#adding to that I would never do this if I thought there was an actual chance that I could potentially be giving someone impotable water

[nottswitch]

sisters bf!theo who doesn’t try to cover up when you accidentally walk in on him in the shower… if anything he’s turning TOWARDS you with the biggest smirk…

⋆˙⟡ you walk in on sister’s bf!theo showering

his smirk is already permanently plastered on his face, but if you walk in on him… oh boy, oh boy

warnings: 18+ mdni, exhibitionism, size kink, theo’s huge cock, cursing

navigation ; masterlists ; theo m.list ; sister’s bf!theo

you didn’t think much of it when you turned the handle of the bathroom door, not even looking around as you walked in, your eyes glued to the screen of your phone in your hand. you mindlessly walked over to the sink, leaning on it with your hip, lingering as some picture caught your attention.

"and who do we have here, hm?"

you flinched and nearly dropped your phone as you heard an unexpected yet such a familiar voice from the shower. letting out a small squeal of surprise, you looked up and nearly dropped down to the floor yourself – there, standing in the small stall, was none other that theodore nott, your sister’s relatively new and already incredibly irritating boyfriend. and he was, well, in a state one would expect in the shower – completely naked.

you instinctively closed your eyes, placing a palm over them as a second shield.

"what the actual fuck?!" you whisper-yelled, your eyebrows knitting together in a confused and annoyed frown. yeah, what the fuck? why wasn’t he covering up?! the bastard didn’t even blink, staring at your flustered form with the biggest smirk in existence.

"well, you could open your eyes and see for yourself what the actual fuck," he teased, parroting the tone your voice, which made the blood boil in your veins. yet for some reason, there was a sense of morbid curiosity, almost, to actually peep at what was right in front of you. it wasn’t like you had never noticed theo’s prominent assets before, since grey sweatpants had quickly become – or had always been – his uniform at your apartment. plus, you did overhear your sister on the phone with her best friend the other day, boasting about the size of his cock…

damn it, the temptation was too strong.

slowly, you pulled your hand away from your face, blinking your eyes open as the bathroom lights hit them. for a moment, your vision was focusing, and then… it certainly did focus pretty well.

theo was, for the lack of a better word, huge. as in, bigger than anyone you’d ever seen. you gulped thickly, shame slowly leaving your body as you stared at his dick, which was, for whatever sick reason, hard and throbbing, slapping lightly against the toned muscles of his abdomen. his dark pink tip glistened in the light, and you wouldn’t even try to guess what part of it was water and what part of it was precum.

"so? thoughts?" theo prompted in a casually arrogant manner, which momentarily jolted you out of your haze. you reluctantly looked up, biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to appear nonchalant, yet there was no hiding the way your pupils were blown out, your eyes betraying exactly what you thought of the sight in front of you.

"um… you have a dick," you muttered, not sure what else to say, as you had never expected to be in such a situation in the first place. there was no way you could openly praise your sister’s boyfriend’s cock, right? plus, his ego, as you had come to learn during the time you had known him, was enormous – apparently, directly proportional to the size of said cock.

"oh, do i?" theo cooed, the smirk on his face growing, making you want to slap it off his face. "thought you were a smartass, piccola," he added in mock disappointment. you were only getting used to the italian nicknames, but he made them sound awfully annoying and seductive at the same time – not that you’d ever admit the last part.

"not as much as you, it seems," you retorted, trying to sound unbothered, and yet your eyes couldn’t help darting down again – his boner was still there, still huge and swollen, still jerking slightly in the air. you swore you could hear the small sounds of wet skin slapping against skin as it throbbed.

of course, theo noticed exactly where your gaze lingered, and the chuckle that escaped him really tempted you to punch his face in. how on earth could a person be such a pain in the ass and simultaneously, an owner of this… thing between his legs?

"enjoying the view?" he teased, raising an amused eyebrow. his hand slowly wrapped around the base of his cock, unmoving but squeezing it enough for it stand out even more against his complexion.

you rolled your eyes but stayed silent, unable to deny the obvious truth – you were, in fact, enjoying the view, even though you knew you shouldn’t have. at your lack of words, theo hummed in mock understanding, pretending to think over something.

"you know,” he started, his voice a cocky drawl, "your sister never comp–"

"okay, that’s enough!" you exclaimed, dramatically covering up your ears with your hands. "i don’t need to know that!"

with a huff, you turned around, forgetting all about the reason you came into the bathroom in the first place. however, as you were leaving, your eyes involuntarily lingered on theo’s cock again – it wasn’t your fault it was so fucking huge! and you could definitely see theo’s face still very much lit up with a wide smirk, almost a grin, as he watched you walk out of the door.

[melminli]

Dirty Cash (Money Talks)

summary - you had nothing against your colleague, but you weren't stupid enough to be fooled by his innocent smile and appearance since you knew exactly what kind of corrupt person was hiding behind that costume. after all, you were wearing the same one.

pairing: (gong yoo/ji-cheol) the salesman x fem. recruiter reader

word count: 1.4k

contains: talk about gambling + death and murder, sexual tension?, crack and just evil morals tbh

a/n: i watched maybe the first fifteen minutes or so of bullet train, but i thought of the two funny dudes from it while writing this bcuz their dynamic was funny af. also, i will use the actor's name in this fic since the character itself doesn't really have an official one that was mentioned in the series!

You straightened your tie with your free hand while watching your train approach from the side. The station was always pretty empty at this hour, which saved you the jostling and squeezing as you entered. After that, you sat down comfortably with a light sigh - next to the free seat beside your devilishly handsome colleague. “Are you alright? Don't tell me that you had a exhausting day?” he asked you worriedly with his typical innocent smile on his face but you've known the guy for a while now and you knew exactly how dishonest he sounded right now.

You returned his gaze for a second, uninterested, before turning it back in front of you to observe your surroundings from the window. “Exhausting day? Don't make fun of me or I'll punch you in the face,” you replied monotone and Gong Yoo didn't doubt your statement for a second - or Ji-choel as you preferred to call him since you weren't a big fan of nicknames. “I had a great time punching those bastards in the face one by one. It feels kinda therapeutic, so I'm actually feeling pretty good right now,” you told him, talking about the subject as if you were talking about the weather.

Your colleague grunted with delight at your good news. “And I would never disagree with you on that.” he said and then just watched your figure silently for a while before speaking up again. “Since you're in such a good mood, would you be willing to play a more private game between the two of us?” he suggested, making you look at him in utter disbelief.

“A private game? With you?” you repeated, amused and laughed in his face. “Hell, no. But don't worry, I'll let you know next time I want to get totally screwed by a freaky pervert,” you added, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Which will be, never.

“Come on, don't be like that,” he asked you sweetly. As sweet as the wolf who pretended to be the mother of the seven little goats before he ate them all one by one. “It's just a tiny, harmless game. It's been so long since we've played anything together.” he complained to you earnestly as if you actually cared, and you didn't.

Yeah, you remembered the last time very clearly, even if you would much rather prefer that you didn't. You hummed. “Is that so? Huh. I mean, it could be because you almost killed me in a fucking game of tic-tac-toe the last time, but that's just a theory.” You said with a shrug, clearly still resenting him for that. However, he just rolled his eyes unaffected by your grudge. “But you didn't, right? It was the other guy who got the bullet in his head.” He replied, not even remembering his name. Not that he had to.

You just glared at him while you rubbed your forehead. “Yeah, maybe. But I'm tired of risking my life just because it makes you horny and you can jerk off to it.” You made your feelings on the matter clear. “You know that the whole living on the edge of death thing isn't really my cup of tea. At least try to understand me a bit here, too.”

I suppose she's not entirely wrong, I could give it a try. I never thought about it like that before, did I? He thought to himself in his head as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth while he pondered. How selfish of me. “So what exactly do I have to do, to convince you?” He asked you while he already had a few ideas in mind.

You grinned. “You know that very well, don't play dumb.” You demanded as you leaned closer to him so that he could hear what you were singing softly. “Money talks, money talks - dirty cash, I want you, and dirty cash, I need you, oh ~”

He raised an eyebrow, not particularly surprised. “So you want to play for money?” He repeated it, not outright rejecting your request. “Don't you have enough of that already? You're really insatiable when it comes to cash and now you want mine, too?” he joked just to get you worked up.

Though, you didn't get the slightest bit offended by what he said. “Can you ever have enough money? Besides, I'm not forcing you to give it to me, am I?” you said with a smile, already knowing that he would agree to your terms. “But if you want me to play with you, I want eight million won for every round I win.”

She's so greedy for someone who is already more than wealthy. “Aren't you exaggerating a bit? Most people don't earn that much in a month,” he continued his act of - whatever this was - because he just loved arguing with you.

“So? We both have the same salary, I know you can afford it,” you said, holding a hand in the air as soon as you felt that he wanted to stretch this unnecessary conversation even more. “You have to decide now what you want to do or I withdraw my proposal again.”

Gong Yoo closed his mouth and started grinning even wider. “You don't even want to know what kind of game I want to play?” he asked curiously, nodding and accepting whatever you wanted as soon as he saw that you actually weren't interested. You couldn't even imagine how gladly he gave in to you at this moment. “All right, I agree with your request.”

You stood up with your briefcase in hand after your station was announced. “Good. Text me when you have something in mind, I'll be there as long as it fits timewise.”

Your colleague continued to watch you with a look on his face that used to make you more than just uncomfortable back in the day - though it didn't even bother you in the slightest now. “You don't want to accompany me to the...office?”

You smiled while the train started to slow down. “Au revoir, Ji-cheol.” you just said your goodbye to him and stepped out of the doors. You didn't even spare the poor guy a second glance when he waved his hand at you from the window. She can be so heartless sometimes, he thought to himself, even if you were like this pretty much all the time. I'll have to think of something good to ask for in return should I win. I'm definitely not going to hold back when there's this much money at stake.

You didn't give a second thought to anything as you made your way home after a day's work like any normal citizen would do. However, your steps slowed considerably when you noticed a beggar in your field of vision and even though the rest of the crowd ignored the man and his entire existence, you couldn't help but focus your full attention on him. You looked at your watch, I've been off work for a while now. But even then, you couldn't help but notice that he was one of the people on your list to recruit for the game. He'll still be here tomorrow, but I don't mind another round of Ddakji. I love money more than anything - but I'm not doing this job for only that since I don't even have anything against working a bit of overtime when it comes to this.

“Excuse me,” you spoke to the man with a polite smile on your face, and he only submissively avoided your gaze as he listened to you. After all, one rarely approached people like him and why would they? He held his cup of loose change out in front of him, probably expecting you to give him a small donation, but you wanted to give him so much more than that. Even if the guy didn't know it right now - you wanted to give him another chance in life, so that he wouldn't continue to be just a miserable failure.

You ignored his donation cup. “I was wondering if you might have a moment because I'd like to make you an offer,” you continued politely and the man met your gaze at that. Yeah, you were really looking forward to what was about to happen - after all, you were known for letting your opponent only win if you allowed them to.

[flowersforthemachines]

Some facts about Neve (and Tevinter) gathered from the banters

I went through all companion banters on DanaDuchy's channel after playing the game to write down all facts about companions/the world that I haven't seen brought up anywhere in the game as a writing reference (and for funsies).

Note: This list may not be exhaustive. I might have missed some something or didn't write it down because I considered it common knowledge. If you have anything to add, please DM me or send an ask! (do specify what banter the information is coming from, though)

Note 2: Posts from this series (mostly) don't include information from banters specific to quests or between companions and faction members. I plan to do another playthrough to capture more of those and will add any relevant info to the character posts.

Other characters' posts: Bellara, Davrin, Harding, Lucanis, Emmrich, Taash to be added tomorrow (or on Monday Jan 5th)

About Neve:

General:

Neve isn’t rich, and her best coat is a gift from a grateful tailor after she saved his warehouse from an arsonist

Neve’s coat is woven with enchantments to resist fire and lighting 

Neve has never done blood magic. She is against it on principle and judges those who use it 

Neve doesn’t seem to like entertaining extreme hypotheticals since she reacts to Harding’s questions like “What would you take with you to a deserted island?” with asking why she would end up in such situations in the first place 

Neve wouldn’t want gems on her leg, because she thinks they would get stolen within a day of working in Minrathous, and she generally prefers to keep a low profile while on the job

However, she still considers saving up for a new, fancier leg to have more fashion choices. She likes Taash’s idea of getting a ruby inlay for it

Neve never visited Rivain before joining the Veilguard, though she now finds its beaches charming

Ever since she was a baby, Neve was stubborn and asked too many questions (and hated unanswered questions as well)

Neve likes Qunari food but thinks it’s very spicy

Neve likes seafood 

Neve doesn't drink tea

Neve isn’t really close with her family

Neve once tried to use a wisp-repelling artefact the Veil Jumpers found to get rid of the wisps in her room, but it only attracted wisps from the entire Lighthouse

Neve isn’t interested in exploring the mysteries of the Lighthouse because she has enough mysteries on this side of the Veil

(If Rook chooses to save Minrathous) Neve sends civil engineers to assist in Treviso 

On work: 

Neve didn’t want to be a detective when she was a child (not as if in she didn’t like the idea, she just didn’t consider it), though she didn’t have any dream career either 

Neve got into detective work by picking up odd jobs and building a reputation of being good at finding things. Eventually, she was hired to find someone’s brother, a case nobody else wanted to pick up, and her career took off 

Neve agrees that she is cynical and married to her job, but doesn’t consider herself ‘serious’  

Neve allegedly has a system for sorting her papers (Emmrich and Rana are sceptical about its existence) 

(If Neve becomes Dock Town's protector) Elek is implied to visit the Lighthouse again multiple times. Taash mentions seeing him poking around the library. Neve explained that he thought he could grab some fade-touched items to sell, and told him to run the plan by the Caretaker (one would think they did not approve)

On life in Minrathous: 

Neve was born and raised in Minrathous

Neve has never been inside the Archon’s Palace

(If Neve chooses to become Dock Town’s inspiration) Neve doesn’t regret letting Aelia live because she got information on Venatori out of her, and her death wouldn’t change the past

(If Neve chooses to become Dock Town’s inspiration) Neve gets to take a break for once in her life because Rana keeping an eye on the Dock Town actually helps

(If Neve chooses to become Dock Town’s inspiration) People gossip about Neve and Rana after they start their agency :)

Neve describes the rain of Minrathous as "cold fingers down your neck", but she misses it now that she's away from the city. The sound helps her fall asleep 

Neve’s entire apartment could fit inside villa Dellamorte’s dining room 

One of Tevinter papers referred to Neve as "Dock Town dirt-chaser," and to Emmrich as "sinister foreign necromancer”

A Tevinter paper called The Minrathous Herald once wrote that Neve should be exiled. The same paper called Shadow Dragons “traitors to the Empire” 

Neve never runs out of ink because she's on good terms with Minrathous ink sellers 

There is however one banter where she runs out of ink (I think it was with Davrin). Make of that what you will. 

On the Shadow Dragons: 

Neve didn't know Dorian personally until she joined the Shadow Dragons

Neve figured out the Viper's identity even before joining the Dragons. Her not revealing it to the public is one of the reasons he recruited her

Tarquin calls Neve a pain in the ass 

Relationships with companions: 

Neve calls Manfred ‘Fred’ (he seems to like that)

Manfred learns to say Neve's name (likely only happens if you revive him at the Necropolis, though I am not sure)

Neve introduces Lucanis to a spice shop in Dock Town

Harding describes Neve’s tastes in coffee as “made of gutter water filtered through an old sock”

Lucanis once showed Neve’s coffee to Viago. He found it “unsettling” 

Davrin thinks drinking Neve's coffee is worse than the Joining

Neve spoils Assan (but denies that accusation)

Neve is rather quick to consider questioning corpses with Emmrich’s help for her cases 

Neve is very apprehensive about lichdom and the perspective of Emmrich eventually turning evil (just like Emmrich isn't thrilled about her taking over the Threads for similar reasons)

Lucanis is concerned about Neve taking over the Threads. Mainly, about how much they are paying her

Neve has multiple banters with Taash discussing her relationship with Lucanis. Taash initially thinks of it as some sort of predator-prey dynamic, but Neve says she is not into that and explains that they are taking it slow and cautious. They both went through a lot of pain in their lines, which they tend not to show for different reasons

Neve's relationship with Lucanis is also more than she usually looks for with people

Neve takes Taash to Hal’s fish fry stand. Taash loved it :)

Taash offers Neve help on ladders in case she may need it/it gets stuck on steps due to being hook-shaped, mentioning they knew a Lord of Fortune who lost a hand and whose shoulders hurt while climbing because of it. Neve seems to appreciate the gesture, even though she can handle herself

Neve thinks Taash is nice to work with, offering help without being overbearing like some people are

Neve asks Taash to teach her Gold Thief (a Lord of Fortune dice game), so she can play it with the Shadow Dragons, and then subsequently gets beaten by the Viper

On Tevinter: 

Fashion is important in Tevinter because a good outfit lets people know you are under the protection of someone powerful

There aren’t many mages in Docktown, which is one of the reasons the government doesn’t care about it 

The big red cat near Halos’s stand is named Ferdinand

Stains on clothes can be cleaned with magic

You can get pineapples anywhere in Minrathous 

Neve calls the magic used for the lights in Minrathous a party trick, but Emmrich considers it a high-level enchantment because of its quality and duration

Tevinter doesn’t regulate the charms sold in the market (which is why there are a lot of scammers who sell fakes) 

[themareverine]

God Laughs | DoFP!Logan x fem!OC

synopsis: 'I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word." So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, the only thing that would keep any of them alive.

warnings: time travel elements, AU, pre-established relationship, some angst, a big age gap due to time travel, a little angst, unedited, will do later, PG-13. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

a/n: happy thirtieth birthday to me. ��🥂i am sorry this is so long, but i'm actually not, and this fic has been taking up space in my brain for like a month and a half. please enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | TAGLIST🏷️ let me know if you want added!

Time in the ether is both cold, and slow. 

Being alive 200 years leaves Logan nowhere near shortchanged when it comes to dreams. Really the only peace a man who cannot die—a living weapon—finds is sleep, walking in and out of dreams. Digging graves to bury secrets, the horrors of living. Phantoms of his living moments, somehow though, manage to follow him into REM, into the colorful, twisting pictures of dreamstate—they rob him of purest joys. Highest highs. Through their boneless fingers he falls, time and again, even in his sleep—some nights, he doesn’t even rest. Barely breathes. Just wrestles with the things his mind shoves into dark recesses during daylight, vampires bleeding him dry. 

And much like the nightmares that find him as he fitfully sleeps, the ether between time is equally harrowing. A scythe that cuts slow and deep, through certainties and everything humans, once, thought they understood.

Nothing in the world like it, slipping through the sands of a timeglass���lives already lived, time already elapsed. Unable to fully blot from the universe moments already bled, God Himself, Logan is sure, laughs—laughs as he chases moments, daylights. Nights. Stretches of time in the bend of space the Almighty must just chuckle at. No more than a mouse chasing reward, trapped in the grand scheme of an oversized cat. 

He’d jumped through the waters of time before. Drowning in pain, his body fighting to stay alive and knit together when travel would otherwise viscerally rip apart.

Logan supposes it is not far removed from shaking a bottle, a tornado of contents spinning together to form some perfect union of chaos and beauty, bouncing off walls and wholly contained within units of matter. Hurricane on steroids, rushing to find somewhere to land, but in no hurry to do so all at the same damn time.

That is what the ether feels like—a hurried state of asystole, neverending, that somehow doesn’t seem to mind at all. And Logan has never felt more intimate, precise pain than he does here, filtering through time and space—everything hurts. Whitehot fire that laps at his spine, racking every thought, every movement, every cell with the finest, knife-edge agony.

Like a blacksmith’s hammer beating to life creation from the hottest flame he burns, beat into oblivion while slowly knitting together something that resembles signs of life. 

 “Need you to do this, Pryde.”

Kitty had an overwhelming ability, he knew. Taxed her to the point of soul crushing. He’d rocketed through time, balancing in her hands, times before—and some part of him always felt her during the process, guiding and sifting his moments in the past through careful, graceful hands.

Truly gifted, Logan understood this was not a bowl of cherries request—he knew it would shave years off her life, steal heartbeats she’d never get back. Days of recovery, horrors of readjusting back to the present. Not a light lift for either of them—as he was ripped apart only to be stitched back together in a younger, former life, she was there, with nobody to put her back together as strain and pain played her like a drum. 

And as painful as it was, Logan knew Kitty—she would die for things like this, consequences be damned. Young and reckless, she’d skipped through the folds of the time space continuum for less than what he was asking, but one’s own desires were another thing entirely. Couldn’t fault her for that. If he were able to rip open the universe, go back to former days, well—he didn’t know. So many nightmares, so many phantoms.

Logan wasn’t even sure if he was whole, anymore. 

“And you’re sure you wanna do this, Logan?” 

Cigars had never tasted so flat, so sour. Maybe if he rolled it through his fingers harder, it would shapen up. But nothing could change the broil in his gut, the ripple of consequences hanging out on the edge of history. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, this thing God had gifted. To ensure his future, the future of Charles Xavier, had never felt so—so cold. Dead. Excruciating. 

So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. And then the voice of reason, a cherubim amongst thieves. Stealing minutes, ripping away time none of them have. Light in a universe of darkness, his sun. Adonis to his Icharus, Aphrodite to his eternal, cold war—she’d looked as if the world had stopped, and in a way, it was not far off. His world had stopped spinning, their world. Threatened to collapse. 

“Kitty, we have to. We need to–if we don’t, we don’t have this conversation.” 

No other conviction necessary. Decided, on a whim—on the bleeding edge of should we? they’d made a plan. Go back decades, retrace steps already taken. Cool trails already blazed. Forge new irons, cast new stones—do everything to ensure this moment, this moment that cannot be barren, paralyzed. Do what God commissions, what heaven allows.

Follow me, Logan. 

A bed of stone had never felt more like a grave, and the very idea sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Like a seance, candles burn in the darkness—easier for Pryde. But in some twisted way, Logan finds it fitting—fitting, this supernatural undertone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wishes it were light. Prays for morning, for the innocence of blinding daylight streaming through open windows, the fresh bounce of sun on his skin. Something about this being dark, tucked under the earth, feels eerie. Backwards. Graven.

Man was not meant to live in the dirt, but to die there—man was not meant to venture alone. 

I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word.

Pain in his chest had ripped him from the cool ether, snapped him awake in an arctic sweat. Pebbled with goosebumps and twisted in damp sheets, he’d ripped off the layers of blankets with gusto enough to carve canyons.

Rousted from apparent sleeping arrangements, the world swims as he attempts to scrub life back into his face—to feel. 

Parts of him were still sorting themselves out deep in his tissues, Logan could almost count his cells unscrambling. Never would he wish the kinesthetics of memories sorting themselves into brain matter on any man, enemy or otherwise.

One thing was painfully clear from the jump, a branding iron seared into the folds of his brain—her face. Her features. Every moment spent together, every sweet nothing she’d ever said. Honey salve on gaping wounds, he could smell her. Taste her, even in time.

It’s the one memory that doesn’t need sorting, that seems welded into his biology, his very being—her.

Her face, her name, her laugh. More a part of him than he’d ever know, he carries her in the low of his spine, a simmering heat that starves. A man could die, aching for a woman like he burns for her.

Aching in memories that feel foreign in this body, like dreams. But they are more real than he’ll ever confess—more real than sunlight or air, than scripture etched into faraway stones. The song of the world, the prayer of the universe.

Logan had never believed in soulmates—until fate had split him down the middle. He’d never known he was missing part of himself, until he’d tasted her goodness. Her sweetness. Her beauty and strength and insecurity that had fallen through his fingers like butter.

Time is his enemy, and there’s very little room to reminisce. That comes later. Much, much later.

Her presence a grounding rod to the now and here, excitement pistons through him like a locomotive. Logan wasn’t around in this period of her life, decades ago. He’d met her years after—in the blossoming glow of things to come. He can only fathom where she is, what she does in the twilight years of knowing him—of better, safer years.

Often he catches himself, watching her march through the days of their life together, wondering where she’d have gone, who she would’ve become if not for him. What better she’d have done in the world, what good she may have accomplished beyond his tether. 

Never lasts long, though. He mauls the high fantasy of letting her leave. Crushes the beastial part  of him that warns she’s better off without him, navigating life alone. Safer, whole. Selfishness always catapults his justifications, his rationales. She stays, she’s yours, and nobody else gets her. Just the way it is, and he’d worked hard to ensure it. Logan wears enough blood to fill a reservoir—blood she’d helped him spill. Lives he’d taken for her. The cost for her was higher, atmospheric—he’d rob hell to pay it, even today.

And in a way, he isn’t far off. 

Thoughts of her send him buzzing with a little thrill he hasn’t known since boyhood, pulses his brain. Windows in this room are his stage, daylight a rapturous, blinding audience that sparkles with anticipation. He breathes and feels her, somewhere, in this universe.

There’s a presence, an energy— the world is alive with the promise of her, things to come. He doesn’t know how, perhaps it’s cosmic, built into the foundations of God’s creation. Or maybe it’s divine, maybe supernatural. Maybe just biology. Whatever it is, it tastes sweet, pulses through him like a live wire strung tight on five thousand molten-lava volts. 

A groan slips through streaks of daylight crisscrossing the floor through floor-length, heavy curtains. Logan all but springboards from bed, about-facing with the poise and grace of a fighter much younger than himself, heart racing. Somehow he manages self-control—the claws don’t come. Instead, his arm draws back into a fist far quicker than he remembers, almost sending him off balance. His arm—it weighs next to nothing. 

Mind spinning, he remembers. Adamantium—no adamantium. It’s a foreign, blissful feeling. At this point in his lifetime he hadn’t been cursed with steel bones, hadn’t been ripped apart to be stitched back together into whatever atrocity hell had born across the earth. Hadn’t been anyone’s lab animal, a plaything. That would come, he imagines—and briefly, Logan wonders if he’ll remember this feeling. If it will crop up in memories when he returns to his time, when future Logan is put back in time, and this is all but a dream. 

It doesn’t matter—assumptions come to a burning halt when blonde hair flips from beneath the covers of his former grave, his resurrection site. Blonde spirals of curl, muffled from obvious extramarital affairs, spill over milky skin. A hit of perfume hangs out beneath his nose, but it’s seared like a branding iron with the familiar, unmistakable scent of sex. Orgasm rides the air like it’s a jet plane, and very quickly Logan can’t breathe.

Thoughts spin through his brain, a kaleidoscope of horror and shame and confusion, watching his bedmate rise into a stretch not all that far removed from a cat.

He doesn’t remember this. Oh, fuck, not even a little. His future self’s mind pistons for any recollection, any silver cord of remembrance of who she could be, but it comes up blank. Distressingly blank, pitifully void. A blackhole of lust and perverted nothingness, his stomach hollows. Pitches up against his esophagus. And Logan isn’t a man to easily toss his cookies, but—he’s not far off. His dick numbs as she glances over her shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” voice heavily tainted with sleep, his feet suddenly burn with the itch to move. Get the hell outta dodge. Eyes scout the room quickly, picking out pieces of clothing he can only pray belong to this version of himself. “It’s early, if you’re hungry I can make breakfast—” 

Unable to think of anything —get the hell out of here, Logan, “—no!” It’s more of a bark than it is an answer, and he bristles, fingers swiping at the discarded pants hanging out on the floor by his feet. Wrangles into them in time enough to split atoms. Hiking them up his legs, he works the belt, tongue suddenly thicker than winter molasses as it attacks his back molars, trying to raise some moisture in the Sahara his mouth has become. 

He doesn’t miss his bedfellow flinching, though. Her shoulder shifts a little sharply in reaction, and he curses himself. “Girls are sensitive creatures, Logan,” years from now, she’s suddenly so there in his brain matter. Cascaded by the sun, rapturous in white. He can feel her against his ribs, her smile cutting paths through territory unexplored in the dark chambers of him, “Be careful with us, love.” 

Spiraling blonde curl and bare shoulders say everything that clothes don’t have to, and he’d laugh if this wasn’t the most depraved thing he’d ever felt crawling through his gut, clawing like it’s hell. Future him remembers wandering through these mirages of life—mindless fucks, one-night stands that get him off, little more than cold graves of satisfaction. Briefly he wonders what the fuck, what happened to him. Once detached, now he’s tethered to starlight, stars to which he breathes to revolve.

Fingers burning, weightlessness threatens to topple him like Rome, conquering him slowly. 

Shifting her hair in front of her, he feels a twinge of appreciation run him through—but he isn’t surprised. In a different world, he’d move mountains for a girl with curls the color of how he takes the coffee she so faithfully makes; curls that flick and move in private dances for him, God’s perfect design, conceived among the canyons of time. It’s a foreign memory, amputated almost—umbilicated to nothing in this world to give it life, but he knows. He just feels them tangle through his fingers something perfect, in a way that hair never has.

Always a sucker for a girl with curls—they were different. Feral. Wild. 

His canines hit sharply on the plush of his bottom lip as the stranger angles to shift against the sheets, probably to face him. Logan  all but bullrushes the mattress to put a hand on her shoulder, “—sorry,” bumbling like an idiot, he sucks in a breath, “not real hungry, but thanks. ‘S early, go back to sleep—I gotta hit the road,” barely above a constrained whisper, adds a little pressure to his hand to encourage the behavior.

She complies, and he dives for his shirt and what he can only assume is his jacket tangled in the sheets of his side of the bed. 

Surprisingly, she says zilch. Content to let the subject drop, a mercy from God. Thank you God. He’s dressed. Barely registered that punch of hunger a good fuck always leaves behind before he’s out the door, palming his jeans for keys—bingo.

Fingers grazing sunglasses in his pocket, he slips them on the low of his nose. Shakes in his blood tell him he needs a smoke, booze, something for the cold edge peaking through his bones. 

Spinning keys to the punched-out and snowkissed Bronco on his finger, Logan slips out the door, fighting boots onto his feet as he skirts the curb, looking for his ride. 

It takes him a day to find her.

Well, more specifically, twenty-two hours—and finding isn’t the right word for it, either. He knows where she’ll be, she said so herself before he’d slipped into the sands. There’s only one place in the world she’d ever received formal education, property lines of a familiar farm and prairie grass amidst old farmhouses teaching her more than any public education ever could.

He’d been there, her childhood home, more than a dozen times. Been here, tasted this air. Watched the frost kick up on windows, slick up highways that have carried him all over farmland America, almost-Canada. The wilds of this place remain, scattered in and out of industrial complexes and pop up bedroom communities. 

She’d always hated it here, all the snow and cold — people. Made no sense, honestly. She’d loved their home in Alberta, where winter was, in a sense, arguably worse. Had fostered a love for that place unlike anyone he knew, and he was from there. Never complained, though.

Logan had always known, secretly, that she missed the States, its freedoms and culture, a pretty that rivaled none. Faithfully and with duty she’d followed him everywhere, skiptracing across the globe like it was a game of hopscotch and not a fight for life.

While he’d been running all his life, she’d been firmly rooted—but he’d be damned if she didn’t pluck roots to keep after him, to keep them alive. Together they’d rested their heads in some less than Eden hotspots, places phantoms wouldn’t even tread—places purity went to die, holiness turned its face. 

She’d counted it joy, just to scout the lines of living beside him. I’ll love you in every time, Logan.

If the tires on his Bronco could heave, they would. Twenty-two hours and no sleep, Logan could pretty well feel exhaustion lapping up the marrow of his bones, needling away at his eyes. Highway 7 signs, painted with snow and wobbling in straight winds greet him as he guides his Ford off the asphalt, out from between guiding lines that had shifted oh so many times the last day and a half—prophecy not much unlike his life.

And pushing the Bronco along the tree-lined lane, lights shining in the last fingers of fading night, Logan realizes that he’s white-knuckling the steerwheel. Maybe for the first time in his life. 

He’s never been an anxious soul. Never a point to it, anxiety was wasted emotion. But all the same he feels a pit open in the depth of his gut, a fierce burning not unlike a lake flaming with inferno heat rising up his spine. Feeling feverish, his palms pearl with moisture.

A quick glance in the rearview at the darkness hanging out under his eyes punches home the marriage of piglet pink rising beneath his unkempt shave, which is now a handful of days overgrown. Muttering, he guides the wheel with a knee, working fingers through his hair—it’s thick. Dark, darker than future him remembers, styled in a way he hasn’t worn in at least four decades. 

Popping the Ford to a stop in a parking spot overshadowed with packed, plowed snow, he snaps the shift into park. Sits there, in his leather jacket and jeans, staring at the front door of the college complex. A stone Goliath, it towers in the fading darkness, sunlight beginning to stretch the horizon to a new morning. There’s a few cars belonging to the overly ambitious, his eyes scan them. 

Logan remembers the plan, all the details of the debrief—of a dossier that came from her lips, to his ears. Not a stitch of paperwork, no documentation to erase. So unlike the old days.

The most informal of the informal, perched across his lap, topless and smiling as her nails pull sharply at the flesh stretched across his collarbones. Scarlet lines to match fake but not inexpensive nails, he forgets how she manages them in an apocalyptic world. Twilight their only audience, four walls conferenced them as she’d relay detail after sweet detail, his brain pulsing with the weight of her against his chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel her again—even in a body that doesn’t even know her. 

His dick twitches with a needy throb that reminds him where he is, where she isn’t. Absently his mind spins, his hand skates across the bench seat of the 70s Bronco, palming for her familiar presence. Void coldness ices over the space, and when the Wolverine opens his eyes, the cab is deceptively empty.

Forty years from now his brain weaves an image of her, flashing like a film reel. Supplants her in this seat next to him, smiling—-as young and beautiful as she was the day he met her, age hardly more than a number even as it joins itself at her hip. 

Hips bucking up off the bench out of habit, with rebellion, his head falls back over the seat. Sinks lower on the bench, knees kissing the dashboard as the heels of his boots dig into the floorboards, anchored to nothingness. Bone grating against bone on his back teeth, the growl he releases is animalistic.

Painful, sharp, it licks up the heat in his blood. He palms at his cock buried in his jeans, suffocating in heat. Her mouth, sucking at his pulse, tongue flicking against his—tasting like lipstick, like chap and sweat. How her hair brushes his shoulder, raises his skin like he doesn’t remember. Her little noises, breathy little moans. Praying his name as he feasts on her presence, consumes her closeness, union almost supernatural, galactic. Otherworldly, divine. 

And it hurts, his starvation for her. Loneliness he doesn’t remember cracks like a whip, canyons open his spine to perform surgeries that’ll leave him a barren, cold wasteland. Oh, fuck.

God, he missed her—hasn’t been gone but two days, and he misses her. An unmovable hunger mountains in the low of his belly, rearing an ugly head Logan knows won’t be turned but only one way.

A way that won’t exist for another decade, ten long years of arctic cold. 

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Eyes snap open, pops the latch on the door. Freezing wind chases in and smothers tornado heat kicked up in the cab, amongst the radio buttons and film developing on the windows from his hot breath. Slipping out, Logan bats the door closed behind him. Pockets his keys. Considers the landscape, it’s pretty, then looks to the front door.

Marching after it, his eyes sweep the parking lot—her car. It’s here, sentinelled, standing guard in an otherwise empty lot of asphalt and fading starlight. 

He chuckles, shakes his head. Much to his surprise when he tries the door, heavy doors open. Unlocked. Whisking inside like a silent shadow, Logan breaches the foyer. The first coordinator. Nobody is here, hallways as dark as skeletons in squirreled-away closets, the air stuffy with age and ventilated air.

An old smell creeps up and down the hallway, wraps around him—but it’s quiet. Serene. She said it would be, one of the happiest places of my youth, Lo, and she doesn’t really lie. It bleeds from walls like open arteries. 

Something hangs in the air, a sweet lightness, airlessness that he can breathe, but doesn’t know. When his finger brushes the wall, curiously, the earth doesn’t split open, the air doesn’t move—-it’s just still. Unmoving. Patient, like a lover. Fortressed between thick pines and Midwestern snow, it’s a sleeping giant Logan doesn’t know. When he pauses to listen, to think, he can feel it try to touch him—-that weightlessness, that solace.

He could sleep here a thousand years, felt like he could breathe for the first time in a century. 

Unsure where his feet point, but he knows where to go. Senior year, first class is theatre—-she’ll be in the auditorium.

One by one he ticks off the details in his brain, smoothing his hand over his mouth, trying not to miss his past, his future, whatever the hell it was. But parts of him claw to go back, memories that don’t belong in this body—and very suddenly, Logan wishes for the first time he were older, time wasn’t now. That he survived long enough for the day, ten years from now, that the rest of his life came marching through the doors of a dimly lit bar to rattle steel cages.

Wandering corridors eventually finds him standing outside the door. Metaphorically, crossing this threshold will change his life—it will ensure the future of everyone he’s come to care for, to know. It will ensure them, in a life far from now that feels faraway down and lightyears away.

He opens this door, crosses the place where carpet meets cheap linoleum, and he’d write in stone events that will play out forty years from now. 

And he hesitates, only briefly. Hand hovering over the knob of the double doors, waiting for something to tap him on the shoulder. Opportunity to rip him away, fate to call out behind him, stop, you fool. His blood sings with anticipation, ripping through his ears in a way that blocks out everything but him in the shadows, standing here.

Waiting has never felt so smothering, so earthquake. It’s hard to swallow, but he manages. About to open the door, movement behind makes him flinch. 

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—to the last syllable of recorded time—and all our yesterdays have lighted fools—” 

Oh, shit. If that doesn’t fit. 

For the first time in nearly 200 years, Logan’s heart stops functioning.

He forgets to breathe, the familiar weight of suffocation launching his lungs forward, pitching them against his ribs. Every part of him simmers with flames of ice he hadn’t known but only one other time in his life, fingers itching as they rest at his sides, motionless. Paralyzed.

But that twinge of ache, deep in his skeleton, rockets to life between the bones of his hand—-and Logan lifts one, to consider the claws. But there are none, they are still sheathed deep within himself, but they echo. They ring and shake, trembling as the speech continues again, restarts. This time louder, with more life—from the gut, it stirs him in a way that pays homage to curiosity killing cats. 

Carefully he pops open the door, peeks through. Light spills through the opening, warm tones that force him back, squinting as his eyes adjust. Washed in light and emptiness, the room is vast. Pitches down to a floorstage, theatrical seating a quiet giant waiting to throw stones.

Instead, the air is still, motionless among the seats. Only thing moving within the four walls is the body rearranging a rolling podium, collecting things off the floor. Running lines under rushed breath, bare feet so at home center stage that it is almost treacherous. 

He can’t breathe, every cell in his body pistons into an overdrive that sends his head reeling.

It’s her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, forty years in the future she’d told him she’d be here. Was always the first one here, in the auditorium, the only time I can use the stage, Logan, and the truth of it smacks him across the face as if he’s been whipped with a milkstrap.

Castor wheels on the stage are loud, rattle the air as the podium rolls back to reset, and Logan realizes he's standing stupidly in the center aisle, looking lost and enchanted with her—and he is.

Even as he slips into the last row, sitting low in a seat to observe, he aches in a way that only God designed for the most violent, deep love.

Even at distance, the detail of her springs after him like a predator. It overtakes him, powers him into corners of himself that Logan didn’t think to ready. The first thing that he thinks is that she’s young, so young, young in a way that even a decade from now couldn’t know.

You ain’t ready for who you’re going to find, honey, it was a warning, shadowed between kissing him and making love in a way that would imply the world’s end. 

When she told him he wouldn’t be ready for her, he thought she couldn’t be serious.

But she was righter than he is alive, he wasn’t prepared—innocence. Purity. Naivety. It spins around her in a dance he can almost taste, and his memories struggle to assimilate this precious little thing with the woman his heart knows, his body craves.

And Logan thinks it’s wrong, feels absolutely filthy, falling in love with her all over again, in the mere seconds he’d seen her standing there, reading from a frayed and tattered Macbeth.

How she’s the same person, he doesn't know—how she couldn’t be, is another thing entirely. 

Logan realizes she’s been the same height practically forever, and that makes him smile. High heels tossed stage left beside a backpack in the shadows, what he wouldn’t give to see her conquer the world in thrift store heels the color of darkness. Familiar curves pull at denim jeans that take every ounce of his self-will not to notice, full hips on Hollywood display with the same leather belt and buckle she’d be wearing in ten years, when this body first makes eyes at her.

And her style hasn’t changed—high heels and jeans, a tucked-in tank top and left-open buttoned shirt that floats almost ethereally.  

And his head cants to the side, not unlike a curious dog—he could cry, he thinks. Probably.

Brunette curl spills down her back, nearly to her ass, a lazy slipknot hanging limp at the base of her neck. Righteous indignation rises up in him like a wild animal—in a decade, he’ll meet her with cropped hair, curls cut to not-even shoulder length. His stomach knots, solidifies like it’s concrete. Memories spinning—Logan realizes he’s never known her with long, full hair. Hair like this, curls that make him insane, almost threaten to send him up the wall with ferality. 

Insane, sick the way his mind immediately shoots to all the things he wants to do with it, with this little thing pacing downstage and back, humming and reading lines to what she thinks is open air.

Straight to hell with him, thinking about bending her over that stage and fucking her until she weeps. He won’t get the privilege of her taste for at least a decade, if not a few years after.

And that’s enough to gut him completely, punch a low moan from the base of his spine as blood rushes to take up space in his cock. 

Subliminally, he feels for the ring that’s been hanging out on his left hand for twenty years—alarm snaps his gaze to his hand, its absence alarming and unfamiliar. Takes a second for his heart rate to still, realizing it isn’t there—and that’s right. It won’t be for a while.

But it’s become an engrained thing, a usual part of his life—memories relay that he does this often times a day, it’s almost a coping mechanism. Hilarious how it so easily translates to this body, this time when it isn’t even reality. The ring probably isn’t even crafted, he’s missing something that doesn’t exist. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?” 

Klaxon alarms rings through his blood like a warning shot, and Logan for a second considers that he has been shot, a burning hole through the center of him widening to swallow him almost body and soul.

A steel beam drops to replace his spine, and he catapults to his feet like he’s on fire—scrambles out of his chair like an upset cat. Heart pounding, heat flares across his skin like his life depends on it, palms riding up the denim on his thighs as he tries to wick away bubbled moisture.

Swallowing a shallow breath, he watches her gracefully hop off the platform, finding her feet as she tosses the book on the stage. 

Realizing she’s meeting him up the aisle, he steps to greet her halfway.

“This is a closed classroom,” her tone is firm, but not entirely uninviting—memory serves that he’s not unfamiliar with this, and won’t be, in their future together. “I’m running lines, did you need something?”

Her little way of always assuming the best of people—of prying without making it feel like she’s digging. God, she was good—-it’s no surprise to him that she’ll become a journalist, the nosiest person in the world, in but a few short years from this very moment. 

Even up close she glows with a radiance that alarms him. Wearing the makeup she always does, mascara that sets off icy blues like a plague, Logan fights his way out of the depths of her gaze. Claws for purchase at anything he can get his hands on, which at the moment, is a quicksilver smile this body knows. It’s worked well for him, disarming the opposite sex.

He knows he looks good, always has, and Logan has weaponized his sexuality for his betterment since years ago. It’s a toxic thing, one that this very girl will dismantle in about twenty years—-will continue dismantling, claiming, for the next forty. 

Absence of any reply has her taking more conversational territory. Her hand extends, she offers her name.

“I don’t know you,” no room for argument, God she’s still so forward, “are you a student here, or faculty?”

A polite way of asking what his old ass is doing at a college at ass o’clock in the morning, and very suddenly he realizes, off like a shot, he has no alibi. No backstory, no agenda for this moment.

Logan can’t even think past her bludgeoning pheromones and scent, much less the assault of her eyes. Like a wolf she takes him apart, plays with the carcass of his resolve like it’s a plaything. 

Never usually unprepared, he fumbles for words. Arms crossing over her chest, she waits. Stands there for all of a few seconds, before she does that thing that all girls, seemingly, do—she fills up the silence.

“You’re not Graingly’s theater buddy from Pensacola, are you?” The look on her face tells her that not being whoever such a person is probably isn't a good thing, the way her hip cocks and her jaw flicks with the tight of muscle.

She doesn’t wait, not even a second, “You’re not supposed to sub until Friday—I’m his student lecturer, I set that date.” 

Well there it is, his perfect in.

She won’t learn to interrogate and intimidate with silence for a while, and he finds her battle for dominance amusing. It’s even more raw and unpolished in her youth, she’d mastered it already in the years after this.

If he didn’t already know, he’d find it hard not to be curious how she’ll stonewall in the coming years—as she ages, matures. Instead, he just revels in her presence, in the floating feeling taking up space in the empty of his gut. He’d slaughter for a cigar but couldn’t move from his weld right here if the earth split open to consume him. 

Logan’s chuckle is low, off the base of his ribs. Even if it is a little weak, a little breathless and ashamed of the thoughts sounding off like nuclear bombs in the back of his head—their first meeting, in a crummy Canadian bar in May.

The first time he sees her cry, an awful first date ending with an argument, him at her door asking to see her again in the straightline winds of a near tornado. How he asks to marry her, that first look at her on the day he makes her his own. That look on her face when they move in together, when they buy their first house—when they spill first blood together.

Pain raptures him to new worlds when he realizes what she becomes, what he gives her—mutation that traps her in this world, this life for an indefinite future. 

And he can’t shake the reminiscence—their first fuck, her first time, his first time with someone so virginal, so holy and sweet and good. Burning through him like a branding rod dripping with white heat, he struggles to assimilate this young little thing with the woman, ten years in this body’s future, she’ll become.

And as legal as it may be, Logan can’t imagine touching her like he will, someday—she might break, such a fragile little thing. And yet all he can picture is taking her, right here and right now, unraveling the strands of time to hurry the fuck up what is meant for a decade from now. 

She’s still talking.

“Listen, I really think you should—-” agitated. She's pissy, that same edge he will walk well, that same edge he’ll teach her to teeter, to exaggerate.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, watching their life together unfold in his brain—it’s like a movie he never wants to get up from, a picture he creates.

It tastes good, it feels perfect. 

He puts up a hand, offering her an easy smile. Her mouth snaps closed, bingo.  

“I figured,” if you only knew. He extends his hand, “Logan,” and she shakes it, hers fitting in a way that confirms God’s very existence. “'M not a teacher, and sure as hell ain't from Pensacola.”  About three thousand miles north, actually—-a mountain house so pretty, we’re going to spend our honeymoon not leavin’ it. 

But of course, it hangs out in the open wound his heart has become, unsaid. 

That hits home, seems to fit the bill. Her posture loosens, and she crosses one leg over the other. Still does that, forty years from now, and he still finds it adorable.

“Good to meet ya,” and good God if she still drag her ‘o’s’ in that little Midwestern way that ticks up the corner of his mouth, amusingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Again, always so willing—so naive. He could’ve been here to ruin her entire world and she’d help him do it, patient as a flower. 

“Yeah, actually,” he runs fingers through his facial hair, gestures to her. “Believe it or not, honey, I’m here to see you. Sent, actually.” It’s going to sound so ridiculous. Unbelievable, and at this point, it is.

More sci-fi than reality, no human in this universe is aware that time can be so manipulated. Kitty Pryde, his very vessel, isn’t even alive.

And that hollows him out like a canoe, bloodlets any confident air in his sails to the ground. It cries out unforgivingly, laughs at him. 

God was laughing at him, he was sure.

Her airy snort is dismissive, aggressively derisive. “Yeah, right,” she shakes her head, turns on the ball of her foot, “I don’t know any Logans. You can go, now,” turning back around, she backpedals away from him.

Hand flitting through the air, her chin lifts in an away gesture, “Like I said, closed classroom. Nice meeting you,” moving to the stage, she hauls herself back up, moving to retrieve the text she’d discarded. 

Stalking after her, Logan hauls up on the stage. Comes up on her, grabs her arm. Starting, she whirls around at speed, knocking into him. Fingers clamping around the muscle of her arm, the look on her face is horrified for all of a few seconds, fear skittering in and out of the blues that flash in her eyes like dreams he doesn’t want to rise from.

His hard look into her face is quelling, and she shrinks back. Pages fall from her hands, hitting the floor at their feet with a hard thunk. 

Logan can feel her heart throbbing, her blood singing with heat. Color creeps up her neck as she pulls at his grip, investigative. Eyes holding his gaze, they put up a fight—they disarm him in a way that he should fear, that shouldn’t be so difficult for a man that will endure the unthinkable.

Pain flashes between his ribs like a flare, lighting up his chest. Shuffling her a few steps closer, his other hand moves to loop a finger through a belt hoop, knuckle rubbing against the familiar leather. 

“What are you do—” 

He remembers what she told him to say, “I have a word for you,” it’s assured. Hard. Riddled with a confidence that bleeds out of him like his arteries have been sliced, pumping lifeblood onto the floor at his feet. He’ll beg, if necessary. Grovel at her beautiful feet like it’s worship, and in a way, she’s deserving.

Her eyes snap up from where he’s conjoined them, Logan watches her swallow a handful of shallow, doing-nothing breaths. “Sent to find you, darlin’.” 

Ripping her arm away, her brow mottles with scarlet heat and confusion that isn’t concrete, but instead unsure. She said she’d be confused, uncertain of him when he walked up out of nowhere and called her darlin’, a petname that meant something. The name, the one she conjured up in showers and feel asleep to. Logan knew it was her favorite; she’d told him so their first time, You had me at darlin’, Lo, and you always will.

Poetic justice, really—and maybe, now, this will be why.

He’ll be why she falls in love with that name, with how he says it, how he calls her. 

“I don’t understand,” she tries to make it sound strong. Logan releases her, expecting her to rear away like a upset horse—surprise lands in his gut when she doesn't.

Instead, she faces him. Draws her shoulders back. Lifts her chin and steps up to him, closing daylight. Her head cants slightly, eyes narrowing in that what’s up with you way that is curious, but hesitant.

Unsure rips off of her like heat he can only feel in every cell of his genetic makeup, in a way that regenerative mutation could only ever hope to heal. 

“You may not,” he challenges, it falls off a sigh as he upturns a hand. Offers it, kindly. “But try, honey. A whole lotta world needs you to try.” 

And she does. She tries. Business hours and daylight interrupt them, but she tries—and it’s a bloody fight, making her understand. Challenging every quip, every reasonable logic that she hurls at him like knives.

Moving to the auditorium’s lobby, then to the corridor, then up into the library. And  after an hour, when she really started believing him, he drags her out to his Bronco—where they can be alone. Thrive in the uninterrupted them.

Cranking the heat and turning to rest his back against the door, he accepts her denial. Any question she throws at him for another hour, every rabbit trail of You’re absolutely wrong and this is why.

She pauses to breathe and remember what class she’s blowing off, and oh does he love her. He’s already so in love with her that it hurts, bludgeons that space behind his ribs with the knowledge that soon, when this is over, he may not remember.

Multiple times Logan has had the thought to fuck everything and just run away with her, take her anywhere she wants to go and start their life right now, to explore and give life to memories he doesn’t already know.

No matter how much he rationalizes, that idea doesn’t leave him—the high fantasies of what she’d look like, attached to him at the hip.

Of who they could be, before adamantium, before the X-Men, before—

And questions finally metamorphosize. A standstill, like after a hurricane—her chest is heaving, curls sticky with sweat. Memory recall tells him that his normal for her—she’s argumentative, by nature. Defends what she believes, is not so open. Doesn’t back down from a fight, which is why, in years from now, she’ll be his perfect match. His soulmate.

The one God designed for him, since the foundation of the stars and the bends of time. 

It’s what makes her so her, a Wolverine. In a roundabout way. Another version of the same monster he becomes, but a holier one. If that’s possible—and he reminds himself it is, she becomes it. This young woman, on the cusp of living, will become everything Logan had only ever fantasized, more than he could ever conjure up in wild imaginations and greedy headdreams.

It’s surreal, sitting in this cab of this Bronco, watching windows film up with the heat of their breath. His knee knocks against the steering wheel, adjusting to glance at her milkwhite grip on the door handle. His eyes skate from hers to her grip, and he knocks his head back against the glass of the door’s window, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” 

After an eternity of silence, she side-eyes him.

“It’s only a little ridiculous,” exaggerated sarcasm drips like sour honey off her tongue, “I mean—put yourself in my shoes here, Logan.”

His heart flatlines and then resurrects—she’s called him Logan a handful of times, now. It sounds like it never has from anyone else—at points in his life before this, he’d always thought his name sounded so good, at its best coming from a woman he was balls deep in, hearing it chanted like a prayer.

But that’s gone, so anemic that it’s sick—it will only ever sound so orgasmic again if she says it. Nobody else is worthy, all graven images in comparison to the goddess she has become, him at her feet.

“It’s unbelievable.” 

Whatever else she’s said fails to land. He can’t stop hearing his name in her mouth, consonants and syllables so delicious it turns his spine to jelly, stirs up his cock in a way that makes him adjust his leg on the floorboards. Suddenly uncomfortable, sardined into a too-tight space crowded with her and everything he wants, he rolls down the window with a few pumps of his arm. Forces air in, underneath his collar.

Logan swears he’s boiling alive beneath his jacket and shirt, there will be medically evident boils when he’s finished with her. 

The Bronco rocks slightly with her moving to mirror his posture, back against her own door. Her knee knocks against the seatback, other leg bouncing anxiously against the floor.

Picking nervously at the buckle of her belt, Logan has to force himself to look up from the cut of her shirt, the way it pulls taut across her tits with the angle of how she’s sitting.

Aw, hell. Fuck him for being such a filthy, sexual creature. 

Fairly certain he will die if he doesn't have her, he repositions—sits up, leans his arms over the steering wheel to knuckle mindless patterns into the fog hanging out on the windshield. She manages an uneven sigh that may as well rip open the world—Logan cuts her a look from the corner of his eye. 

“You think I’m lyin’,” he sighs. Falls back against the seat. 

“Hell yeah I think you’re lying.”

And if that doesn't make him laugh. 

“You laugh, Logan-whoever-you-are, but—honestly. C’mon,” her hand extends to serve a point, “time travel? This isn’t Star Trek. You don’t just waltz up to someone and tell them that and expect it to be believable,” her hand flits, through the air, through whatever she uses to rationalize the anger creeping up into her words.

“And then, if that isn’t good enough, you tell me this, this Hollywood bullshit that I’m going to meet you in ten years in Canada, somewhere I’m not even ever planning to go—and that kicks off the next forty years and the survival of mutants in the future!”

Her hands fly into the air, as if trying to pull down reason from heaven, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.” 

It’s quite the line of reasoning—he can’t fault her for it. Just chuckles, shrugging as he leans forward to pluck sunglasses off his dashboard, slip them along the cut of his collar.

Arms crossed over her tits, her chest rises and falls with nervous breath after breath, eyeballing him with enough force to rip the sun from the canopy of sky. He flicks off the heater, sweat between his shoulder blades sign enough that it’s too warm in here—she’s already damp, sweat raising the makeup on her face. 

“That’s the highlights,” didn’t mention how you’re the love of my life, how I can’t hardly think straight with you sittin’ right there, he cards his fingers through his hair. “Not askin’ you for anything, sweetheart. I’m just telling you—it’s gonna happen, and when it does, you need to remember me, this moment right here, and trust that it works out.”

He lifts a shoulder, hand turning through the air in a so-so way, “It’s like—fuck. It’s kinda like a prophecy, right? I’m telling you what’s gonna happen, and you just gotta wait to see if it does.” 

“Prophecy? You’re mocking me now, right?” 

His sigh is excessive, roughs up the wind in the tissue of his lungs with more froce than he thought possible. Knitting his brow together, his fingers pull at the cartilage in the bridge of his nose.

Stubborn little thing, always, stubbornness was both a strength and a weakness—nevermoreso underestimated in her, right now, by him. 

He nods out the window.

“This is a Bible school, right? Yeah, I know it is—you graduate here, in the spring,” the look on her face implies that he’s backhanded her, hinge of her jaw failing entirely to instead, sit there. Agog.

Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand, begins counting off his fingers, “I told you, honey. You graduate, you get a job working for some lowlife newspaper editor–you fall in love with mutants, in that sick and twisted ADHD way of yours that you obsess about everything, and—” he stops, mostly to breathe. Halfway to bludgeon everything he wants to tell her to the point of pain, “—just listen. If you’re as high an’ mighty as you say you are—and you are, I know that about you—then you can’t say you don’t at least believe in prophecy, darlin’.”

Knifing a sharp smirk over to her, his brow lifts. “And last I checked, a whole helluva lot of unbelievable stuff happens in God’s history book, sweetheart—but I ain’t the expert.” 

That’s why I have you, in a decade or so. 

There is absolutely no time for his words to land anywhere other than nowhere. 

Her dismissal happens swiftly, like sharp jabs. The laugh bites, more of a bark than anything. Bam.

“Oh, I so get it now.” She absolutely does not, but he tastes the first blood. Pow. “You’re a messenger from God—right. Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” her eyes roll. Angles to pop the latch on the door.

In one go she’s out of the Bronco, letting all the hot air and frustration of the moment out into the arctic wasteland the parking lot has become. Bam bam bam. 

“I don’t say this very often, and pardon my language, but—fuck off, asshole.” 

Shouldering her backpack, staring at him from the cresting daylight that bleeds into the cab from behind her—if Logan didn’t believe in the celestial, he would’ve, exactly now.

Near frantic—and Logan has never, in all his 200 years been frantic—his hand slaps at the door for his own latch, and he rips out of the Bronco like a shot, hustling to stalk after her marching across the parking lot to her car like a soldier with orders.

And he is.  

Not so fast, tiger—that ain’t right, nah. Wolverine, you’re a wolverine.

My Wolverine.

“Honey, listen—” 

He grabs for her arm again, but something whips her about-face of her own volition, stepping up into his chest like a powerhouse of pride, absolution.

Her eyes cut through his armor, what will someday be adamantium bones like knives, hot and thrilling as they grab him by the absolute balls. The ferocity at which her eyes scout through his is wild, sends his blood spinning through his ears. He can’t hear anything but the thrum of his heart and every one of the breaths she sucks into her chest. 

There she is. 

 “I am not your honey, so quiet calling me that,” she bites, and it’s venomous—snapping fangs that sink deep into his veins, slavering at this soul.

And Logan should be upset with her, he should shake some common sense into her. Scream in her face the logic that she so lacks—but he can’t. He can’t move beyond the boundaries her eyes set, deep pools that empty oceans and rival the very stars hanging in the universe.

She could echo jump, and he’d beg her to know how high—and that may make him a fool. A pathetic shadow of the man he was hours ago, laying in someone’s bed, getting all the tit he wanted, without waiting.

“You say all this, this stuff about me—ok. We meet in ten years, sure. I’ll give you that. You’re hardly forgettable,” her eyes narrow, and Logan can’t miss how she shivers—how her lip trembles in the cold air, how snow clings to her lashes and sticks to her hair, carries it away across her features.

“Explain to me how you know everything about my life forty years from now, Logan.” 

Oh, fuck. This entire thing could be wrong, but it feels so right. 

Her eyes skate over him—down, up, and then back to his face. Like she’s summing him up—maybe she is. It would be the first time, but never the last.

Logan weighs the words in his chest, wishing for the first time that his bones were adamantium—that way, they’d cut through what to say. They’d bear the weight of her statement and haul them up the mountain-ing uncertainty he feels rising against the tail of his spine.

He’s never been so out of control, felt so out of his element than he does right now in the ripping wind of Minnesota cold and sunlight. 

She’s lined up the shot for him. All he has to do is take it. 

He does.

“We marry,” barely there, it’s the only thing he thinks to say.  So much more happens, “A lot of shit happens, a lot of it bad, but a’lotta good— takes a while, but eventually I get my head outta my ass and marry you, like I should years before I actually do.” 

“What?” 

Logan isn’t ready for the look of surprise on her face, and she’d told him before that he wouldn’t be.

A series of emotions pass through her eyes that he’s able to earmark, he watches them fall like dominoes—denial. Anger. Disbelief and hurt and really? that knots his guts up like the Sesame gates.

And Logan could watch the revolution of the earth around the sun in her eyes for all eternity, but their clarity is clouded by a mist of tears that rise—-she drops her head away, reaching fingers to swipe at the sting in her eyes.

She goes to turn away, and that may as well rip every organ out of his body. 

His heart leaps up into his throat, he snags her arm. Coming back willfully, he can’t miss how freezing her hand is in his. Logan pulls her close, against his chest, wraps his arms first around her shoulders, then around her waist, fingers gently skimming the rise of her jeans, the leather of her belt.

Her heart against his ribcage pistons like a locomotive, and he fears if it beats any harder, it’ll drive him into an early grave. 

When her head lifts to consider him, she isn’t crying. There’s a whimsical, faraway look on her face. He’s never seen it before, and somewhere deep inside the places you don’t show anyone but God, it terrifies him. Watches her swallow thickly, her tongue fill the pocket of her cheek. How it skips over her bottom lip, accompanies the way her eyes subliminally move back and forth, looking for him in the depths of his.

And Logan can see the thoughts spinning alive in her brain, wheels that have no place to go—that turn, over and over, looking for memories, thinking. Grasping at straws, clawing for the surface. 

Her eyes flick beyond him, back to the Bronco. Taking his hand as if she’d been doing it her entire life, she tugs him behind her, back to this Ford. Logan opens the door to tuck her inside.

Slipping in, she drops her backpack at her feet and shifts in the seat. And before he can bat the door closed, her fingers find the front of his leather jacket. Twisting into the leathers, she pulls him forward until his thighs brush the frame of the truck—until he’s flush against her chest, closer, somehow, than before.

A hairline moment and her lips find his, soft and curious but starving. 

Jumpstarted to life, every organ in his body flings forward against bone, fighting for air as she sucks the very breath from his lungs in the best way he could ever fathom.

He can tell she’s never kissed before. The way she moves, clumsy like a new calf. Can’t breathe. Her teeth knock against his, and despite how hard he tries to urge her tongue forward to meet his, it retreats. All thumbs and clumsy, it would be humorous if lightning bolts weren’t rocketing down his spine, if he wasn’t burning alive. 

And fuck, if it isn’t enough to wake up every part of him he’d been fighting to bury.

Insane, how even so foreign to him she could feel like home, like everything he’s ever been missing. His missing rib, created from dust.

Nothing aside from God’s grace keeps him composed, keeps his mutation leashed to the walls of his prison—God’s grace and how he absolutely is not actively ripping at the leather of the Bronco’s bench, nails buried so far that they ache.

Fingers find her hair, playing through brunette curls he knows will never be this long again—wraps them around his fists, nails gently pulling at her scalp in a way that makes her hiss, arches her forward against him. 

And if she doesn’t mean for that little mewl to be so lascivious, he’ll never know—it punches him low, in his dick, enough that rips a groan from the back of his throat, rattling around his teeth. She breaks first with a wet pop, a string of sticky saliva drawing him back to her in a way that leaves him stunned and breathless.

All traces of the frigid world gone, her skin coats with a sparkling sheen of slick sweat, she almost glistens. Racked with ache that he wouldn’t be able to admit in therapy, he drinks in every one of the shallow breaths she releases, as if it’s the air he needs to live.

It’s not far removed. 

Her eyes hold his captive, enraptured in his attention before they flick down to his mouth, the heave of his chest. Logan is fairly certain that fire laps up the heat in his blood, wolves eating away at the marrow of his bones, hungry in a way that nothing short of her will ever touch.

Her teeth snag her bottom lip, gnawing cautiously, and her fingers curling into his jacket are the only greenlight he requires—his hand at the back of her neck pulls her in for another kiss, a part two he’ll never stop writing, as his other hand slips behind her knee, gently guiding her down to the seat so he can slip in over her. 

It’s worship, how he crawls up her body—an altar that, memories recall, he worships at like it’s religion. She’s a fast learner, picks up the cues like a champ, finally allows him to French her in a way that should be unforgivable.

This him has never done this with her, doesn’t know her like he wants to—but memories. Fuck him, the memories; movies, their own future pornography feeds him just how she’ll react, what she likes.

In his mind, a life he's never lived, he can hear her crying out his name. Sobbing as he splits her wide open, body and soul—stares at her heart, takes everything God had given her. Greedily, he takes—he wants, desires, lusts for everything now, in a time that isn’t right, and can’t be, for the next decade. 

His hand anchored on her hip is enough to arch her back, her head tipping back into the leather of the bench, brow pulled taut into a hard line that makes his head reel. Keening, Logan angles to run his nose along her jaw, tongue lathing at the pulse pounding in her neck like a racehorse, steady like the sun.

And it takes willpower not to touch her the way his body demands, the way he lusts after. Instead his nails bite into the back of the seat, others far too busy playing with the hair he prays she never changes but knows she will. 

“Oh my god,” Logan isn’t sure it’s a prayer to him or heaven itself, but—he won’t complain how it rousts his blood, stirs his cock something good. “It’s—you’re, Logan—-shit,” His smile is wolfish, of the devil.

Perverse and twisted, he sinks his teeth into the words vampirically, rips the lifeblood from them like it’s soulworthy.

“I can’t breathe,” he knows she can’t. He knows, in some deep and faraway downs part of himself that this is all so new—so living color, so all over the place.

Part of him, a more rational Logan, knows that overstimulation stalks.

But he chuckles all the same, brushing aside the collar of her buttoned shirt to suck hard at the soft flesh of her collarbone. Lathes his tongue into its pool, tastes her sweat. Dies, resurrects to taste it again.

“You can and you will,” he prays it into her skin, hopes it takes, “hmmmm—-just feel, darlin’.” And it hurts, the way he absolutely wants. Knows he can, but won’t. Fuck, fuck,  “Fuck, yes—just, honey, just feel.” 

Her hands buried in the front of his shirt pull him back from the haze, from where he’s lost. Kiss him again. Again and again, he drinks at her well like a man who will die, and he will.

Logan will die if he doesn’t have her, if this isn't real and is nothing but a sick and feverish nightmare plagued upon him like the dead firstborn in Egypt. She’s already ripped open his chest and clawed out his heart, balancing it raw in her fingers where it bleeds out all of his will, his absolution. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t remember this.

If he dies from thirst of her, he’ll never know why.

That’s sick. 

Absently, his finger tugs over the waist of her jeans, dips beneath the denim. Grazes the buckle of her belt, investigative. She gasps, breath cut short as her back arches off the seat as his knuckle brushes her sensitive skin—she arches so far that he fears she’ll snap.

But the low of her belly is soft, inviting—inferno. He can feel her womb from here, the kiss of her cervix that memory serves is so good.

Breathless and hard, a light tug at the waist of her jeans makes him groan—all the way from the depths of his soul. It’s so familiar, so easy—he expects her to acquiesce, but it’s demonic. Torturous.

Fuck yes, this is right—

His drifting hand snaps her eyes wide open. She’s propped up on an elbow so quickly that it sends him for all of a heartbeat. Her hand shoves at his shoulder, off, and he falls back on his heels, breathing hard.

Unable to catch his breath, cut his eyes from the swell of tit peeking up over the top of that barely-there tank top she dares to call a piece of clothing. 

“No,” and there it is.

Absolution and righteousness that could strip him of his skin, if she desired.

Embarrassment sets in as she wrangles out from beneath him, to the farthest side of the Bronco that she can get. Unable to breathe, unable to think, her hand shakes as it settles over her stomach, her other propping her head up in the heel of her hand.

“Logan, I—” 

He knows. Doesn’t cure the sigh. Reaching behind him, he pulls the door closed and traps them both in the sex swirling through the Ford, unfilled and thick.

Guilt plants deep stakes into the soil of his soul, and he scrubs his hand down his face—looks out the window. Shifts against the seat, ignores the absolute agony of a hard cock festering low between his legs. 

They sit.

It’s a full silence ready to give birth, until she sweeps her hair up into a high knot, off her neck, twists to sit fully in the seat, fingers slipping through the slots on the steering wheel. He noticed when her breathing levels, when the cardio rhythm in her blood bleeds away into a normal heart rate—but it takes time. A full minute or two.

And he doesn’t know what to say, how to bridge this chasm—how to proceed from here. 

“What happens ten years from now?” She’s quiet, doesn’t look up from her hands for a few heartbeats, until sapphire eyes cut to him with a raised, interested brow. “You coming here to tell me this—does this change what happens to us when I find you, in the future?” 

The question of the ages, indeed.

“Dunno. Might not remember this, might not know you,” leaning across the seat, he moves his hand to take one of her curls, rubbing it gently between his fingers.

His other takes her hand, his thumb skipping over the familiar ring anchored firmly on her right hand—a ring she will gift him in the future, a ring that he will wear through time and space, should it be asked of him.

“Or I might. Not quite sure how the memory’s thing works when I wake up in our future, honey.” It doesn’t answer her question, and he knows that. He doesn’t have answers, never has. “Not sure how it works for you, either.” 

“Wow. You’re so helpful,” she teases.  

He cracks a small smile. “It don’t improve, trust me.” He gently brushes a knuckle over the apple of her cheek, her angling into the touch a little farther. “Still as pretty as you will be the first time I see you, sweetheart,” she said she’d need to hear this, that this alone will spare so much of the pain she has yet to live.

“You remember that, yeah? ‘Member that someone out there wants you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

She slips across the seat to brush shoulders with him, her palm along his cheek guiding him for another kiss—this time, it’s what he expects. Soft, sweet, young. So her, so familiar. He could die a thousand deaths to experience this, over and over.

Softly carding his fingers back through her hair, she breaks firs. Curls a finger beneath his chin to draw his attention to her. He gives it, willingly, up unto the half of his soul and any kingdoms he possesses.

“Are you still in love with me?” Want me, Logan—do you want me? 

He smiles, nods. Presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, her lifeblood. The very pulse that will bring her back to him, that carries him away.

“I’ll love you in every time, sweetheart. Just say the word.” 

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter@ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals

[rui-ayaki-lower5]

"That would be correct, if they were to they would probably be outside a lot" *it seemed this area was where more of the actual plant growth started as until now there was mostly moss and ferns along with the mushrooms, but now there are small bioluminescent flowers growing out of the walls, lichen, albino kudzu vines snaked their way across the ceiling and a small assortment of other plants scattered about the sides of the tunnel. There were also what looked to be a fair number of rabbit warrens and a few homes for other ground dwelling animals. Rui also paused to check on the others, admittedly he had forgotten that they may need a break* "thank you I remember reading about some mazes adding in movable walls and thought it would be a good idea" *once everyone is on the other side of the wall he moves the stone disk back into place behind him and continues to lead the way* "I hope so too..." *It was a bit odd, he felt like he had an odd sort of understanding of the man that was their master despite having never met him. Knowing what it is like to be so sickly and yet wanting to do the right thing, he could understand what he might be going through. He wondered if he still had those herbology and natural medicinals books muzan had thrown away when he found they did not contain information on the blue spider lily and if they would be of any use...*

continued from: here

"I should hope so...They actually inspired me to try to be better..." *Perhaps an excited student presenting their latest project to their teachers might be more accurate of a comparison? He points to the sword-loss-preventative attachment before explaining it* "With this one, one end will attach to either the guard or handle of the sword, whichever one works best and the other end will attach to the slayer uniforms belt-loops. It will also be stretchy enough to stretch the users entire arm-span without the snap-back effect hindering the effectiveness of the users swing" *He pauses for a moment and looks at the two with a slightly confused expression* "I really don't mean to...just spiders are so effective at what they do and webbing has so many uses...and I do not really know how else to help...As for talking about using these with your master, the other hashira and the weaker slayers; that would probably be for the best...considering these could very well be essentials once muzan makes his next move..."

(holy mother of the gods, the queens and holy freaking shit tumblr is driving me up one side of the crazy tree and down the other)

She smiles softly. She couldn’t wait to bring Tanjiro and Nezuko over to see him. She knew it’d make all of their day just to see each other. She holds her sister close as she watches his little presentation with excitement. “Hm….it might make more sense to see it in action I’m a little confused on how this might work sorry.” She wanted to understand him so bad because he seemed so happy but it was still a little confusing. She sighs. “Yea it’s just that I don’t want to overwork all of you since I know you’re still so small and your spiders are too. The hashira are pretty strong so we won’t need it as much as the younger slayers but I’ll still discuss it with them.”

Shinobu agrees with her. “Yea it’s better for them to try it out first just incase something doesn’t work right. Also they definitely need any help than can get based off how terribly the training is going.”

[spideronthesun]

Yearly recount 2024

Thank you for tagging me @concerningwolves !

Rules: Do a recount of your year with the highlights, special moments, and goals for next year

Highlights & special moments

Joined writeblr. I don't really use social media these days, and I'm not active anywhere else. But I am happy that I found myself here after a long contemplation.

I wrote some short stories for Writemas! I was really busy throughout the last month that I wished I participated in it more, although I was glad that I was able to leave my mark.

Rewriting my story and adding more horror details to it. I have never thought that I would ever fall in love with horror that much, but here we are, 2024 was magical to me in a sense. And I don't think that I have ever loved anything more in my life. Horror gave me a second life, a new meaning, and was a very healing experience to me.

Finally got to read more! I am actually very happy about this, because I never discussed this in the blog before, but I have gone through a huge reading slump back in 2023, and I was struggling with finding a story I enjoy. I have read so many great books last year.

Goals for next year

I want to start querying Tales of the Oak and Lightning! Well, last year I didn't do it since I spent a lot of the time on rewrites, editing, and then even more rewrites that I no longer felt ready to start querying. Although, I still get all jittery while thinking about it, but I want to find someone who falls in love with my story and characters as much as I do, and I hope that someone reads my query letter, then read my opening pages, and they think to themselves, yes, I am in love with this story and I want to find it home.

Can't wait for Scareuary, yay! I'm so excited for it!

I want to write more short stories or try writing an essay sometime in the future. Guess, we will see about that and how it goes.

I want to make writing friends. Sometimes, I feel really alone, and I don't know how to approach people. I really struggle with that a lot. It also doesn't help that I have severe abandonment issues in my life, and I can't get close to other people because of this. I find myself to be very difficult to be around, and I don't want to cause any anxieties or upsets in other people's lives.

Tagging: @mrbexwrites @satohqbanana @melpomene-grey @alintalzin @angelfevr

@orphanheirs @authoralexharvey @cain-e-brookman

[straightforthefl00r]

I desperately need someone to write a Nishinoya x reader!! I'm feral for that little ray of sunshine and cannot for the life of me find any fics with him 😭

I AM SO SO SORRY FOR LEAVING THIS ASK FOR MONTHS!!! MONTHS!!! IN THE INBOX. i really struggled writing for noya but i ended up writing smth that i thought was cute with this ask!! thank uu for the ask anon :)

will be taking reqs later this month so talk to me pookies lol masterlist here!!

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bsf!nishinoya who has a crush on you and is trying to ask you out in the most creative way possible…

hiding (obviously) behind a corner, nishinoya all but whispers, “do you think they’ll notice, ryuu??” tanaka obediently shakes his head, “no, no! you were very sneaky in putting the box in their bag, they’ll surely see it.” noya agrees, thankful for the reassurance. he snuck a box of your favourite pocky into your bag with a note inside, saying to meet on the rooftop. 

bsf!nishinoya whose reasoning was cliche? of couse not! classic? hell yes

“what on earth are you two doing?” a voice deadpanned from behind them. ahh. tsukishima. the beanpole. noya put his fingers to his lips and shushed him. tanaka slapped him on the shoulder and jovially explained to him what they were doing. whilst he was explaining to their beloved underclassmen, noya was solely focussed on you. he could see you laugh brightly from where he was. you were having a conversation with yachi, talking animatedly. your passion for the things you liked were so cute!!

bsf!nishinoya who started shaking tanaka by the arm in pure excitement as you reached for your bag…

you took out a box pocky form your gym bag. a look of surprise graced your features as you took out another box, identical to the previous one. two boxes of pocky. “well, would you look at that?” said tsukishima and he dryly added, “i don’t suppose you saw the other box when you put your confession box in.” noya’s face morphed into one of worry, but then back again. “this might be a blip in the plan, but they still have the confession. they just have to eat both of the boxes of pocky. duh.” he muttered underneath his breath, reassuring himself yet again. 

bsf!nishinoya who almost goes catatonic, when he sees you giggle and hand one of the boxes of pocky to yachi and walk away. 

bsf!nishinoya and tanaka who basically sprint like they never have before to yachi as soon as you were out of sight.

bsf!nishinoya who snatches the box of pocky out of poor yachi’s hands, like a rabid dog.

bsf!nishinoya whose hands tremble as he opens the box. please, please please not be in here, please please–

bsf!nishinoya who suddenly notices what he is actually doing and starts to explain-apologising to the girl, because to yachi, it looked like she was just mugged for her breaktime snack by her upperclassmen for seemingly no reason at all. 

bsf!nishinoya who finds the love note that was meant for you resting his hands and just stares at it for a solid minute, contemplating whether he should just confess to you outright, there and then.

bsf!nishinoya who hears his phone go off.

bsf!nishinoya who sees your name at the top of his phone with a text that reads – ‘meet me on the rooftop yuu :D’ .

bsf!nishinoya who leaps into the air, hair messy, with sheer relief and a new found confidence.

bsf!nishinoya who is determined and ready to spill his honest romantic feelings to you and is rushing to the school roof.

bsf!nishinoya who doesn’t know that you also have a box of his favourite flavour of pocky and a confession of your own to go with it… 

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[jacaeryslover]

THE BET: a spencer reid one-shot.

summary: in which penelope dares spencer to ask out the first attractive woman he sees, you!

"okay, bet!" says penelope garcia, twisting one of her red ponytails between her fingers, all of them adorned with sparkly and colorful jewelry.

"but why? i already told you i'm perfectly capable of asking a girl out" replies spencer, almost too quickly, not at all helping his situation.

"just accept the bet pretty boy, or are you scared you won't make it?" added derek morgan, finding amusement in the situation spencer had put himself into, he obviously would seize every opportunity to tease the young boy.

"alright, i'll do it" spencer finally concede.

...

just moments before ordering his usual coffee, spencer reid noted something different, someone unfamiliar. this was his most frequented coffee shop, the place was small, quiet and most of the times you could see the same 3 faces. but not today, today he noticed you. the moment he laid eyes on you he could see you were the most beautiful woman he had ever met, the moment he saw you seated there in the small—but comfortable—couch, remembered him of penelope garcia's bet.

now he had to ask you out.

he didn't want to disturb your peace, so he approached slowly, careful. "hi" he said—regretting his poor choice of words almost instantly, he could've said "hello there" or something friendlier—what are you reading?"

he—thankfully—noticed she had a book in her hands, one that he couldn't see previously mainly because he was nervous, so nervous he thought he couldn't even talk.

"oh, hi. i'm reading demian. have you ever read it? it's actually really good. i thought i wouldn't like it but my sister demanded it was a "must read" she blurted out, why? she doesn't know, she was an easy-to-get-to-know kinda person. she usually didn't think much of it. unless a tall and hot brunnette showed the minimal amount of interest in her. now she thought he thought she was weird.

oversharing was just part of who she was, and he was thankful for it, because all of his limited social skills suddenly dissappeared.

"yes, i read it once." he muttered quietly, trying to keep all the information he had on said story to himself, he didn't want to scare her before actually asking her out.

"so... i was thinking... maybe we could meet up again? i have to go to work right now but i would find it lovely to meet you again...

if you'd like."

he seemed like a nice person she thought, so she agreed to meet him in this coffee shop, tomorrow, at 6pm.

just before he leaved he heared the sound of her voice "i never got your name!" she had said.

"i'll tell you tomorrow, so make sure you come" he shouted, almost bumping onto someone on his way out.

...

"so..." he started with a grin slowly showing on his face as he stepped onto the room, watching his teammates already seated in the oh-so-common round table "we never said what i was going to win if i got a date".

[coca-colas-truck-driver]

In one of his sessions with one of the many therapists Sam has seen over the years for cases. Be it a haunting of, or a creature inhabiting, a psych ward, he’d been honest with one of them. Dr. Aaron Fuller.

It was only easy to open up about his childhood and teenage years because the man already knew about the apocalypse. Even if he thought Sam was rattling on about delusions, he’d been attentive to Sam explaining how he’d never felt out of place in the hunting lifestyle, not really; and that was the problem.

Stanford had been harder than any hunt. The academic aspect was the only enjoyable part, he’d always enjoyed school, and maybe it was nice to not have to deal with his dad as much, but he’d never belonged there. He’d tried, he’d made friends with plenty of different crowds over the four years he’d spent in California, but no one had ever been able to mesh with him. Or, more likely, he’d been unable to mesh with anyone.

Dr. Fuller had asked about the girlfriend he mentioned at some point during the conversation, and Sam had told him “Jess was great. But I always had to keep her at arms length. I was always afraid of losing her, whether it be because of the demon or something else.”

Dr. Fuller had written something down on his notepad, nodding. Sam didn’t appreciate the gesture, since it probably was another delusion being added to the already long list.

“What about your brother? You mentioned you only weren’t talking for two years, tell me about that.”

Sam shook his head, “It was a stupid fight right before I met Jess. I didn’t see a point in keeping my big brother around when I had a girlfriend.”

Dr. Fuller raised an eyebrow , and Sam could hear the statement he would of made, if he hadn’t spotted the codependency upon first meeting them, ‘it’s odd to compare those relationships in your life.’ instead Dr. Fuller asks “Why do you refer to Dean as your “big brother” rather than his actual name when we talk in my office?”

“It’s what he is.” Sam shrugs.

[yazzwrites6962]

Against All Odds ♡ Viktor (Arcane) + Squid Game AU ♡ Teaser

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Viktor x Fem!Reader ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Author's Note: UNEDITED! I just finished season 2 of squid game and I thought this idea might have some potential. This is just a teaser. I will write an actual chapter eventually. I've been super busy lately, and lacking ideas. My requests are also open! I know some of you are waiting on part 3 for Redemption. I am working on it! Please give me some! I do not own any characters/images!

Genre: A little angsty if anything

Summary: Desperate for an escape from your harsh life in Zaun, you decide to take a chance on a stranger offering you a second chance at life.

Word Count: 1077

Warnings: Distress, tension, suspense, kinda kidnapping

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The dim lights of Zaun buzzed faintly around you, casting your shadow along the cracked pavement. The air reeked of metal and soot, a mix of old oil and burning scrap. It was the city where people survived out of pure will to do so. Hope was scarce, and desperation was a way of life.

You sat on the worn-down bench, fingers trembling as you counted the few coins in your hand. They barely added up as enough for a meal, let alone the rent.

The world had never been kind, but lately, it was taking much more than you could give. Your thoughts spiraled into a familiar pit of despair.

"Rough day?" A voice asked. Startled, you glance up to see a stranger in a dark coat standing a few feet away. His face is partially hidden by the shadows, but his eyes have a spark of excitement. Before you could respond, he pulled out a small card and held it towards you. "If you're looking for a way out, you may want to consider."

You hesitated but took the card. It was a simple brown card with small black lettering. No name. No real logo, unless you counted the strange shapes on the back.

"What is this?" You ask, looking up at the man while flipping the card between your fingers.

"An opportunity." He said, with a voice so sure and steady. "For people like you, Y/N, who need a second chance."

Before you could question how he knew your name, or ask for more details about this opportunity, he turned away. You watched him disappear into the fog which clung to the streets of the undercity.

You now found yourself drawn to the card, your heart pounding. Desperation gnawed at you, urging you to take a chance. Yet, fear kept clawing you back.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You found yourself standing at the designated meeting spot: An empty street corner bathing in the orange light of a nearby streetlamp. The silence was eerie, interrupted only by the occasional paper scraps brushing by.

Suddenly, a shiny black vehicle unlike anything you had seen in the undercity before rolled up to you. What you could only assume to be a door slid open, revealing masked figures inside.

"Y/N?" One of them asked, their voice sounding distorted somehow. "Password?" You recall the small letters on the back of the card which the stranger had given you.

"R-Red light, green light?" You reply hesitantly, questioning if it was a good idea to do this at all. Was it too late to turn and walk away? However, the masked figure nodded and gestured for you to enter. You may never get this chance again, whatever this may be.

Where would you go, if you walked away? Back to your grimy apartment that you couldn't afford? Back to your dead-end job that left your fingers trembling and belly empty?

You took a deep breath and climbed in. The door slid shut behind you with a click, sealing you in. The interior was barely lit, and the windows were tinted so dark that you couldn't see outside. There were only a few other people inside, sleeping peacefully.

You wondered how they could rest so easily. Were they all in the same position as you? How could they still their racing hearts? How could they be so calm?

You sat down in an empty seat near the window, hoping that if you squint hard enough, you will see the road. Watching the road along the journey might ease your mind. However, before the vehicle pulled off, there was a sudden hissing sound.

You looked around to find a white gas filling the van. Before you could panic, before you could scream, before you could even get up out of your seat, your eyes grew heavy. Your whole body was heavy, like a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake.

Then, it all went black.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The first sense to come back to you was hearing. You could hear music. Trumpets, like the kind you heard playing during festivals up in Piltover. Of course, you had never seen a real Piltover party. You could only hear thee echoes from below.

Then, it was the smell. It smelled sterile. Clean. There was no smoke and sweat in the air. There was nothing. Then, it was touch. You felt clean fabric around you. Not only that, but your body felt cleaner. Your skin did not feel the irritating weight of grime and dust.

Finally, you opened your eyes. It was bright, and you were looking right up as a series of metal bars holding up a mattress above you. You shoot up, suddenly remembering what had happened.

The room was filled with hundreds of people of all ages, species, and backgrounds. Hundreds of strangers, which you could only assume took similar risks as you had. On the wall, there was a number displayed. Four hundred and fifty-six. That must be the total number of people in the room.

"Yo!" A raspy voice hollered a little too close to your ear. You jumped, turning to meet the stranger. It was a young girl. Most definitely younger than you. She had braided blue hair and eyeliner smudged on her face. "Number neighbor!"

Your eyes gravitate to the number on her chest. 187. Then, you look down at your foreign clothing. You are number 188. The blue-haired girl grabs your sheets, throwing them off you and tugging at your wrist to get you out of bed.

"C'mon. Don't be too slow. Get up." She whined. You did as you were told, making your way out of the bed and following her down the steps and into the crowd of other people.

"Do you know where we are?" You say finally, your throat dry. From what you picked up on from the chatter around you, most others also had no idea where they were and what was going on.

"No, silly." 187 chuckled, pointing somewhere above the crowd. "Those guys probably know a thing or two, though." Her finger was aimed directly at a group of the masked strangers who you recalled seeing in the car.

You held your breath as they marched into the room. Maybe you would find answers from them. Maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you should've walked away when you had the chance.

Or maybe, this was about to be the greatest opportunity you've taken in your life.

[bullet-prooflove]

5500 Follower Bingo Celebration: Love Letters - Mitch Keller x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @dolphs-darling @watermeezer @queenslandlover-93 @lostinwonderland314

When Mitch was away on the rodeo circuit, he used to write you love letters. They weren’t much, scribbled lyrics, places he’d wanted to take you, how much he was missing you at the time. He would always address them ‘To my sunshine’ before sealing them up in an envelope with a kiss and placing them in the mailbox.

You never wrote back, there was no point, he would already have moved on to the next town by the time you did. Instead you sent him voice notes, snippets of you singing his songs and Mitch he would been on top of the world when he went out into that arena, because the sound of your voice was music to his ears.

Now it’s a decade later and Mitch is sifting through a shoebox filled with memories that had long since been forgotten. The two of you have gotten a little house near The Buck, one with a yard for the dog you’ve been begging him to consider. It’s going to happen, he knows it is, he just likes to pretend you haven’t gotten him wrapped around your little finger.

“I didn’t know you still had these.” Mitch says as he studies the postage stamps.

Mississippi, Nevada, Kansas and many more. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten around so much back in the day.

 Your chin comes to rest on his shoulder as you raise up on tip toes to survey them.

“I used to get them out from time to time when I was missing you.” You confess, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding him close. “I could play those songs in my sleep by the time I got back to Tulsa.”

Hearing that, it does a little something to Mitch. He’s had his troubles over the years, the injury, the drugs, his incarceration, he thought he’d fucked things up for good after that second stint in rehab but the two of you, you were always inevitable, like the sun raising in the east and setting in the west.

“Do you think you could play one for me when we get home?” He asks you, the stubble on his jaw grazing your skin as his cheek comes to rest upon yours. “See if we can still find a little of that magic?”

“That depends.” You tell him, your hands coming to rest on his belt buckle. “Do you still have the hat and chaps?”

A filthy smile crosses his features as he says/

"Why Sunny, I actually think I do."

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dracoangel]

I actually started thinking more about this.

We learn through memories that the darkspawn we've been seeing aren't actually new, but are actually old... ancient times old; science experiments by Ghilan'nain. That's why they're so different from what we are used to. We're not dealing with poor souls that got Blighted and instead of dying were changed into hurlocks, genlocks and so on driven by the song in their head to unleash arch demons. We're dealing with Ghilan'nain's new experiments. We're basically dealing with a new strand of a virus, that we've known for years, that was cooked up in some lab. It's why the First Warden can't wrap his own head around the Blight changing, the virus we've known for centuries has never changed and now all of the sudden you're telling him it's changed over night?

And I think that's why they're mindless too. No longer are they getting a song telling them to dig up arch demons and follow the arch demon's will. They were only organized when they had a higher power to give them that organization (arch demons, The Architect, The Mother). So what do they do now? Ghilan'nain basically created them and just set them loose. They don't have a purpose other than spreading blight. And also, the song itself is changing? No one, not even the Wardens know what it means. No one knows what it's changing into, whether it's for better or worse. But it's changing.

I don't think we've ever really thought: what happens to the Blight corruption itself and the darkspawn once all the arch demons are dead? Darkspawn don't really have wills of their own, they followed the song that's in their heads. Did we think that the Blight and darkspawn were just going to *poof* vanish the moment the last arch demon was slain? The way the darkspawn are acting now, is that what they would have become?

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not happy with the redesign. I was hoping we would see Broodmothers that added darkspawn soldiers to the ranks (as was their role), see people changing into the darkspawn we know instead of infected with this new virus.

but for real, why were the darkspawn redesigned as generic monsters? why did they become mindless? they’re not (or weren’t) or we wouldn’t have seen organized darkspawn armies. why do they no longer resemble corrupted races, as they essentially ARE? what was the reason?? the redesigns just undo the established darkspawn lore and what made them interesting and threatening

[normcore-tertiary-character]

What I send to my friends:

"So, I decided to hand bind a book 🤪"

What I admit to tumblr:

It's everyone-is-alive, human!AU, college!AU Sterek porn

[just-puddding]

Rin week day 3- genin

Sometimes It's just a girl and her bug piece of wood against the world

Whereas despite her usual unwavering optimism Rin feels a bit desolate about failing her chunin exams.

[vaguely-concerned]

just going about my day idly contemplating how some of the ways hawke can interact with a romanced anders are not at all unlike how they interact with leandra (and a bit of carver too, especially with a purple hawke), and then thought about my hawke in the timeline where he romances anders and was hit straight in the face with 'was he ever actually in love, or was he just desperately trying to renegotiate with his mother's ghost in any way he could' and now i need to lie down. this is the power of dragon age 2

[kittenfangirl20]

(This was my own idea that I came up with for the story and isn’t in the movie)

Alastor tapped his fingers on the arm of the throne wondering why such companions were here. He knew by the star marking on Lucifer’s forehead that he was actually a unicorn. He knew this because twenty years ago he hired a sorcerer named Paimon to bring him a child since he didn’t want a child the conventional way. The next day Paimon brought a unicorn foal that he turned into a baby human boy. Alastor named the baby Adam and the only thing that could tell someone that Adam wasn’t really human was the star like mark on his forehead. So he made Adam wear makeup to hide it and kept him hidden.

Alastor: I thought that would be the end of that, but it turns out unicorns don’t like it when one of their foals is stolen.

The unicorns tried to get Adam back, so Alastor made a deal with a demon called the Red Bull who drove them into the ocean and kept them there. He also guessed that the sorcerer Stolas was also Paimon’s son.

Alastor internally: I will force this Lucifer back into his unicorn form and he will be driven into the ocean. Adam can never know the truth.

Adam and Lucifer were getting along more and more each day. When they were alone Lucifer could coax Ad out of the helmet he was wearing. He would smile seeing Adam’s beautiful face.

Adam: What does that star mark on your forehead mean?

Lucifer: Why do you ask?

Adam rubbed his forehead and revealed that he had a star like mark on his forehead as well.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

(The Last Unicorn AU)

Long ago in a faraway kingdom there was a forest that housed all sorts of magical creatures. But the most beautiful was the unicorn. Sadly the unicorns started to slowly disappear until only one was left. This was a young male unicorn named Lucifer. He hadn’t realized he was the last until one day hunters came upon him and decided to not kill him for he was the last.

Lucifer: Am I really the last unicorn.

Lucifer was a beautiful white unicorn with blue eyes. He decided to leave the forest to find out the fate of the others. He traveled for days, but he didn’t hear anything. Since he was outside the enchanted forest he looked like a horse to humans. It wasn’t until a spider in a web caught his attention that he found out the fate of the unicorns. This fluffy little pink and white spider was named Angel.

Angel: A unicorn, you don’t see your type very often now.

Lucifer: Why is that?

Angel: As far as I know they were gathered up by the Red Bull and driven into the ocean for King Alastor’s entertainment. He lives in an old castle on a cliff hanging over the ocean with his adopted son. You don’t want to go there, you would be driven into the sea as well and then there would be no more unicorns.

Lucifer: But I must find them.

Angel: Good luck unicorn.

Lucifer traveled until it was night and he went to sleep. What he didn’t realize was that he had fallen asleep close to a carnival run by Mammon and Mammon had a young sorcerer named Stolas work for him.

Mammon: Well what do you know, a unicorn.

Since both Mammon and Stolas had magic they could see magical beings like unicorns.

Stolas: What are you going to do with him?

Mammon: Put him in a cage so I can have people come and see him. Put him in iron chains.

Stolas: Are you sure it is wise, you are already on a dangerous path with that harpy you have locked up.

Mammon: Do as I say sorcerer.

Stolas put Lucifer in iron chains and put him in a cage with iron bars even though he didn’t like it.

When Lucifer woke up he was shocked to find that he was chained up in a cage. Stolas looked at him with sad eyes.

Lucifer: Please, you have to let me go I need to see the King.

Stolas: I want to, I really do but..... If my boss found out.

To say it wouldn't end well would be an understatement.

Stolas: But..... What if you were something that the iron couldn't hurt?

Lucifer: What do you mean?

Looking around, Stolas made sure that Mammon was nowhere to be seen. He used his magic to turn Lucifer into a human.

Lucifer: WHAT THE-!?

Stolas: SHHH!! Please be quiet I'm only trying to help. Now you can slip out.

Lucifer was freaked out by this but he did get out. Stolas even gave him a tunic to cover himself.

Lucifer: Okay change me back.

Mammon, in the distance: What was that!?

Stolas: There's no time, you have to leave now. I'll turn you back another day but please go!

So Lucifer did and he was told and ran away.