#Scope The Cardinal

[sonic-elements]

Resistance Members

I will admit that as a Sonic fan i will admit that sonic Forces may have its flaws (Don't @ me) but i do love the Avater mechanic, and i decided draw all the ones i made myself in my own style.

Dogs (Sleuth The Hound & Jovial The Poodle)

Wolves (Risk The Timber wolf & Kay-9 The Wolf)

Hedgehogs (Hip the Hedgehog & Adept The Hedgehog)

Cats (Veil The Panther & Vogue The Cat)

Birds (Scope The Cardinal & Glide The Canary)

Rabbits (Wary The Rabbit & Skit The Rabbit)

Bears (Clunker The Bear & Fray The Bear)

just for some fun ^w^ hope you like them.

[danidrabbles]

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. ��Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can���t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– ��� – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive (Check out all of our long covid resources!)

BY Rhys Richmond

Research reports and detailed case studies from doctors and other providers can tell us a lot about Long COVID. But to understand the full scope of the disease and its impact, we must also listen to the experiences of patients who are suffering.

Today’s post features a contribution from one of our readers, who details his experience with Long COVID and a preexisting illness—in his case, myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS). As someone who suffers from both ME/CFS and Long COVID, Billy Hanlon—in his role as the director of advocacy and outreach at the Minnesota ME/CFS Alliance—also advocates for advancing research into these conditions.

While researchers and clinicians have noted parallels between ME/CFS and Long COVID, as well as among other post-acute infection syndromes, much more research is needed to fill the knowledge gaps. Some researchers hypothesize that multi-organ damage wreaked by COVID-19 might explain how people with preexisting disease in certain organs (such as the heart, lung, liver, and kidney) might be at higher risk of severe COVID-19 affecting those same organs. Furthermore, research has linked an increased risk of developing post-acute sequelae of COVID-19 (Long COVID) to having a preexisting medical condition prior to SARS-CoV-2 infection

In a sense, we’re beginning to see that COVID-19 infections might take advantage of less-than-perfect health to cause persistent symptoms. While other viruses have exhibited similar opportunistic patterns—for example, influenza has been shown to cause more severe illness and hospitalizations in patients with obesity and heart disease—the long-lasting and poorly understood manifestations of Long COVID merit particular attention. In Hanlon’s account below of his own struggles with ME/CFS and Long COVID, he also details how you may be able to help advocate for more research into both of these conditions.

A patient’s chronicle of life with ME/CFS and Long COVID I’m a resident of Minneapolis, living with ME/CFS and Long COVID.

In 2017, at age 28, I suffered from an acute viral-like illness. Before long, I began experiencing severe neurological complications, such as difficulty with concentration and comprehension, as well as heart palpitations. The newfound, crushing exhaustion was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Physical or mental exertion seemed to exacerbate these complications, a phenomenon called post-exertional malaise (PEM), the cardinal symptom of ME/CFS and now Long COVID. In 2022, following a second COVID-19 infection, my symptoms worsened, leading to a Long COVID diagnosis.

As my personal experience can attest, ME/CFS and Long COVID are multi-systemic diseases involving pathologies of the brain, immune system, autonomic nervous system, and energy metabolism system. Many patients report that the onset of the illness (ME/CFS) is preceded by a viral infection, such as Epstein-Barr virus, H1N1 flu, or SARS-CoV-2.

Despite my best efforts, I have never recovered from ME/CFS and Long COVID. There’s no cure or FDA-approved treatment for these conditions, which affect people of every age and background. Very few American medical schools include ME/CFS and Long COVID care in their curricula, so only a handful of specialists in the country are trained to treat these diseases. As a result, many patients are disbelieved or discredited in medical settings, leaving essentially no system of care to lean on. I learned firsthand about the barriers and inequities faced by patients with ME/CFS and infection-associated chronic illnesses. Care for these conditions is vastly under-resourced, under-funded, under-studied, largely overlooked, and highly marginalized.

I anticipated these formative years of my adulthood to be marked by time spent with friends and family (my wife and nephews), new homes, job promotions, and vacations, but instead I find myself in a twilight world of this medical enigma. My life trajectory was headed one way, then viral illness has completely redirected it. I now spend the majority of my time horizontal, forging ahead as best as my body will permit, advocating with the will that still endures. ME/CFS and Long COVID rob futures and confine lives. Coming to terms with losing my career, my independence, and so many hopes and dreams has been as difficult as the chronic illness.

A lot more could be said about the profound loss I’ve felt professionally, physically, personally, and socially, but I instead want to focus on actionable items that anyone reading this can do to help support future care for this rapidly growing group of people affected by these illnesses.

First, Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.) recently announced a legislative proposal for The Long COVID Moonshot Act. This proposal is aptly titled as the advancements needed surely warrant a moonshot—the term used when Congress marshals resources across the federal government to expedite progress. These infection-associated chronic illnesses have historically been left at the end of the queue for research funding.

You can reach out to your elected official and ask for their support on this proposal, which will help accelerate and prioritize research, diagnostics, and treatments. This proposal would provide $1 billion in mandatory funding per year for 10 years so that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) can respond to this crisis with the sense of urgency that it demands. Recently, Reps. Ilhan Omar (MN-05) and Ayanna Pressley (MA-07) have also introduced a companion bill for the Long COVID Moonshot in the House of Representatives.

Second, an ME/CFS Research Roadmap Report was approved in May by the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke (NINDS). This is a step in the right direction toward clinical trials, but now we need the NIH to robustly fund it. You can contact your elected officials and ask that the NIH help make this a reality. These are also efforts that could pay dividends toward an ME/CFS platform clinical trial. This was recently recommended by Senior Investigator and Clinical Director Dr. Avindra Nath following the completion of the NIH ME/CFS Intramural Study. A platform trial or advancements in the Research Roadmap Report could potentially yield a lot of intel for Long COVID treatments and help inform the RECOVER Initiative, a research program by the NIH that aims to understand, diagnose, prevent, and treat Long COVID..

Lastly, Long COVID and ME/CFS were highlighted in May at the Senate Labor, Health and Human Services, Education and Related Agencies Subcommittee FY25 NIH Hearing. During the hearing, NIH Director Dr. Monica Bertagnolli stated, “… I want to say about Long COVID and ME/CFS—we are so grateful for our partnership with the people that are affected by this. They have taught us over the last two years what we needed to do. Now we just need to deliver for them.” Millions of people would agree. A crucial step would be to establish a dedicated Center at the NIH focused on Long COVID, ME/CFS, and infection-associated chronic conditions and illnesses.

Rhys Richmond is an MD candidate at Yale School of Medicine

[dandelionsandderivatives]

Tell me everything about infinity.

Oh, a very loaded question! All right. Let's start with the sizes of infinity!

Roughly speaking, there are two sizes of infinity; or, in proper terminology, "cardinalities." (There is some debate, as I recall, over whether there are more sizes of infinity. But we know there are two.) The first cardinality is the same size as the integers, which are the positive and negative whole numbers; essentially tick marks going in a line forever. 1, 2, 3, and so on; and in the opposite direction, -1, -2, -3, and so on.

The second cardinality is the same size as the real numbers, which are all the numbers that most people use on a daily basis; think, instead of tick marks, a line, and every place on that line is a number. No matter how close two places on that line are, there's always another number in between them. So you have 2.5 and 2.6, but between them you have 2.55 and 2.5932, and infinitely many more.

The concept of infinity, of course, gets a bit weird once you move into more than one dimension; it's easy enough to point in the same direction as a line and say, "that goes to infinity," but once you have multiple dimensions, is it meaningful to talk about a negative or positive infinity? Oh, and adding and subtracting get weird once you start adding infinitely many things together. Addition loses commutativity (e.g. 5+3 = 3+5), which still blows my mind, even though I've seen the proof for it. It's the kind of thing that keeps me up at night.

Generally mathematicians get around the multiple-dimensions problem by using the modulus of a number, which is the distance from the number to zero, measured using our dear old friend the Pythagorean Theorem: so, if your point is at 4 in one dimension and at 3 in another, you use the Pythagorean theorem to get 5, and then you consider that point to be 5 away from zero. (This would be easier to explain if I had a chalkboard!) Then, infinity is sort of a circle that surrounds the whole plane; or, if you think of your 2d plane like a flat circle, if you folded it up into a ball, infinity would be all the points at the very top of the ball, and zero would be the point at the bottom. (Obviously this gets weirder if we have three dimensions, but you get the idea.) Okay, so that's a quick introduction to infinity from a mathematical perspective. I think there were also some physics questions re: the expanding universe and spacetime? I'm happy to write a bit about that, too, but I think it belongs in a separate post! So if you have questions about that, please let me know and I'll try to share what I do know! Disclaimer: while I DO know more math than the average person, I have essentially a bachelor's-degree level of knowledge in math. I think everything I've typed out is correct, but I may very well have missed some details! Dear readers, please feel free to correct me if you have greater knowledge than I.

Edit: also, I should have mentioned that the pythagorean theorem only works in a euclidean space. But I feel like going into non-Euclidean stuff is a bit past the scope of (this) tumblr post.

[elminx]

Energy Update: Full Moon 29° Capricorn, 7/21/24 EDT

Aspects In a Nutshell:

Sun in Leo opposed Moon in Capricorn (assumed, this makes the full moon)

Moon in Capricorn conjunct Pluto in Aquarius 01° off element (<- v big deal)

Sun trine Neptune, Sun opposed Pluto, Moon sextile Neptune

Mercury in Leo square Uranus in Taurus

Venus in Leo sextile Jupiter in Gemini

Mars in Gemini trine Pluto in Aquarius

We won't worry about Venus, Mars, or Neptune here. In the scope of this energy, these are definitely incidentals.

The moon is in Capricorn for the second time in two months - a true astrological Blue Moon. Capricorn is our cardinal earth sign (ruled by Saturn) and, as the sun sign opposite of Cancer (the moon's domicile), is the sign of the Moon's detriment. The ever-changing moon is not at its best in the steady, weighted Capricorn.

Capricorn has been going through it for quite some time, as it has been the home of Pluto (our planet of death and transformation) since 2008. Currently, Pluto is at 00° Aquarius and slowly moving in retrograde back toward Capricorn for one last fated meeting.

That we are getting a second Capricorn full moonthat is in the last degree of Capricorn and so, SO close to Pluto says: now's the time.

Do the thing. Make the change. Let it go. Make a choice.

Capricorn and Saturn force us to show up for ourselves - or not. Consequence may reign supreme this weekend.

I would suggest you show up. Do the thing. I am not a stickler to doing magic on every full moon - at all - but this is one I wouldn't miss unless I was physically unable.

Capricorn is also the natural ruler of the 10th house and by far the horoscope's shrewd businessman (nongendered). Tomorrow is one of the best days of the year to do money magic, ESPECIALLY if it's toward a particular goal. Wanna buy a house? What about making 10,000$ extra next year? Those are well within the purview of a Capricorn moon.

This year has been full of Capricorn energy. We had a Capricorn new moon in January, Capricorn full moons in June and July, and we will see another Capricorn new moon in December.

There's still time to tap into this energy. Six months from now will be a Capricorn new moon - what do you want to have accomplished in six months? Set reasonable goals for yourself and then put one foot before the other until you get there. Celebrate on the new moon once it's done.

Tomorrow also marks the first of three squares between Mercury in Leo and Uranus in Taurus, which is THE big aspect of Mercury's upcoming retrograde cycle. This can be used for creativity of all kinds - Uranus is where we get inspiration and enlightenment. This adds a bit of volatility to the day, though; Mercury is quixotic at best, and Uranus is incredibly unpredictable.

Mercury and Uranus are two sides of the same coin, or at least they are intricately interwoven. Both are volatile enough to not particularly care that they are square with one another - they can work together anyway. Tomorrow is a great day to set intentions around creativity. Maybe to draw 3 days a week or to write for 20 minutes every day. Then, use that Capricorn energy of the moon to make it happen.

The energy is all lined up; we might as well use it.

Do you like my work? You can tip me or commission an astrology report on Kofi.

[fieldghoul]

I happened to read this interview where Alex Ross Perry (co-director of Rite Here Rite Now) was talking about his Videoheaven and Pavements projects, and this quote jumped out at me:

Cinema Scope: There’s a line that keeps popping up in Videoheaven: “The movies talk about themselves.” I like this a lot, and it’s interesting that a filmmaker like Brian De Palma was ahead of the curve in assessing the symbolic or semiotic potency of the video-store space, whereas later on it served mostly as a backdrop for romantic comedies. It was a way to hint that the characters had inner lives, and taste, but rarely to the point where they genuinely talk about movies. It’s like a weird uncanny-valley thing: I remember always wondering what the characters on Friends would say about La Dolce Vita (1961), the poster for which is hanging in Monica’s apartment, or if the version of Die Hard (1988) they rented had actual profanity in it…  Alex Ross Perry: Well, this is something that only people like us would ever think about. If they rent Die Hard on Friends, but then Bruce Willis appears in a later season as Ross’ girlfriend’s father, in this world, is there simply a guy who looks like Willis and has his mannerisms, and so on? And has he ever seen Die Hard? This question is of course made text in Last Action Hero (1993), with the Stallone Terminator 2 (1991) gag. To say nothing of the now well-known and HD-enhanced fact that on Seinfeld, Jerry owns Child’s Play 2 (1991) and Arachnophobia (1990) on VHS, along with Pretty Woman (1990), which stars Jason Alexander…I’m reading too much into all this, but so would a De Palma character. 

(For some broader context -- Videoheaven is an as-yet unreleased documentary about video stores, particularly as they're featured in film.)

But it made me think, it's funny, isn't it -- the VHS tapes in Rite Here Rite Now.

Some of them are vague -- for the two box sets next to the TV, the top one has a logo that was used for Prequelle Exalted version, and the bottom is the logo for either Impera (possibly Phantomime, it's hard to tell which with the color grading in the movie). I don't think anybody has definitively figured out what Ghost In the Trees means, but Haze Over North America Tour 2013 was a real tour that happened, but no audio or video of it was ever released (at least, not in our universe).

On the table, we have one more box set with the If You Have Ghosts logo and art, and we see tapes of the Chapters videos. New Blood, Tax Season and Meanwhile in Dublin, are shown up close, plus Nap Time is on the desk in front of Sister Imperator.

The fact that the Chapters exist on VHS is what's so weird. There's really no way to reconcile the existence of these tapes in the Ghost universe with the way most people would have understood the Chapters up until now. I think the default interpretation of a piece of fiction is that it is true in its own reality -- i.e. in the universe where Cardinal Copia is himself, and not Tobias Forge in a mask, the Chapters are something that actually happened. It's much weirder to see it it as some kind of meta-fiction, where it's a scripted production put together and released by these fictional characters. But Rite Here Rite Now is a movie about Copia and Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil and not the actors that play them - how could the chapters possibly co-exist with the characters in-universe?

I always think that's a fun part of Ghost -- the veil between the universe of Ghost's lore and reality is often so thin. They come out to play in our world in the form of concerts, and it's not quite like meeting Mickey Mouse in Disney World where the costumed character's experiences have no bearing on the canon. The real life shows Ghost performs add to the counter Papa Nihil is keeping for Copia. The accolades that they allude to in the Chapters - the Grammy, the gold certification for Mary On A Cross, TikTok virality - all happen in real life.

For the record, I don't think we're meant to explain the tapes in RHRN, for the record -- my interpretation it is just a nod to what Alex Ross Perry mentioned in the interview. It is impossible to have a fictional storyline that takes place in the real world without running up against paradoxes you create.

Also, allow me to plug my own post, from earlier: besides the VHS I already mentioned, there are two others on the table that are partially obscured and unidentifiable - the one in the GIF above, with the Union Jack on it, and one other in an orange case that appears to say "Australian Tour" (the "tour" part is cut off in this screen cap, but is somewhat visible in the video). I can't tell if there's other text on the VHS cover, or if it's just graphics.

I can't figure out if it's young Nihil on the cover or a stylized version of Papa III -- but either way, Papa Nihil of course never went on an Australian tour in our reality (or, theoretically, in theirs - since, per Metal Myths, Nihil's version of Ghost "immediately disbanded" - not that Ghost is unwilling to retcon things) but neither did Papa III. There were plans for an Australian tour during Meliora era, but they fell through when Soundwave was cancelled in 2016. But I guess it's another point where their reality diverges from ours :-)

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Phoenix

Lavellan x Blackwall

PG-13 - confrontation, implied abuse, fear, guilt, implied torture, (explicit) eye injury, longing, tenderness

The trial to judge her lost love upon her, she must make heavy choices with new eyes...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

"Focus."

She pushed it forward with eyes wide. Fingers held on the taut string. The circle of her spectral sight rushed to the target.

Suddenly, it was as clear as if she had stood within arms reach. Releasing the arrow into the dead center of the ring, far down in the ravine.

"That was 80 yards!" Bull whistled.

She smiled as she lowered the bow, wind whipping her hair. Heir's hand came to her shoulder, making her jump. Her sight still far ahead at the target.

"You are vulnerable while you deal death, shadow. Stay in dark or have another shield your sides."

"Shooting blind." She laughed. Her vision reformed to rest around her and her teacher's face took up shape again within it. Like eyes pulling from the horizon. Not so different, she found.

"Yes, you are twice as deadly and just as susceptible now. Keep mind of yourself. Keep training."

"Thank you, death-guide." She leaned her head into Heir's shoulder, and the assassin's head leaned into her shoulder in turn. A silent Dalish show of great respect.

Learning to wield her blind eyes was invigorating in a way she hadn't anticipated. Just navigating Skyhold was a new journey, using her memory to keep track of the surroundings outside her scope of vision. Her sense of cardinal direction had always been strong from navigating forests, and sound and smell filled out where her vision couldn't extend. Certain of her location by the sound of revelry at Herald's Rest and the smell of hay from the stables.

The stables...

She couldn't bring herself to go where he had been yet. Certain that the scent of him soaked in every fur would overwhelm her.

"Hey, Sunshine." Varric's voice. "Josephine sent me."

She stepped towards the sound and his ghostly visage took up again.

"Ah, sorry. Forgot you couldn't see me." He stepped a little closer apologetically.

"We're all getting used to it." She smiled.

"The distance..." He remarked thoughtfully. "Hold on. Say when."

She held still, watching him until he dissipated from her vision after several backward steps.

"There. You're gone."

"Interesting. That's about nine tall paces. But it extends in a circle, right?"

She nodded, and Varric slipped behind her back. He held up his fingers.

"Two. One. Three." She recited.

"Hot damn." He laughed.

"Advantages and disadvantages." She agreed.

"And it works in the dark?" He pulled a messy journal from his belt.

"It does. Am I going to get a rough draft?" She teased.

"Shit, you really can see me." He laughed.

"You were here with something?" She reminded, turning towards him if only to be polite.

"Oh! Right..." His face fell. "He's here."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes heavily as she released it.

"Want to walk me back?"

"I'd love to." He smiled, offering his shoulder to her palm.

Quiet reverent chatter rose in her wake. A few whispers behind hands. A new title had cropped up: The Blinded Light. At least they weren't calling her Herald as much.

"I have to know..." He led as they walked.

She smiled ruefully at him.

"Brown. Like a warm brick home."

Varric placed his hand under his heart where the color of him radiated invisible to his eyes. Giving a permissive little smile.

"Damn, I was hoping for red."

-

Sitting on the throne would never stop feeling unnatural. Made even more uncomfortable by the circumstances she was about to face.

As soon as the great door groaned opened, she stood again. Searching the ground for where his form was about to take up. The shift of feet and clank of chains made her heart ache.

Josephine's eyes were steady on her in sympathy. Stepping forward to announce the trial.

"For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainer..."

He finally appeared in front of her. Head bowed and led forward by two guards.

She pressed her palm to the hollow between her ribs. An old self soothing she had carried since childhood. Stifling a shaken breath.

"Formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall."

The guards shoved him at the base of the steps. The same steps he had led her down from countless times.

His eyes held down.

"His crimes..." Josephine gave her another look of soft apology. "Well, you are aware of his crimes."

"The decision of what to do with him is yours."

"Thank you, Josephine."

She nodded, and stepped out of her sight again.

There was a whole gathered party of those who attended to watch his trial.

But in her eyes, in her world, it was just them alone.

Two people who had loved each other so dearly. Now stood on the precipice of opposite cliff edges.

She stepped down to the ledge of the stairs. Staring at the fine shifting sand of his face. How different, but wholly the same he was in this light.

"I hate this." Her eyes watered behind the blindfold. How badly she wanted to touch him.

"You should've left me. I was ready." The growl of his voice both soothed and spiked ache in her heart.

"Your hands are dirtied now. You're a criminal like me." He accused darkly, finally looking up at her. His brows briefly creased in confusion at her missing vallasin.

"Do not speak to her that way." Josephine commanded. The cold poison of the tone sent a shiver up her spine. "I ordered your retrieval. Her hands are clean, and I'd remind you of the condition she was put in to delegate that power to me in the first place."

His eyes fell in shame. Speaking to the ground again. "Apologies, lady ambassador."

"Don't apologize to me." She led as she stepped back again.

"Vella..." He looked up at her.

The mournful call almost crumpled her heart.

"That is not my name. It..."

They couldn't speak truly to one another here, and she refused to be false with him.

"It hurts too much to use." She hushed in Elvhen.

He shook his head, his brow furrowed in despair.

"Why am I being spared?" His eyes met hers with incidiary guilt again. "What becomes of me now?"

This was the easy part.

There was no other way her heart could lean.

"You're free."

"It cannot be that simple." His eyes lowered again, shaking his head in anger.

"It isn't. You can atone as the man you are, the man you've been to me, and nothing less. I will not permit you to fall into your own lie in my stead. I was true to you the entire way, and I ask you to be true to yourself now."

"You would accept that?" His eyes narrowed in soft disbelief, still skirting her gaze. The sight he thought she perceived him with far different to the one she wielded now.

"And what I used to be?" He finally met her shielded gaze fully.

He stepped up the first few steps with tentative hope.

"I lied to you about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt."

How she already missed the slight blue in his eyes. She tried to hold the color in memory, to still see it inside the steel of his tender gaze.

"You have always carried my heart. I leave it in your hands now." His voice gave the slightest shake.

She stared down the cliff face. Pebbles skittered under her feet.

How easy it would be to jump. To fall to the death of it. All their pain choked love left a dignified death. Shattered on the sorrow slicked rocks far below.

It would be the most honest way. To sever the cord of their tangle. A clean cut. Free to lick their wounds in the privacy of their own strife. So much had been shattered already. It would be kind to let the rest topple over the edge.

Her hand pressed hard to her ribs. The vertigo swimming in her belly.

She stepped back from the edge.

"I want to walk with you again. I want to know you. To be with you. But it's going to take time for me to trust you again. Would you wait with me?"

"I would wait until time ended." He hushed.

His eyes fell once more. "But I don't know how to be with you as Thom Rainier."

She stepped down to him. Pulling the blindfold from her eyes.

His breath stilled. Staring at the blinded cloud of her eyes in despondent shock.

"I will have you as you are. But if you ever. Ever. Come to me with violence like that again..."

Her eyes narrowed in certainty. Letting her venomous words ring true.

"I refuse to live in fear of an angry man in my home. Not ever again. I will slit your throat first. Understood?"

He nodded. Guilt tight in his shoulders.

"Okay." She whispered. Cupping his cheek in her palm.

"We'll take it one step at a time." She sighed.

He leaned into her hand with tightly closed eyes. Rising a chained hand to cup her forearm.

She rose on tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on his lips. He pressed into her kiss with renewed passion. The weight of it profound against her tender touch.

He stepped back quickly, seeming to remember their agreement. Staring up at her blind eyes as gratitude and deep sorrow danced in equal parts behind his gaze. Giving her a little toss of the head as he retreated that pulled a small smile from her.

Bowing his head one last time, he turned from her. Shoulders heavy with his own burdens. Stepping into the world beyond her.

-

"This is an eluvian."

She stepped forward, staring up at the expanse of swirling glass. A glowing iridescent river trapped in a deceptively flat plane.

"I heard you've taken up the moniker 'Vella' again?" Morrigan crossed her arms, staring at her wonder with appreciation.

"It's easier for the others." She rose a flat palm to hover just outside of the sliding color. "It doesn't hurt like it used to, anyway."

"I can see the color of it." Vella sighed. "It's powerful magic, isn't it?"

"Correct." Morrigan smiled. "An artifact stolen from your people long before their empire was lost to human greed."

"I can feel it." Vella smiled. Smoothing a hand over the frame. A pleasant tingle in her palm.

"I thought you might. Though you've diverted the full power of your gift, the Pantheon still favors you."

"I suppose I should be patroned by Ghilan'nain now." She sighed. How weary she was to the meddling of gods. "Solas has implied as much."

"Ah, yes. I've heard you've been traversing thine dreams with the apostate. He is correct, the blind goddess of navigation is more suited to your circumstances. But elven gods have never given up their mortal holds graciously."

"They've started wars over far less." Vella agreed.

"It is so refreshing to speak to the educated. Come. Let us travel."

Morrigan's hands wound back and pushed forward. Beckoning the mirror open with a gust of heavily laced wind.

"It's a portal!" Vella smiled wide.

Morrigan smiled slyly, stepping through. Disappearing behind a ripple of indigo water.

That drop in her belly that moving between rifts pulled as Vella stepped through. She had heard of veil jumpers long ago and wondered how they could stomach it so often.

"Ah!" She shielded her eyes as the plane filled fully around her.

"You can see here..." Morrigan led, curiosity tinged in her words.

"It's like this in dreams too." Vella blinked rapidly, letting her hand fall. "All color and horizons again."

"Fascinating. And still no call of Dirthamen?"

"No. But I think if I stayed too long, he would fill me again." She marveled at the misty stretching scenery. "It's kind of beautiful here."

"I agree." Morrigan looked out at the standing sea of dead mirrors. Guarded by bare antler branched trees.

"If this place once had a name, it has long been lost." Morrigan smiled slyly at her again. "How familiar."

"I'm going to miss you, when you move on." Vella smiled.

"I may miss you too." Morrigan sighed with aggravated endearment.

Vella stepped forward, holding out her arms to let the mist comb through the dance of her fingers. Places like this always felt familiar. Something achingly close to a home, though she could never place why.

"This is a place I call the Crossroads. A between of realms, a nexus of traveling. It is an unnatural place, but you seem to find it agreeable."

"I'd like to stay for a while. Is it safe to visit on my own?" Vella looked over her shoulder at Morrigan's smile of soft disbelief.

"Does your lineage have a history of traveling?"

"My father's side all died quite young from madness. I know little of my mother's side. Father refused to speak of her in his grief. But I still carry her silver with me."

Morrigan looked her up and down, clearly questioning her lack of jewelry.

Vella extended her tongue, giving a cheeky smile around it.

"Oh the Chantry despised you, didn't they?" Morrigan laughed.

"They made the wound, but I got to close it." Vella offered easily, a sparkle of mischief in her voice.

"My father said once that I took after her. Maybe she did know of traveling. Gods, what I wouldn't have given for a place like this when I was in the wilds. Years it would've saved me."

"But I imagine your journey made you much more capable. The wilds have a knack for that." Her voice confident in experience.

"I never would've become a rogue." Vella agreed. "I wouldn't have learned the harsh of winter, how to hunt, how to fall into shadow. How to kill with mercy or malice."

"But we're here for a reason." Vella waved her hand affably. "I've taken us off trail. Please, go on."

"Well, to answer your question, I am uncertain if you should linger here alone. Though, perhaps someone familiar as you seem to be could safely do so. And yet, Corypheus seeks to wield this place to reach the Fade in the flesh. To tear down the ancient barriers."

"Of course." Vella sighed. "Warping Elven artifacts for personal gain is a favorite past-time of Magisters."

"Naturally." Morrigan smiled, beckoning her back to the swirling mirror. "Desperate men make easier prey, sister. And you've made Corypheus quite so. I shall enjoy working together when you are prepared."

Morrigan stepped through, striding with confidence.

Vella paused in her momentary isolation.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out a fox cry to seek kin.

It echoed far into the mist. Almost seeming to double back to her.

She smiled wide and stepped back into her world of greys once more.

-

The stone of guilt in his belly was so heavy that it should've pulled him through the earth. That he could move at all was an affront.

The eyes that followed his trail to the turret cut into his skin with deserved slashes. Skyhold, in its entire, was against him now. Not only for what he had been, what he had done, his past fair incentive to distrust him. But the added injury of what he had put her through. Their people's adoration of her made the torment he had unleashed upon her personal.

He had tried to approach Cullen, if just to thank him. If he hadn't been there... If he hadn't arrived when he did...

But the man reviled him in such a way that he commanded him from his office. Only giving one rage tight sentence in his dismissal.

"What you did to her is unforgivable, pray to the Maker that you can atone."

His nightmares had been taken up only by that terrible moment. Playing over and over with worse outcomes.

Just the fear in her eyes when he had tried to scare her away was enough to ache in his heart for eternity. The way she had scattered back, raising her forearm to shield from the ghost of a strike. He had nearly fallen to knees to apologize, to beg the terror of him from her eyes.

But then she had been forced up high onto the tips of knees, eyes so terribly wide in silver. Seeing beyond with her lips fallen slack, face wrenched up to the damp ceiling.

Then she started screaming.

The sound reverberated in his nightmares. When she started begging in the words of his victims. Grasping at her throat for a noose that had long since rotted away.

With the terror of dawning horror, he understood.

She was not only seeing it. The dog. The Calliers.

She was experiencing it.

He had been utterly helpless behind bars. To shout for her. To beg for her. To not take the pain that he had caused. Not her. Please, not her. Shouting to the Maker for it all to stop. To stop it in the way he hadn't then.

When she had pulled her dagger from her side, he began slamming his shoulder into the door. Begging her to stop. Calling for her again and again as his body crashed into iron. Unable to keep the blade from her.

He couldn't help. He couldn't even reach her. Not in body or words. He had to watch through repeated blows of his shoulder as the blade entered her cheekbone. Blood spilling river down her chest. Dragging up. Splitting the lower of her eyelid.

Then Cullen had sprinted to her. Knocking the blade away. Catching her just as her mind finally gave. Blood pouring from her eye, her nose, the hollow of her ear. Cupping the back of her head just as it was about to crack into the stone floor. Gathering her tightly seized body to his chest. Kneeled in the aftermath of his crimes.

That replayed behind his lids every time he fell to sleep with new, more terrible ends. Where Cullen hadn't arrived. Where she hadn't screamed loud enough. Where he was forced to watch the whole way.

He had taken up her habit of pacing to keep from sleep. Looping small circles in his cell all night like a kenneled mongrel. The guards preferred his circling to the scream of his night terrors anyway.

Of everything he deserved, he couldn't accept forgiveness, not this soon. He was grateful that she hadn't accepted him back with fully open arms. That she had chosen to keep some distance. It allowed him to grieve everything that had happened in his stead without her consoling.

He didn't know if he could take her trying to comfort him. Not after everything. Not with the stitches still under her clouded eyes. Not with the badge of failure of the mottled purple bruise of his shoulder.

The only people who treated him with any level of familiarity were Cole, and, shockingly, Solas.

When he saw her bare face... Maker, her eyes...

That man always knew well beyond his means, and this had been no exception.

He had to know.

His heart begged for some reprieve, but he had to. He had cornered him in a high turret a night before, now he returned to receive the end of his retelling.

Solas seemed all too keen to fill him in on the dire changes in his absence. Reciting in great detail the silent despair that had taken her. The hollow pain in her eyes and her choice to blind them forever.

He realized that Solas was enjoying giving him this recounting. A malicious satisfaction behind the easy canter of his words. Watching his heart fall further and further into the earth. Finding pleasure in his deserved anguish.

"Her sight is only a shadowed circle now." Solas leaned back in the crook of the stone window. "Seeing only within her vicinity."

He gave a permissive sigh. Finally relenting the gratification of his torment.

"But she is far better off now. Her mind is her own. She can sleep."

His eyes glittered in delight.

"Better yet; she can dream."

"What?" Thom's heart lifted with the rise of his bowed head.

"We have been traveling together. Her dreams are sprawling and beautiful. Beheld with the wonder and imagination of a child. She is an excellent dreamer. I have treasured walking alongside her."

"And her god has no hold? She can't be taken over again?" The desperate plea of his voice strangled under the hopeful lump in his throat.

"Correct. His influence was once a mad sprint across her mind. Now, it is tamed to a crawl. To attend to the constant of her sight, it exhausts. Pulls it paper thin. Dirthamen was never a steady presence. More suited to bursts. It is an unnatural strain for his power to attend so dutifully."

Solas sighed again. Looking out over the forest far below.

"I'm loathe to admit, but your torment of her seemed to align with the best outcome. It came with a heavy cost, like all worthwhile endeavors. But her life should extend much farther towards the horizon now."

Thom looked at him in dawning cold.

"She didn't tell you?" Solas' eyes met his again. "Ah, I guess there's no harm now."

"Before..." He waved his hand. "All this, she had a handful of years left. A little less each time she attuned."

He looked down at the forest again. His eyes soft on the treeline.

"It's understandable that she kept that close to her chest. It's a terrible thing. Knowing."

Thom rushed him, overcome with gratitude. Gathering the miserable little man in a tight hug.

"That's quite enough of that." The clip of his voice almost made him laugh. Pulling away with wet eyes.

"Why are you up here anyway?" He allowed his voice to fill gruff again. Adjusting his tone back to stalwart.

Solas smiled. "Seeking frivolous comforts."

Thom stared lost at him, but Solas held up his hand in a bid to wait.

They both stared down, waiting for something Thom was unsure he wanted to indulge.

"There she is." Solas whispered. An uncharacteristically sweet smile pulled his lips.

Then Thom heard it. The haunting high call of her singing. Risen up through trees.

At first just sweeping notes, her voice trembling tenderly with disuse. But then it moved into melody. An Elvhen song he didn't recognize, near a lullaby, but more mournful.

But Solas recognized it.

His brow creased as his eyes fell closed.

"Oh..." His voice fell tender.

She rose it in cresting cries. A song about a lonely wolf, calling for lost family.

Wolf brother

You're adrift, shape that shifts

Spirit strong, child of sorrow

But there was only you

And your haunted joy borrowed

Solas pressed his hand to his chest. Letting his head fall forward.

There was still no echo to howl

Despite the cold ground you cover

Wolf of sorrow, can you hear my call

Can you feel my warm bite, my growl

Listen now and alone do not suffer

Aho-

At the final word, she rose it high, sustaining the note. A plaintive imitation of a howl.

She rang it in the air until wolves from far in the forest joined her. Howling harmony into her song.

She held it for a moment longer, then released it in one bright laugh. Delighted to have successfully called her choir as the howls echoed in her absence.

"She..." Solas' voice was overcome. Staring down with his hand still pressed hard.

He shook his head. Letting out a tight breath.

"Be good to her."

-

Vella rocketed up from sleep. Gasping out with her hand tight to her chest. Heart racing under her palm.

"Fenedhis lasa..." She cursed, looking around the grey of her tent.

Getting her bearings back from dreaming was still extremely disorienting. And with Solas electing to stay back from their expedition, she was walking alone tonight.

What a terrible time to have her first nightmare.

Thom... Blackwall?...had taken up the place of her father. Shouting down at her. Enraged that she had returned from the forest. That she had survived the cold he had left her in. A cruel half memory.

She gathered the kicked away blankets, shrouding them around her shaken shoulders. Risen to feet, padding out into the chill of night. Skirting around the low fire, headed to the far corner of camp.

His tent appeared on the edge of her vision.

"Hey..." She murmured, crawling inside. "Are you awake?"

"Are you alright?" The warm growl of his voice was a perfect balm. Risen onto elbows in alarm.

"Not really." She sighed, drawing nearer on knees. He reached in the dark for her, but withdrew his hand after a moment. A mournful crease in his brow.

"Nightmares are pretty awful, huh?" She pulled her knees tight to her chest.

"Yeah, they are." He murmured.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He offered after a moment.

She shook her head, then remembered he couldn't see her. But the message seemed to translate anyway.

But he knew she could see him, even though he was blind in the dark. He held his arms open in offering.

She let out a shaky breath, and shuffled forward. Falling into his arms in a soft slump. Tightly closing her eyes in the warm expanse of his embrace, her arms folded between them.

"I missed you." She sniffled, pressing her face into his chest.

His arms wound tight around her. Pressing his face into the crown of her head as he breathed in deep. He seemed about to say something, but shook his head. Only pulling her closer.

After a long moment, she pulled back and finally allowed herself to find it.

Her fingers probed the space under his heart. Focusing to see it. His breath held in anticipation.

"Of course." She smiled. Tracing her fingers around the glow. "Emerald. The forest."

His hand pressed over hers. Looking down at her with everything within a kiss.

"Could we lay down?" She sighed.

"Of course." He whispered, pulling her back with him.

"Maker, you're freezing. Come here, darling."

He pulled a thick blanket over them. Wrapping around her back, his body the warmest shield. Once again, she found him all around her. His shape became her shape. Their bodies melded in a rhyming song of comfort.

"I've been meaning to ask..."

"Hmm?" He murmured, settling his arm around her belly.

"What should I call you?" She whispered. "Gods, it's weird to be on the other side of that question."

He chuckled quietly, kissing her shoulder.

"I've been thinking about it. I think Blackwall. It's become more of a title. But..." He kissed the point of her ear. The rumble of his voice filled the well. "Could you keep calling me bear?"

"Hmm..." She smiled. "Only if you call me dove."

"I missed you." He sighed, voice thick with sorrow. "So much, dove. I'm so sorry... for everything."

"I know." She whispered. "Get some sleep, bear."

He settled into the soft of her neck. Letting out a great sigh of contentment. Wrapped in a protective curl around her, drifting off into deep, even breathed sleep.

~

Next Chapter

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

A little bit of spice a little bit of upgraduating s upgrade you upgrade you I'm gonna upgrade you as Beyonce said every Virgo did you know Beyoncé the Virgo? Yeah Beyonce's Virgo you know you start one yeah and Jay Z's Sagittarius girl Virgo Virgo Virgo one of my favorite signs of all I love your sense of humour I love the way you see the world for a different Collider scope I love the way that you can be very family orientated I love it that you can be so adaptable in a virgo's mine Jesus fit sweet innocent viral victim but in reality sorry girls you are not mostly cheated on I'm sorry guys women and that doesn't make you bad it makes you whatever it is or not to that side of you I'd be that victim side of you the Virgin side of you that you had enough of and you just want to escape because the thing with Virgo is is a caught straight off the path for too long that wasn't the game they were put here for they were put here to achieve their course they have to that's who they are but you also gotta remember them mutable sign and the mutable signs on it's reliable as the other two we know six and Cardinals they innocently but they don't want to be Trust they don't want to feel like they're not in control right that's I and they have to be the one who in control of that life which I totally get I totally get that people. Rule by Mercury you just absolutely love to learn learning is almost a form of sexuality to you learning about someone else is another form of sexuality to you you really want to get in there I know everything about everyone and be a human lie detector, which you can be you have that ability and you have the ability to put people at ease even if you do look put your nose down upon them don't think the people don't notice outside of you because we do we really do and like I said just own up to us to make you who you are completely honest with who they are comfortable and anyway if you're being criticized for a burger remember their friends sizing themselves and she wanted to play schools all the time and it was really fun and she similar trials you are too I want every girl that's why I always use Guardians here strong and know who they are

.

You are the big sister that nobody had you are the big sister that people did have you are that sister who protects and it's like a lioness more than the Leo you're here to pick up the mess who's here to pick up yours? Anyway Virgo women your God's gift your own angel crafted never forget that when I praise these Praise You Praise You. Now let's give some examples of famous virgos or Virgo placements first Jennifer Coolidge the ultimate MILF Who, ironically can't have kids full stop then we have another iconic Jennifer Tilly look her up kids if you're too young she plays Bonnie's voice in family honestly your job prospects are endless you could be a voice actress you could be an actress, you could be a singer you could be a reader you could be someone who teaches people, you love to read and learn more about different events likes to Scorpio which is a sex tile to your sign you can learn way too much about other people without them even knowing you know all these stuff about them that's why I had so big it's full of this is what I believe in you virgos. Some more famous here are your people who are famous virgos Zendaya, Cameron Diaz, beyonce ,Keke palmer,

Blake lively all powerful female forces ...I love girl power. .....

Now I'm going to give you some characters in programs who I get feel give strong Virgo energy Bernadette from The Big Bang theory , debbie Gallagher uk ,finally Gallagher us , monica in friends .keep giving us your light virgo .and know that the sky in the limit . The last picture on the slide is you when nobody is looking haha. Xxxxx

[boopiddyboop]

Bang Chan Natal Chart Reading

Hello and welcome to my first individual chart reading on this blog. While I read charts (especially of K-Pop artists) mostly for fun, I wanted to try something a little more involved in scope. I rotated between candidates for the first victim, but ultimately I landed on Bang Chan (who may or may not be my ult bias? More on that later). I have hopes to do other idols whose birth times are confirmed as well, if there’s any interest in reading more. Or even if there’s not. Honestly, this entire blog is pretty self-indulgent.

Full Disclaimer: Most of my knowledge is by traditional astrology, which involves but is not limited to: using whole signs, excluding Uranus-Pluto for natal charts, different sign rulers, and different planetary interpretations.  Astrology is subjective by nature; I do not think my way is best, simply that this is the version of interpretation that makes the most sense to me. This is not a professional service, simply a hobby meant for entertainment purposes only.  Feel free to disagree with or question my conclusions.

Now, with that out of the way, let’s get into the meat of it:

Placements:

Sun: Libra - 5th house

Moon: Libra - 5th house

Mercury: Libra - 5th house

Venus: Scorpio - 6th house

Mars: Sagittarius - 7th house

Jupiter: Aquarius - 9th house

Saturn: Aries - 11th house

Ascendant: Gemini

Midheaven: Aquarius - 9th House

North Node: Virgo - 4th House

Starting from the top, Bang Chan’s chart ruler in Mercury in Libra, which presides over his Gemini Rising. Sun and Moon are also in Libra. What does it all mean? Well, for one, Libra is one of the two signs ruled by Venus (the other being Taurus). Typically speaking, Libra is an incredibly artistic sign, looking for beauty in the world. It seeks to be fair and just, which can lean into being indecisive at worst. It’s no wonder that Libra is touching every part of Chan’s big 3. Who he is, how he feels, and how he communicates, all in Libra- between that and his 10th house in Pisces, another incredibly artistic placement, I have little shock that he ended up in music. It just suits him so well. With all that Libra energy sitting in the 5th house, a benefic house and the ruler of fun and pleasure, he’s very charming. Someone who comes off as a friend almost immediately. Magnetic, even.

Chan’s Libra 5th house is ruled by a Venus in Scorpio. As I mentioned in my previous blurb about Stray Kids’ charts, without that Scorpionic influence, I think Chan would simply float away with his ambitions (Libra, as a Cardinal sign, is very idea oriented and less execution).. Instead, Scorpio adds a lot of the emotion and ambition needed to make them a reality. Scorpio Venus, ruled by the malefic Mars, gets misinterpreted both positively and negatively, but I do think that its influence in his chart is largely helpful. With it being placed in the 6th house, the house of work and health, it's giving caretaker vibes. Acts of Service as a love language type. 

Moving on to the seventh house, Chan has a Mars in Sagittarius that is…interesting. Mars, the sign of energy and fight, is sitting in the house of long term relationships and opposite of self. Mars in Sagittarius is actually a decent placement because that fire sign is helping his Mars work as intended, but sitting in the seventh house, this points to potentially being hasty in relationships. Also, may enjoy dynamics with a little bite to them. I’m reminded of the clip of Chan, specifically.

So the 9th house is the house of other cultures, right? It’s little surprise that Chan has both his Midheaven and Jupiter sitting here in Aquarius. Success, expansion and public exposure in foreign cultures. Groundbreaking interpretation, I know. Though, when it comes to Chan, I wonder what one would consider the foreign culture? Ethnically Korean, raised in Australia, professionally working back in Korea. Which one to consider home? With his North Node sitting in the 4th house, the house of home, I think this is a question he has asked and may continue to ask across his life. 

Finally, I’ll make my final observations on his Aries Saturn in the 11th house. Saturn in Aries havers (1996-1999ish)  tend to have extreme irritation and constriction in their life wherever this is placed, if not balanced out. Unfortunately, the major aspect to this placement is its opposition to his Libra Sun. It seems like a war between the self and the dreams. The fun and the vision. I don’t think it’s a reach to say that he definitely experienced this dynamic in his predebut years, but that’s the fun of doing celebrity chart readings- you have a lot of source material to work with in confirming your biases.

All in all, I do really like Chan’s chart! He’s not without his struggles, but I think a lot of the energy is cohesive. As an aside, my personal chart is so incredibly similar but trine to his (Air/Fire dominant, with a smattering of water influence to tame that), that it's no surprise that I was immediately drawn to him. I love seeing astrologically how we tend to pick biases that either sync or balance with our energy.

Questions, comments, or requests can all go here

[sforzesco]

Hey Cardinal, you ve talked a little bit about Crassus tending to open his house to all levels of society and his treatment of his domestic staff and slaves, and I would love to hear more of your thoughts about it?

OH BOY. Okay. So I had to think about this one for two months, because the first attempt to answer this resulted in about ten pages of writing and that’s. arguably too much. I’ve attempted to condense my thoughts down here as much as possible, but. we’ll see how it goes! somehow this is still over a thousand words!

Gonna start this off by tacking this at the top of it.

The Cambridge World History of Slavery, Volume 1: The Ancient Mediterranean World, ed. Keith Bradley and Paul Cartledge

To follow that up though, there was no cohesive slave identity shared across the broad scope of people who were slaves in ancient rome, because the lived experiences of each group (agricultural, domestic, freedmen/women, gladiatorial, etc) were so different (for example, freedmen could go on to own slaves themselves, slaves in the mines and working in rural agricultural conditions were the least likely to have a shot at gaining freedom because that would be a loss of income for the roman that owned them, etc) that to associate it all as a uniform identity-experience is also Not Good.

(ibid)

ANYWAY. So my focus on Crassus here has three sides to it.

for the sake of simplicity, we will be using The Cambridge World History of Slavery, Volume 1: The Ancient Mediterranean World, ed. Keith Bradley and Paul Cartledge (unless otherwise cited), at the end, I'll tack on some other reading outside of the body of text that I've written.

The most immediate side is that I’m interested in the lives of slaves in the Late Republic, but in a broader scope than the handful of individuals who have historical prominence, you know? Slaves and freedmen occupied a unique social space in the Late Republic, and had a political-social prominence, and I’m curious about which politicians recognized them as a block worth paying attention to. I want to see what they have to say in the absence of a voice.

you can see that the potential social flexibility of the slave was a problem for the Augustan Age/Early Empire by laws that were passed to curtail this, which in turns says something about their role in Late Republic life and society.

So, slaves are an extension of the house they belong to, which is a deeply simplified understanding of all of this so bear with me a little! There’s a social contract, so to speak, that when granted freedom, the (now) freedman has a patron-client relationship with his former owner, who has an obligation to maintain this dynamic.

Freed Slaves and Roman Imperial Culture, Rose MacLean

ALRIGHT. We’re getting to the point where this involves Crassus, hang on.

So Crassus in Plutarch’s bio sounds off that he’s got a lot of slaves, and a lot of mines, but the ones of most value are his slaves in Rome specifically, because they were trained (some personally, by Crassus himself) and skilled in high demand areas, and were sought after. Aside from the obvious, the part that strikes me as interesting is that this is not. an insignificant number. Plutarch says five hundred. That’s a recognizable amount of people in Rome who have a certain amount of social flexibility (the slaves of upper class or political heavy weights had less in common with the urban poor, and frequently interact with other houses of political influence) and all of those people are attached to Crassus.

This would extend even further to any of them who gained their freedom, because that would continue over into a patron-client relationship, and those five hundred slaves mentioned by Plutarch are all in a group that are the most likely to have a chance at buying their freedom. Whether or not this was the case is a huge Who Knows! because Plutarch skips over huge chunks of Crassus' life to get to the political machinations of conspiracy.

Less abstractly and more straightforwardly: Crassus and Clodius were well aware of the political-violence potential of slaves

Roman Freedmen in the Late Republic, Susan Treggiari

This contrasts heavily against, say, Pompey, who has several named slaves/freedmen in his biography that indicate levels of a personal relationship or friendship (we cannot use the mentions of individuals in Pompey's biography to assume that he was inclined to giving his own slaves freedom), and Caesar himself seems to have been even more insular than Pompey in this.

Roman Freedmen in the Late Republic, Susan Treggiari

There’s an underlying thing happening, though, later in Pompey’s life: Pompey (and Caesar) later rival Crassus in terms of wealth, but the difference has to do with location, land distribution, and slaves. Crassus seems to have most of his wealth concentrated in or near Rome (slaves, architecture, renting properties, the fire brigade, etc) with less of a focus on agriculture-mines for an income and more on. this. I'm still going through a couple of books for more on this vague train of thought, but its. something to think about.

Roman Freedmen in the Late Republic, Susan Treggiari

Pompey and Caesar seemed to follow the trend the rest of their military-senatorial contemopraries were following, which. would have inadvertently led to a worsening economic disparity in Rome (the urban poor + displaced farmers being driven off their land and forced to go to Rome for work because the influx of slaves from military conquests was a source of income that slave owners would have hated to give up)

there’s. some kind of additional thought in here about the crucifixion of the six thousand as a display of power and a threat to anyone else who was thinking of revolting against rome. Crassus seemed to have forgone the idea of taking anyone after the battle as a slave and opted for total annihilation, which falls in line with how he could be a ruthless motherfucker when it came to establishing order and did not apparently view this as an economic opportunity.

which moves on to my second thing about Crassus, I think that part of why he had his house open to people across different social classes and wasn’t prone to lavish displays of whatever had to do with how he grew up. I also think that it ties back to Crassus honing in on groups of people and realizing that they had political importance in some way. Plutarch’s bio makes note that he spent time advocating on behalf of anyone who needed it, even on cases that Caesar wouldn’t touch. That is an absolutely KILLER way to build up your reputation in a way where you would not necessarily need to traditionally align yourself with either of the two major political parties, and would lend you a lot of good will with groups of people who are not given voices in historical accounts. An absence of voice does not mean an absence of body!

Which ties into the third thing, Crassus occupies a third space in politics. Crassus specifically appears to drift around without much harm done to his reputation where it counts (Cicero gives him shit for it, but he still managed to get out of several sticky situations mostly unscathed) (Crassus’ appearances in other biographies indicate someone who is not firmly aligned one way or another politically as well, which is fascinating for other reasons).

I think generally, Crassus had his finger to the pulse of the many beating hearts of Rome's groups and understood on some level, the potential power of each one.

Those are my thoughts! also I’m going back in time to the Augustan Age and putting thumbtacks into all of Octavian’s shoes!

ADDITIONAL READING

Freed Slaves and Roman Imperial Culture, Rose MacLean

Roman Freedmen in the Late Republic, Susan Treggiari

The Cambridge World History of Slavery, Volume 1: The Ancient Mediterranean World, ed. Keith Bradley and Paul Cartledge

my point of contention with the last one is that Crassus didn't go on enough military campaigns to rival the other men in this group for it to be an even comparison, especially since he had an opportunity with the Spartacus Revolt and executed six thousand people instead.

[sonic-elements]

Resistance Members

I will admit that as a Sonic fan i will admit that sonic Forces may have its flaws (Don't @ me) but i do love the Avater mechanic, and i decided draw all the ones i made myself in my own style.

Dogs (Sleuth The Hound & Jovial The Poodle)

Wolves (Risk The Timber wolf & Kay-9 The Wolf)

Hedgehogs (Hip the Hedgehog & Adept The Hedgehog)

Cats (Veil The Panther & Vogue The Cat)

Birds (Scope The Cardinal & Glide The Canary)

Rabbits (Wary The Rabbit & Skit The Rabbit)

Bears (Clunker The Bear & Fray The Bear)

just for some fun ^w^ hope you like them.

[intrigd-voyagr]

he's been out for 1 hour. scoping in various cardinal directions

[rhetoricandlogic]

Blood & Beauty: The Borgias; A Novel

A novel takes another look at the Borgias.

Renaissance popes are famous less for their piety than for their political machinations and opulent monuments. A prime example is Rodrigo Borgia, who became Pope Alexander VI in 1492. He and his two most famous children, Lucrezia and Cesare, are the focus of Sarah Dunant’s new novel, Blood & Beauty. Pope Alexander wants to establish dominion over a large area of Italy and wield that power through his children. Although he does not neglect the arts, his family is his favored monument. In addition to Lucrezia and Cesare, he has other children whom he maneuvers into advantageous marriages. Like the paterfamilias of ancient Rome, the Spanish Rodrigo Borgia exercises absolute power over his children, forcing Cesare into the church, for which he is ill-suited; marrying off his 12-year-old son, Jofré, to ensure an alliance; and requiring Lucrezia to perjure herself in order to obtain an annulment because her marriage ceased to benefit him.

As soon as Rodrigo becomes pope, he moves his household to a convenient distance from the papal apartments. And what a household it is! The pope’s distant cousin, Adriana de Mila, presides, since Rodrigo has removed his children from their mother’s home some years ago. By now, the two older sons are not often home — Cesare is in Siena, presumably studying, and Juan, the pope’s self-indulgent, undisciplined favorite, is out in the streets carrying on. In addition to the two younger children, 13-year-old Lucrezia and her younger brother, Jofré, there is Giulia Farnese, the pope’s 18-year-old mistress who is the daughter-in-law of Adriana de Mila. A dysfunctional family? Oh no — it is functioning pretty much as Rodrigo Borgia wishes.

Dunant is ambitious in the scope of her novel, into which, although it spans a decade, she crams a substantial amount of historical detail. Alliances are fleeting and relationships are complicated. Even a reader who is familiar with the period can get bogged down in the details. One has a choice of ignoring all the convoluted genealogies and military ups and downs and just getting on with the story, or diligently attempting to sort things out with the help of the abbreviated genealogical table and map provided, which, of course, interrupts the flow.

Readers who grew up with the image of Lucrezia Borgia as an infamous poisoner, the human embodiment of a black widow, and have not kept up with revisionist historians, will make the acquaintance of a very different person in Dunant’s novel: a genuinely pious young woman whose filial duty requires her to act against her nature. Dunant dismisses rumors of Lucrezia’s licentiousness as slander — her heroine is inclined to virtue and compassion and is forced from that path only by duty to her family. We see her grow from a precocious 13-year-old to a young woman who is determined to make a life for herself away from her father.

Brother Cesare does not get the same sympathetic treatment from the author — he is presented as a ruthless, brilliant schemer, a man who loves his sister, perhaps all too well, but whose political ambitions always take precedence over her happiness. Dunant seems a bit conflicted about whether father Rodrigo is quite as bad as appearances show him. A fat old man (and here, the author is quite specific about his unattractive appearance) and wiser than his impetuous son, he is inclined to attempt diplomacy before resorting to force. Dunant is not quite clear about how mistress Giulia feels about the lover who is old enough to be her grandfather and who keeps her from seeing her husband. Sometimes she is content and sometimes not, but the author does not spend much time letting the reader know what is in Giulia’s mind  — the secondary characters in this novel are not well-developed.

Dunant is at her best when she sets the scene of the action, painting a vivid picture of crowded rooms occupied by sweating cardinals, showing the family together at the table, or Cesare ingratiating himself with his guards while he spies on them to garner information for future action. Her narration has a suitably cynical tone, and she can turn a phrase deftly, although occasionally it seems as if she has tried too hard to do so. To the dismay of grammar mavens, the author considers the subjunctive mood of the English language defunct, providing the phrase “as if he was dancing” to set their teeth on edge. Names are spelled one way on one page, a different way on another, and some are wrong entirely. The blind eye of the former Duke of Urbino is bestowed on his son, the current duke. A fiction writer does have the option of interpreting history as she sees fit, especially when the sources provide some leeway, but a lack of attention to detail should not be part of that choice.

Dunant plans a sequel to this volume, which may explain why some scenes seem to hint at future significance. For example, the novel opens in 1492 with a seven-page dialogue between Rodrigo Borgia, who would like to be pope, and Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, who is a teenager at the time. Dunant makes no mention that Giovanni will become Pope Leo X in 1513, so if a reader does not know that bit of history, Giovanni is merely serving to provide a picture of Borgia filtered through the eyes of a young Medici who is trying to follow his famous father Lorenzo’s advice in judging what he encounters. As this is Giovanni’s sole appearance in the novel, a Dunant devotee will have to await the second volume in order to find out more about him.

The Borgias have always fascinated readers, perhaps because one can now contemplate their machinations from a safe distance in time. They have been depicted in novels by Alexandre Dumas and Victor Hugo; a biography by Rafael Sabatini, the swashbuckler specialist; an opera by Donizetti; Prince of Foxes, a Samuel Shellabarger novel developed by Orson Welles into a movie; and a TV series starring Jeremy Irons. If one’s appetite for Renaissance intrigue has not yet been sated, Blood & Beauty may be a tempting morsel.

[stevetown]

Hyper Light Drifter

Completed: May 24, 2024 Playtime: 6h53m

The funniest thing about HLD is how the first time I tried to play it, I struck off in the complete wrong path for a first-timer. This time, I had my wife to guide me in the correct cardinal direction to make sure I didn't a) get so lost beyond all recognition and 2) fought enemies for my appropriate skill level.

The game is very good! As a 2D action affair it hits a pretty good balance of beautiful artistry and responsive combat. Coming in at under a tight 7 hours, it's the perfect length for a game of this scope. I didn't really comprehend the plot, but I enjoyed drifting.

[namitomoon]

Amon Garam is underrated tbh

(Warning: Spoilers for Yugioh GX)

When talking about GX characters I feel like a lot of people overlook Amon Garam/Adrian Gecko. He is probably one of my favorite characters.

Look, I get it, he's a piece of crap and deserved to be wiped out by Yubel/Johan. But I like what he represents in the story and how different he is from the rest of the main cast.

He's introduced as a jovial and sort of eccentric ace duelist in S3. Like a personal rival to Manjoume/Chazz, same background (rich boy) but somewhat...better (less impulsive, more clever, overall better duelist) which is exposed on their sky duel.

And then he starts to change and become colder, more ruthless, smug and manipulative as S3 goes on, especially after partnering with Yubel. He sacrifices the woman he loves in order to attain Exodia's power without any second thoughts and he really seems to embrace his new role as King.

The scene where he's riding Exodia and refuses to finish the recently de-SKized Judai/Jaden is quite telling. He's drunk on power. He gambled and got a hell of a pay. And unlike Judai, who became SK after a hell of a traumatic event or Saio/Sartotius who was possesed by the Light of Destruction, Amon did it all consciously and out of his own will. No demonic possession, no LoD, no ancient millenary item possesion, nothing. Just an extremely ambitious bastard. In a way, he reminds me of Seto Kaiba in the early Yugioh manga chapters, before he got Mind Crushed by Yami.

Eventually, Yubel possessing Johan snaps him back to reality by kicking his ass and wiping him out. Right before dying he 1) reveals that actually he wanted to become King to the typical "making the world a better place" shtick and 2) shows regret for killing Echo.

While number 1 seems to come out of nowhere and feels like a lame attempt to somewhat redeem him, I think it makes him even more tragic. I think of Amon and he reminds me of complex antihero "ends justify the means" characters like Canute from Vinland Saga and Lelouch Lamperouge from Code Geass.

(YES I just compared Yugioh with Vinland and Geass)

I feel like, if Yugioh broadened its scope to maybe a more mature setting, characters like Amon could probably be rewritten in a more neutral or even sympathetic light. And yet, because GX is deeply inside a shonen anime focused on promoting a card game, such risks couldn't be taken.

And don't get me wrong, I think Amon was very well handed. He feels like an inverse of Axel O'Brien. While Axel starts as a stoic, cold and aloof duelist loyal to the shady Professor Cobra, Amon gets introduced as a charming and skilled guy who seems to oppose Cobra's schemes (after all, that means he's a good guy, right?) And yet, Axel ends up warming up to the main cast and even being (along with Jim) the one who saves Judai, while Amon ends up going the dark route. The fact they both come from Academies located on opposite cardinal points (Amon from east, Axel from west) might not be a mere coincidence.

To top it off, I just love how Amon and Axel end up in such different spots at the series finale.

Axel? With the main cast, being one more of them, eating, drinking, cracking a few jokes, enjoying their company. He's part of the gang despite arriving later. Like Johan (and my boy Jim)

Amon? Who the hell knows. And who the hell cares. Dead. Forgotten. Vanished into nothing. Sentenced to life in the Shadow Realm. And the best part is that, aside from his aparition on the "missing student cards" on S3 ending, nobody brings him up at all. They dislike him so much that for what they know he may be being devored by harpies or tortured in some dungeon in the Dark World, it's all the same for the gang. They have better things to think about than some power drunk greedy ambitious asshole who killed the woman he loved for nothing.

Axel won friends, which is why he was given a second chance in S4. Amon lost it all, which is why he's one of the few GX characaters that died permanently. Maybe it was Shin Yoshida's intention to send a message in favor of personal bonds and connections. Maybe he forgot about Amon.

But no matter what, Amon is probably one of the GX characters that caught my attention the most.

[noxexistant]

Grrrr

If i mistake a brooklyn newsie for a manhattan newsie or miss any newsies out , please excuse it because there are just SO god dam many of them 😨😨😭😭😪😪

~~~

Birdsies ( Newsies "Bird + Newsies" )

Jack - Wood Pigeon

Davey - Eurasian Jay

Les - Eurasian Jay

Crutchie - Meadow Lark

Race - Rainbow Lorikeet

Albert - Cardinal

Finch - Finch

Tommy Boy - Pionus Parrot

Buttons - Kea Parrot

Elmer - Purple Martin

JoJo - White Bellbird

Splasher - Green-Cheeked Conures

Romeo - Great Bowerbird

Specs - American Woodcock

Blink - Sharp-shinned Hawk

Mush - SaltMarsh Sparrow

Skittery - Starling

Mike - Peregrine Falcon

Ike - Peregrine Falcon

Julian ( i know he isnt a real character BUT HE IS TO ME 😡 ) - Cape Penduline Tit

Henry - Ruby-Throated Hummingbird 

Sniper - American Kestrel

Smalls - Bee Hummingbird

Snitch - Kookaburra

Itey - Goldcrest

Snoddy - Cockatiel

Swifty - Gyrfalcon

Dutchy - Great Spotted Woodpecker

Bumlets - Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker

Boots - Russet Sparrow

Snipeshooter - Little Owl

Guttersnipe - Mottled Wood Owl

Katherine - Kiwi

-

Brooklyn Scewsies ( Brooklyn Newsies "Scale + Newsies" )

Spot - Leopard Gecko

Hotshot - Chahoua Gecko

York - Tokay Gecko

Mack - Leaf-Tailed Gecko

Splint - Rhoptropus Afer

Lucky - Golden Gecko

Scope - Tarentola Chazaliae

Stray - Frilled-Necked Lizard

Ritz - Tree Crocodile

Pips - Crested Gecko

-

Defrogceys ( Delanceys "Frog + Delanceys" )

Oscar - Ranitomeya Frog

Morris - Ranitomeya Frog

( Wiesel - Phantasmal Poison Frog )

-

Others

Miss Medda - Tabby Cat

The Boweries - Siamese Cat

Pulitzer - American Shorthair cross Siamese cross Ragdoll Cat

Nunzio - Fire Salamander

Hannah - Red Ruffed Lemur

Bunsen - Proboscis Monkey

Seitz - Ladoga Ringed Seal

Snyder - Black Mamba

Mr.Jacobi - Shih Tzu

Roosevelt - Newfoundland Dog

Bill - Markhor Goat

Darcy - Buff-Tailed Bumblebee

- mystery anon

oh, this is my absolute favourite, and so detailed!!! so many fantastic choices!!!

mike and ike being told apart by a Very slight difference in their feather pattern. les is literally just like a tinier rounder davey. katherine being a fancy little kiwi!!! (although i do also love the idea of her being something super colourful to reflect her wardrobe)

also JULIAN IS REAL TO US!!! special little guy!!! there’s enough boys here that, truly, what is one more? throw him in there. he deserves it.