#and he is just fundamentally not cut out for it

[leighsartworks216]

Scar Tissue

Sylus x gn!Reader

Eyyyyy @comatosebunny09 I finally finished it >:3

Based on this post

Title from "Scar Tissue" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Warnings: cuddling, early relationship, intimacy, injury, guns, knives, semi-nudity

Word Count: 2,421

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“Speak.”

The generic carpet muffles his footfalls as he crosses the room to the oversized floor to ceiling windows that peer out over Chansia City. You follow behind him until you get to the dresser, lined neatly with your clothes.

The hotel is very nice, especially high up here in the presidential suite. Though, you haven’t had much time to actually enjoy it. You got here yesterday, and it feels like all you’ve had time for is sleeping and getting dressed. It’s all been meetings, deals and exchanges otherwise. The only reason you’re back here at all is to change clothes to go to dinner with another client.

Sylus sighs, irritation painting his face with a scowl. You can just barely hear Luke’s voice on the other end. They’ve been holding down the N109 Zone in Sylus’s absence. “More petty land grabs?”

“Nah, from what we’ve heard it sounds like an affair came to light and now they’re duking it out to win their love.”

You snicker as you pull out a clean shirt. You turn and drop it on the bed, back to Sylus as you take off your shirt, bloody and torn from your earlier meeting. He turns to shoot you a half-amused half-annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Have Mephisto-”

But the words get stuck in his throat. Time seems to slow down as he stares at the bare expanse of your back. Your skin looks like a well-used cutting board. Scar after scar, criss-crossing over each other, fundamentally altering the appearance of your flesh for years to come.

He can pinpoint which were from missions he’d sent you on. Jobs that put you in the line of fire, where you had to fight your way out to survive, where someone got a surprise jump on you.

Others are completely foreign. Cuts and bullet wounds and burn marks, all unfamiliar to him. What secrets from your past do you keep locked away from him? How safe are you from the ones that hurt you? Would you ever tell him if something was wrong? If something cropped up from back then, from a time he’d never know enough of? Perhaps not.

Somehow, the former was worse. Knowing he was the one that sent you into trouble. Or those damn injuries you earned from taking a hit intended for him. Being the root cause for your pain aches more than never knowing the damage you incurred before.

You slip your shirt on, hiding the marks from view, and peek over your shoulder at him, confused by his silence. Time speeds back up.

He schools his features into something neutral, hiding the regret and hurt, and burying it deep down within him. He looks out the windows once more. Luke asks if he’s alright. Sylus ignores it, speaking as if nothing ever happened.

-

Dinner was dull, for the most part. The client didn’t seem to understand that you weren’t there for conversation, repeatedly prompting you to answer questions. You’d have signaled Sylus to put the man in his place, but it was all too amusing to see him flounder.

“What kind of gun do you use?” You’d slipped it from its holder mid sip of wine and dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud. That’d taken him by surprise. He recovered quickly enough, spewing off facts about the make and model that you already knew.

“Has it been modified?” You broke it down and separated the parts that had been replaced or enhanced. He’d curiously reached out to inspect them, but you put it back together before he could touch anything. He paused, but put on a slightly strained, polite smile as he awkwardly sat back in his chair.

“How good is your aim?” You shot the end of his cigarette when he went to tap the ashes into a dish, scaring him so bad he shook the entire table and had to rapidly keep his drink from tipping into his lap.

He seemed content to leave you be after that.

You fall back into the bed, arms spread out wide and still in your dinner attire. Sylus chuckles. “Have fun?” he teases. He sits down beside you, leaning on his arm with an amused grin.

You shoot an unimpressed glare his way. Fabric rustles as you slide your hand along the bed to hold his arm, caressing the tensed muscles of his forearm. “Don’t worry, you can make it up to me.”

His grin turns into a salacious smirk. You smack his bicep. “Not like that.”

“You don’t know what I was going to suggest.” Nonetheless, he kicks off his shoes by the side of the bed and lays down beside you. With one hand acting as a pillow, the other rests comfortably on your stomach. You wrap your arm around his neck to play with his hair. Content, you close your eyes.

The last vestiges of the sun filter through the window. Combined with the few lights in the room, you look… peaceful. It’s starting to become a common sight, and he takes great pleasure in being the one allowed to witness it. These times when you trust him enough to relax. When you stop listening out for the slightest hint of danger. When your body releases the tension constantly preparing your body for an attack. It’s a privilege. He hopes never to take it for granted.

Your fingers flit lazily through his hair. His body still tenses on the onset of your touch. His natural instinct yells for him to pull away, go on the defensive, protect himself. It’s always a battle to fight against them and allow himself to completely trust someone. As this - cuddling together, the small moments of physical intimacy and skinship - become the normal, the fight gets easier and easier.

He wonders if that same defensive instinct wars on in your head when he slips his hand under the hem of your shirt. The first brush of his fingers on your flesh, the flinch of muscle away from the contact, that eases back into his touch after a pause. If it does, you say nothing of it. Rather, when your stomach flinches away, you tug on his hair. An equal exchange. And perhaps a reminder of the lengths you have both gone to expose yourselves to each other.

Calloused fingertips dance across your belly, hidden by the fabric of your shirt. Soft ridges and toughened skin of layers of damage done across the years. His mind is shot back to the thoughts he had earlier. You can feel the shift in his touch. The way his fingers lift to barely ghost over your skin, as though you’re as thin and fragile as wet tissue paper. You open your eyes to watch him.

His face is stern. Like when discussing a difficult deal, his brow is furrowed and his eyes are dark. He slowly pushes up the shirt until it rests in a rumpled heap around the bottom of your ribcage. The shift in your breathing latches on at the edge of his senses. Just as with your back, scar after scar decorates your skin. But one stands out from the rest.

Along the line of your hip is a cut. It’s shallow. The skin it tore apart is irritated from lack of care and not having a moment to rest properly.

That’s his fault, too. Dragging you out to a dinner you didn’t really want to go to instead of giving you the opportunity to sleep and heal. Technically, you’re his bodyguard - his guard dog, always by his side, defending him from anyone who you deem a threat. Yet, he’s discomfited by just how quickly you step in to protect him. That’s what this scar is the result of.

The meeting this morning. A fight broke out. He was aiming a gun at the other group leader. One of their lackeys came up from the side with a knife. And you got hit. It had bled, but you’d brushed him off so easily when he mentioned it. You weren’t doubled over, nor were you in a rush to patch it up, so he trusted your judgement. Without a second thought.

Fortunately, your judgement is dependable. All it really needs is a bandage to keep the skin together and bacteria out while it heals, and yet he doesn’t get up. He doesn’t move. All he does is trace alongside it, feeling how it becomes intertwined with the scars before it.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he says, but the tone of his voice is odd. Teasing, edged with something raw. Something more vulnerable. Something that you two have been dancing around for weeks. “Tell me the next time you’re hurt. I’ll patch you up.”

You brush the hair from his face. His red eyes shift first to the bunched up fabric of your shirt, then to yours. His eyes are soft. The deep maroon of before has melted into a bloody crimson.

“I can patch myself up.”

He scoffs with a smirk and the slight tilt of his head. “I wasn’t asking, sweetie.”

You quirk a brow up at him. “Does it bother you?”

“Yeah,” he agrees readily.

Your fingers falter. He brushes his thumb more firmly along the edge of the cut, still light enough that it doesn’t hurt, but with enough force that it no longer feels like he’s treating you like something fragile.

You frown at him, tapping three times at the base of his skull, a silent request for more information. He pushes himself up onto his elbow. It should be salacious, even intimidating, for him to hover over you like this. But it’s not.

His eyes follow his hand as he traces other marks on your belly. A bullet entrance wound here, a Wanderer’s blade there. The ones he caresses are newer. They haven’t yet faded into your skin. Of all of them, he’d only helped treat one or two. Some, he never even knew about, but he could trace back to when, what mission, they were received from.

“How many of these are from protecting me?” he asks lowly. “You do realize I can heal from all of these much faster than you can, don’t you, sweetie?”

You tilt your head. “It bothers you… that I do my job?”

He chuckles, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could stand to be a little less efficient at it.”

The world falls quiet. The sun disappears, leaving darkness in her wake. The orange glow of the hotel lamps forms mountains and valleys along your skin. You study him, searching for answers.

Over your lifetime struggling to survive, you’d gotten good at reading people, Sylus included. Of course, he had broken your assumptions and expectations. If he hadn’t, you’d never have let him get so close. Never have allowed him to touch you like this, see your skin like this.

Right now, you can’t understand him.

He hired you to be his bodyguard, to protect him. To be his own personal shield when shit hits the fan. But he doesn’t want you to? A lingering fear in your mind worries for the end of your partnership. Would he really touch you like this if he wanted to fire you? Besides, when you made the damn deal, he said only you would have the power to call it off. He wasn’t someone to go against his word.

You drop your hand from his hair. His eyes snap to you, a flicker of fear that is snuffed out when you touch his chest. He’s still wearing his nice dress shirt, jacket discarded elsewhere. You play with one of the buttons. “How many times have you stepped in to protect me?” you ask.

Countless times. More and more frequently.

“Do you let any of them scar?”

He slowly shakes his head. It’s always second nature for him to use his Evol to take care of any and all injuries. Anything that could scar is gone before he has a chance to think about it, so long as he’s in the right conditions to use it.

“Then you can’t understand.”

He hums. “Enlighten me.”

You grin. Gliding your hand from his chest, down his arm, you hold the back of his where it rests on your stomach. It doesn’t take much effort to guide him. He watches, feels the scars that scrape by, as you bring it back back down to your hip, until his palm rests over the cut. It will heal within a couple of weeks, probably less. Once it’s healed, it will scar over. Once it scars over, it will be nothing more than a lasting memory embedded in your skin.

“They’re badges,” you say quietly. When he looks back up at you, you’re watching his hand, trailing your fingertips over the veins that decorate them. “I earned them from protecting you.”

So why would I not want them?

It goes unsaid, but he catches it anyway in the gentle reverence of your carress, the quirk of your brow when you look at him wordlessly asking if he can understand now. It doesn’t need to be said.

He slips his hand out from under yours. The bed shifts with his weight as he turns and gets up. You feel the loss immediately. It’s easy to hide the disappointment, but it churns over in your gut, more distinctly than you’ve ever felt it before, as he disappears around the corner of the wall. Did he really hate them so much?

He returns a minute later when you’re considering fixing your shirt with a medkit in hand. He sits on his knees, sets the kit down beside your body, and opens it up to get what he needs. The disinfectant stings as he wipes it along the cut, but you hardly feel it when he just looks so beautiful. So focused on taking care of you.

“Tell me when you're hurt,” he reminds you. He unspools a length of gauze and wraps it around your midsection securely. He glances at you with a slight grin as he grabs a roll of bandages from the kit. “They won’t scar well if they get infected first.”

A week later, you’re the one patching him up. He sits calmly on the couch as you draw a needle through the skin of his bicep. It’s just a knife wound. Earned from stepping in to protect you.

He can’t wait to see the scar.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip

[untitledgoosegay]

gender failure plays a large role in dimitri's narrative; i wouldn't call him gnc but i think he'd be much happier if he was allowed to be

[batsplat]

☕️ on marc/dani as teammates? bc so many ppl on here especially have such a simplified and maybe even rose-tinted view of their dynamic imo…..

hm yeah it's a tricky one because I do think there's a lot of genuine interpersonal fondness there that was forged in the aftermath of some equally genuine animosity. for me, it's that development that's particularly interesting... what I personally have always found the most appealing about this rivalry is just how ruthless marc as to someone he genuinely admired and considered one of his heroes or 'references'. like, I think it's a bit different from the dynamic with valentino because it's kind of... vale's the childhood hero vs dani as a rider who's ahead of you who you want to directly emulate in rising through the ranks. with valentino, marc didn't really think they'd ever be competing at the top of the sport because of how big the age gap was, but with dani? different story

which does affect the emotional approach, I reckon - you can admire them and still dream of beating them, you know? like, say you're fourteen years old in 2007 and are getting out your customised casey stoner voodoo doll while he's bitch slapping your two guys, what fantasies are you cooking up in your little brain about meeting your heroes? with valentino, it's probably him grinning at you while handing you your tenth consecutive motogp trophy and telling you how amazing you are... how you're his successor, the one carrying on his legacy... lots of daydreaming of him like, hyping you up after he's retired and calling you god's gift to motorcycle racing, etc etc. who knows, maybe marc was also fantasising about beating valentino in epic duels, but he wasn't really expecting to be fighting valentino, right? whereas with dani? oh yeah, marc might have thought he was great... but in an ideal world, he's ripping the crown off dani's head when dani's a three time defending motogp champion! so crucially marc wasn't blindsided by actually fighting him on-track, and was kinda more prepared for that to get ugly? dani acts as a 'direct' reference, where he's just a few years ahead and marc can see how it's done, basically. but what this still means... he'd admired this guy for years, he had posters of him and all that shit, but the moment they're direct competitors and teammates? all that is just... locked away. no interest no mercy, all he cares about is beating the guy. and marc did still talk about using dani as a reference point, about how much he'd learned from him... but of course that scary fast learning of his was all about beating dani

from dani's side... I'm glad he's gotten to a stage where he's at peace with his career, but. god, it must have been tough. at the end of 2012, he's the in-form rider - more so than jorge. he won six of the last eight races that year. incidentally, this is how jorge is talking before the 2013 season:

obviously, jorge is trying to fuck with dani here, but he's also not really wrong. all four of the aliens have got a lot going on early 2013, but if you had to point at the guy who is dealing with the most pressure? well, it's got to be dani, doesn't it. he was the one who still had something to prove in the premier class, who was now being thrown together with the super hyped rookie. this is how dani spoke about marc at the start of the year:

and here:

and then of course marc beat dani at qatar and then won at cota... granted, dani does a good job of keeping his head and regrouping for the next few races - but it was still an auspicious start, provoking a lot of discourse that wasn't particularly kind to dani. so in that first year, you've got all these different elements - you've got how marc is competing on-track, dani's injury, how marc is already attempting to assert himself within the team, how you've got the behind the scenes warfare between their two teams (again, see this article)... and then dani's issues with marc's actual riding (x, x). now, I think it's worth saying that aragon 2013 is not a case where marc has clearly fucked up. he makes a mistake, yes, but he couldn't have known the slight contact he made with dani would lead to that wire breaking and dani's highside. here's what dani said:

this is a case where different racing philosophies clash, right? what dani's saying is that what happened was a direct consequence of how marc approaches riding - that he's always flirting with contact and this time it finally went wrong. it's the kind of riding dani has consistently disliked, and it's something marc is the poster boy for. in this case, this crash essentially ends dani's title bid. he couldn't walk for three days afterwards. dani criticised race direction for choosing not to give marc a penalty (apart from the penalty points) - this was not something he just brushed off

and, look, you do have to bring it up... dani's experiences with sic will inevitably have influenced how he approached the marc rivalry. I mean, it kind of did for all of them - there's elements of that tragedy that will have bled into how valentino, jorge, dovi and dani reacted to marc. with casey, it's one of the reasons why marc never even had an on-track rivalry with him. now, obviously, dani had big, big issues with sic, a lot of tension including harsh comments in the press and refused handshakes and all of that, as a result of sic's very aggressive approaching to racing. dani was also the one who suffered the most as a direct result, in particular after the broken collarbone at le mans. he's spoken after sic's passing about his regret about how he handled that relationship... how it changed his approach to rivalries, that reminder that there might be things he'd never have the chance to fix

the other sic-related element is that of course, there were easy parallels to be drawn between him and marc, and his shadow did at times loom uncomfortably over debates over hard racing during that period. I think you can feel it most strongly in jorge's response to marc... the echoes of when jorge had gotten in a verbal clash with sic at one of the 2011 pressers and his frustration when his complaints were just laughed off by journalists:

this press conference was from the race before le mans, where sic was responsible for dani's broken collarbone. so if two years later, you've got marc publicly shrugging off jorge's complaints in an only slightly more respectful manner, how can you not be at least a little concerned? yes, marc did have a better feeling of where the limit was, he didn't really push things too far, but... this was still a very recent trauma for everyone and nobody knew how far marc would or wouldn't push it at the time. especially not after the kind of reputation he'd gotten himself in his 125cc/moto2 days. (though of course it's important to note that sic's death wasn't caused by his style of racing, and if anything he'd gotten more sensible in the latter stages of 2011). so the influence goes both ways, right? on the one hand, it all feels a bit too familiar, on the other... well, that's actually a reason why you probably don't want to be too harsh on this kid. because you never know

in the end, the tensest year of their teammate partnership was 2013 - because after that title was sealed marc had won. by the end of the year, it wasn't really dani's team any more. his internal position had already been de facto undermined by casey, but not to the same extent because casey wasn't really interested in playing these games - plus the end stretch of 2012 had definitely cemented dani's role in the team. I've already given most of my thoughts here about how marc takes control of that team, which inevitably touches on some of his nastier behaviour. lying about what parts suited him is the obvious example... he's a ruthless teammate, he openly admits to it. and obviously, dani wasn't always just fine with that. who would be? he's accepted that's part of who marc is as a competitor, and at the end of the day he also had to accept losing. sometimes you just gotta make your peace with a status quo, yeah? it's tricky to strike the balance between not losing the competitive edge and not letting losing to your young teammate year after year drive you insane... dani's always been quite good at focusing on himself, even if a lot of the time 'focusing on himself' involved 'recovering from some horrid injury'

so you know, it's nice that their relationship has gotten warmer since they've no longer been teammates, and for the most part they did keep things civil while they were directly working with each other. also, you do just get over things when you're no longer competing with someone... I've said this before, but there's really only a relatively small number of truly burnt bridges in the paddock ecosystem. thing is, it's quite impressive of dani to seemingly not hold any grudges over what marc did to him... but he easily could have, and it kinda would've been justifiable? it's also primarily down to dani that this teammate dynamic didn't get worse than it was... which, y'know, you can argue if that was the right or the wrong approach, but it also meant he increasingly had to accept a subordinate role within that team - become a non-problematic teammate that honda was happy to sign again. and then you've got marc, who spent years looking up to dani and then spent years being pretty vicious to him and never saw the slightest contradiction between those two things, because of course he didn't! and of course he still has some historical fondness for him as a result of once being his fan... which is an element that has gradually snuck to the foreground again after marc increasingly managed to dismiss dani as a competitive threat. overall, then, as teammates they had their early tensions, then they were 'reasonably friendly coworkers', now they get on quite well. over the course of his career, dani's hardly been immune to drama with other riders, but at the end of the day he's pretty feud-proof on the whole. what kind of a nutter would you have to be to start a feud with dani pedrosa, eh

[mooniety]

the hc that susie & bandana dee have this parent-child dynamic will never die in my heart, i imagine that ever since they met for the kirby battle royale trailer they've just had this sort of friendship

like i imagine susie would cut & peel him apple slices, pack him lunch with all his favorite foods, provide him spare change in case of an emergency, celebrate his successes no matter the size, excessively worry about whether he's wearing enough/had enough sleep/eating well, or provide him guidance if he's struggling with something --generally things that are similar to how a parent would care for their child (this is from the perspective of someone from an east asian cultural context where some of these actions that appear odd are very conventional ways of displaying affection from parents)

it's cute & she does these things because she can see a lot of herself in bandana dee (the girlfailure) & wants him to have the opportunity for, if not a normal, then at least a happy & safe(r) childhood unlike the one she got

god forbid she watch him fight some newly arisen ancient godly entity with kirby the third time today.

[saesyndrome]

explanation under the cut

I will preface this by saying that a few things act as complicating factors to this interpretation, not to discredit it, but in muddying the waters where things aren't super clear-cut. The biggest example is that throughout mockingjay Katniss is suffering from the long-term effects of having two severe concussions back-to-back, so her impulse control, ability to focus, etc. are affected negatively. So while I'll use some examples from mj, I'll have other examples to supplement them.

Here's a little infographic of audhd symptoms for reference. This is the best one I found in a cursory search, especially since most of them are like. Venn diagrams of adhd and autism which are less than helpful and not actually all that accurate to audhd:

So a lot of Katniss's actions are colored by impulsivity: holding out the berries, shooting an electrified arrow into the arena forcefield, killing Coin--none of which she does with the intention of affecting the status quo and even resenting the outcome of the choices. There are also impulsive actions like pushing Peeta into the vase because of a perceived sleight despite Peeta's confession only benefiting her, taking the earpiece out when Haymitch's direction doesn't seem sufficient. Generally, autism is characterized by a strict adherence to routine, which Katniss also obviously has, but she time and time again makes impulsive decisions with no regard for how they may change that routine in the long run. Even on a smaller scale, she does things like propose that she and Gale run away together, believing that she's thought it through because she's given the bare minimum consideration to his family, but in reality she hasn't considered how Gale might respond to inviting Peeta (nor does she even think of the possibility of Peeta wanting to bring his family). Even things like deciding to move into a compartment with Johanna are done without any forethought whatsoever.

Katniss routinely avoids anything that's troubling her rather than deal with it, so she's forced into a corner at the last minute and responds without thinking. We see this in situations like how she opts to just pretend as if Peeta doesn't exist as much as she can at the beginning of catching fire because their last interaction was unpleasant, when she pretends as if nothing worth talking about happened with Gale despite it fundamentally affecting their relationship forever, deciding just to not bother writing final goodbye letters to her loved ones, when she refuses to write a speech for District 11 only to blurt one out off the cuff, etc.

I also find that her frustration and emotional dysregulation is largely based on how others interact with her rather than being based primarily on external/inanimate factors that would contribute to overstimulation (although that isn't to say that she doesn't experience overstimulation at all). For example, we have her interactions with Haymitch wherein he acts like she's stupid or lesser, which is the instigating factor for her outburst in the first book where she starts throwing plates against the wall, we have her interactions with Finnick, Chaff, and Johanna that cause her to freeze Peeta out because she feels as if she's being made fun of and Peeta's in on the joke so to speak, we have her breaking pencils in District 13 when people act like she's stupid for not immediately considering Peeta to be a traitor and starts to become irate when she can't put the pencils back in the box.

Finally, with the disinterest/trouble paying attention, this requires a little more reading between the lines, especially when referring to disinterest in contrast to her own hobbies (not being interested in fashion, not making any attempt to try and develop another hobby besides hunting, etc.). She also doesn't seem to have the attention span to make any notes about the previous games, especially not in the comprehensive way that Peeta does, and her mind and attention wanders as Peeta does the illustrations for her father's edible plant book. In general, Katniss's narration skims over anything she doesn't deem important, but there are instances where information will be referenced as if it's been a prior topic of conversation that she admits she's forgotten. The biggest instance of this is in catching fire when Haymitch brings her and Peeta up into the dome of the district 11 justice building to reveal to Peeta that Katniss was threatened by Snow, and Peeta says that he's got friends and family that will be just as affected by their combined actions as Katniss's. I mention this particular scene because the only friend of Peeta's that's ever named in Delly, whom Katniss also knows and is implied to not be a current friend of Peeta's (no one in his family is named either). There's also the implication, because she doesn't relay them at all, that she doesn't pay much attention to the stories that Peeta shares with her during the course of the first games, in the same fashion she doesn't pay much attention to what her prep team talks about while working on her appearance.

Finally, after her first games and while stuck in district 13, Katniss seems to struggle a lot with being understimulated. At least a portion of the time (a handful of times during the course of catching fire), she seems to go into the woods just to end up coming home virtually empty-handed (or at least comparatively so) because she ends up just staring into the distance. She says she ends up spending a lot of time with Madge because they both have an excess of free time and have trouble finding anything to do. And when in district 13, she holes up in behind laundry machines and in supply closets for hours at a time, partially because there's a lack of anything worth her interest until she's able to get permission to go hunting.

Anyway once again there are complicating factors like I could also postulate on Katniss having ocd and bpd but uhhhh yeah sorry theres not direct textual evidence . let me know if you do in fact want page numbers and excerpts I was just trying to keep this from being too too long and I didn't want to give page numbers from the paperback books just for it to be impossible to find on an ebook or whatever. Hopefully this is cohesive enough to actually make an argument for the interpretation lol.

Oh also also I already referenced it but I do think Peeta has a decent control over when and how long her focuses for (doing illustrations for the plant book, taking notes on the previous games, etc), and he doesn't seem to struggle with impulsivity the same way Katniss does, generally having more of a grasp of the consequences of his words and actions before he says/does them. which is why I don't personally think he has adhd. shruggies.

"katniss and peeta are autistic/adhd" WRONG! katniss has BOTH peeta has NEITHER. if you disagree i require textual evidence as to why because i will be providing textual evidence in my defense.

[theboggskids]

With Randall stuff, I’m very much someone who doesn’t care for redemption ideas or angst for the sake of angst. I’m not someone who’s entertained by characters crying over something they have no reason to cry about. It doesn’t enrich their character or make them anymore sympathetic than they already are. (Oh boohoo you’re sad you faced the consequences of your actions or life didnt work out how you planned. Are you actually going to do something about it or just wallow?) Randall’s much too vindictive and proactive for that, imo. He hasn’t shown the signs of suffering enough for that well-constructed outer layer to break.

Randall’s a character who has been written in the main movies and the spin-off show as someone who felt anxious at one point, yes. Felt the sting of failure and defeat. But certainly not remorse. He’s acted in his own self interest consistently, using other people as a step up in the hierarchy. Perhaps some of the connections he’s formed have some genuine aspects but ultimately Randall is a self serving person. He wants to succeed so that he is remembered.

But, if we want, we can look at where Randall has expressed guilt. There’s two instances we can point to: 1) Randall losing at the Scare Games and 2) Randall being banished by Sulley.

Number 2 I don’t really dwell on because it’s a moment we know only happens because Randall’s lost the upper hand. He’ll do anything to get out of that predicament, and that includes groveling. Randall’s no stranger to kissing ass or even lying to get his way. He regrets it because he got caught, and he’s afraid of what he’s being faced with. He’s losing.

Number 1, however, is worth thinking over. Because it’s not just about Randall’s embarrassment and the beginning of his heated decade long one-sided rivalry with Sulley. It’s his reaction to disappointing Johnny (and, possibly, the rest of his team). He is completely, utterly confused, and it shows all over his face that he has no idea what just happened. For something he hasn’t quite mastered control over, as a result of another’s interference, he has utterly failed himself and Johnny. And Chet, low tier, mistreated Chet, gets in on the ridicule. And this is where Randall’s only true moment of regret occurs. Not for Mike, not even truly for himself. It’s about his reputation, and the reputation of his fraternity, of his only “true friend” that he makes in the movie.

MAW emphasizes a “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny” pattern with Randall. Randall is an independent character who acts alone, but he still looks for that approval (everyone does). But he doesn’t respect anyone in the cast enough… except for Johnny. He’ll do a favor for his friend. He’ll put up with irritating an old sports injury for a friend. He’ll scare the new kid for a laugh and to see that friend laugh.

This is his “bestie” from college, who he apparently holds no ill will toward for almost replacing him with Sulley. It’s almost like if he were in the same position, he’d have done the same. There’s an equal level between the two in MAW that’s not there in MU due to Johnny’s status as frat president and Randall as the last minute replacement. In MAW, we instead see Top Scarer Randall and CEO Johnny, putting them in a dynamic closer to that of Sulley and Waternoose. But whereas they didn’t see eye to eye, Johnny and Randall are one in the same in terms of ideals, with very similar goals. And they are unburdened by an age gap and business relationship that demands professionalism.

They’re frat brothers, who’ve seen each other in all sorts of parties, mishaps, and emotional woes. Randall was probably at the guy’s wedding. I think it’s safe to say even if it’s mostly business, Randall still sees him as enough of a peer, gets along with him well enough that Johnny’s the only opinion he cares enough to hear about in our current cast.

So who exactly would Randall change for? If he were to be guilty again, what would it be for? Randall has no reason to regret what he’s done. The only people who’ve objected to his plan have been Monsters Inc. “dorks and losers” and the temporary imprisonment just adds to the misunderstood genius complex. What he has in mind to succeed is worth it. It’ll all be worth it. And Johnny agrees. And that’s the only important thing we know.

[spacecasehobbit]

Truly, I think there is a valid and also extra fun reading of Saltburn in which a good chunk of Oliver's fumbling of Felix was down to an early misreading of one of Felix's core personality traits.

That what Oliver read as Felix having a massive savior kink was actually more of Felix having a, "Growing up with Elspeth for a mother and playing witness to her rotating cast of poor dear friends in my formative years instilled within me a deepseated insecurity over the complete lack of interestingly Traumatic Events that I have experienced due to the wealth and privilege I was born with, coupled with an inability to look directly at or acknowledge that wealth and privilege because that would be, like, Bad?? maybe?? so instead of examing or dealing with this deepseated insecurity in any healthy way, I turned it into a weirdly intense and equally unexamined association with 'Struggles and Trauma = How to be Cool'," kink.

Evidence for this theory includes: -Felix delightedly telling all his friends the story of how his bike got a flat tire and he had to be Dramatically Rescued by an Intriguing Stranger! One slightly bad thing happened to that boy and he was so eager for it that he was telling everyone he knew at the first and also probably every opportunity for days -Felix responding to Oliver's early lies with things like, "You're really brave," and, "Seriously, you're a fucking inspiration, mate" -"What did they teach you in boarding school?" followed by Felix, listing off a few non-answers before staring deeply into Oliver's eyes and smacking a hand on Oliver's inner thigh before finishing with, "annnd... child abuse." -Felix seeming genuinely baffled by Annabell's assertion that none of her friends would want to sit next to Oliver at a dinner party, because... of course Oliver is interesting??? Oliver has Trauma! What do you mean his Traumatic Backstory makes him less interesting, this literally does not compute?? -The one thing that makes him instantly ditch Oliver, on the other hand, being Oliver calling him out as rich and spoiled while calling his room disgusting, which happens on the same day that he ditches Annabell, aka that girl with the baffling and nonsensical opinion that Being Rich is, like, more interesting that Having Trauma?? -Felix being a Harry Potter fan? Allows him to both appear totally normal because everyone loves Harry Potter, while also publically indulging his guilty little daydreams about how cool he could have been if he'd been a sad little orphan with a Tragic Backstory, but one who also got to still be wealthy and important via inheriting huge amounts of money from his dead parents and being the prophesized savior of the world -Felix sharing his family's rock throwing tradition but needing to awkwardly include that he's only ever done it for his dog = simultaneously a trigger for all his insecurities over his own lack of interesting Trauma but also an opportunity to live vicariously through Oliver's much more interesting Trauma -Felix being furious and deeply betrayed by Oliver, while also deciding that he couldn't possibly kick Oliver out before his birthday party, as the idea that literally no one at all except him and maybe Elspeth would have even noticed if Oliver was completely absent from his own birthday party does not even cross his mind, because he's the only one who knows that Oliver doesn't have interesting Trauma actually

And anyways, I like to imagine that half of this Felix's issues with the discovery that Oliver was lying was over the fact that it required him to grapple with the incomprehensible idea that Oliver did not, in fact, have much in the way of Interesting Trauma in his life either, apparently, but he'd still convinced not just Felix, but Elspeth that he was Interesting anyway?

And Felix's brain was neither prepared nor remotely equipped to process this idea in any way whatsoever besides just running away, sticking his fingers in ears, and going, "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU," until the uncomfortable thoughts and also Oliver went away so he could get on with turning The Oliver Situation into his first real interesting Trauma that was already over and thus cool now, instead of still there and making it deeply and unpleasantly obvious that maybe traumatic events were actually just, like, really terrible things to live through while they were still happening, in fact???

[dreamsy990]

on the first day of school one time one of my teachers was asking the class to share all their opinions as like a get to know each other thing and one was 'is cheating okay' and apparently my opinion on this. did not align with almost anyone else (that couldve just been because they didnt want to admit it in class) so i am asking the people. to be clear when i say grade school i mean from grades 1-12. This is NOT about anything past that.

[floralovebot]

yknow i think a really fundamental misunderstanding current dc writers have with garth is that he genuinely wasn't a child soldier like dick or wally. sure he definitely comes from that era and there Are undoubtedly aspects of his character arc and relationship with arthur that are similar to the classic mentor/mentee relationship, but their core relationship didn't start with that. arthur originally only brought garth along because they were just besties. arthur was living it up homeless style with this random orphan he found and they got into some hijinks together. then shit happened, he becomes King, but he's not going to abandon garth so he continues to bring him along.

part of garth growing up was him having to take things more seriously and learn to handle hero shit. like. he was really just randomly thrust into that world because arthur Became a big hero, not because arthur intentionally took on a protégé.

so when i see dc writing rebirth garth or even yj garth as this Cool Kid who was taken under arthur's wing and trained to become a Cool Hero, it's just,,, it's a Huge misunderstanding of garth himself but especially their relationship. his daddy issues are amplified because he always saw arthur as this cool older man who took him in as a son, not as a student. unlike a character like dick who has issues with bruce because bruce himself treats him as both a son and student, garth really became the student in response to arthur's duties, after they already had an established relationship. and even then, garth was never meant to be arthur's protégé in the way the other kid sidekicks were.

like. garth became arthur's sidekick because he wanted to be there. he wanted to be with His Dad and help him on these important missions. he didn't want to be alone anymore, and if that meant risking his life for arthur then fucking whatever, he'll do it. while arthur did take on the role of mentor and garth was very much his sidekick, garth was never the Child Soldier or the Protégé like the other sidekicks. like i'd say that's actually a huge part of his character arc. current dc writers will Never be able to capture garth in the right light if they continue to paint him as the same kind of sidekick the other titans were.

[hawnks]

Seeing this guy animated will be my last straw I believe

[atopvisenyashill]

Book Daemon, at least, appeared to have genuine feelings for both Laena and Rhaenyra. If she said she would marry him after winning the throne, I don't think he would have left her. Show Daemon though seems to care less for anyone except Viserys.

WEll.......while I do agree it's very obvious in the books that Daemon loved both Laena and Rhaenyra, and I kinda roll my eyes when people insist he only loved one of them, and yeah, I definitely agree book Daemon would agree to hold off on marrying if she promised a Specific Date (ie after I get the throne/after Jace and Baela have a kid). BUT. I don't agree he doesn't care about anyone but Viserys in the show. I think a) erasing his love for Laena is just point blank nonsensical and stupid and i will fight and die on that hill against anyone who wants to argue that stupid ass "well what relationship does it make sense to make the emotional base of the show, rhaenicent and daemyra or laenyra and daemyra" because none of those things are actually in opposition to each other but also b) again, like most of the blacks in the second half of the show, daemon seems to not have many very close relationships outside of Viserys and Rhaenyra because they just cut all the relevant scenes. We barely see him interact with Baela, Rhaena, or Jacaerys, and they don't really make Steffon Darklyn stand out, he doesn't live on Driftmark with Laenor, Rhaenys, Laena, and Corlys, so Daemon is just like, being a weirdo all over Westeros without any real emotional ties.

BUT. I do think the fact that Daemon doesn't have as many clear cut emotional ties also does make his more erratic or goofy ass behavior in show canon make more sense. Because he's constantly waiting for (imo) Viserys or Rhaenyra to make the first move here, he isolates himself, but he also never quite explains that he feels discarded/jerked around outside of moments where he's just straight up arguing with Viserys. I also think show Daemon has a few more....scruples? shall we say? When it comes to his seductions of both Rhaenyra and Laena than book Daemon does. Book Daemon clearly does not care about the age differences between him and the women he's involved with (or, well, if he does care, he doesn't show it very much) whereas show Daemon is (rightly) wrestling with the appropriateness of eloping with a teenager. IMO, that's why he stays in Pentos instead of writing to come home to Viserys; he can't really tell Rhaenyra "you were too young" when he's shacked up with someone even younger than her, whereas in the book, he never "abandons" Rhaenyra nor does he keep Laena from her home for very long, so he just doesn't have that emotional issue with them.

So like yes, while I do think his attraction to Rhaenyra is completely tied up in his attraction to Viserys, I think it's also very clear he is attracted to Rhaenyra, and he craves emotional validation from her in the exact same way he does from Viserys. It's why he's so weird at Driftmark with the both of them when he first comes back; he's once again panicking, feeling both that they don't want him there, they're just placating him and they'll reject him again soon, he's third wheeling this dynamic, etc., while also feeling extremely guilty over not fulfilling his "role" of protecting them, of once again taking advantage of Rhaenyra when she's emotionally vulnerable, of being able to ~see clearly~ that Viserys is surrounded by vipers and doing nothing to stop it, etc etc.

[parkeryangs]

hey. hey y'all. aromantic matt wbg

[aeide-thea]

[witcherposting ahead—nb that this is all totally lighthearted and it's fine if you feel differently!]

anyway what i'd started to say before tumblr ate my post was that like. disclaimer that my approach to netflix witcher canon is that i fully reserve the right to cherrypick, because some of the changes they made were good but others were character assassination, and that obviously i get that if one isn't cherrypicking one does have to actually Grapple With Certain Things 🏔

but like. that said—the more 'Geralt Must Grovel for Weeks and Probably Scourge Himself, Look at What He Did to Poor Sad-Eyed Woobie Jaskier' fics i read the more i'm fucking grateful for the tiny handful where jaskier's just been like, yeah, i never bought that bullshit tbh, he was lashing out and he owes me an apology for sure but a single angry outburst does not in fact scupper an extremely well-established relationship of literally twenty years' standing in one fell swoop???

like i just. idk. imagine remembering that jaskier's a cheery irrepressible little shit and not actually as crushably low on self-esteem as all of us are. of course that would probably require *netflix* to have remembered that, so, you know, no actual shade to anyone who's been projecting that onto him! but just like. idk. they're obviously not siblings but they honestly do have that vibe in certain ways and it's just like. did you never say something overdramatic and shitty in the heat of a fight with yr sibling growing up and then after taking a bit of a breather just like. make a rueful face and apologize for yr respective roles in winding each other up and move tf on, without having, like, a whole extended OTT reparations process where you tell them repeatedly how perfect and sinless they are and how you know you're a miserable worm who doesn't remotely deserve their sunshiny presence in your life but would be so grateful if they could, possibly, somehow, see their way to forgiving you despite yr essential unworthiness—

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[twilightkitkat]

Wade would start holding hands with Logan as a joke, but Logan would refuse to let go.

Wade just thought it would be a funny gag and that Logan would shake him off, like he did in the void. After all, there's no way Logan would actually be willing to hold his hand in public. He tolerates Wade's antics, but that's it.

But... Logan lets him? Holds his hand tighter, even, gripping it firmly. Wade looks over, confused, only to see a small content smile on Logan's face. It makes his heart skip a beat.

When they get to a fence that cuts through the road, Wade is sure that he'll have to let go. He silently mourns the warmth of Logan's hand in his. But Logan doesn't let go. He just raises his arm above the fence and they keep holding hands over it.

When they get to a pole in the middle of the sidewalk, Logan pulls Wade in closer and they just barely manage to squeeze past it. Hand-holding still intact.

Even when they get to the grocery store, Logan has one hand on the shopping cart and one hand in Wade's. He lets go of the shopping cart to grab ingredients, and Wade has to help him with his free hand.

It's awkward to contort around each other when bagging their food and checking out, but they manage. They carry all of the bags in their free hand, loading them onto their free arms. Wade has never been more glad for his strength.

They keep holding hands all the way to the apartment, and they only let go once they're inside to put the groceries away. And then Logan's pulling him onto the couch beside him and putting an arm around his shoulder and Wade is the one who has to fight a giddy smile, this time.

(Without fail, they hold hands every time they go out together after this. Logan even initiates it, most of the time, as if something would be fundamentally wrong with the world if he couldn't cling on to Wade the second they stepped outside.

Logan had been about to reach out for Wade's hand right before Wade grabbed his. When Logan felt Wade's palm slot against his, it was like coming home all over again.)

[elflutter]

— guard dog

kinktober 01 → dom/sub dynamics

sub!logan x dom mutant fem!reader

synopsis

Nobody would believe how his masculine bravado fell as he let you take control. They didn’t notice how you could dismiss him with a nod of your head, how he would immediately back down from a fight if you told him to drop it. Like a dog with a bone. That’s the thing about Logan. He is protective like a guard dog is  protective. And he is submissive like a guard dog is submissive. Oh, you so enjoy training him.

wordcount: 4k+ | crossposted to ao3

tags/warnings below the cut

tags/warnings: explicit (18+ mdni), dom/sub, light pain kink, light praise kink, porn with feelings, hurt/comfort, logan calls reader ma'am, reader wears a dress, pet names (incl. baby, pretty boy, kitty cat), degradation, oral sex (f. recieving), mutual mast., unprotected p i v, fingering, come eating, logan is compared to a guard dog (non-sexually), one (1) mention of collar play, no use of y/n. i'm sure i've forgotten something, please let me know if i have!

a/n: i have no excuse for this omfg. i'm a slut, ok!! and i am allergic to writing smut without including major feels what's up with that

thank you to the lovely @eupheme for looking over this before i posted!

You love seeing Logan like this. On his knees, eyes glazed over, beard drenched in your slick. Fingers tangled in his hair, hard grip pulling his head away from your cunt. You are bare beneath your dress, hiked up to your stomach, but Logan is completely naked. Looking down at him from where you sit on the edge of the bed, thighs spread wide. In complete control as he whines at the loss of his mouth on you, completely drunk on your taste. Candlelight and the Autumn twilight illuminating the planes of his face like liquid gold. Your core throbs where his tongue was just a moment ago. 

You hush him, your free hand cupping his jaw. “You miss my pussy, baby?” Your brows knit together in mock pity at the desperate sound he makes in affirmation. He grinds feebly at the side of your mattress, neglected cock aching for something, anything. Maybe it says something bad about you, that you get off on seeing him so pathetic. But you know he craves this too. 

He was embarrassed about it, at first. Being submissive. Getting hard when you called him your sweet baby, your pretty boy, voice dripping with condescension. But you could tell that he needed to unwind the second he woke up after you dragged him into the X-mansion with Jean and Scott. You could feel it, the emotions pouring from him. 

Your mutation is a difficult thing to control. To turn off. Sometimes, you feel like a creep. A trespasser. Knowing the deepest emotions of a stranger, ones they may not even recognize themselves. You think Jean and Charles are lucky, with powers rooted in thought. They can tease out feelings too, but their power is fundamentally different from yours. Thought is intention. Emotions are energy. 

“You can’t force your retinas to stop sensing photons just because the light bulb does not know you can see it. Even if you close your eyes, my dear, you will still be able to see its light, however dimmed.” Charles’ words from your first day at the mansion help to curb the guilt; when you feel like an intruder. 

You certainly felt like an intruder months ago, when Logan woke up in the lab, lit aflame like a wildfire. Fear and rage, as he shot up from the table. Confusion, as he pulled the IV from his arm. Idiot. You tried to ground yourself in something tangible, anything, to keep yourself from feeling him. So much him. The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs. The vent blowing cool air against your skin. The weight of contact where your feet met the floor.

You taught mindfulness and meditation to the students and your teammates. Helped them to guard their emotions from people like you. For you, meditation was like closing your eyes. You could still sense those around you, it was just easier to tune out. Like hearing music through cotton in your ears. When others meditated, it was like switching off the light bulb. Leading students through exercises in your class was your favorite time of the day. Sweet silence enveloping you like an embrace from an old friend. 

Later on that first day, when you introduced yourself to Logan properly, he grumbled, “Stay out of my head, bub.” His frustration butted against you like a battering ram. And you stood against it, the feeling piercing your heart just a little. Powers standing tall as a wall of stone as you told him that it wasn’t that simple. You wished they could have just crumbled. You couldn’t help but feel guilt eat away at you like it always did. You wouldn’t blame him if he hated you. 

Over his first few weeks in the mansion, you taught him basic mindfulness in one-on-one sessions. He had trouble taking it seriously; thought it was silly. A bit out, “No way this’ll work, bub,” as you led him through meditation in the training room, sat cross-legged on the mat across from him. You told him to close his eyes, to focus on the feeling of his breaths. “Now you’re just makin’ fun’a me,” as you told him not to fight his emotions. After twenty minutes, you could still feel the anxiety gnawing at him. Just as bad as at the start of the session. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze met yours— bright hazel making your breath hitch. His fear and anger and self-loathing were banked for a moment, and you felt something else. Understanding. Desire. You weren’t sure if it was his, or yours. Maybe both. He ended up in your bed that night. 

Your first few times were pretty vanilla. Him on top, pounding into you, sweat from his brow falling against your cheek. After a month of him fucking you into the mattress at least three times a week, he was still tense as he took you. On edge, knowing he was unguarded from your mutation. It wasn’t that the sex was bad. It was some of the best sex you’d ever had. But you could feel it, whether you wanted to or not. His anxiety. Curled up like a viper behind a bush, hiding just beneath his pleasure. Never fully letting go. 

He didn’t even hold it against you, anymore. Your mutation. Knew how it felt to be hated for something you couldn’t control. Maybe that’s what had drawn him to you in the first place.

But when your nails scraped down the side of his bicep, barely even hard enough to leave a mark, you felt the rumble of his moan, deep in your chest. Couldn’t feel that viper anymore, lurking just below the surface. Like it was carried away in the beak of a hawk as you marked him. He begged. 

“More.” 

You shuddered. In control, after that. Flipping your position so he was on his back, body pliant beneath yours as you rode him. Your breath was hot against his ear when you leaned down, bare tits tender where they pressed against his chest, to whisper. “Gonna let me take care of you, baby? Gonna let go?” 

Nobody would believe how his masculine bravado fell as he let you take control. From the outside, he seemed like the dominating personality in your relationship— undefined as it was. How his hand would reach in front of you protectively during missions, how he would bristle with a clenched fist if anybody talked a little too much shit during an exercise in the Danger Room. They didn’t notice how you could dismiss him with a nod of your head, how he would immediately back down from a fight if you told him to drop it. Like a dog with a bone. 

That’s the thing about Logan. He is protective like a guard dog is protective. And he is submissive like a guard dog is submissive. Oh, you so enjoy training him. 

And much as you tried to teach him to meditate over months since he arrived, empty his mind more conventionally, it never quite worked for him. But when he’s beneath you, eyes glazed over as you bounce up and down on his cock, and you can’t sense a single thing from his pretty little head? You know you’ve done your job well. Given him what he needs. 

“Such a good boy, making me feel so nice,” you croon, in the moment again. He sat on the floor between your legs, eyes desperate and wanting when you thrust your hips up in the air just a little bit. Teasing him with the movement, more than yourself. Your hand is still tangled in his hair as he tries to lean forward to bury his face in your cunt again. 

“Stay,” your voice is hard, careful that you don’t betray the fluttering in your belly at how badly he needs you. “I thought you were a good boy, but good boys follow orders.” You pout, mocking him. 

“’M sorry, baby, just wanna make you feel good,” he pants, eyes 

glistening in the dim light of the waning sun. Golden leaves rustling just outside the window. “Wanna make you come.” 

You smile, maybe a little meanly, your free hand squeezing his cheeks together. The other uses its grip in his hair to pull his head back farther, exposing the sweet column of his neck to your greedy eyes. He looks so pretty like this. If he hadn’t been so naughty, you would’ve told him as much. Instead, harsher words leave your lips. 

“Already so pussy drunk you forgot your rules, kitty cat?” You let your hand loosen its grip on his hair, the other still pressing into either cheek, forcing his gaze to yours. “You will make me come when I let you, hm? Can you handle that, darling, or do we need to stop?” The pet name is saccharine sweet on your tongue, mock sympathy dripping from your voice. 

“No ma’am,” he croaks out— words muffled by your grip on his face. You finally let go, comforter plush against your skin as you lean back on your elbows. Nothing but the weight of your gaze keeps him frozen in place beneath you. You wait for him to continue, expectantly. 

“Don’t need’ta stop,” he pants. “Just need you.” 

You love how the words fall from his lips. How he lets them. Tracing his jaw tenderly, the soft touch so at odds with the mean glint in your eye. So at odds with the swell of your heart, knowing he can let go with you. 

“I know you do, baby.” Your thumb strokes his bottom lip, “Now ask nicely.” 

“Please.” The way he begs has your core throbbing, the heat of your desire spreading down each limb like a flame. You almost give in. Almost. 

But you can’t have him getting spoiled. 

He knows he’s fucked when one side of your mouth lifts in a cruel smirk. You lean down so your lips brush against his ear. “I’ll let you lick my pussy clean after you fill it. If you’re good.” 

He whines; the sound a desperate thing. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” you guide as you tease your fingers at your entrance. Soaked, from your slick and from Logan’s mouth. Your first finger slides in easily, as Logan’s hand grips at his cock. He sighs at the stimulation, the relief, though you know he’d rather his face be buried between your legs. His tip is flushed, weeping. He ruts into his fist as your finger begins to move within you. Already so slick that you make room for a second. 

Sparks light up inside your belly, already sensitive from Logan’s work, but your touch is nothing compared to his. Your fingers are smaller, not reaching nearly as deep as his would, when you curl them. But you savor the control— as you fuck yourself on the bed and Logan touches himself on the floor. Almost feral for you. 

Locks of hair pulled from their little tufts where you mussed them, falling in front of his eyes. A bead of sweat glistens on his brow, before sliding down his cheek. His lips part; the sounds of his desire falling from them. Sweeter than any melody. 

And your mutation? Couldn’t sense a damn thing. So blissed out that his mind went blank. Letting each sensation roll over his body like a wave against the sandy shore. 

That’s the toughest part about this. Seeing him like this and maintaining your resolve, composure, control. To tease him instead of fucking him like an animal. And you will— fuck him like an animal. He just has to work for it first. 

You spread your legs a little wider, pumping your fingers in and out. Using your thumb to circle your clit. Teasing Logan with what you wouldn’t let him taste. Yet. You draw out his little torture, watching you get yourself off, so close that your heady desire is all he can smell. Climbing closer and closer to the peak of your pleasure, eyes hooded as they meet Logan’s, letting the sounds of his panting fill the air until you finally come undone. Feeling terribly vulgar as your walls pulse around your fingers. Growing even slicker, then. 

“Stop now, little prince.” 

Logan stops moving like he is bound to your will. You smile. He doesn’t even talk back when you call him little. Four hundred pounds of muscle and adamantium wrapped around your finger. You bring your hand, wet with your arousal, to meet his lips. 

“Open up.”

Logan lets his jaw slacken, his tongue jutting just above his lower lip to taste what you give him. You hum, as your fingers slide into his mouth and he hollows out his cheeks to suck. Your other hand moves to play with his hair, gentler now than it was before. 

“Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” 

You think that the noise Logan makes is in affirmation. Your fingers remain between his closed lips. 

“Gonna make you come now, baby.” 

Logan bites back a moan, glossy eyes wild with need. 

Fingers slip loose with a slick pop as you guide him up to the bed. You finally let your dress pool on the floor around your feet. Logan sits back against the headboard, flushed cock at attention. You climb atop him, hard muscles so at odds with his lolling head and hooded eyes. Feeling his length press against your belly as you admire the view. Such a pretty thing, sprawled out on your bed, waiting for you with a leaking cock. 

“So needy. Need me to fuck you good, baby?” You ghost a touch across his sweat-slick forehead. “Need me to fuck all the thoughts out of this pretty little head?” 

He nods. But no words escape his lips. You angle your head to the side, patient. 

His voice is rough with desire as he croaks, “Yes, ma’am. Please.”

You feign confusion.  “Please what, sweetheart?” 

Swallowing his pride. “Fuck me, baby. Please” 

You line up above him, palms resting on his toned chest, thick length prodding at your entrance. 

“Mmm, only because you asked so nicely.” 

You sink down on him in a quick, brutal thrust that steals your breath— his cock brushing that perfect spot your fingers couldn’t quite reach. Your mouth finds his neck, where your teeth nip and lips soothe. Inhaling his scent— cigar smoke and whiskey mingle with the musk of his sweat. Undertones of cedar from his shampoo as vanilla wafts from your candles. Your hips remain still, his tip nearly brushing your cervix, savoring the slick, sweet stretch. Logan lets out something between a growl and a whimper when you clench your walls around him, teasing. 

His desperation finally spurs you on, lighting a sweet fire in your core. Angling your hips up before sinking down again. And again. Slow, at first. You let yourself enjoy his thick length dragging along your walls, stimulating that spongy spot that makes you see stars. 

“Y’fill me up so good, baby.” 

Logan’s muscles tense beneath you, eyes squeezed shut as he fights the urge to move his hips. Aching to meet you as you slowly pump, to rut up into you hard and fast. You click your tongue in admonishment as his eyebrows knit together. 

“Eyes on me, sweet thing.” 

His lips move, searching for his words, but all that comes out is a garbled moan. His hazel gaze meets your own, brow heavy with the effort you know it takes to follow your rules. Your mutation still can’t sense anything from him. The strain purely physical, as his mind floats through the bliss of your command. Your chest grows heavy with the trust that Logan has given to you so freely. 

“So good for me, Logan. So good,” you purr. 

Finally, you pick up the pace. Raising up before gravity brings you back down, hard. Logan sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth, eyes rolling back in his head. Quickly darting them back to your face. Tender flesh gripping him to the hilt, before lifting yourself again. A few thrusts like that, as the impact of your ass on his hips fills the room. If it hurts at all, you know he’ll savor it. 

You think fucking like this might break another man’s hips. There are benefits to having a lover made of adamantium. You can play hard, and never break him. He always has his safe word, if it becomes too much. 

Changing your pace again, more for your benefit than for Logan’s. One hand tangles in his hair, pulling. Your arm rests by his head, face hovering just above his. Each of his pants ghost across your lips. Thrusting quicker now, as you rock your hips up and down. Gaze locked on his. The sound of the leaves rustling against the window is drowned out by the bed frame squeaking. 

His velvety length dragging against your sensitive walls brings you closer to the edge of your release— his tip brushes right where you need it with each thrust as he splits you open. The burning tension coils tight, tight, tight in your belly; until you can’t stand it anymore. 

“Lo, fuck, t— touch me,” the command comes out breathier than you intended. But Logan obeys just the same. His hand moves between your bodies, fingers circling your swollen clit as expertly as your own. 

Molten heat races through your body as you tumble over the edge. Waves of warm pleasure sweep you away, Logan’s palm resting against your tummy. You can feel your walls flutter around his cock, rolling your hips as you come down from your high, lips ghosting against his ear. 

“Come for me, Logan.” 

He moves up to meet your thrusts, then. The pressure verges on overstimulation as his cock plunges deep inside. But you savor it, savor giving him exactly what he needs. 

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.” 

Your grip on his hair weakens to a caress as he spills inside you. You still your hips, letting Logan fuck you through his climax. Once he stops moving, your bodies go limp, enjoying this moment of closeness. The way his skin sticks to yours, damp with sweat. The sound of his heartbeat. The rise and fall of his chest. He lets out a contented sigh, and you finally roll off of him. You enjoy the softness of the mattress against your back for a moment. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you finally spread your legs— making room for Logan to settle between them. 

“C’mere, baby. You know I’m not done with you yet.” 

Logan grins, wasting no time as he positions himself between your thighs. There is a mischievous little glint in his eye, face hovering above your cunt. 

“Finally somethin’ to eat. Had me starvin’ down there, baby.”

Bratty little shit. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you then, rolling your eyes. 

“You talking back to me, bub?” You grab him by the chin, digging in your fingernails hard enough to leave little red crescents in his skin. But there’s a smile on your face and mirth in your voice. 

“No ma’am.” His chin angles down, looking up at you with hooded eyes. His smirk is devilish as he bats his eyelashes. Fucking bats his eyelashes. You don’t think anybody would believe that the Wolverine packs a mean doe-eye. 

Shaking your head in disbelief, the ghost of a smile on your lips, your hold keeps his greedy mouth just beyond his treasure. 

“You wanna rethink your tone, kitty cat?” Head angled, as you watch him through what you hope are stern eyes. You try to add a hard edge to your voice, but he’s so damn cute. 

It seems to work. His smirk melts away, and only hunger remains, desperate and glossy-eyed. “Yes ma’am. ‘M sorry.” 

Victory is sweet on your tongue, at his concession. The heady weight of control in your palms. Electricity snakes down your spine, each pant of his breath teasing you between your thighs. 

“That’s it, baby. I forgive you.” You pout at him, mocking. Maybe you’re a sore winner. You can’t help it when he’s so needy for a taste of himself on your pussy. “Now be a good boy and clean up your mess.” 

As soon as you loosen your grip on his chin, he buries himself between your legs. Stroking the flat of his tongue from your weepy slit to your swollen nub. Licking and sucking at your puffy folds, swallowing the mix of your slick and his milky spend like it’s the only meal he’s had in weeks. The squelch of him lapping at you and you moaning his name are all that fill your ears. You toy with the hair at the base of his neck, the roughness of his beard against your thighs making you shiver. 

“F-fuck— Lo, baby,” a lewd whimper escapes you, breath stuttering. “You wanna make me come?” 

He somehow buries himself even deeper between your legs, then. Nose pressing against your clit just right, as he devours you. Fucking you with his tongue, before moving up to lick quick circles around the bundle of nerves.

“That’s it, Logan— fuck!” 

Words are lost to you, for a moment. Taken by the pleasure swelling in your belly as he slides a finger inside. Pressure builds in your abdomen when it curls against that sweet spot. You grind against him, eyes closed and mouth agape. 

“Know you can do it, baby,” you pant, spurring him on. Logan adds a second digit, bending to hit the spongy flesh. “So good for me, so—” you are interrupted again, choking out a sob as your core tightens with your impending release. 

Logan brings his lips to your slit, fingers still moving inside. His mouth falls open, ready to drink down your essence when the dam within you finally bursts. The pressure behind your navel gives way to warm wetness between your legs. You fall apart on Logan’s thick fingers, throbbing while he swallows the mix of your come and his. 

His fingers slide out of you, suddenly empty, and the milky ring around them could be his spend or yours. Hopefully both. Bringing them to his mouth, before he licks them clean. He goes limp when you finally relax onto the bed, his head resting against your tummy. His legs must be hanging off the bed comically, but you can’t bring yourself to lift your head and check. You choose to ignore the wet spot beneath your ass. The remnants of your climax and Logan’s inevitable drooling as he ate you out. Something to worry about later. 

For now, your fingers find their way to Logan’s scalp once again, touch featherlight and tender. You can’t help it when he sighs like that beneath your touch. If you had it your way, your hand would never leave its place here. Holding him to you, gently claiming him as yours. 

Your mutation is quiet, still, in the afterglow. At peace. And so is Logan. Head still floating in the clouds, blissed out and dazed. Somewhere nobody can reach except the two of you. As much as he needs this, the way you give him respite even sleep never offers, you need it too. The silence, after. As you lay with him, in tenderness. 

You’re struck with a sudden truth. Not sure how you’d overlooked it, all this time. A low whisper, as the sun finally rests beneath the horizon. Flickering candlelight and the faint fluorescent glow creeping beneath the bedroom door. The aged wood all that separates your little world from the rest of the mansion. If you weren’t so focused on that strange heaviness in your chest, you would have the presence of mind to hope nobody heard the two of you. 

“I love you, Lo.” 

Breath held in your lungs, as you wait. Just a beat, before he answers. 

“Love you too.” His palm rests on your waist, rubbing tender circles. His face nuzzles a little closer into your belly. “My baby. My girl.” 

The stinging behind your eyes catches you off guard. But, so do his words. You feel the truth in them. You never thought you’d have this with someone. Never thought anybody would trust you. An interloper. An unwelcome visitor, eavesdropping on the devotion of strangers, destined to feel their love for each other. But never for you. It was never going to be for you. 

But you feel it, now. Yours. Unsure why it hadn’t cross your mind before. 

Like a wolf, when you met. Wild, feral. Lashing out to bite any hand that got too close. Tamed, with your compassion. Firm as it was. You always thought he was like a guard dog. Faithful. Trusting. Once you’d earned it. Of course he would love you like one. 

You felt heat creep up your ears, at the thought of getting him a collar, stifling a laugh in the crook of your elbow. 

His hum vibrates against your torso. 

“You alright?” 

“Yeah, baby. Think I just need some psychological help.” The words are muffled against your arm. 

Logan is still packing plenty of sass, even in his fucked out state.

“That’a surprise?” He looks up at you, a single eyebrow arched. You can’t help but laugh. Smiling, as you rebuke. 

“Asshole.”

a/n: aaah thank you for reading!! i'm nervous about this one, if you liked it please let me know!! 🫣

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