passing squirrels and the scenery.

A beautiful pine with a low tree fork was practically begging to be climbed, and Rook would not deny it. Hands covered in sap and sticking to the loose bark, she yelled down to her companion from several branches above: “When was the last time you climbed a tree?”

Rook could only imagine his expression as he indignantly replied. “I'm 55 years old!”

She sighed and looked out wistfully towards the horizon. “People should climb trees more often…”

Her contemplation was interrupted by a slightly judgemental probe from below.

“Is this a Ferelden thing?”

For someone so seemingly kind, Emmrich could be quite bitchy! Aghast, she dropped the matter and herself shortly after, though her knees didn’t care for the impact. Rook wiped the sap off on her trousers.

Maybe it was the rings? Rook had clocked that Emmrich had removed most of his jewellery, opting to carry them in a cushioned embroidered purse instead. She still wasn’t sure how a grave dowry works, but loved the romance of the ritual, and she definitely wouldn’t be the reason said dowry got scratched. As they trundled along she noticed his lighter outdoor attire revealed even more gold around his neck. The loose collar suited him. If the joys of tree climbing didn’t interest Emmrich, Rook would have to find another topic.

“So what do you think? Natural, Avvar, or Dwarven?” She asked after some consideration.

“The path? I was wondering the same! Perhaps it is a combination of the three? We’ve found no real markers other than our cultural knowledge of the area.” Emmrich energetically replied.

Rook delighted and continued, “There could be carvings further up? Depending on how high this goes. Those would be more likely to stand the test of time, even in harsher conditions.”

This came dangerously close to proposing an extension to their route and after consulting the prickling in her thighs, Rook decided: No. Better to speculate about the cultural origins of the ancient path without an increased incline. For now at least.

Their perfectly adequate high vantage point helped Rook identify the perfect location for coupling up with the river. Before beginning their descent, they sat on the edge of their moss covered cliff for lunch. Rook kept an eye out for harts along the water to point out to Emmrich. A couple of fallen trees almost had her fooled.

She settled for pointing out various birds.

Suddenly aggravated, Emmrich began to rave about a swallow that had refused to leave his study. Hands in the air he described in animated detail how this bird had “besieged” his sanctuary for days on end. While visibly worked up about the incident, he would smile whenever Rook laughed. It was nice seeing him like this.

————

The melting ice from the mountains now rushed down the river in a brilliant blue. Sandstone had melted like butter under its weight, while granite stood fast and bit back at its aggressor. Millions of pebbles littered the river bed, broken off and smoothed out by the rushing waters polishing them against their kin.

Rook tasked Emmrich and herself with finding five really good pebbles and then “comparing notes”. She had tenuously convinced him this was in fact a Dwarven thing. Emmrich took his task very seriously, selecting pastel colors in interesting shapes, and a strikingly black and white specimen.

He turned around to find Rook precariously balancing on a rocky offshoot.

“Surely that surface is far too slippery? That algae looks slick as anything! What if you fall and hurt yourself?”

"It's fiiiine." Rook insisted, taking another step. She immediately slipped and fell into the water, bashing her body into the rock.

“I have new findings”, she croaked.

Emmrich rushed over to help and scold her, though she maintained she was fine and laughed it off.

Once they got back to the camp, she was eager to show off her new underlayer.

“It's merino wool.” ———— Emmrich watched as Rook’s taut body split the firewood. There was an instinctive artistry in the motion. Her brow and shoulders crinkled up as she gathered momentum. The axe would fall with such a satisfying thunk, it didn’t really matter when she missed.

“It’s because of the angle of the stump, to be clear.” She’d explained, unsolicited. It probably didn’t do well to have mages witness error in her hand-eye coordination.

In all honesty, connecting the axe with the wooden logs was of secondary interest to him. Brutishly hitting it against anything looked beautiful. Emmrich had never been one for weapons, but there was something quintessential about an axe and the outdoor experience. It called for a rough sort, perhaps clad in plaidweave. It was not the sort of thing people would expect him to wield.

“Rook… would you allow me to have a go?”

Lost in determined thought, she looked stunned for only a second, before offering him the axe with a smile. While Rook and Harding seemed quick to make fun of their friends, he had learned a greater appreciation for the comfort this provided. They didn’t mock a person’s inexperience. They mocked the anxiety that comes with it. Turning it into a joke made it easier to overcome. After much study, he was pleased to confirm their badgering was thinly veiled affection.

Rook stood behind him and showed him the proper stance. His legs had to be properly apart, and the axe held just so. He controlled his posture very well, but his momentum had something to gain.

“You’ve got to really give it some! Dig deep! Find something infuriating inside you, channel it through to the hilt as you raise the axe, then…. Whack!” Rook giddily described. He furrowed his brow.

CRACK.

Filled with pride, they celebrated his firewood feat. Emmrich finished up the final lot, while Rook sat on the side sharpening her sticks, occasionally sharing words of encouragement as his technique improved.

Despite a few splinters, his hair being out of place, and getting sweaty, he found it exhilarating. Emmrich wiped the sweat off his brow and placed Rook’s axe carefully against the stump. “What a thrill.”

Rook looked up at him with a chuckle. Emmrich was too pleased with himself to worry about his appearance. Nearly. He straightened his tunic.

“It’s much more physical than our process for the veilfires of the Necropolis.” Emmrich continued.

“I know veilfire has lots of benefits, but I still love a proper fire, ya know? The color, the smell, the ritual of it all.. ”

“While the green glow will always make me feel at home, you do not need to convince me of the joys of ritual.” Emmrich looked at his books and Rook pondered her growing pile of sticks. His contemplation was interrupted by a tangent query.

“So, what was your go-to angry thought?”

Though he felt safe, Emmrich panicked about how much he dared reveal his insecurities. Insecurities about insecurities were like that.

“I… thought about how my fears have kept me from so many things I’ve desired.”

“Ooh, yes that’s a good one. Real tasty.”

Though occasionally stumbling, Rook had a validating way with words. If you spoke from the heart, she’d greet it like an old friend.

“What about you?” he wondered.

“Oh, Emmrich, what aren’t I mad about?” she laughed.

“Currently? I can’t get the fuck over the fact that the dagger I’ve been carrying at my side for months now, is the one Solas used to tranquilize the titans. This dagger euthanized an entire race ‒ MY race ‒ and that damage is barely considered as a footnote in its crimes.” She was trying to say it calmly, but Emmrich could hear the anger bubbling underneath. His gaze fell on the dagger, now shaped like a large gold bangle, attached to her belt even at this moment. It looked light, but dug into her side with the weight of much more.

“Ah. Yes. That is. Hm.” his usual talent with words evading him, as he wondered how awkward he must look standing here. Every response he tried to compile felt lacking.

“Yup.” Rook concluded, returning to her sticks and giving him an exit from the conversation. After a moment of reflection, Emmrich decided to sit next to her.

“I haven’t wanted to intrude, but I assume you and Harding have talked about—”

“NOPE.” Rook slashed deep into the wood.

“Or, I mean, she did. And she can’t find it within herself to be angry. These things. Apparently. Just. Happen.”

The stick was scarred beyond comprehension.

“May I?” Emmrich gently asked, gesturing at the dagger. Rook seemed surprised by the interest, but obliged, unhooking it off her belt. He turned the dagger over, examining it thoughtfully. He could feel Rook analyzing his every movement. He did not wish to trivialize any element of it.

“You’re not only carrying the tool for our demise, but the loss of your ancestors as well. The weight and pain must be immense.”

“So much was taken from us, and no one seems angry enough.” She sounded so fragile.

He thought he heard her whisper: “If I had just picked it up a bit earlier…”

He inspected the bright blue lyrium embedded in the dagger. The blood of titans was ripped out to mold physical bodies for the first elves, and when the elves could not calm their anger, titan blood was corrupted again into a weapon to kill them. Lyrium’s song must be a sad one.

Emmrich placed a sympathetic hand on Rook’s shoulder and heard a vulnerable thanks. With a loud exhale, Rook finished her final carving, got up and began picking up the scattered wood shavings.

“Sorry, Emmrich, I’m just not in a great head space right now. I’m struggling, but I’ll be alright.” He did believe Rook, but all the same he wished he could comfort her more.

“Would some more wood chopping help your mood?” He asked, looking up at her as he handed back the lyrium dagger. With just a hint of hesitation she laughed. “I think I’ve massacred enough wood for one day, but thank you for the care!”

“My door is always open, should you wish to talk, Rook. It doesn’t serve to hold these things in. I may specialize in speaking with the dead, but I do practice with the living as well.”

“Thanks, Volkarin. I might take you up on that.” She said and began gathering the fire wood.

Emmrich pondered Rook’s words and her habit of expressing emotions in short, powerful bursts. Her hair snagged on the logs as she picked them up. He didn’t realize he was staring, until Rook ushered him to look away. ———— Harding returned with a bright smile and a pouch full of dandelion leaves.

Given the company, dinner was unsurprisingly loaf-based. Sauteed mushrooms, garlic and onions over soft slices of bread, accompanied by wild herb salad flavoured with cheese, preserved radishes and roasted nuts.

The trio sat around the campfire laughing at nonsense like past misadventures and whether or not Emmrich could take on a bear. Harding filled out her reports, Emmrich sketched his plant finds, and Rook avoided slicing into her fingers with a carving knife.

A proven creature of habit, Emmrich brought his night-time routine outside to remain with good company. He emerged from the tent wearing his truly delightful cap, striped nightgown, and slippers, with a decanter of sherry and several intricately detailed boxes in tow. Out of respect for the professor and hopes he’d still appreciate their company after this trip, Rook and Harding tried their best to ignore all the ripe material in front of them. After the third step of his skincare regimen and several delicate sips of sherry, they finally broke.

Jab after jab had Rook gripping Harding’s thigh in a fit of wheezes.

“Are you sure you’re not in your 90’s?” Harding cackled.

“You two are insufferable.” Emmrich scoffed with a barely concealed smile. Seemingly undeterred by their antics, he carefully placed the last of his jewellery into their designated boxes.

“Sorry, Emmrich… it’s just all a bit too Emm-RICH for us.” “HA!” Rook shrieked, tightening her grip.

Emmrich rolled his eyes and grinned, massaging the joints of his now exposed hands with moisturizer. The ladies performed their comedy routine for the rest of his. The sherry helped.

Despite their fascinating topics, Emmrich was fast asleep before the other two. Though drunk on joy, Harding and Rook finally calmed down enough to wrap up the night.

"Get some sleep." Harding weakly grumbled, nuzzling her pillow.

"Yeah...... Sweet dreams." Rook replied, eyes closed and cozied up, eager for the embrace of some actual sleep. ———— It didn’t last. The night offered fleeting respite, as Rook found herself awake once again. Curled up, she fought the urge to toss and turn about, reasoning that stilling her body might still mind.

She watched Harding’s occasional twitches and tried to match her friend’s breathing.

Maybe if Rook matched the basics, everything could be different. Maybe she’d be better. Do better. Maybe whatever wasn’t good enough inside of her could be fixed. But Rook doesn’t twitch in her sleep. Shouldn’t lying still as stone make her closer to the titans? Maybe stone wasn’t meant to be still. Maybe there’s a reason sleeping dwarves are confused for the dead.

The silence of the night wasn’t kind. Her body overflowed with feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. Conflict electrified every inch of her skin. Her mind wouldn’t stop. Cut from the same stone, but her faults were too deep. A constant comparison she could never escape. Maybe Harding would have done this better.

A slim arm wrapped itself around Rook. Its slender fingers and wrist, naked without their usual adornments. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, as Emmrich muttered into it in his sleep. The heat from his breath did little to stop the chill down her spine. The knuckles of his other hand pressed against her back and his chest as he slowly filled his lungs. Warmth emitted from the soft fabric of his nightgown.

The moment was quiet and tender. Every muscle in her body stiffened in panic.

Rook inhaled sharply and found herself overwhelmed with notes of incense and clover from Emmrich’s perfume, closely followed by the sweet smell of sherry on his breath. Frozen in place, her mind raced to figure out what was happening. She couldn’t move — wouldn’t move. If she did, it might cause him to readjust his position again. Away from her. Why that mattered, she didn’t know. Hot blood rushed through her veins fighting the frost up and down her skin.

Asleep. He was definitely asleep. A quiet snoring escaped his lips.

The hand on Rook’s back gently wrapped itself around her hair. His other arm tightened around her waist. Stubble nuzzled against her neck. A richness overpowered her frantic mind and her heartbeat began to slow. At some point, she must have started matching his deep, calming breathing. It was comfortable in his arms. Safe. Quiet. Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

Just as Rook was on the cusp of sleep, Emmrich muttered something and turned over to his side of the tent again.

Eyes still closed, Rook chuckled. She might not be able to dream, but she could still imagine. She went to sleep with a smile on her face. ————

Day 3

Rook wasn’t sure why she didn’t mention anything over breakfast. Perhaps she was saving it for the perfect clapback at a later date. Perhaps she needed to figure out why she felt a bit embarrassed by it first. Deciding it was probably unimportant, she waved the worry away. What mattered was that she’d finally gotten a good night’s sleep and the fresh air of home was starting to light her soul.

The morning sun dappled a symphony of rustling alders, splashes on the riverbank and gleeful screams.

Harding and Rook fought for glory and dominance over the waters.

“Give up, Aldwir!”

“Not on your life!”

Stubborn, rested and in good spirits, both parties were destined to battle till the end of time. Water rose in the air, as if reaching for the snowy peaks they’d descended from. The Frostback Mountains might never recover from the carnage. The only witness tried desperately to ignore them, so he could concentrate on the task at hand. Shaving.

A well placed splash bashed Rook’s defenses, causing her to turn away from her competitor, laughter interrupted by sporadic choking. Her gaze landed on the old man trying to angle his reflection in the mirror he’d tenuously balanced on a large rock. His hair was still in a damp curl from bathing. His loose linen tunic clung to the lower part of his back. Rook stared blankly as he arched his neck preparing his blade.

She decided to consult her partner in crime. "Do you think we could do it again?" Harding shimmied over, a glint in her eye, piecing together the potential for mischief in record time. "Now, wouldn't that be fascinating?" Hands cupped around her mouth, Rook shouted "Oi, Emmrich!” The old man startled, and turned towards the silly women he’d been efficiently tuning out.

“You'd look very dignified and rugged if you grew a beard!" Harding hollered. The women turned to look at each other and nodded fervently.

“Varric got SO much more respect when he grew his out.”

“It’s true!” Harding giggled.

“It really is remarkable how a bit of a beard can elevate the face!” Rook loudly mused, still impressed they’d been able to pressure the old dwarf into growing hair somewhere other than his chest. Sure the respect had mostly been from them, but that still counts!

They watched as Emmrich sighed a heavy sigh and put down his razer. Victory, so soon? Or had he just grown tired of them already?

"You ladies jest, but truth be told, your words carry a great shame. You see, I tried growing a beard but a few years ago and it was… Patchy". He looked broken with the admission.

Rook and Harding gasped, not sure to what extent any of them were playing along or being deeply serious. The two women rushed through the water towards him, drenching Emmrich with consolation and affirmations.

“Moustaches are severely underrated forms of facial hair”, Rook began.

”It’s not just any man who could pull off a look like that!” Harding added.

If he had genuinely been upset by his subpar beard growing capabilities, being complimented for his moustache styling seemed to do the trick. Rook and Harding made a good team when it came to overwhelming others.

If he couldn’t grow a beard, the stubble wasn’t a bad look either. Rook felt it rather suited him.

“You’re both too kind”, a bemused Emmrich sheepishly smiled as he placed a hand on his chest. “Thank you for accepting me in my great shame.”

“That’s what expeditions are for”, Rook grinned. The fancy man really did have a way with words. ———— Campfire cleaned up and tent put away, Harding slapped the top of her of her perfectly organized rucksack, pleased with her results and grateful for the past few days.

“Right!” She proclaimed, calling for attention and hoisting her things on to her back. “Ready to go?”

She turned around to see a happy, yet haphazardly packed Rook and a slightly disheveled Emmrich, fretting over his plant samples.

As Harding had hoped, Rook seemed calmer and more confident. Her friend had a tendency to get in her head and… the voices weren’t always kind. The break seemed to have done her good.

As for Emmrich: he had definitely loosened up and behaved much more comfortably in their company now. He seemed to have really enjoyed his time experiencing new things with new friends. He’d even agreed to keep the stubble for a few more days.

It had been a good trip.

———————————————— Notes: That's it's that's the thing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This was my first fic and first time writing something that wasn't a script or some quippy post, so it was mega spooky! The lovely and talented @bharv gave me so many tips and was ever so patient and kind. My other writer friend Frank also helped a ton, despite knowing nothing about the game. Tinttu has thus far only made it to Day 2, but has the very important task of helping me figure out wtf I need to tag this as when I finally get it on ao3!

I think writing is fun! Very scary, but fun! It is nice expressing myself in a new way! I hope you liked it!!!!!!! Please tell me you liked it!!!! I crave validation in such a pathetic level!!!!

[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!!! :)