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janeyseymour · 24 hours ago

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Keep Her Around

Summary: You and Melissa have been married for years, unbeknownst to almost everyone in your life. And when you finally meet the Schemmentis, they only think you're Melissa's girlfriend.

WC: ~3.1k

It’s funny the way that Melissa Schemmenti lives her life. By day, she’s a second grade teacher at Abbott Elementary. By night, she’s out at the bars trying to forget about her problems.

You live life quite similarly. During the day, you’re a first grade teacher at Abbott Elementary. Come night, you’re usually out at a bar trying to decompress after the hectic days that you tend to have with your students.

And then one day, you and your coworker accidentally end up at the same bar.

“What are you doing here?” Melissa asks you as she approaches the stool next to yours.

You sigh and take a sip of your Labatt. “Needed a beer after today. You?”

“God,” the redhead groans when she sees what you’re sipping on. “Why are you drinking that shit when there’s Yuengling on tap?”

“Cheaper,” you sigh.

“By like, ten cents,” your coworker grumbles. “If you’re that broke, let me at least buy you a good beer.”

Melissa buying you one good beer ends up turning into four, and that night ends with the two of you going home together.

Fast forward a few years, and your relationship with the redhead is still relatively hidden. The only person that knows at the school is Barbara. Not even your principal knows because she failed to recognize that when you put in to change your address for your paycheck, it was identical to Melissa’s.

You don’t mind not having the world know about your relationship. Both you and your girlfriend are extremely private people, so it makes sense.

But then you propose, you elope the next weekend with Barbara Howard as your witness, and when you walk into work the following Monday, the rings that sit on your finger just so happen to catch sunlight snd sparkle.

“Woah!” Jacob’s eyes go wide. “Did you- did you get married?!”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics. “Yeah. What’d you do this weekend?”

“No, no, no,” the social studies teacher stammers out. “We are not changing the topic this quick!”

“Jacob,” Barbara groans as she walks into the staff lounge with your wife and Janine. “It is far too early for you to be up in arms about something on a Monday morning. Have mercy on me.”

“Y/N got married!” Jacob gestures to you wildly.

“You did what?” Janine gasps.

“Got married,” you state. “I don’t see why we have to make such a big deal out of-”

Unfortunately for your wife, the same sunbeam that caught your ring catches hers, and Jacob gasps again.

“Melissa! Did you- did you get married too? What the hell is going on here?!” The redhead just nods with a smirk as she holds her left hand up.

“What?” Janine turns to look at her work aunt in shock. “What the hell guys? I didn’t even know either of you were dating, much less engaged to be married!”

“Yeah,” you sigh as you stand to make Melissa her coffee. If the secret is about to come out, you might as well start being the good life partner that you usually are at home. “We didn’t tell no one for a reason. Babe, your usual?”

It takes about a second for your words to sink in for the two nosey teachers that you suppose you call friends. “What?” they both ask incredulously. Then they look to Barbara who just seems amused.

“Aren’t you surprised your best friend hid this from you?”

“I didn’t hide nothin’, lowercase,” your wife snorts.

Barb looks incredibly smug before revealing, “I was their witness.”

“What?” Jacob shouts at the same time that Ava, Gregory, and Mr. Johnson walk into the staff lounge. “Did any of you know that Y/N and Melissa were together, much less that they got married over the weekend?”

“That is news to me,” Gregory states in his usual monotone. Then he lets a smile slip through. “Congratulations.”

“Damn, that means MILF Manor is s possibility for-”

“Enough,” you cut off your boss. “Melissa and I got married, but we’ve been together for years, living together for years. This doesn’t change much in the grand scheme of it all.”

You can tell that Janine is going to argue, but thankfully, the coffee has finished brewing, and you can pour your wife her mug before exiting the room with a roll of your eyes.

Later, Mr. Johnson gives a talking head that he’s been aware of your relationship for quite some time now. He just grins at the cameraman, stating that this isn’t the first time a workplace romance has budded. Then he smirks. “They aren’t the first. No. That was me, all those years ago.”

It’s later that day that you and your wife are laying on the couch watching whatever reality television show Melissa put on. You suppose you should say she’s watching, you’re laying down reading a book. It’s nice that the two of you can sit in a comfortable silence, both doing completely different things while still enjoying each other’s company. The quiet between the two of you is broken when your wife sighs from above you, her hand going to run its way through your hair.

“What is it?” you ask her gently.

The redhead just takes a deep breath again before shrugging. “Nothin’.”

“That’s the loudest nothing I’ve ever heard,” you tease as you sit up and set your book on the coffee table. “What’s on your mind, babe?”

“It’s weird that the crew knows now,” Melissa muses. “But at least now maybe on the rare day that the two of us are actually on the same schedule, we’ll be able to take the same car to work.”

“We always could’ve done that,” you chuckle. “We’re normally the first two in anyway, aside from Mr. Johnson.”

Your wife mulls this thought over in her head before shrugging. “Well, since they know… I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Janine spills the beans to Kristen Marie.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” you ask. “If it’s just that, I can pull mini into my room tomorrow and threaten her life… not that I would do anything, but I know a guy.”

“I’m your guy, dumb ass,” Melissa lets out a belly laugh. “And no, I think… maybe it’s time we tell the Schemmenti family?”

Both brows raise an incredible amount. In all of the years that you’ve been together, the redhead has never mentioned introducing you to her family. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” your wife sighs softly. “I think it’s time I stop being afraid of what my family has to say and just… bite the bullet. And then maybe bite the dust depending on what they have to say to me about us.”

“So dramatic,” you roll your eyes playfully. “My god.”

“You love me for my dramatics remember,” Melissa chuckles. “Would you be open to meetin’ my family?”

You roll your eyes. “Babe, I’ve been ready for years. I was just waiting for you to be ready.”

“I-” your wife hesitates. “I am ready. You deserve to be shown off for the wonderful wife that you are to me.”

And so, a few weeks later, you’re walking into your very first Schemmenti family dinner at Theresa’s house.

“Hi Ma,” your wife smiles that dazzling smile of hers. “This is Y/N, my-”

“Your girlfriend,” Theresa states, arms folded over her chest and giving you quite the judgmental look. It’s very clear where Melissa inherited her traits from.

The redhead goes to cut in and correct her mother, but the matriarch of the Schemmenti household continues. “She told us you were pretty.”

“Thank you?” you smile awkwardly.

Theresa shakes her head. “I didn’t tell you what I thought of you- only what Melissa said.”

“Ma!”

“I’m just stating a fact,” the mother rolls her eyes. “And if you would’ve let me continue, I would’ve said she was correct in saying that.”

“Thank you,” you say with certainty now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I do hope I’ll be able to say the same things about you tonight. Come in. You’re the first ones here, but I’m sure the others will be here soon,” Theresa turns and walks in towards the kitchen. “Can’t resist my cooking, the gavones,” she mumbles to herself.

While the matriarch of the family walks away, Melissa goes to follow. You take her gently by the arm to hold her back though.

“She thinks I’m just your girlfriend,” you mumble into your wife’s ear. “What do we do?”

Melissa shrugs. “Maybe we just let her think that for a bit? Let her ease into it? She seems to like you so far.”

“That was her liking me?” you raise a brow as you slip your rings off and into your pocket.

“She didn’t outright tell you to leave, and she told you you were pretty. By Schemmenti standards, she already adores you,” your wife chuckles as she follows your actions. “And she’ll only continue to love you when you work your charm.”

“I don’t have charm, Lis,” you roll your eyes, but you do pull her in for a quick kiss. “I’m a dork.”

“A dork that I love,” Melissa smiles against your lips. “Just be you. Quick witted and sweet. The best of both worlds. And take her up on her offer for wine, and never say no when she asks if you’d like more- at least until your fourth serving.”

“Fourth serving?” your eyes widen. “Babe, I don’t know if I can-”

“I’ll subtly take some of the food off of your plate, but just… trust me?”

With a sigh, you nod. “I guess you know your family better than I do.”

Meeting the rest of the Schemmenti clan is… interesting. All of her siblings have something to say that your wife promises you are them showing that they like you, even if you don’t think so. They have quite an odd dynamic as a family, you must say. As dinner goes on, you would dare to say that they might just tolerate you, but your wife promises you that they are loving you.

And the kids in the family absolutely adore you. Even the youngest baby who won’t go to anybody but her parents finds herself nestled in your arms at one point during the night while she absentmindedly plays with your hair and necklace.

“I don’t know how you just did that,” Melissa mumbles from next to you. Her hand gently cups the side of your head as she pulls you in to kiss your temple. “I’m usually the baby whisperer in this family, and even I can’t get the little bugger to sit with me.”

You just look down at the little girl in your arms. “She’s just a little shy is all,” you mumble as you press a kiss to the top of her head.

Eventually though, your wife’s brother takes back his baby, and you sigh softly. “I just have to use the bathroom,” you tell the redhead quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Melissa nods with a smile.

“On my way back, do you want another glass of wine?”

“Please,” your wife smiles. “Thanks, hun.”

With that, you head to the restroom upstairs. As soon as your out of sight, Melissa’s family members are staring at her.

“What? I got somethin’ in my teeth?”

“Yeah,” Kristen Marie lies.

“Kristen Marie,” Theresa stops the quarrel before it can even start. “No.”

“Then what, Ma?”

“That girlfriend of yours…” the matriarch starts, and immediately the redhead is ready to defend your honor. When Theresa follows with, “I like her. A lot more than I ever liked Joe, and you ended up married to that stronzo.”

“She’s even good with Sophia,” Marie puts in her opinion.

“And how long of the two of you been together?” Seamus asks.

“Long enough,” Melissa shrugs.

“You plannin’ on keepin’ her around?” Kristen Marie questions. “You know… for a long time? Maybe forever?”

Green eyes twinkle. “Maybe.”

“I think you should consider it,” Theresa suggests. “She fits right in. Pretty, witty, a teacher… she balances you out nicely with her sweetness.”

“I can be sweet too, Ma,” your wife rolls her eyes.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” the mother huffs. “Just… consider it.”

It’s then that you make your way back into the living room with the promised glass of wine for your wife. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothin’,” Melissa mumbles.

“That was the loudest nothin’ I ever heard,” Kristen Marie laughs. “Just teasin’ ol’ red, as usual.”

“I’m not even two years older than you,” your wife grumbles at her sister.

“Still old.”

“Girls,” Theresa cuts in.

It’s a bit later when the two of you bid farewell to the Schemmenti clan with hugs, and you get a kiss on the cheek from Theresa Schemmenti herself.

As soon as you’re in the privacy of your car, Melissa begins to cackle with laughter. You look to her as though she has three heads.

“What’s so funny, babe?”

“They love you!” the redhead continues to wheeze with laughter.

“And that’s funny because…?”

“Hun, they were basically tellin’ me to marry you while you went to the bathroom,” your wife wipes at the tears forming around her eyes.

“Oh,” you break out into a smile, and then you can’t contain your giggles either. “That- that’s hilarious!”

“I can’t with my family sometimes,” the redhead chuckles out as she begins to pull herself together to drive home.

You lace your fingers with your wife’s. But then you remember that you don’t have your rings on again, so you disentangle your hands, slip them back on, and then return to your position. Melissa does the same. “Should we tell them? Or do we just continue to let them think we’re girlfriends until they figure it out?”

“Who knows?” the redhead laughs. “For as smart as we can be, we can also be absolutely oblivious. Why do you think I didn’t realize you had a thing for me for as long as you did?”

“Well, I’m for whatever you think we should do. But I think it’d be hilarious if it got to a point where we had to have a fake wedding to appease them,” you laugh.

“Now that would be something,” Melissa hums. “We never did have a real wedding.” And then she pulls away and heads for home.

Only once the two of you are back at the house does the cameraman interview the two of you.

“Should I have told my family that me an’ my ‘girlfriend’ have been married for years before I let them meet for the first time, or should I just keep trying to slip it in? Because now they’re trying to hint that I should propose, and I’m wondering if it might just be easier to do a fake wedding,” Melissa tells the man. “My wife’s on board because she’s fantastic.” She finishes her spiel with a kiss to your cheek. You can only grin.

It’s about a month later that you head back over to the Schemmenti household for family dinner again. This time, you wear your rings, but the family doesn’t notice- the both of you wear a few rings as it is, so they blend in. When you go to the bathroom again, your wife’s family only continues to ask why she hasn’t asked you to marry you yet, and when is she going to grow the balls.

“If you don’t, I’ll ask her to marry me,” Seamus laughs.

Green eyes stare into his eyes. “Over my dead body.”

When you return from the bathroom with another glass of wine for your wife and settle into her hold, you can’t help but feel how she holds you just the slightest bit tighter.

“Give me your engagement ring, and move your band over to another finger,” Melissa whispers into your ear.

You give her a slightly curious look, but do as told. No sooner is your wife down on one knee asking you to marry her (for the second time). Of course, you agree to marry her. The Schemmenti’s are overjoyed.

And when you get into the car and ask her what that was about, your wife just rolls her eyes. “Seamus said he’d ask you if I didn’t.”

“So, we’re really going through with a fake wedding?” you chuckle.

“We are.”

Four months later, on the anniversary of the actual day that the two of you got married, you hold a fake wedding in your backyard. The Abbott crew and your side of the family know that this is all to appease the Schemmentis, but they’re happy to play along and be there for you since they weren’t at the first one- with the exception of Barbara Howard. The Schemmenti family is thrilled to watch as Melissa gets married, even if it’s unknowingly for the second time.

You do everything by the books. You have an ‘ordained’ minister (Mr. Johnson), best people (Barbara of course serves as Melissa’s while your sister is yours), your father walks you down the makeshift aisle, the little baby that melted your heart the first time you met the Schemmenti side is the flower girl. Vows are said, rings are exchanged, a reception is had. It’s magical.

“You think we should’ve done this the first time?” Melissa asks as the two of you lay in bed later that night.

You just kiss her softly. “I wouldn’t change a thing about our story.”

A year goes by, and the two of you are spending your fifth (first) wedding anniversary together- somehow at a Schemmenti family Sunday dinner. It’s not like you mind or anything- they’re family. And, you had already celebrated just the two of you last night.

After church though, Barbara did drop off a cake to help make this year just the slightest bit more special- five years married is a big deal. The two of you thanked her kindly and then decided that you were going to take it to Theresa’s for dessert.

Only when you open it, there’s a slight hiccup. It’s clear that Barb had intended for the two of you to enjoy this cake in the privacy of your own home. It very clearly reads, “Happy Fifth Wedding Anniversary!” on it. And before you can close the box, Theresa gets a glance at it.

“Fifth?”

Both you and your wife hazard a glance at each other. You’ve just been caught.

“Uh,” you hum softly.

Melissa takes a deep breath before, “Ma, I have a confession…”

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#abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary fanfic #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti fanfiction

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mcrdvcks · 1 day ago

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i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ make you mine

chapter summary: With finals over, summer break starts. But of course, there are a few surprises along the way.

word count: 14.7k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: helllloooo! so this is the 'main' alternate timeline, basically just meaning the timeline that exists because logan changed the past. or in other words, the timeline where logan wakes up after stopping mystique from killing trask

i still have quite a few stories to tell about logan and reader, like how they got married, found laura, had gabby, etc. most of this series is just fluff, sometimes with some angst, but the only problems that arise don't involve any violence.

anyways, think of this as taking place sometime after who are we to fight the alchemy? (pt. 1 and 2)!

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, summer break, mention of damp hair and hair being tied back, x-men mission, light violence, slight angst, soft!logan

series masterlist - chapter 2

Logan was like a bear—a giant, warm, cuddly bear. Though if you told him that you were sure he’d deny, deny, deny.

You let out a sleepy grunt, groggily reaching over to slap your alarm clock into silence. As the shrill beeping stopped, you became acutely aware of the warm, heavy weight wrapped securely around you. Logan’s arm was draped over your waist, holding you firmly in place against his chest. His even breaths fanned across the back of your neck, and the slight scruff of his beard grazed your skin as he shifted, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Logan,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep as you squirmed in his grasp.

A low, disgruntled growl rumbled from his chest. “Mm-mm. Nope,” he mumbled against your shoulder, his voice rough and muffled. “Five more minutes.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, even as your cheeks warmed at the sound of his voice so close to your ear. “I have to get up,” you protested softly, trying to wriggle free. His arm tightened instinctively, making escape a futile endeavor.

“Don’t see why,” he muttered, still half-asleep. “You’re comfy right here.”

You rolled your eyes, your lips twitching into a smile despite yourself. “I have class to prep for, Logan. You know, that thing where I teach physics to a bunch of mutant teenagers?”

He grunted in response, clearly unimpressed by your logic. “Teenagers’ll survive without you for one morning,” he drawled, his lips brushing against the crook of your neck in a way that made your breath hitch. “I’m not lettin’ you go.”

You turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of his face—eyes still closed, hair sticking up in every direction, and a faint smirk playing on his lips. The sight was almost enough to make you cave, but you managed to keep your resolve. Barely.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, even as your hand instinctively reached up to comb through his unruly hair. His grin widened at the affectionate gesture, and he cracked one eye open, peering at you with a sleepy, satisfied expression. “But today is the last day of classes, and I have to give them their final.”

Logan let out an exaggerated groan, burying his face against the curve of your neck. “You’re tellin’ me a bunch of kids and their tests are more important than me?” His voice was muffled, the low rumble of it sending a pleasant warmth through you.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t make the schedule, Logan. Believe me, if I could skip it, I would.”

“You’re not skippin’ it,” he grumbled, though his lips brushed lightly against your skin. “But don’t think I won’t complain about it the whole time you’re gone.”

“You? Complain? Shocking.” Your playful tone earned you a half-hearted growl as Logan rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You landed on his chest, his arms securely around you. His fingers traced idle patterns along your back, his gaze fixed on you now with a mix of affection and amusement.

“You’re gonna spend the rest of the day buried in grading,” he said, arching a brow. “And I won’t see you for days. Don’t think I didn’t notice what happened after midterms.”

Your face warmed at the memory of being holed up in your office, surrounded by papers, but you tilted your chin stubbornly. “I have to grade, Logan. How else will they know whether they pass?”

“Sounds like a them problem,” he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening.

“Logan.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. He always had a way of making you feel light, even when you were stressed. “You could help me grade, you know. I’ll even teach you how to curve a test.”

His laugh was deep and genuine, rumbling through his chest beneath you. “Pretty sure that’d end with me givin’ everyone a pass just so I could get you back quicker.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he silenced you with a kiss. It was soft and unhurried, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head as he tilted his own. By the time he pulled back, your thoughts had scattered, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Fine,” you muttered, still breathless. “But I’m locking my office door when I’m grading.”

His grin widened. “Good. I’ll just pick the lock.”

“Logan!”

He chuckled, flipping you gently onto your back and leaning down to press another kiss to your forehead. “Alright, darlin’. Go teach your kids or whatever. But I’m holding you to dinner tonight. No papers allowed.”

You smiled up at him, your hand brushing lightly against his jawline. “Deal.”

Logan lingered a moment longer, his eyes tracing your face as though memorizing every detail. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself up, reluctantly letting you go. “Go on, then, before I change my mind and keep you here.”

You bit back a laugh, slipping out of bed and grabbing your glasses from the nightstand. As you moved to get ready, you could feel his eyes on you, his presence a steady warmth in the background.

---

“Why are you in my office?” Jean asked, walking into the room where you sat on the couch in the corner.

“Close the door, Jean!” You whisper-yelled. Jean raised an eyebrow but complied as you spoke again, “Logan’s clingy, he says that since classes are over for the summer I should be ‘spending time with him’ even though I told him I still have the finals to grade.”

Jean closed the door, her curiosity evident as she leaned against it, arms crossed. “You’re hiding in my office to avoid Logan?”

You sighed, setting aside the stack of papers you were grading on Jean’s coffee table. “It’s not like I’m avoiding him forever. I just need a few hours to finish these finals without him finding me and pulling me into another impromptu cuddle session.”

Jean smirked, clearly entertained. “He’s got a point, though. Classes are over. Most people would kill to have their boyfriend be that invested in spending time with them.”

You rolled your eyes, even as a smile tugged at your lips. “I know. And it’s sweet, really. But he doesn’t understand that I can’t just wave a wand and make the grades magically appear. These finals aren’t going to grade themselves.”

Jean quirked a brow. “And you thought my office was the safest place to hide?”

“Well, yeah.” You gestured around. “Logan wouldn’t think to look for me here. Plus, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Jean replied, amused. “But you know he’s going to find you eventually. He has an uncanny ability to know exactly where you are.”

You slumped back against the couch, groaning softly. “Don’t remind me. It’s like he has a sixth sense or something.”

Jean chuckled, walking over and plopping into the chair across from you. “It’s called being ridiculously in love with you. That man’s not exactly subtle.”

The words made your face heat up, but you tried to brush it off. “Yeah, well, ridiculously in love or not, he needs to let me work for a bit. I’ll make it up to him later.”

Jean’s smirk turned mischievous. “Oh, I’m sure you will. Candlelit dinner? Maybe a movie night?”

“Jean!” you hissed, your cheeks burning as you tried to shush her. “Don’t you start too.”

She held up her hands, mock-innocent. “I’m just saying, it’s adorable how smitten he is. Honestly, I think it’s good for you. You’re not usually the type to take much downtime.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the door creaked open just enough for Logan’s unmistakable voice to drift in.

“Jean, you seen—”

Logan froze in the doorway, his brows lifting slightly when he saw you sitting there. His gaze flicked to Jean, who was already biting back a grin, and then back to you.

“Found you,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was trying not to smirk.

You sank further into the couch, your face heating under his knowing stare. “I was… grading,” you said lamely, gesturing to the papers in front of you.

Logan stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes stayed on you, warm and amused. “In Jean’s office?”

“It was a strategic decision,” Jean quipped before you could answer, her tone dripping with mock seriousness.

Logan ignored her, his attention fixed solely on you. He crossed the room, crouching down in front of you so you were at eye level. His hand came to rest lightly on your knee, the warmth of his touch grounding you despite your embarrassment.

“You could’ve just told me you needed time to work, darlin’,” he said softly, his voice carrying no trace of irritation—just quiet understanding.

“I did,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “You didn’t exactly listen.”

His lips quirked, and he leaned in slightly, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “Maybe ‘cause I’m selfish and like havin’ you around too much.”

Your resolve wavered as you finally looked at him, his eyes impossibly soft. Jean, sensing she was no longer needed, stood and slipped out of the room without a word, leaving the two of you alone.

“Logan,” you sighed, your voice quieter now. “I just… I really need to finish these finals. I promise, as soon as I’m done, I’m all yours.”

Logan studied you for a moment, then nodded, his hand squeezing your knee lightly. “Alright,” he said, standing up. “But I’m takin’ you to dinner tonight. Non-negotiable.”

You smiled, the weight of his gaze melting some of your earlier frustration. “Deal.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before straightening. “I’ll leave you to it, then. But don’t think I’m not gonna check in later.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grin lingered as he turned and left the room, his presence somehow leaving it warmer than before.

---

Theresa stood by you on her tiptoes, eagerly watching as you carefully sliced her apple. She hummed happily, her curly red hair bouncing with every small fidget of excitement. You smiled softly at her, taking your time to arrange the slices neatly on the plate. The summer sun streamed through the kitchen window, making the air feel lighter now that the semester was officially over.

You were dressed comfortably for the warm day, the floral sundress swaying slightly as you shifted your weight. Logan had gone off to check on something outside earlier, so the mansion was unusually quiet.

Logan passed the kitchen door without sparing it a glance, only to stop mid-step and double back. His figure filled the doorway as he leaned casually against the frame, his arms crossed, eyes locking onto you immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer. His gaze flickered over you briefly, but it was the kind of look that left you feeling as though he’d memorized every detail in a single second. His brows raised slightly, and the corners of his mouth pulled into the faintest hint of a smile.

You glanced up at him mid-slice, caught completely unaware. “What?” you asked, confused by the way his stare lingered.

Theresa, oblivious to the subtle tension, tugged lightly on your wrist. “Is it ready yet, Y/N? Can I have it now?”

“Almost,” you murmured, distracted as you finished the last cut. You placed the slices neatly onto the plate, handing it to her with a small smile. “Here you go, Tessie. Go eat at the table, alright?”

“Thanks!” she chirped before skipping off, her plate held triumphantly in both hands.

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the fridge. You turned back to find Logan still standing there, his smirk more pronounced now.

“What is it?” you asked, feeling a little self-conscious under his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he said, pushing off the doorframe to step closer. His voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed the warmth he was holding back. “Just… you look nice.”

Your cheeks heated immediately, and you glanced away, focusing on tidying up the cutting board. “It’s just a dress,” you mumbled.

“First time I’ve seen you wear one,” he replied, his voice quieter now as he leaned against the counter beside you. His knuckles brushed lightly against yours, and the gesture, as small as it was, sent your pulse skittering.

“I usually don’t,” you admitted, avoiding his gaze. “It’s not really practical, you know. With teaching, and the lab, and—”

“Practical or not, I like it,” he interrupted, his tone genuine. “Suits you.”

You risked a glance up at him, your eyes meeting his. He wasn’t smirking anymore. Instead, his expression was unguarded, softer than you were used to seeing. That look—the one where he seemed to see you and only you—made your heart twist in your chest.

“Thanks,” you said softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Logan reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your arm lightly. “No need to hide when you’re wearin’ something nice, darlin’,” he murmured. “Don’t need to hide, period.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” you argued weakly, your voice betraying you with its timid edge.

He huffed a quiet laugh, his thumb grazing your forearm. “Sure you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t!” you protested, though your voice lacked conviction. His touch was making your thoughts spiral into incoherence.

“Okay, okay,” he said, his grin returning. “But you’ll wear it again sometime, yeah?”

You bit your lip, nodding slightly before looking away again. “Maybe.”

“Good,” he replied, his voice low and warm. “Because you’re stuck with me the rest of the day, anyway.”

“Logan,” you started, your shyness creeping back. “I—”

“No excuses,” he said firmly but without any harshness. “You’re done grading. It’s summer break. No runnin’ off to Jean’s office this time.”

Your face heated at the memory of that little escapade. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he said, his grin widening. “Now c’mon. Let’s go for a walk or somethin’. You’ve been cooped up too long.”

He offered you his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, you took it. His grip was strong and steady, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t sure you’d ever stop craving.

As the two of you walked out into the summer sun, you couldn’t help but glance down at your dress, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. Maybe dresses weren’t so impractical after all.

---

The kids’ laughter echoed over the beach, blending with the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore. A soft breeze ruffled the umbrella shading you and Jean as you sat in matching beach chairs. The air smelled faintly of salt and sunscreen, the summer sun bright but not unbearable.

You had been staring at the same page of Maisie Dobbs for what had to be ten minutes, the words nothing more than a blur. Jean, seated beside you with her own book, glanced at you over the rim of Evidence of Things Unseen. Her lips twitched as she noticed the way your gaze had drifted—away from your book, away from the umbrella’s shade, and unmistakably toward the figure near the shoreline.

Logan stood knee-deep in the water, his jeans rolled up and his shirt conspicuously absent. He hadn’t bothered to wear anything particularly ‘beachy,’ but it didn’t seem to matter. The sun kissed his skin, highlighting the lines of muscle across his chest and arms, and his usual gruff expression softened as he helped some of the kids with their sandcastle defenses. His low chuckle carried faintly on the wind as he spoke to Bobby, who was excitedly gesturing at a moat that, from your vantage point, looked like it was doomed to fail against the incoming tide.

Jean smirked, closing her book deliberately. “You know, for someone with a PhD, you’re doing a terrible job pretending to read.”

Your head snapped back to your book, the sudden motion almost dislodging your glasses. “I’m reading!”

Jean arched an unimpressed brow, her tone teasing. “Oh? What’s happening in the book?”

You scrambled, trying to recall the last thing you’d actually processed. “Uh... Maisie just—she was, um—”

Jean’s laughter was soft but pointed. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “You know, it’s not like he’s never been shirtless before. You do live in the same mansion.”

Your cheeks burned, and you pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose as if that would help hide your embarrassment. “It’s different,” you muttered, keeping your gaze firmly planted on your book now.

Jean grinned. “Different how?”

You hesitated, unwilling to put into words what felt so obvious. How the sight of him here, carefree and laughing with the kids, hit differently than the times you’d seen him shirtless before—training in the Danger Room, patching himself up after a mission, or even just wandering the halls in the early hours of the morning. Here, on this beach, Logan seemed... lighter.

“It just is,” you said finally, your voice quiet but insistent.

Jean shook her head, her grin widening. “You’re hopeless. But hey, at least now you’re not the only one distracted.”

Before you could process her words, a shadow fell over you. You glanced up to find Logan standing there, shirt slung over his shoulder and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

Your face flushed so hot you were sure it rivaled the sun. “I—I wasn’t—”

Jean, ever the opportunist, cut in before you could flounder any further. “She was definitely enjoying it.”

You shot her a mortified glare, but she just winked, clearly pleased with herself. Logan chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he crouched beside your chair. His hand came to rest lightly on the armrest, his proximity making your heart race.

“I thought I’d find you buried in a book,” he murmured, his tone teasing but warm. “Didn’t realize you’d be out here gettin’ a tan instead.”

“I’m not—” You floundered again, words failing you under the weight of his gaze.

“She’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes,” Jean added helpfully, earning her a sharp, wordless plea from you.

Logan’s smirk deepened, his attention unwavering as he tilted his head slightly. “That right?”

You wanted the earth to swallow you whole, but instead, you mustered up a weak protest. “Jean’s exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” Jean chimed in.

“Alright, that’s enough outta you,” Logan said, though his amusement was evident.

Jean chuckled, standing and stretching dramatically. “I’ll leave you two to... whatever this is.” She shot you one last mischievous look before strolling off toward Scott, who was supervising the soccer game.

Once she was gone, Logan shifted, leaning closer. His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist where your hand rested on the book, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered, darlin’,” he said, his voice a low murmur.

“I wasn’t flustered,” you lied, your gaze dropping to the book again.

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, unconvinced. His thumb traced an idle circle on your wrist. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You finally risked a glance up at him, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath hitch. There was no teasing smirk now, just a quiet warmth that left you feeling as if the rest of the beach had faded away.

“Logan,” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his tone gentler now.

You hesitated, then shook your head, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. “Never mind.”

He huffed a soft laugh, leaning in just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon,” he said as he straightened, offering you his hand. “Let’s go walk by the water. You’ve been sittin’ here too long.”

You glanced at his hand, then back at him, your shyness warring with the warmth spreading through your chest. Finally, you slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you to your feet.

As the two of you strolled toward the shoreline, the kids’ laughter filling the air around you, you couldn’t help but think that Jean had been right. Distracted or not, Logan was a sight worth lingering on.

---

“You have got to get better at working with a team,” Ororo said.

Scott nodded in agreement, “you can’t just go off on your own and do whatever you want just because you can.”

They entered the viewing deck as Logan playfully scoffed, “I can work on a team. Just depends who I am working with. Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

You continued to look at the screens around you, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Yeah, sure.”

Logan chuckled under his breath, his tone dripping with amusement. “See? Told ya.” He leaned casually against the console, arms crossed as he glanced at you.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “That’s not exactly what I’d call an endorsement.”

“Maybe not by your standards, Slim, but I’ll take what I can get,” Logan shot back with a lopsided grin.

Ororo let out a long-suffering sigh. “Logan, this isn’t a joke. You can’t keep running off and doing your own thing in the field. It puts everyone at risk.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “I get the job done.” His eyes flicked to you again, a faint spark of amusement lingering there. “Besides, I work just fine with the right people.”

Ororo didn’t dignify that with a response, her gaze narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

Scott gestured toward the holographic screens. “What’s the scores?” he asked, clearly trying to redirect the conversation to something productive.

You adjusted your glasses, your fingers moving across the controls as you pulled up the relevant data. “The team as a whole got an 84.75%,” you said, glancing at the screen and making a few adjustments to bring up individual scores. “Individually… well, it’s a mixed bag.”

Logan smirked, leaning closer. “Let me guess. I carried the team.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Logan, you were the reason we lost points in the first place.”

“Details, details,” Logan said with a shrug. He glanced at you. “What’d I get, sweetheart?”

You tapped a few keys, pulling up his stats. “Well… I mean individual scores don’t really matter much do they? It’s all about—”

Jean chuckled and crossed her arms, interrupting you, “oh, I know what that means. You’re stalling.”

Your cheeks warmed as you adjusted your glasses, fumbling slightly with the console. “I’m not stalling. I’m just—being thorough.”

Logan tilted his head, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hear it. I know I aced it.”

Ororo raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Logan, you left your assigned post twice and ignored team strategy. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Jean chimed in with a smirk. “Not to mention, you destroyed half the simulated building—after the objective was completed.”

Logan’s grin didn’t falter. He leaned closer to you, his voice low and teasing. “They just don’t appreciate my style, do they?”

You bit back a small smile, keeping your gaze fixed on the screen. “Okay, fine. You got… a 62.”

Scott made an incredulous noise, crossing his arms. “See? That’s exactly what we’re talking about.”

Logan shrugged, completely unfazed. “Still passed. A win’s a win.”

“It’s barely passing,” Scott countered, clearly losing patience. “And that’s only because of your combat performance. Your teamwork score was—what? Ten points?”

“Seventeen,” you corrected, your tone soft but pointed. “Which isn’t… great.”

Ororo pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly exasperated. “Logan, the whole point of these exercises is to improve coordination and teamwork, not just show off.”

“Hey, if they want me to play nice, they should stop slowing me down,” Logan replied, his casual tone earning a groan from Scott.

“Logan,” you said, trying to balance your shy nature with the need to contribute. “I think what they’re saying is… you’re great on your own, but in a real mission, working together is—kind of important.”

His gaze softened as he looked at you, the teasing edge fading slightly. “Noted, sweetheart. I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Jean exchanged a quick glance with Ororo, who simply shook her head. “We’ll see,” Ororo muttered, clearly skeptical.

Scott stepped forward, pointing to the screen. “And what about the rest of the team?”

You quickly pulled up the individual stats for everyone else, rattling off the scores. “Jean’s at 90, Ororo’s 92, and Scott—you’ve got a 95.”

Logan gave a low whistle, mock-impressed. “Look at you, Slim. Setting the curve.”

“Someone has to,” Scott replied dryly, but his tone lacked its usual sharpness. He turned back to you. “Good work, Y/N. At least someone here knows how to focus.”

Jean grinned. “She’s always focused. Unlike some people,” she said pointedly, glancing at Logan.

Logan smirked, unbothered as he straightened up. “Guess I’ll just have to make up for it next time.”

Scott opened his mouth to argue, but Ororo cut him off. “Let’s just take the feedback and move on. We’ll schedule another session next week.”

As the group began to disperse, Logan lingered by your side, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You’re too nice to me, sweetheart.”

You hesitated, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Someone has to be.”

Logan smirked at your response, but before he could say anything else, he slid an arm around your shoulders, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he guided you toward the exit. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

You stiffened slightly, your hand coming up to his chest as you gently pushed him away. “Logan—seriously?”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “What? Afraid someone’s gonna think we’re cozy or somethin’?”

“No,” you said firmly, stepping out of his reach. “I’m afraid of the fact that you’re sweaty and gross. I’m not getting anywhere near you until you shower.”

Logan laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that earned a chuckle from Jean and a loud groan from Scott. “Sweetheart, I’ve been through worse. Little sweat never killed anyone.”

“Maybe not,” you said, adjusting your glasses and flashing a rare smirk. “But it’s definitely killed my willingness to put up with you right now.”

Jean leaned casually against the doorway, her arms crossed as she watched the exchange. “She’s got a point, Logan. You’re a walking hazard zone.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan muttered, waving a dismissive hand. He threw one last glance at you before heading toward the door. “Fine. I’ll clean up. But don’t think this is over, sweetheart.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied dryly, turning back to the console to shut everything down.

---

The next week, as you were setting up the console for the simulation, Scott and Kitty came walking down the viewing deck hallway. “Come on,” Scott said, “you’re joining us this time. Kitty’ll take care of this.”

You raised your head from the screens and looked over at Scott, tilting your head. “You sure? I’m not exactly much help in the field.”

Scott crossed his arms, giving you a look that said he wasn’t buying your self-doubt. “You’re more capable than you think, Y/N. And we’re not giving you a choice this time. Kitty’s handling the tech, so suit up.”

You hesitated, glancing at Kitty, who gave you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” she said, sliding into the chair you vacated. “Besides, it’ll be good for you. Logan’s always saying you need to get out of the lab more.”

“Does he now?” you murmured, adjusting your glasses. A small, nervous smile tugged at your lips as you looked back at Scott. “Okay, but only if you promise not to get annoyed if I mess up.”

Scott’s expression softened, and he nodded. “You won’t mess up. Just stick to the plan, and you’ll be fine.”

As the three of you headed down the hallway toward the locker rooms, Logan was leaning casually against the wall just outside, his arms crossed. His signature smirk appeared the second he saw you. “What’s this? Slim finally letting you outta your cage?”

You rolled your eyes, already feeling a little self-conscious. “It’s not like that, Logan.”

“Sure it’s not,” he drawled, falling into step beside you. “Guess this means I’ll have to keep an extra close eye on you, darlin’. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“Or distracting anyone else,” Scott muttered under his breath.

Logan shot him a look, but you quickly intervened, your tone light but firm. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Logan chuckled. “You say that now, but wait till the action starts.” He gave you a wink before heading off toward the men’s locker room.

Scott let out a long-suffering sigh. “Just… try not to encourage him.”

“I didn’t say anything!” you protested, your cheeks flushing.

“Yeah, but you smiled,” Scott replied, shaking his head as he disappeared into the locker room.

---

In the simulation room, the team gathered near the starting point. The scenario was a hostage rescue in a collapsing skyscraper, and Scott was already running through the plan with his usual precision. “Ororo and Jean will handle structural stabilization while Logan and I take point on the hostiles. Y/N, you’ll be with Logan.”

Logan’s smirk widened. “Figures. Slim knows who the real MVP is.”

Scott ignored him, turning his attention to you. “Your job is to focus on time manipulation to give us an edge. Slow things down where necessary, especially if Logan decides to... improvise.”

Jean coughed lightly, barely disguising a laugh. “You mean when Logan improvises.”

“Whatever works,” Logan said with a shrug. He glanced at you, his expression softening slightly. “You ready for this, sweetheart?”

You nodded, though the nerves were clear in your posture. “Yeah. I think so.”

Logan leaned in just enough to lower his voice. “Hey. You’ve got this. Just stick with me.”

You managed a small smile, adjusting your gloves. “Thanks.”

---

As the simulation began, chaos erupted almost immediately. Logan, true to form, charged ahead with reckless abandon, his claws slicing through holographic enemies like they were nothing. You stayed close, using your powers to slow time in bursts, giving him an edge whenever he veered too far from the plan.

“Logan, stick to your quadrant!” Scott’s voice barked over the comms.

“I’m stickin’ to it!” Logan shot back, even as he lunged into an adjacent zone. “Just takin’ the scenic route.”

“Scenic route?” you muttered, struggling to keep up with him. “You’re all over the place!”

Logan flashed you a grin over his shoulder. “That’s why you’re here, sweetheart. Keepin’ me in check.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but a part of you felt a flicker of pride. Despite his chaotic style, he trusted you to have his back.

As the simulation progressed, you found yourself falling into a rhythm with him. Whenever he rushed headfirst into a dangerous situation, you instinctively slowed time to give him the upper hand. He, in turn, would glance back to make sure you were safe, his protective instincts as sharp as his claws.

When the final wave of enemies fell and the simulation ended, Scott called the team to regroup. “Not bad,” he said, though his tone suggested he had plenty of notes. “We’ll review the footage and—”

“Hold up,” Logan interrupted, glancing at you. “How’d she do?”

Scott blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Y/N? She did well. Kept up with you, which is more than I can say for most people.”

Logan’s smirk returned. “Told ya she’s got it.”

You adjusted your glasses, your cheeks warming as Jean gave you an approving smile. “She definitely held her own. Maybe we should bring her along more often.”

Scott nodded reluctantly. “We’ll see. For now, let’s debrief.”

As the group started toward the viewing deck, Logan slowed his pace to walk beside you. He bumped your shoulder lightly, a rare softness in his tone. “Proud of you, darlin’. Told ya you’d do great.”

You glanced at him, a small smile breaking through your shyness. “Thanks. But I think we both know you’re the reason Scott’s hair is going to turn gray early.”

Logan laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Worth it.”

---

You let out a quiet groan in your sleep, twisting the thin sheet that barely covered you. The summer heat was relentless, and your room, like most of the older parts of the mansion, didn’t have air conditioning. Adding to your discomfort was Logan, who radiated heat like a furnace. Despite the oppressive warmth, his arm was slung lazily around your waist, anchoring you close.

Shifting slightly, you tried to peel yourself away without waking him, but his grip tightened instinctively. “Where d’you think you’re goin’, sweetheart?” Logan’s voice was rough with sleep, his words barely above a murmur.

“It’s too hot,” you whispered back, your voice tinged with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “You’re like a space heater.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t help it. Comes with the claws and all.”

“You mean being insufferable comes with the claws?” you teased softly, attempting to squirm out from under his arm again.

He growled playfully, pulling you closer instead. “Watch it, darlin’. You’re startin’ to sound a lot like Slim.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “I mean it, Logan. I’m going to melt.”

Logan loosened his hold slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips. “Guess I’ll have to cool you off, then.”

“Don’t even—” you started, but before you could finish, Logan leaned down and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and entirely unfair in its ability to make you forget the heat. When he finally pulled back, his grin was infuriatingly smug.

“Still too hot?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

You huffed, pushing his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he replied, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His hand lingered, his thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone.

Your cheeks warmed, though you blamed it on the heat. “I guess I do.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and genuine, before he flopped back onto his pillow. “Go back to sleep, darlin’. I’ll try not to roast you alive.”

“Gee, thanks,” you muttered, though there was no real bite to your words. Settling back against him despite the heat, you allowed yourself to relax, his steady presence oddly comforting.

As you drifted off, Logan pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Night, sweetheart.”

---

You could bake and cook, but apparently, your skills weren’t exactly pro level. You huffed as you pulled out the pan of macaron shells, all of which were deflated, cracked, or just… sad. The vision of glossy, perfectly round macarons you'd had in your head? Nowhere to be found.

Logan, who had been lounging at the kitchen table flipping through a newspaper, looked up as you groaned in frustration. “What’s the problem, sweetheart?”

You held up the tray of macaron disasters like a defeated warrior displaying a broken weapon. “This is the problem. They’re supposed to be pretty and fluffy, not—whatever this is.” You gestured to the cracked, flat mess.

He squinted at them, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t see the problem. They’re just cookies, right? Still edible.”

“They’re macarons, not cookies. They’re supposed to be delicate, with perfect little feet and smooth tops. This is a disaster,” you said dramatically, setting the tray down with a sigh.

Logan snorted, setting the newspaper aside. “Darlin’, you’re makin’ a big fuss over somethin’ that’s just gonna get eaten. I mean, they look fine to me.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “Fine? They look like they’ve been through a war.”

“Then they’ve got character,” he said, standing and walking over to you. He plucked one off the tray and popped it into his mouth before you could stop him.

“Logan!” you protested. “They’re not ready yet, and they probably taste—”

He raised a hand to silence you, chewing thoughtfully. “Huh. Not bad,” he said with a shrug. “Tastes like sugar.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, though you couldn’t help the slight twitch of a smile on your lips. “That’s because it’s basically just sugar and almond flour. But they’re not supposed to just taste good; they’re supposed to look good too.”

Logan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you fuss over the tray. “Seems like a waste of energy, worryin’ about somethin’ like that. Long as they taste good, who cares?”

“You don’t understand,” you said, shaking your head. “This was supposed to be impressive! Like, ‘look, everyone, I can make professional-grade macarons!’ impressive. Not, ‘here, enjoy these sad, sugary pancakes.’”

He laughed at that, the sound low and warm, and you glared at him halfheartedly. “I’m glad my baking failure amuses you.”

"Y/N, I’m serious. They’re fine. Hell, I bet they taste better than anything anyone else around here could make.”

Logan’s hands found your waist, and before you could protest, he effortlessly lifted you onto the counter. A surprised yelp escaped your lips as you steadied yourself, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders.

“Logan!” You glared at him, though your annoyance was quickly melting under the warmth of his amused grin.

“What?” he asked innocently, leaning one hand on the counter next to you while his other stayed resting lightly on your knee. “Figured this was a good place for a pep talk. Y’know, eye level and all that.”

You shook your head, exasperated but unable to hold back a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said with a small shrug, his smirk softening as he looked at you. “But you’re sittin’ here beatin’ yourself up over somethin’ stupid when you’ve got no reason to.”

“They’re not stupid, Logan. They’re macarons,” you insisted, crossing your arms in mock defiance.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he stepped closer. “Y/N, you’re sweatin’ the small stuff. You could burn dinner, and everyone’d still eat it without complainin’—myself included. But these? They’re fine. And you wanna know why?”

“Why?” you asked warily, narrowing your eyes at him.

“’Cause you made ’em,” Logan said simply, his voice quieter now. “You put in the work, and that means somethin’. Might not be perfect, but hell, nothin’ ever is.”

The sincerity in his tone made your cheeks flush. You tried to look away, but his hand was already reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You’re too nice to me,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Not nice,” he said with a smirk. “Just honest.”

Before you could come up with a witty response, Logan leaned in, his lips brushing yours softly. His kiss was unhurried, filled with the same steady warmth that he always seemed to carry. You melted into it, forgetting for a moment about the tray of failed macarons still sitting on the counter.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Still feelin’ like a failure?”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Maybe a little.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Guess I’ll just have to keep convincin’ you.”

“Logan,” you started, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish. In one swift motion, he scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder.

A startled laugh bubbled out of you as you smacked his back lightly. “Logan! Put me down!”

“Not a chance, darlin’,” he said, his tone filled with teasing amusement as he strode toward the door. “You need some fresh air. Maybe if I walk you around a bit, you’ll quit stressin’ over those sugar pancakes.”

“They’re macarons!” you corrected, your laughter echoing through the hallway as he carried you out of the kitchen.

“Whatever they are, they’re fine,” Logan said firmly, his hand resting against the back of your thigh to steady you. “And you’re gonna see that—after I get you outta this mansion for a bit.”

You let out a resigned sigh, though the smile on your face betrayed any attempt at irritation. “Fine. But you’re carrying me back if I don’t feel better.”

“Deal,” he replied, his grin widening as he turned the corner, earning a few amused glances from passing students.

As you hung over his shoulder, your heart felt lighter. Maybe your macarons weren’t perfect, but with Logan by your side, it hardly seemed to matter.

---

You walked out of the bathroom, towel-drying your damp hair as you adjusted the straps of your light blue silk nightgown. It was new—something you had picked up during a recent mall trip with Jean and some of the kids. You weren’t entirely sure what had possessed you to buy it, but Jean had insisted it was ‘perfect’ for summer, and you figured she was probably right. Now, as the smooth fabric clung lightly to your skin, you found yourself feeling just a little self-conscious.

Logan was sprawled on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge, his back propped against the headboard. A notebook was in his hand, and his brow furrowed slightly in concentration as he sketched something on the page. His expression was uncharacteristically relaxed, a rare sight that made your heart clench.

He looked up as you stepped into the room, his gaze lingering for a beat longer than usual. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and warm. His eyes flicked over you briefly, and though he didn’t comment, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Hey,” you replied softly, padding over to the bed and sitting on the edge near him. You glanced curiously at the notebook in his hand. “What are you working on?”

Logan tilted the book slightly, as if debating whether to show you. “Nothin’ much. Just passin’ the time.”

Your curiosity deepened as you caught a glimpse of pencil strokes and shading. “Can I see?” you asked, tilting your head.

He hesitated for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, sure.” He shifted to sit up straighter, his arm brushing yours as he handed you the notebook. “Don’t laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” you asked, smiling softly as you took the notebook. Logan adjusted his position, his hands resting lightly on your waist as he guided you onto his lap, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your back pressed against his chest as you settled in, the notebook resting on your knees.

The first drawing you saw took your breath away. It was a detailed sketch of the mansion’s garden, the shading capturing the way the sunlight filtered through the trees. The perspective was flawless, each flower and blade of grass rendered with care. “Logan, this is amazing,” you murmured, your fingers lightly tracing the edges of the page.

He huffed a quiet laugh against your shoulder. “Didn’t peg me for an artist, huh?”

“I didn’t know you could draw like this,” you admitted, flipping to the next page. This one was a portrait—a student from the mansion, laughing mid-conversation. It was so vivid you almost expected the image to move.

Logan’s hands tightened slightly on your waist as you turned the pages, each one revealing another sketch: Ororo standing by the lake, Jean mid-training, even Scott adjusting his visor. And then you stopped. The next drawing was of you.

It wasn’t posed or polished like the others. It was you caught in an unguarded moment, sitting cross-legged on the mansion steps with a book in your lap. Your hair was loosely tied back, and your glasses perched on the bridge of your nose as you absentmindedly twirled a pen in your fingers. Logan had captured every detail, right down to the faint curve of your lips.

You blinked, unsure what to say, the heat rushing to your cheeks. “You—this is me.”

“Yeah,” Logan said simply, his voice quieter now. “Figured you’d catch on.”

You turned to glance at him, your breath hitching at the way his eyes softened as they met yours. “It’s… beautiful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan smirked, but there was something tender in his expression. “Guess I got the subject right, then.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you turned back to the sketch, feeling his chin rest lightly on your shoulder. As you flipped through the remaining pages, you caught more glimpses of yourself—small moments you didn’t even realize he’d noticed. Sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, laughing at something off-camera, standing by the window as the morning light spilled in. Each one was intimate, raw, and filled with a kind of reverence that left you speechless.

As you paused on another drawing, the strap of your nightgown slipped down your shoulder. Logan’s hand moved almost instinctively, his fingers brushing your skin as he gently slid the strap back into place. The touch was so casual, so natural, that it barely registered—but the warmth lingered.

“Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Logan said softly, his voice low against your ear.

“You didn’t,” you replied, though your cheeks betrayed you. “I just didn’t realize you… paid attention like this.”

“’Course I do,” he said, his tone gruff but sincere. “You’re worth payin’ attention to, darlin’.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you leaned back against him, letting the quiet reassurance of his presence wash over you. “Thank you,” you said softly, your fingers brushing the edge of the notebook. “For this. For… seeing me.”

Logan pressed a kiss to your temple, his stubble grazing your skin. “Always.”

---

The room hummed with quiet tension as the group gathered in the briefing room. Scott stood at the head of the table, his sharp, no-nonsense demeanor firmly in place as he laid out the mission details. Jean sat beside him, her fingers laced neatly in her lap, while Ororo leaned back in her chair with an air of calm focus. Bobby and Kitty exchanged a few quiet words, their confidence steady despite the high stakes.

Logan sat beside you, his hand resting casually on your thigh under the table. To the others, it probably looked like a typical display of Logan's relaxed attitude—or as relaxed as he ever got. To you, it was anything but casual. His fingers were warm and slightly calloused, a steady presence that grounded you as Scott’s voice went on about tactical points and contingency plans.

“We’re infiltrating a research facility,” Scott said, gesturing to the holographic map projected above the table. “The main goal is retrieving this.” He tapped a button, and the image shifted to a glowing USB drive. “It’s encrypted with data on mutant experiments. We need it to understand what they’re planning. The defenses will be heavy, and we’ll have limited time.”

Scott turned his gaze toward you, and your stomach flipped. “You’ll be in charge of getting the drive. The rest of us will keep the guards distracted. Once you have it, get to the Blackbird as quickly as possible. No detours, no delays. Understood?”

You nodded, twirling the pen in your hand as you absorbed the weight of your task. “Understood.”

Logan shifted beside you. Though he hadn’t said anything yet, you could feel the tension rolling off him. His thumb absentmindedly brushed over the fabric of your pants, a barely-there motion that sent shivers up your spine.

“Good,” Scott continued. “Logan, Jean, Ororo, and I will handle the main group of guards. Bobby and Kitty, you’re with us on crowd control. Everyone stick to the plan.”

As the meeting wrapped up, Logan finally spoke. “You sure she’s going in alone?” His voice was gruff, his eyes fixed on Scott. The unspoken I don’t like this hung heavy in the air.

“She can handle it,” Scott replied without missing a beat. “We wouldn’t assign her this role if she couldn’t.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, his hand squeezed your thigh gently before he pulled it away, as if reminding you that he was there, even if he didn’t agree with the plan.

---

The mission started smoothly. The team split up as planned, with Logan, Scott, Jean, Ororo, Bobby, and Kitty engaging the guards near the facility’s entrance. Meanwhile, you slipped into the building, your footsteps light as you navigated the sterile hallways.

The hum of fluorescent lights and the faint beeping of machinery filled the space. You kept your breathing steady, relying on your time manipulation to slow your perception of movement, giving yourself more control and awareness. It was a skill you’d honed over time, though it still required focus. You reached the central lab and quickly spotted the USB drive Scott had shown during the briefing. It was locked inside a glass case.

“Piece of cake,” you whispered to yourself, pulling out a small device. The gadget made quick work of the lock, and with a soft hiss, the case opened. You grabbed the drive, tucking it securely into the pouch on your belt.

As you turned to leave, you heard footsteps approaching from the hall. Instinctively, you reached out with your powers, halting time in the immediate area. The world around you froze: the footsteps, the hum of lights, even the faint sway of papers on a desk. Moving quickly, you exited the lab, retracing your steps until you reached a side door leading to the facility's exterior. Only then did you release your hold on time, letting it snap back into motion as if nothing had happened.

You broke into a run, heading for the Blackbird as planned. The others would be close behind once they finished with the guards. The night air was cool against your skin as you darted across the open space between the facility and the jet.

---

Logan stood amidst the chaos at the entrance. His claws slashed through another guard as Scott barked orders to hold the line. Jean and Ororo flanked him, their powers keeping waves of reinforcements at bay. It was going fine. Almost too fine.

Until Logan heard voices over the comms—the crackling radio chatter of guards somewhere outside the perimeter, and then the faint sound of footsteps heading toward the Blackbird.

His chest tightened. He didn’t think. He just moved.

"Logan, where the hell are you going?" Scott shouted over the din.

“Something’s off,” Logan growled, already bolting from the fight.

“We’re not done here!” Scott’s voice crackled in Logan’s earpiece, but Logan ripped it out, tossing it aside. He wasn’t going to lose you. Not again.

---

You’d just reached the Blackbird, your hand resting on the ramp control, when Logan appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. His breath came in harsh pants, and his eyes darted around, scanning the tree line for threats.

“Logan?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you lowered your hand. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with the team.”

“They were handling it fine,” he said gruffly, his claws still out as he moved to stand in front of you like a shield. "Heard movement. Thought maybe they were gunnin' for you."

You stared at him, your confusion giving way to frustration. “You thought—Logan, I’m fine. The plan worked. I got the drive. I was already here.”

He turned to face you fully, his jaw tight and his eyes burning with a mix of anger and fear. “You think I’m just gonna sit back while you’re out here alone? Anything could’ve happened!”

“I can handle myself,” you shot back, your voice sharp but steady. “That’s why Scott trusted me with this part of the mission. You should’ve stayed with the team.”

Logan took a step closer, his presence overwhelming as always. “You don’t get it,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Every damn time... I lose you. Every time. And I can’t—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, the claws retracting with a soft snikt.

Your frustration faltered, replaced by confusion. “What do you mean, ‘every time’? Logan, what are you talking about?”

He looked at you, something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. “I’ve lost you before, Y/N. More times than I can count. Doesn’t matter if it’s this life or another—I lose you. Always. And I can’t go through that again.”

You blinked, your mind reeling. His words didn’t make sense. “Logan—”

The sound of the others approaching cut you off. The rest of the team appeared, battered but victorious, and the moment between you and Logan was shattered. He stepped back, his usual mask sliding into place as he moved to help Scott secure the ramp.

But you couldn’t shake his words. You couldn’t shake the look in his eyes.

---

The flight back to the mansion was quiet and, thankfully, short. As Ororo and Scott expertly landed the jet, Bobby and Kitty were the first off, eager to escape the tension that hung in the air. They exchanged a few hushed words and hurried down the ramp, their footsteps echoing into the still night.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and stood, adjusting your glasses and stretching your legs. Logan was already up, his movements deliberate as he waited for the others to disembark. Jean followed Scott down the ramp, her hand brushing lightly against his arm as they spoke in low voices. Ororo trailed behind them, her gaze calm but perceptive, always attuned to the undercurrents of emotion in the group.

Scott stopped at the base of the ramp, his expression tight as he turned back toward Logan. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice clipped.

Logan leaned casually against one of the seats, his arms crossed. “Sure,” he replied, his tone dismissive. “Later.”

Scott’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he motioned for Jean and Ororo to follow him, and the three disappeared into the mansion, leaving you and Logan alone on the Blackbird.

You stayed near your seat, unsure whether to move or wait. Logan’s gaze flicked toward you, his expression softening as he stepped closer. His hand reached out, fingers brushing your wrist before he wrapped them around it gently.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low but firm.

You allowed him to lead you to the far corner of the jet, away from the open ramp. Once there, he released your wrist but didn’t step back, his proximity sending a rush of warmth through you.

“What was that back there?” you asked, your voice steady despite the lingering tension. “Why did you leave the team to come after me? I was fine, Logan.”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands rested on his hips, his head bowing slightly as if searching for the right words. Finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“You don’t get it,” he said, his tone gruff. “This ain’t just about the mission. It’s about you. I can’t just sit around and hope for the best when you’re out there, Y/N. Not after—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he dragged a hand through his hair.

“Not after what?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Logan, what are you not telling me?”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face as if weighing whether to pull you into his truth. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he took a step back and leaned against the wall of the jet, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I’ve lost you before,” he admitted, his voice quieter now but no less raw. “Not just once. Over and over. Five times, to be exact.”

You frowned, confusion swirling in your mind. “Lost me? What are you talking about? I’ve only known you for—”

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not in this life. In others. You don’t remember, but I do.” He paused, his hands gripping the edge of the wall as if steadying himself. “Every time, I meet you. Every time, we get close. And every damn time, I lose you. To sickness, accidents, war... something always takes you from me.”

You blinked, the weight of his words pressing against your chest. “That doesn’t make sense. Logan, I don’t—”

“I know it sounds crazy,” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly before softening again. “But it’s the truth. The second I met you here, I knew. I’ve known you in ways I can’t explain. And now that I’ve got you in this life, I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you.”

Your heart ached at the raw emotion in his voice, but it also raced with doubt and confusion. Logan’s words stirred something deep within you—a sense of recognition that you couldn’t explain, like catching the edge of a forgotten dream. But as much as your emotions pulled you toward him, your rational mind resisted.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “Logan, I’m not saying you’re lying, but you’re telling me you’ve known me in other lifetimes? That’s not… possible.”

“It’s the truth, darlin’,” Logan said softly, his voice steady despite the weight of his admission. He leaned back against the wall, his posture deceptively relaxed while his eyes never left yours. “You can twist the logic all you want, but I know what I’ve lived through. And I know you.”

You shook your head, your mind racing to reconcile his certainty with everything you understood about the universe. “I’m a scientist, Logan. Time, space, the way life and death work… it doesn’t leave room for things like this.” You paused, searching for the words. “I mean, even if something like reincarnation were possible, how would you remember? How would you—” You stopped yourself, a lump forming in your throat as you thought of the weight he carried in his words. “Why would you remember and not me?”

Logan sighed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I don’t even know why my memories are so damn broken, but I know this much: every time I see you, it’s like some part of me snaps into place. Doesn’t matter how the rest of my life’s a blur—you’re the one thing that sticks. You always do.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. The sincerity in his tone, the desperation in his eyes—it was undeniable. And yet, your logical mind clung to disbelief.

“What do you remember?” you asked after a long pause, your voice quieter now. “About me? About… us?”

Logan’s jaw worked for a moment as he considered your question. “Everything,” he said finally. “The way you laugh, the way you think too much and then laugh about that. The way you’ve always got your nose in a book or a project that’s way over my head. And the way you look at me—like you see something good in me even when I don’t.”

Your breath hitched, and you pushed your glasses up your nose as you looked away, your cheeks burning. “That’s just how I am,” you mumbled, trying to deflect the heat of his gaze.

“Maybe,” Logan said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “But it’s always you, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter if you’re shy like now or bold like before. You’re still you.”

You hesitated, your mind a storm of contradictions. “If what you’re saying is true,” you said carefully, “then why don’t I remember? Why would I just… forget all of that?”

“I don’t know,” Logan admitted, stepping closer to you. He didn’t touch you this time, but his presence was steady and grounding, like the weight of his hand had been earlier. “But does it matter? You’re here now. And so am I.”

You didn’t know what to say. The logical part of you screamed to question him further, to demand proof or push back against the impossibility of his claims. But another part of you—the part that had always felt an unspoken connection to him, the part that trusted him without question—wanted to believe.

Before you could respond, a distant voice called out from the mansion grounds, cutting through the stillness. Logan’s eyes flicked toward the open ramp of the Blackbird, his jaw tightening briefly before his gaze returned to you.

“We’ll talk more later,” he said, his voice low and resolute. “I’m not lettin’ this go, Y/N. Not this time.”

You swallowed hard, nodding despite the turmoil inside you. Logan lingered a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if memorizing every detail, before he turned and headed toward the ramp.

You stood there, rooted in place, your thoughts tangled and chaotic. If what Logan said was true, it changed everything. But even if it wasn’t, the weight of his words—and the look in his eyes—told you one thing: Logan wasn’t going to let you slip away. Not now, not ever.

---

That night, you found yourself lingering outside Jean and Scott’s room, hesitant but resolute. You raised a hand to knock, but paused, second-guessing. Before you could lose your nerve, you rapped softly on the door. It opened after a moment, Scott standing there with a questioning look. Behind him, Jean was tidying up near the dresser, her head tilting curiously at the sight of you.

“Hey, Y/N,” Scott said, his tone polite but guarded after the mission. “Everything okay?”

You glanced past him at Jean, then shifted back to Scott. “I was wondering if I could talk to Jean alone for a minute,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Scott’s brow furrowed, but he stepped back with a small nod. “Sure.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’ll be in the common room,” he told Jean, his tone softening before he passed you a quick glance and exited the room.

Jean came over, her posture open and inviting as she gestured for you to come in. “What’s going on?” she asked, closing the door behind you.

You hesitated for a beat before finding your words. “I just… I needed to talk to someone. About Logan.”

Jean’s eyebrows lifted, her expression curious but understanding. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, gesturing for you to take the chair by the desk. “Alright,” she said, her voice calm. “What’s on your mind?”

You sat down, folding your hands tightly in your lap. “He told me something today. Something… huge. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Jean’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Is it about the mission?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. It’s… personal.” You hesitated, chewing on your lip before continuing. “He said he’s known me before. In other lives.”

Jean blinked, her posture stiffening slightly. “Other lives?”

“Yeah.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “He said we’ve met before—five times. That every time, we…” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “Every time, I die. And he remembers everything.”

Jean was quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching your face as she processed what you’d said. “And you don’t… remember any of this?” she asked gently.

“No,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly. “And I don’t even know if it’s true. But the way he said it, Jean—it wasn’t just some story. It felt real. He believes it.”

Jean nodded slowly, her expression contemplative. “Logan’s been through a lot. And his memories—or the gaps in them—are complicated.” She tilted her head. “Did he say why he remembers you specifically?”

You hesitated, recalling his words on the jet. “He said… I’m the only thing that sticks. That everything else is a blur, but not me.”

Jean’s expression softened, and she leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Y/N, I don’t know if I can explain why Logan feels this way. But I do know he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. If he told you this, it’s because he believes it with everything he has.”

“That’s what scares me,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because what if he’s right? What if there’s this… this whole part of me that I don’t even know exists?”

Jean reached out, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Maybe there is. Or maybe this is just Logan’s way of processing his feelings for you. Either way, it doesn’t change who you are right now. You’re Y/N. The person we know, the person Logan clearly…” She trailed off, smiling faintly. “Clearly cares about.”

You looked down, your cheeks burning. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

Jean squeezed your arm gently. “I get that. But you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Just take it one step at a time.”

You nodded, grateful for her steady presence. “Thanks, Jean. I needed this.”

“Anytime,” she said warmly. “And if you need someone to talk to again, I’m here.”

---

Meanwhile, in the common room, Logan sat slouched on the couch, a glass of whiskey resting on the table in front of him. His gaze was fixed on the darkened fireplace, his thoughts far away. He barely registered the sound of the door opening until Charles wheeled into the room.

“You look troubled,” Charles observed, his voice calm but perceptive as always.

Logan didn’t turn, his jaw tightening. “Not in the mood for a lecture, Chuck.”

“I wasn’t planning to give you one,” Charles said, stopping his chair beside the couch. “But I can tell something’s weighing on you.”

Logan huffed out a breath, finally glancing at him. “You ever feel like you’re living the same nightmare on repeat?”

Charles regarded him thoughtfully. “I’ve certainly seen my share of patterns in life. But I suspect you’re referring to something far more personal.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s Y/N,” he said finally. “She doesn’t know it, but… I’ve met her before. Five times, in different lives.”

Charles tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “And you remember all of this?”

“Every damn detail,” Logan muttered, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I can’t explain it, but it’s like she’s the one thing I can’t forget. Even after Weapon X, when they wiped everything else—she stuck.”

Charles was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “And you told her this?”

Logan nodded, his jaw clenching. “She thinks I’m nuts. Can’t say I blame her.”

“Perhaps not,” Charles said gently. “But if what you’re saying is true, then Y/N’s presence in your life may have a purpose beyond what either of you understand.”

Logan let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, if it’s got a purpose, it sure as hell ain’t been kind. Every time I get close to her, I lose her. And I can’t do it again, Charles. I won’t.”

Charles placed a hand on Logan’s arm, his touch steady and grounding. “Whatever the truth may be, you have an opportunity now. She’s here, Logan. Focus on that. Focus on this moment.”

Logan exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping. “Easier said than done.”

Charles smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But you’re not alone in this.”

Logan nodded reluctantly, his gaze returning to the fireless hearth. Despite the weight of his memories and fears, one thought remained constant: he wasn’t letting you go. Not this time.

---

The days after Logan's confession were a strange blend of tension and normalcy. One evening, as the mansion settled into its usual calm, you found yourself wandering outside. The garden was quiet, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the crisp air biting at your skin as you walked aimlessly, your thoughts tangled.

You were startled when Logan's deep voice broke through the quiet. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

You turned to find him leaning against a tree, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He was dressed in his usual leather jacket, the faint scent of smoke and pine lingering in the air around him.

“I needed some air,” you said softly.

Logan pushed off the tree, closing the distance between you in a few long strides. “Yeah, well, you know how it gets around here. Safer not to wander too far.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean safer from the squirrels? Or the mutant squirrels?”

That earned you the faintest twitch of a smile. “Both.”

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You looked up at the sky, the stars scattered like glitter across the inky blackness. Logan stood beside you, his gaze fixed on you instead of the view.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know if I believe in reincarnation or destiny or any of that,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But… I believe you. I can’t explain why, but I do.”

Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his expression remained guarded. “You don’t have to believe it. Hell, half the time I wish it wasn’t true.”

You turned to face him fully, searching his face. “Why?”

His gaze flicked away, his mouth pressing into a hard line. “Because it’s a curse, Y/N. Every time I get you back, the universe rips you away. I can’t go through it again. I won’t.”

You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “Logan… I’m here now. Whatever happened before, it’s not happening now. I’m alive. I’m me.”

His eyes met yours, a storm of emotions swirling in them—fear, longing, and something deeper, raw and unspoken. “You say that now, but it doesn’t change what’s coming. You don’t know what it’s like to watch someone you—” He cut himself off, his voice breaking.

You reached out, your hand brushing his arm. “Then tell me. Help me understand.”

Logan stared at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Then, without warning, he closed the space between you, his hands gently but firmly gripping your shoulders. His voice was low, almost desperate. “You’re the only thing that’s ever felt real to me. Everything else gets taken, erased, twisted—but you… You’re the one thing they can’t touch. And I don’t know how to protect you without losing you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the weight of his pain pressing down on you. You covered his hands with yours, grounding him. “Then stop trying to protect me from something that hasn’t happened. Stop living in the past or the future and just… be here with me.”

His grip loosened slightly, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Y/N…”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “We’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

Logan exhaled a shaky breath, his forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Okay.”

The two of you stood there, the world around you fading into the background. For the first time in a long while, Logan allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

---

He sat on the edge of the bed, the small jewelry box in his hand open as he looked at the ring he’s had for almost two centuries.

The door to Logan’s room creaked open as you stepped inside, balancing two plates in your hands. The smell of freshly baked lemon scones lingered in the air, and a small smile played on your lips as you made your way over to him.

“Breakfast in bed isn’t your usual thing,” Logan teased, his tone warm as his eyes followed you across the room.

You shrugged, setting the plates down on the bedside table. “First time for everything, right? Besides, I wanted to try making these.”

Logan arched a brow, feigning suspicion. “Scones, huh? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” you said with a small laugh, sitting down on the bed beside him. “Just a lot of flour, butter, and a very questionable amount of zesting.” His lips twitched, but you caught the way his hand subtly slid into his jacket pocket. You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, leaning over to snag a scone off one of the plates. “These smell good.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion flickering in your expression, but decided to let it go—for now. “They’re lemon scones. First time making them. I figured I’d test them out on you.”

“Guinea pig, huh?” Logan bit into the scone, chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, he nodded. “Not bad. A little tart, but good.”

Your shoulders relaxed, relief washing over you. “Tart? I thought I added enough sugar…”

“It’s fine, darlin’. I like it.” He smirked, breaking off another piece. “Guess this means I’m stuck with being your taste tester now.”

You grinned, picking up your own scone. “You’ve survived worse.”

Logan chuckled, his laughter low and rumbling, as the two of you ate in comfortable silence. The summer sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. It was a quiet moment, one that felt oddly normal amidst the chaos of life at the mansion.

As you set your plate back on the table, you caught Logan watching you. His gaze was steady, but there was something behind it—an intensity that made your cheeks heat.

“What?” you asked softly, brushing a crumb off your lip.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head with a small smile. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Logan leaned back, his arm draping across the headboard as he studied you. “How you’re the best part of this place.”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. “Logan…”

“I mean it.” His voice was quieter now, more serious. “This place, the people—it’s good, but you? You make it feel like home.”

Your face warmed, and you looked down, suddenly shy. “You’re just saying that because I made you scones.”

He reached over, his hand gently tipping your chin up so your eyes met his. “Nah. It’s not the scones.”

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. Logan’s thumb brushed your jaw before he pulled back, clearing his throat. “So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

You blinked, still recovering from the softness of his touch. “Um… I don’t know. I was thinking about working on a project, but…” You hesitated. “It’s summer break. I guess I could take a day off.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a grin. “A whole day off? Guess miracles do happen.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a pillow and lightly swatting him with it. “Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and for a moment, you forgot about the world outside this room. It was just you and Logan, caught in a bubble of warmth and quiet understanding.

But as he reached into his pocket to absently fiddle with the small box, his expression turned thoughtful again. Logan didn’t know how to bring it up—or if he should. All he knew was that someday soon, he’d have to decide. Not if, but when.

---

Your goggles sat on top of your head, the red indent from the frame pressing into your skin as you scribbled furiously in your notebook. Equations sprawled across the pages in a chaotic but purposeful mess. The lab was quiet except for the soft hum of machinery and the faint scratch of your pen against the paper. You were so focused on your work that you didn’t hear Logan come in.

You jumped slightly when you felt his arms wrap around you from behind, his hands resting lightly on your waist. His voice rumbled close to your ear. “You’ve been holed up in here for hours, darlin’.”

“Logan!” you exclaimed, a blush rising to your cheeks. “You scared me.”

His lips curved into a grin against your neck as he pressed a soft kiss to your skin. “Didn’t mean to. What’s got you so wrapped up you didn’t even hear me?”

You relaxed against him, your hands stilling over your notebook. “I’m working on this project—trying to calculate temporal fluctuations in the presence of quantum anomalies. Basically, seeing how external variables could impact time distortion…”

Logan hummed, his lips grazing the side of your neck as he spoke. “Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not that complicated,” you said, your voice picking up with excitement as you began to explain. “The idea is that time manipulation isn’t linear—it’s like... imagine a fabric, but instead of pulling it straight, you twist and fold it. That’s where the anomalies come from. If I can track the changes in—” You cut off with a startled laugh as he kissed the sensitive spot below your ear. “Logan!”

“Keep talkin’,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. His arms tightened slightly, swaying the two of you gently side to side. “I’m listenin’.”

Your blush deepened, but you continued, trying to keep your thoughts straight despite the warmth of his lips trailing along your neck. “If I can track the changes in the energy fields… I might be able to stabilize them. Or at least predict when an event could disrupt—Logan!”

He turned you around, his hands still resting on your hips as he gave you a lopsided grin. “You’ve got no idea how good you look in a lab coat, do you?”

Your mouth opened, then closed as you searched for a response. “It’s… just a lab coat.”

Logan chuckled, his hands sliding to rest on the small of your back. “Not the way you wear it, sweetheart.”

You pushed lightly against his chest, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your attempt at indignation. “Are you just here to distract me?”

“Maybe.” His grin softened into something more tender as his eyes held yours. “Or maybe I wanted to see my girl.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the way he said it, so casual but so full of affection. “Well, I’m flattered,” you teased, your voice quieter now. “Even if you’re trying to derail my research.”

Logan leaned down, his forehead brushing yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek. “You’re always workin’ so hard. Someone’s gotta remind you to take a break.”

You softened, your arms looping loosely around his neck. “Is that your job now?”

“Damn right it is,” he murmured before closing the small gap between you and capturing your lips in a kiss. It was slow and deliberate, and when he pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Still wearin’ that cherry lip gloss, huh?”

Your laugh was breathless. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Hard not to,” he admitted, kissing you again, this time deeper, as if he were memorizing the taste. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed over your cheek. “Guess it’s my new favorite.”

Your head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering across your face. “What was your old favorite?”

Logan chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he started to sway the two of you again. “Haven’t had one ‘til now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning into him as the tension from your work melted away. Logan always had a way of grounding you, reminding you that life didn’t have to be so complicated all the time. For now, you let yourself forget about time anomalies and equations, losing yourself in the warmth of his embrace and the way his lips brushed against yours again, soft and unhurried.

---

Usually, you were a light sleeper. The smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, the subtle hum of the air conditioner kicking on—would have you stirring. But ever since you and Logan started sleeping in the same bed, whether it was his room or yours, you were out like a light the moment your head hit the pillow. It was as if some part of you instinctively knew you were safe, tucked against his warmth, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

It gave Logan a chance to test something he'd been thinking about for weeks.

The small velvet box sat on the nightstand on his side of the bed, just out of your line of sight. He had stared at it countless nights, his mind torn between the weight of what it meant and the comfort it brought him. That ring had traveled with him through lifetimes, through hell and back. It was the only constant in his pocket, a piece of the past he hadn’t been able to let go of.

And now, there you were again, lying beside him, so close he could hear your soft, even breaths. The moonlight streaming through the window glinted off your glasses, which sat folded on the bedside table. You looked peaceful, serene. He hated to disturb you, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

He reached over slowly, careful not to jostle the bed, and picked up the box. His fingers hesitated on the lid. This wasn’t a proposal. Not yet. It was just... curiosity.

The lid opened with a soft click, revealing the simple yet elegant band. It had been forged in a different era, but it felt timeless, like you. He carefully pulled the ring out and turned it over in his hand, the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he looked at you.

“Still sleepin’ like a rock,” he murmured under his breath. “Guess that’s new.”

You shifted slightly, your hand sliding out from under the pillow. Logan froze, waiting. When you didn’t stir again, he carefully took your hand, marveling at how delicate it felt in his rough, calloused one.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a pang of something bittersweet pulling at him. He slipped the ring onto your finger, holding his breath as it slid snugly into place.

It fit.

Logan’s chest tightened. It wasn’t just the way the ring looked—though it looked like it had been made for you, shining faintly in the moonlight. It was what it meant. A promise he hadn’t been able to keep five times before.

He lingered for a moment, his thumb brushing over your hand before he carefully slipped the ring off again and placed it back in the box. Closing it, he set it back on the nightstand and leaned down, pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple.

“Soon,” he whispered, his voice rough and low.

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open just enough to catch his face close to yours. "Logan?" you murmured sleepily.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You hummed in contentment, your eyes closing again as you snuggled closer. “Mmm... okay.”

Logan wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against him. For now, he could wait. There was no rush. He just needed to take it one day at a time.

---

The cool summer breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned back against Logan’s shoulder, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist. The two of you were perched on the roof of the mansion, a favorite spot for quiet nights away from the chaos of the team. Above, the stars blinked faintly against the dark canvas of the night sky.

You closed Cloud Atlas with a soft thump and set it aside. Logan glanced over from where he was sketching in his notebook.

“Ya done with it?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“Yeah,” you replied, stretching your legs out in front of you. “It was... alright. Kind of disjointed but interesting.”

Logan chuckled, a sound that sent warmth straight to your chest. “Figures. You and your ‘I have to finish every book I start’ thing, darlin’.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “It’s called commitment, Logan.”

“Uh-huh.” He smirked, setting his notebook down. “Speaking of commitment...” He leaned over, reaching into the small bag he’d brought up to the roof.

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a book wrapped in brown paper. “What’s that?”

“Somethin’ you’ve been wantin’,” he said, handing it to you.

Curiosity sparked, you unwrapped it carefully, your eyes lighting up when the title was revealed: The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality.

“Logan!” you gasped, running your fingers over the cover. “I’ve been looking for this everywhere! How did you—?”

“Course I remembered,” he interrupted smoothly, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t forget somethin’ that makes you light up like that.”

Your cheeks warmed as you ducked your head, shy but unable to hide your smile. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, leaning back and draping an arm over your shoulders. “Go on, crack it open. Figured you’d wanna start it tonight.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Settling against him, you flipped open the book and dove into the first chapter, the world around you fading as the words pulled you in. Logan stayed silent beside you, watching with an easy contentment as you lost yourself in the pages.

Two chapters in, you stopped mid-sentence, frowning slightly as something unexpected caught your eye. Pressed between the pages was a small, folded piece of paper. You glanced at Logan, who looked pointedly at the sky, pretending not to notice.

“What’s this?” you asked, unfolding it carefully.

“No idea,” he replied, his voice too casual.

You raised an eyebrow at him before returning your attention to the note. As you unfolded it, a glint of metal fell onto your lap. Your breath hitched. There, nestled against the fabric of your jeans, was a ring.

It was simple yet beautiful, timeless in design, with a delicate band that caught the starlight. For a moment, all you could do was stare, your mind reeling.

“Logan...” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He shifted beside you, his movements slow and deliberate. When you turned to look at him, his expression was uncharacteristically soft, the usual gruffness in his features replaced by something vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice rough but steady. “This ring... it’s been with me for longer than I care to admit. Carried it through lifetimes, through every damn thing life’s thrown at me. And every time, it’s led me back to you.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as he reached out, gently taking the ring from your lap.

“I’ve lost you too many times,” he continued, his thumb brushing over the band. “But this time... this time, I’m not lettin’ go. I don’t care what happens, how crazy things get, I want this to stick.”

He reached for your hand, his calloused fingers warm against yours. “So what d’ya say, darlin’? You up for makin’ this official?”

Tears blurred your vision as you nodded, your voice catching in your throat. “Logan... yes. Yes, of course.”

A grin broke across his face, rare and genuine, as he slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly.

Without thinking, you launched yourself into his arms, burying your face in his chest as he held you close. His embrace was solid and unwavering, grounding you even as your emotions threatened to overwhelm.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get here,” he murmured against your hair.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hands resting on his chest. “Me neither,” you admitted, your smile wobbly but radiant. “But I’m glad we did.”

He kissed you then, slow and deliberate, as if sealing a promise. The stars above seemed brighter somehow, the night air warmer. For the first time in a long while, everything felt right.

As the kiss ended, he rested his forehead against yours. “Guess I don’t need that ring burnin’ a hole in my pocket anymore,” he teased.

You laughed softly, wiping at your eyes. “Guess not.”

i could've dragged out them not being engaged, but i couldn't help myself. anyways, if you can't already tell, most of this alternate timeline is going to be just fluff so i hope y'all are ready for it!

(also, in my head they've been dating for a year so it's currently 2004, a year-ish after x2. i'll add the years at the end notes just for people who like it, because i need the dates just because that's who i am)

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #i love you always and forever

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uncle-fruity · 2 days ago

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Decided to read the article. I absolutely believe that what the author calls "male flight" has some validity to it, but it doesn't seem to be a reason men have given themselves, and it seems reductive to put the decline of men pursuing education solely on misogyny. Not to say that misogyny isn't a factor, because I agree that the article's thesis lines up with historical trends of devaluing anything seen as "feminine" work, and I know enough sexist men to know that many do have an aversion to being in anything they consider women's spaces. I'm not sure that I fully agree that the main reason men aren't pursuing education is the kind of direct misogyny described in the article, but I also don't have any evidence to the contrary lined up, and it's certainly within the realm of possibility.

Early in the article, the author lists out other reasons that have been cited to partially explain the decline in men's enrollment:

[Image Transcript: Other reasons I came across while researching for this article include:

-- Men can make more money without a college degree than women can, so women need college more.

-- Higher rates of alcohol, drug use, gangs and prison for boys negate college as a viable option.

-- Colleges are usually left-leaning, so right-leaning students increasingly don't feel comfortable there. And more men than women lean right.

-- Men join the military more than women.

-- A man will sometimes have to provide for wife/kids before he can finish college. /End transcript.]

Unfortunately, the author did not give citations for any of those claims, nor did she spend much time explaining why she thought these reasons weren't major factors -- or not as notable as the reason she gives: the rise of women in higher education. It would have been nice to see where that information was coming from. Particularly the point about higher drug and prison rates would be nice to have some context for. To be fair, there is a section just before the part that I cited that does give some sources for some of the other reasons people have attributed to the decline of male enrollment.

And, actually, to be extra fair, I'm gonna post that part as well, because it might be helpful. So this is the part directly before the passage I just cited:

[Image transcript: The Pew Research Center has found that boys are more likely to think they don’t need a degree for the jobs they want, and when they do enroll in college, work opportunities lure them away.

Ruth Simmons, president of A&M University thinks “the problem is the way we treat our boys in k-12. They turn away from school because of the negative messages they get at school… Behavior that is rewarded for boys doesn’t fit well with good student behavior.”

Another college president, Donald Ruff believes it boils down to money. “Honestly I think it’s the sticker shock. To see $100,000 that’s daunting.” /End transcript.]

I have little to add about this passage, I just thought it would be helpful to include.

The author also does not seem to consider race in her argument beyond drawing parallels between white flight and male flight. As far as I could tell, this article gives few statistics about the races involved. Is the influx of women predominantly white or predominantly non-white? When we talk about men not enrolling, is there any racial element being considered -- are non-white men enrolling at higher or lower rates than they used to? Are we talking primarily white men not enrolling, or is this male flight evenly distributed across racial demographics? How do these demographics play out? Because, to me, it seems like misogyny and racism could both be at play here. If more black women than ever are going to college, it is likely that male flight is in tandem with white flight, but to actually make that claim with any amount of credibility, we would need more information, which the article does not provide/is not focused on.

To be clear, I do not have the answers to those questions. I am merely speculating. This is one of those cases where I'd need to spend more time looking at other sources to get a broader view of the issue, including the sources the author included, the ones she used to support her claims, and the Freakonomics episode she mentions.

On that note, there's this interesting passage, which comes off as sorta... idk... I don't have the exact words for it. Undermining her own point a little? I'll analyze this feeling I have more after the image transcript. (Also, the "they" that is mentioned at the beginning of this passage is referring to the Freakonomics podcast.)

[Image transcript: They mentioned that there is one subset of men who out-enroll women. Which subset might that be?

Gay men.

While only 36 percent of US adults have bachelor’s degrees, 52% of gay men do.

"If America's gay men formed their own country, it would be the world's most highly educated by far.” - Joel Mittleman

At the Joel Mittleman quote in the podcast, I leaned forward…yes… surely now we will wonder why only straight men aren’t attending college… yes? /End transcript]

I feel like this passage gives a passing glance at intersectionality and then just hand waves it away to prove something about straight men. It just strikes me as something that should be explored more if the argument you're making is that men are leaving for misogynistic reasons. Because we should all know by now that gay men are perfectly capable of being misogynistic and that there are definitely gay men who don't want to share spaces with women. Is it that gay men overall tend to be more in touch with or comfortable with femininity, and are therefore less deterred by the presence of women in the classroom? I guess I'm honestly just confused as to how gay men factor into this conversation and why this deviance from the overall trend is not explored. It seems extremely relevant to the conversation?

Also, the article up to this point has been saying that men -- as a general category -- are choosing not to go to college. Is it true that the article is talking about straight men only, as this portion seems to imply? Are we considering gay men as somehow not men or unaffiliated with the rates that men are choosing college? Does the presence of more gay men in academia also mean that this "male flight" is also in part due to homophobia, or is homophobia not being considered as a factor the same way race doesn't seem to have been factored in?

Finally, how do trans men factor into this conversation? Were they counted as women or men? Were they considered at all? If they were, that certainly is not represented here.

So, I guess my overall impression is that this is an interesting and compelling thesis, but the specifics are missing in a way that makes the author's argument fall flat. I think this article would really benefit from a more intersectional approach. I also believe, as with all social issues like this, that the problem is never just one thing, but a combination of things, all of which need to be considered to address the underlying systemic issues that get us to this point. I absolutely believe the author is on to a big part of the problem, but I think her scope is limited and she needs a more solid foundation of information to build her argument on.

Idk. Read the article for yourself and see how it hits.

Why aren't we talking about the real reason male college enrollment is dropping? (Celeste Davis, Oct 6 2024)

"White flight is a term that describes how white people move out of neighborhoods when more people of color move in.

White flight is especially common when minority populations become the majority. That neighborhood then declines in value.

Male flight describes a similar phenomenon when large numbers of females enter a profession, group, hobby or industry—the men leave. That industry is then devalued.

Take veterinary school for example:

In 1969 almost all veterinary students were male at 89%.

By 1987, male enrollment was equal to female at 50%.

By 2009, male enrollment in veterinary schools had plummeted to 22.4%

A sociologist studying gender in veterinary schools, Dr. Anne Lincoln says that in an attempt to describe this drastic drop in male enrollment, many keep pointing to financial reasons like the debt-to-income ratio or the high cost of schooling.

But Lincoln’s research found that “men and women are equally affected by tuition and salaries.”

Her research shows that the reason fewer men are enrolling in veterinary school boils down to one factor: the number of women in the classroom.

For every 1% increase in the proportion of women in the student body, 1.7 fewer men applied.

One more woman applying was a greater deterrent than $1000 in extra tuition! (…)

Since males had dominated these professions for centuries, you would think they would leave slowly, hesitantly or maybe linger at 40%, 35%, 30%, but that’s not what happens.

Once the tipping point reaches majority female- the men flee. And boy do they flee!

It’s a slippery slope. When the number of women hits 60% the men who are there make a swift exit and other men stop joining.

Morty Schapiro, economist and former president of Northwestern University has noticed this trend when studying college enrollment numbers across universities:

“There’s a cliff you fall off once you become 60/40 female/male. It then becomes exponentially more difficult to recruit men.”

Now we’ve reached that 60% point of no return for colleges.

As we’ve seen with teachers, nurses and interior design, once an institution is majority female, the public perception of its value plummets.

Scanning through Reddit and Quora threads, many men seem to be in agreement - college is stupid and unnecessary.

A waste of time and money. You’re much better off going into the trades, a tech boot camp or becoming an entrepreneur. No need for college. (…)

When mostly men went to college? Prestigious. Aspirational. Important.

Now that mostly women go to college? Unnecessary. De-valued. A bad choice. (…)

School is now feminine. College is feminine. And rule #1 if you want to safely navigate this world as a man? Avoid the feminine.

But we don’t seem to want to talk about that."

#interesting #critical analysis #critical thinking #education #feminism

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babejinxy · 1 day ago

Text

In love with you - part 4

Pairing: Powder x fem!reader

Warnings: friends to lovers, SMUT, kissing, fluff

Synopsis: Powder had been your best friend for years, the two of you met when she was running from the cops when she and her brothers broke into and blew up an apartment in Piltover and you helped them escape. What you never imagined, is that the love of your life was always right there in front of you…

A/N: This is a fic about Powder from the alternate universe, it has nothing to do with Jinx.

🌟 English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any mistakes.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

💙 @brocoliisscared @bbybubbles @cattjull

Gert was about to call you to a quieter, more private place when you both heard Vender's voice calling her from the bar. "Gert, I need you here, now," he said. She huffed and looked back at you, "It seems like I was missed, I'll see you later tonight? Even if it's late, Zaun never sleeps." You laughed, "Of course, I'll be here." She approached you and kissed your cheek, "See you later, beautiful."

You had barely gotten away from Gert when another guy came up to you and put his hand on your shoulder. “I thought I’d never see you again, princess.” He was very blond and slender, you had no idea who he was. He noticed your look of confusion and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Deckard, the guy who sent you the note the other day.” So it was him, he was actually kind of cute, just like you thought, but it wasn't like you were interested in him. “You didn’t show up, I was thinking that maybe your friend hadn’t given you my note.” He said as he approached you, he seemed to be already drunk.

“I was just leaving,” you took a step back to get away from him. “Oh, I understand. I’m lucky to find you here today. Can we talk?” he said, pulling you by the waist. “I thought you wanted to talk,” you said, pushing him away from you. “Oh, come on? Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked, getting closer again. You rolled your eyes and moved away from him again, “No, I don’t.” “Then what’s the problem love?”. Before you could answer, you heard Powder’s voice behind him.

“The problem is, she’s not interested right now,” she said, her hands on her hips, and you felt relieved to see her. He turned his head to look at her, “You’re the one who vouches for her, sweetheart?” he scoffed. “No, I’m the one who vouches for myself, and she’s right, I’m not interested.” He pursed his lips, “Alright, alright,” he held his hands up in surrender, “We can take this slow, how about I buy you a drink first, baby doll?”

Once again Powder butted in, this time she stopped beside you. “How about this, you go enjoy the party and spend your money on yourself, before you get kicked out of the bar.” He frowned and laughed, “And who’s going to kick me out, you? Is the bar yours by any chance?”, he said mocking her once more. “Something like that since my father owns the bar.” He wiped the arrogant smile from his lips, “Vender?!”, he said swallowing hard. “That’s it, are you going to leave her alone or will I have to call him to sort this out with you?” Once again he raised his hands in surrender, “kay, sorry to bother you,” he told you before disappearing from sight.

You looked at her, “hey,” you smiled. “Hey you,” she said, smiling awkwardly. “Thanks for that, Pow Pow.” She shrugged, “I couldn’t let him bother you”. “Good thing you showed up then, my savior,” you said laughing. “The guys here aren’t like the guys you’re used to, you have to know how to deal with them”. “It seems like you’ve learned well”. She shrugged, “I had to get by.”

Vender was keeping an eye on the two of you and decided to help out. He changed the upbeat song that was playing to a slower one and Powder looked at him. He smiled at her and made a sign to invite you to dance. Something in his gaze always comforted and encouraged her.

“Dance with me?” she asked suddenly, without thinking much otherwise she would lose her courage. You smiled and took her hand that was extended to you. She held your waist and you wrapped your arms around her neck and she led you to the music. Powder's heart was pounding inside her, she was nervous, this was much more than a dance with a best friend and the tension between the two of you proved it.

“He’s still staring at you,” she said, referring to Deckard. “Ignore him,” you said quietly. “No way,” she said, staring at him. “Why not?”. “Well, why…” she hesitated for a moment and then you interrupted her, laughing a little, “he’s the guy from the note.” She twisted her lips, “seriously?! So he’s nothing like you expected?”, she asked curiously. “Actually, I wasn’t expecting anything, but he’s disgusting.” The wind blew, making your perfume spread, she closed her eyes to smell you and then asked, “what about Gert?”.“Oh, she… well, she… she’s nice, she’s pretty, but…” you hesitated. “But?…”, Powder asked, stopping moving with you.

“But she’s not for me,” you closed your eyes and bit your lower lip, trying to hold back the tears, “all this life… all these people, this coming and going of loves in my life and I never wanted to admit that none of these people were my person, and I’m afraid of never… never finding the right person for me, that’s why I always gave myself so easily to anyone who came along and was never valued as I deserved.” Your eyes were watery, but you swallowed your tears. You took your arms off her neck and placed your hands on either side of her collarbone.

Powder brought her right hand to your face while she kept her other hand on your waist, where she pressed a little. “Y/n look at me”, she whispered in a hoarse voice. She was going to kiss you, she was finally going to taste your cherry lip gloss straight from your lips, like she always dreamed. You raised your gaze to her and in that moment looking into her eyes, with her breath mixing with yours, was the moment when everything came to the surface. Your feeling for her - that you had repressed for years - the love beyond friendship that you felt for her. In that moment you remembered that you had always been in love with her, but it was much easier to block that feeling than to live it. It was her, Powder was your person, the one you loved and would always love.

You started to feel your heart racing inside your chest, you were having trouble breathing, you were starting to have an anxiety attack. “Oh no! Powder I need… sorry, I need to get out of here.” You pulled away from her and ran away from everything.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

You stopped in a dark alley away from The Last Drop and leaned against a wall to catch your breath and try to calm down from your anxiety attack. You began to cry frantically, sliding down the wall to the floor, where you buried your face in your hands. You knew it was too dangerous for someone like you to be in a dark alley alone in Zaun. But you were too panicked to be afraid of that.

You loved your best friend, in the romantic sense of the word. You realized this a few years ago, but you kept this feeling so bottled up inside you that you forgot about it. Then you realized, your fear wasn't of ending up alone, you just wanted to transfer everything you felt for Powder to someone else, that's why you had an endless list of boyfriends and girlfriends that didn't work out. It's amazing what our subconscious is capable of, isn't it?

You gradually calmed down and after the adrenaline and anxiety attack had passed, you began to notice how the night was getting colder and darker and you realized that you were in a dark alley alone in Zaun. As much as Vender had managed to control the bandits in the underground city, it was still dangerous for a Piltie like you to be there alone.

You pulled yourself together and thought it would be best to apologize to Powder for running away like that. You weren't ready to tell her how you felt about her, so you would make up an excuse for your behavior and everything would be resolved.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

You went back to the bar and looked for her, but apparently she wasn’t there anymore. You bumped into Gert - who was walking with a tray of drinks in her hand - by accident as you walked through the dancing and singing crowd. “I’m sorry,” you said before realizing it was her. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just me,” she said winking at you, she leaned close to your ear, “just a few more hours and I’ll be free, you can make it up to me,” she kissed your cheek before going back to serving drinks. “Sorry Gert, not today,” you said to yourself.

You were trying to get out of the crowd when you felt someone pull you by the arm and grab your waist, you were relieved when you realized that this time it was Mylo. “Hey, I looked for you everywhere, where’s Powder?”, he asked dancing with you. “I’d like to know too”, you said trying to get away from him. He spun you around and laid you down, holding your hand with one hand and the other on your back. You stood up and tried to get away from him, “Not now Mylo”, you said but he pulled you again and spun you around again. “See how great a partner I am, very attractive too”, he said boasting and then pouted to kiss you.

“I’m sure someone thinks so,” you said, turning your face away from him. “There’s not a girl at this party who wouldn’t want to be with me,” he boasted again, “but I only have my eyes on one,” he showed his teeth in a smile and raised an eyebrow at you. You pursed your lips and before you could try to move away from him again, Claggor appeared and put his arm around Mylo shoulders.

You took the opportunity and got out of Mylo's hands. "What's up Y/n? Is Mylo embarrassing himself again?" You held back a laugh, "no, he's a great dancer, but a terrible flirt." He crossed his arms and said, "she's just playing hard to get," he said convinced of it and you laughed, he was so ridiculous that it was almost funny, although Powder found it annoying. "Do you know where Powder is?" you asked finally. “She’s not here, I thought she was with you… have you tried checking her workshop?” Claggor replied. “I’ll stop by, thanks boys”.

“Hey, Y/n,” Mylo yelled behind you and you turned to look at him. “You can thank me in another way if you want, I wouldn’t mind if…”, he put his index finger to his lips and you understood what he wanted, you just rolled your eyes and went to look for Powder. You couldn’t see when Claggor slapped Mylo on the head, “oh, what the fuck is this you animal?!”, he said raising his arms. “Stop being an idiot,” Claggor replied. “Man… I don’t understand how you let a girl like Y/n climb out of your fingers,” he said massaging his head. “Powder is in love with her, you would realize if you weren’t such an asshole,” Claggor replied. Mylo curled his lips, “Powder? Seriously?”.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

You entered Powder's workshop silently, she didn't notice you. She was sitting on the couch, with her knees to her chest and her head down. She was feeling terrible and embarrassed. You probably would have realized that she loved you beyond friendship and that's why you ran away. You didn't love her that way and it scared you. Now she had ruined everything and that would shake the friendship between you.

“Pow Pow?” you said, standing behind her. The sweet sound of your voice brought her out of her dark thoughts. She lifted her head and looked at you. Your eyes were still red from crying, you smiled at her, but she was too nervous to smile back. Although your smile could fix anything.

You approached her and sat next to her. “Look, I’m sorry I left like that, it was hard for me… to admit those things,” you said with a sigh. As she looked at you and felt your scent again so close to her, you right there in front of her made her remember Vender’s voice saying, “Isn’t she worth the risk?” Then she readjusted herself on the couch, turning to face you and gathering all the courage she had inside her.

“I think it’s time for me to admit some things to you too,” her heart could explode at any moment, just like yours. “The truth is, I always wished that all those people you were with could be me… I asked myself every day, “why not me?”, but then I remembered that you love me like a friend or even a sister, and it hurt, but…”. Your heart skipped a beat with each of her words, “Powder I…”, you interrupted her, but she interrupted you back, “wait please, let me talk… it hurts knowing that I’ll never be able to have you in any other way than as a friend, but I don’t care, having you in my life in any way is already worth it. I always watch you, when you're putting on makeup or reading or studying or even when you're not doing anything because... you're beautiful and perfect and it's good to just stop and look at you... I'm sorry I kept this in for all these years, it's just that I've always been afraid of ruining what we have, I couldn't bear to be without you around because the truth is that you're the love of my life, I..."

“... love you,” you both said the words in unison. She stopped for a moment and looked at you with her beautiful, bright blue eyes. “W-what?” she asked, her voice breaking. You smiled with your eyes watering, “I love you too Pow Pow, I held back that feeling because I thought it would be easier that way… I gave my heart to so many people when I should have given it only to you, to whom it always truly belonged, now I know that.”

She smiled and laughed a little, “How stupid we are… I could have had you from the beginning”, she whispered, bringing her face closer to yours, while looking from your lips to your eyes. “I think things have their right time to happen”, you whispered back. “But we make it so complicated”, she placed her hands on each side of your face and rested her forehead against yours. You held her wrists, “well, we don’t have to do this anymore”.

“I had a dream where I kissed you, I’ve had that dream a million times,” she whispered, looking at your lips. “You can kiss me now,” you said and at the same moment her lips kissed yours and she gasped as she finally felt the cherry taste of your lip gloss on your soft lips. You two smiled into the kiss and you wrapped your arms around her neck while her hands traveled to your waist.

She squeezed you a little and settled herself on the couch, making you understand what she wanted. Still with your lips on hers, you sat on her lap and at that moment, she deepened the kiss. Powder pulled your lower lip between her teeth and then slammed her tongue into yours, taking full control of the situation and swirling your tongue around hers and then biting your lip again. You never thought she could be so dominant, but you loved it.

She put her hands under your blouse and felt your hot, goosebumps-filled skin. She squeezed your waist again and you gasped into her mouth. It was your turn to pull her lower lip between your teeth and she squeezed your sides again at the sensation. Powder held the hem of your blouse and you only stopped kissing for her to take it off your body. Before she kissed you again, she ran her eyes over your round, perfect breasts, still covered by your white lace bra.

You both smiled and you went back to crashing your lips into hers and she soon dominated it again. Her hands went up from your waist to your breasts and she placed them there, just feeling the exposed skin of your breasts. She stopped the kiss and looked at her hands on your breast, her thumb drawing circles on the top of them slowly. You bit your lower lip and she - still with her hands on your breasts - went back to devouring your already red and swollen lips.

She laid you down on the couch, getting on top of you, her tongue still exploring every corner of your mouth. She stopped the kiss and nuzzled her nose your neck, feeling your goosebumps and your scent that she loved. She nuzzled her nose slowly down to the valley of your breasts still covered by your bra and returned to your neck where she finally began to plant hot kisses on your skin, you closed your eyes at the sensation as you moaned softly and sweetly…

So, part 5?

#arcane #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #powder arcane #powder x reader #lesbian #jinx #jinx x you #jinx x fem!reader #powder x jinx #jinx smut

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figthoughts · 7 hours ago

Note

How do you think SB and Dean would react to reader safewording? I have some sort of idea for Dean, but with SB? Very mixed tbh

omg i have many thoughts !! allow me to ramble thank u ! (soldier boy’s part is a little ehhhh, just read with caution if ur sensitive to dubcon type scenarios!) 18+ ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

— dean winchester ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

dean loves sex. he’s made that abundantly clear throughout your relationship. anytime he can get his hands on you, he will. and so naturally, you’ve spent time learning each other’s bodies, kinks, likes ‘n dislikes and everything in between. you’re entirely comfortable together.

so one day when you suddenly blurt out your safe word, dean pauses, his eyes flickering up to meet yours — to check in with you.

“baby, you okay? you wanna stop?” his words are gentle and full of love, concern splashed across his features.

his face softens while he nods along to your quiet explanation, pulling out/away from whatever he’d been doing to you. he settles down beside you, watching you as if you’re about to shatter into a million pieces.

“s’okay, sweetheart. we can stop. you don’t need an excuse. if you’re not feeling up to it, it’s not a big deal. we can just cuddle if you want,” he shrugs with a reassuring expression on his face, “you look like you need a hug, yeah? c’mere.”

dean opens his arms for you, letting you crawl against his chest. he nuzzles his chin into the top of your head, holding you snug against him, his hand rubbing down your back in a soothing motion.

“thank you for letting me know, baby,” he murmurs against your hair, leaving a soft kiss. he’s just happy you feel safe enough to ask him to stop whenever you need.

— soldier boy [ben] ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

i can’t decide between two ideas, so i’m giving you both !!

ben—your ben—the world’s strongest man who, simultaneously, is the world’s softest man the second he’s got his sweet little lady between his sheets.

there’s no denying he fucks like a pornstar on speed. it’s sometimes frightening how long he can keep at it — fucking you until you’re spent and boneless, blissed out and overstimulated from your umpteenth orgasm. he loves when you’re unable to form words, just soft incoherent babbles that force a grin to spread across his face as he plows into you with a superhuman force.

he loves going over the top to please you. and so it’s no surprise when you mumble out your safe word through warm salty tears, tired and unable to take any more of what he’s giving you. he slows down, meeting your gaze with his own. “what’s the matter? had enough, my pretty lady?”

ben knows sex with him can be a lot, and considering you’re just a sweet little doll, he knows it’s up to you to call it when you’ve had enough — cause if it were up to ben, you’d never leave his damn bed.

your mumbled pleas earn a nod in return from ben, “alright, babygirl. s’not a problem. here—” he pulls himself away from you, “i’ll run you a bath, yeah?”

you watch him get up and start heading to the bathroom, but not before he turns around, throwing you a cheeky wink, “i think that might’ve been a new record for ya, doll.”

alternatively… ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

ben’s rough. he’s rough around the edges. you know it. he knows it. everyone he’s ever met knows it. but he doesn’t just look rough or talk rough — he fucks rough.

you’re no stranger to the supe and how he bends you in half, like he’s unafraid of breaking you with his strength and brute force. for the most part, you take it like a good little thing, letting him break you down into nothing, but a whimpering little mess below him. and he loves it, ruining women while he doesn’t even break a sweat.

so when he mentions going a little further—adding a few new things to your nightly affairs—you agree, but only with the clear understanding that you get a safe word.

and ben agrees. i mean, anything to get his babydoll back into his bed, right?

so when he’s got you in half, your limbs flailing around in the air, pleading for him to stop, he simply doesn’t. he knows you know your safe word, and he hasn’t heard it leave your sweet little mouth yet. so he continues on, tiring out your sore body beyond belief — he’s really getting his kicks from seeing you all fucked out and begging like your life depends on it.

“look at you, damn slut. you like this, don’t you?” he grunts out, watching you sob and try to free yourself from his restraints. your eyes are filled to the brim with tears, your emotions clear on your face. he loves that you’re taking it for him — being a good ol’ little thing for him.

so it’s much to his surprise when you sob out your safe word. he’s a little bewildered to say the least. his brows pinch together, but he doesn’t slow down, not one bit.

his thrusts get harder, his eyes locked on your pleading little face. “just give me a damn minute. i’m close,” he mutters, his breath a little laboured, as if seeing you like this is the driving factor pushing him to the edge.

it doesn’t take long for him to finish, and when he does, he’s panting with the stupidest grin on his face. he slumps down on top of you, invading your space, “jesus, that was fuckin’ something, hey? you liked that, my sweet little thing?”

all you can do is sniffle and try to catch your breath while his weight crushes you. he presses a kiss to your cheek and he hears your breath hitch. and he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants — in the palm of his fucking hand.

A/N: this was soooo fun to type up !!! i love scenario requests sm (feel free to send me more) !!!!!! also first time writing something a lil darker w the dubcon part !!! what do we thinkkkkk? <3

feedback and reblogs are appreciated! thank uuu!

✩ taglist cause why not: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @aileenunfiltered @minettacreekk @jackleslvr @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @floralscented @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @misatxox @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @sl33pylilbunny @k-slla @deanswidow @psychicnatural @ghostlyaccurate

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fangdokja · 15 hours ago

Note

:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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mywitchyblog · 2 days ago

Text

Reacting Answering and debunking Kristine s take on shifting (girl who talked about genetics and shifting)

Let’s clear the air, babes. 💅✨"

So, I know some of y’all might have stumbled across that TikTok from @sectumsempress (Christine), and if you haven’t yet, let me sum it up: it’s a video where she dives into her takes on shifting—some thought-provoking, some solid, and others… well, let’s just say they need a little rethinking.

Now, before anyone panics or starts spiraling, let me reassure you: you’re not doing anything wrong. Shifting is a personal journey, and one person’s opinions (even if they’re loud and sassy) don’t define the truth. If you’re feeling overwhelmed by her claims, breathe, because I’ve got you.

I’m here to break down her points one by one: where she’s spot on, where she’s almost there, and where she’s just plain off the mark. This isn’t about dragging anyone—it’s about keeping the shifting community informed, confident, and empowered.

Remember, babe: shifting is real, it’s valid, and you are more than capable of mastering it. Let’s dive into this post with clarity, sass, and a sprinkle of tough love. We’re addressing it all, and we’re doing it together. 💖✨

Taglist :

1: "I don't know what it is, but I do think there is a genetic component to who can and cannot shift."

Oh, honey. Let me stop you right there. Reality shifting is about consciousness, not chromosomes. No one’s out here unlocking DRs with their DNA. If shifting were genetic, then wouldn’t identical twins always have the same shifting abilities? Newsflash: they don’t. Shifting is deeply personal—it’s shaped by belief systems, practice, and the state of your subconscious mind.

Let’s talk logic:

If shifting were genetic, why do people from all backgrounds, ages, and cultures shift successfully?

If genes dictated shifting ability, how do beginners with no spiritual training manage to shift while seasoned practitioners struggle sometimes?

This "genetic component" claim feels like an excuse to gatekeep shifting behind a veil of exclusivity. You don’t need elite DNA—you need clarity, discipline, and faith in your abilities. What you’re really saying here is “I’m struggling and need something to blame.” Blame your approach, babe, not your ancestors. Shifting doesn’t care about your family tree; it cares about your mindset. 🧬✨

2: "Out of everyone who can shift, most of them shouldn't, including myself when I first started."

Now this is projection if I’ve ever seen it. Just because you weren’t ready when you started doesn’t mean the rest of the community isn’t. People shift for their own reasons, whether it’s healing, exploration, fun, or growth. Who are you to decide who should and shouldn’t explore their consciousness?

Let’s unpack this:

Shifting is a skill, and like any skill, it comes with a learning curve. Mistakes and missteps are part of the process. No one is perfect at it from the jump, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try.

This idea of “most people shouldn’t shift” reeks of elitism. What’s the criteria? Who makes the rules? Oh wait—you don’t, because this is an individual journey.

And let’s not ignore the thinly veiled guilt here. “Including myself when I first started” screams “I made mistakes, so no one else should try.” No, sis, you made mistakes so others can learn and grow. Let people figure it out for themselves—your experience isn’t universal. Stay humble. 💁‍♀️✨

3: "If shifting is affecting your current reality to the point where your mental health plummets and you can't function, the cost is too high. This is also at past me."

Okay, valid point. For once, we’re aligned—but let’s add nuance. Shifting itself isn’t the villain here. The problem arises when someone uses shifting as an escape or obsesses over their DR to the detriment of their CR.

Here’s the truth:

Shifting works best when you’re grounded in your CR. Neglecting your CR responsibilities, ignoring self-care, or avoiding real-life problems will inevitably lead to burnout. Your CR self is the foundation for all your realities. If you’re not taking care of yourself here, it’s going to show up in your DR too.

Balance is key. Shifting can be an incredible tool for healing and self-discovery, but it’s not a replacement for addressing your mental health or real-life challenges.

Let’s also call out this “past me” comment. You’re shading yourself for your mistakes, which is fair, but don’t let that self-criticism turn into fear-mongering for others. Instead of saying “the cost is too high,” try saying, “Learn from my mistakes and prioritize your well-being.” That’s the energy we need. 🧠✨

4: "I think there will come a time when shifting is able to be explained scientifically."

Now we’re getting somewhere. Yes, science may eventually catch up, but let’s not act like shifting is waiting for permission to exist. Just because something isn’t fully understood doesn’t mean it’s invalid. Dreams weren’t “real” until REM sleep was discovered. Electricity wasn’t harnessed until the right tools were developed. Shifting is the same—it’s ahead of its time.

Here’s the tea:

Quantum physics already hints at the nature of reality being far more fluid and observer-dependent than we once thought. Concepts like the observer effect and parallel universes align with what shifters describe.

Neurology is just scratching the surface of how visualization and intention shape the brain. Lucid dreaming, meditation, and neuroplasticity all prove that the mind is capable of extraordinary things.

The fact that shifting isn’t yet measurable doesn’t diminish its validity. Science is a tool, not a dictator of truth. Shifting is real now, and science will catch up later. Don’t let the lack of a peer-reviewed study make you doubt your own experiences. 🔬✨

5: "The majority of people on Shiftok in 2020 were lying."

You’re not wrong, but let’s dig deeper. Were there liars? Absolutely. TikTok’s algorithm rewards drama, and fake success stories grabbed attention. But dismissing the entire Shiftok community as liars is lazy and reductive.

Here’s what really happened:

Many people on Shiftok were genuine shifters sharing their tips and experiences. The problem was that TikTok favored sensationalism over authenticity. Real advice got buried under Hogwarts weddings and Draco stans claiming they had seven kids in one night. 🐍✨

The fake stories weren’t malicious—they were clout-chasing. People wanted likes, and exaggerating their experiences worked.

But let’s not let the liars overshadow the genuine shifters who were out there putting in the work. Misinformation thrived because of the platform, not because everyone was lying. Don’t throw out the whole community just because some people were playing the algorithm. 🌟✨

6: "Way more people outside of the internet shift than we think they do, and most of them are adults."

This one is surprisingly solid, but let’s add some layers. Shifting has been around forever—it’s not a TikTok invention. People have been exploring alternate realities under different names, like astral projection, lucid dreaming, and deep meditation, for centuries. These practices have roots in spiritual traditions across cultures, often led by—you guessed it—adults.

Why don’t we hear more about these adults?

They’re less likely to post about it online because they don’t care about clout or “DR trends.”

Many adults see shifting as a private, sacred practice rather than something to flex.

But here’s where the take falters: don’t dismiss teens and younger people just because they’re more visible online. Shifting transcends age. The internet didn’t create shifting; it just gave teens a platform to talk about it. And let’s not act like adults are automatically better at it—age doesn’t guarantee discipline or skill, hun. Stop pitting age groups against each other. Shifting is for everyone, whether you’re 15 or 50. 🌌✨

7: "Nine out of ten times, teenagers do not have the emotional maturity or mental capacity to handle a DR. I know I sure wouldn't have been able to."

Okay, this one SCREAMS projection. Just because you weren’t ready doesn’t mean an entire generation of teenagers isn’t. Emotional maturity isn’t an age—it’s a mindset. While it’s true that some teens might struggle with the responsibilities or intensity of a DR, plenty of them are capable of handling it.

Here’s what you’re missing:

Shifting is deeply personal. One teen’s DR might be about living in Hogwarts, while another’s might be about exploring their self-worth or healing trauma. What they can handle depends on their intent and preparation—not their birth year.

This take also assumes that adults magically have their lives together. Let’s be real—plenty of adults couldn’t handle a DR either. Emotional maturity is learned through experience, not something that just arrives with age.

Instead of writing off teenagers as too immature, why not empower them to approach shifting responsibly? Help them understand the importance of grounding techniques, journaling, and balancing their CR. Support them instead of gatekeeping, babe. Growth comes from guidance, not judgment. 🖤✨

8: "Shifting to live as a child when you are an adult is wrong."

Oh, let’s unpack this nonsense, because the judgment here is LOUD and unnecessary. Shifting to live as a child isn’t inherently “wrong”—it’s all about intent. People shift to younger ages for all kinds of valid reasons:

Healing: Someone who had a traumatic childhood might shift to experience the innocence and joy they missed out on. That’s not “wrong”—it’s deeply therapeutic.

Nostalgia: Revisiting a simpler time in life can be comforting and grounding.

Where’s the harm if someone is revisiting their childhood for healing or self-discovery? The only time this could be “wrong” is if someone’s doing it for malicious, fetishistic, or exploitative reasons. And let’s be clear—that’s an issue with the person’s intent, not the act of shifting itself.

This take reeks of moral grandstanding. If you don’t understand why someone might shift to a younger age, maybe try asking instead of judging. People’s reasons for shifting are complex and personal. Stay in your lane and let them live. 🍼✨

9: "Shifting to live as an adult when you are a child is wrong."

And here comes the hypocrisy. Why is shifting to an adult age suddenly a problem? If a teenager shifts to experience independence, maturity, or even just to see what adulthood is like, how is that “wrong”?

Let’s break it down:

Exploring independence: Teens often feel powerless in their CR lives. Shifting to adulthood can give them a sense of control or help them explore who they want to be.

Learning experiences: Shifting to an adult DR doesn’t mean teens are out here taking real-world risks. It’s an internal journey. They’re not suddenly going to have access to bank accounts or responsibilities in their CR.

The issue isn’t teens shifting to adult ages—it’s how they approach adult themes. If a teen shifts irresponsibly or romanticizes harmful aspects of adulthood, that’s a learning opportunity, not a reason to gatekeep. Let them explore and grow. The real world isn’t handing out “mature enough” badges; why should shifting? 🔑✨

10: "Shifting is a perception of reality that takes place inside your own mind, and this does not make it any less real."

Babe, what even IS this take? Calling shifting “a perception of reality inside your own mind” is the laziest oversimplification. It’s like saying the ocean is just “wet stuff” or the universe is just “space.” Shifting is SO much more than a mental exercise.

Here’s why this is bullshit:

Shifters report full sensory immersion in their DRs—smells, tastes, and even physical sensations. That’s not just perception; that’s a relocation of awareness.

Many shifters describe gaining knowledge or skills in their DRs that they couldn’t have fabricated in their CR minds. That’s evidence of connection to a separate reality, not just “perception.”

Saying it’s all in your head is reductive and dismissive. Shifting isn’t just a daydream or lucid dream—it’s a deliberate movement of consciousness.

By this logic, everything you experience is just “perception,” and therefore not real. Do better. Shifting is as real as the CR you’re reading this in—it’s just on a different frequency. 🌀✨

11: "Therefore, perma shifting is impossible."

Who told you this? Perma shifting isn’t just possible—it’s the logical extension of what shifting already is. If infinite realities exist and your consciousness can relocate temporarily, what exactly is stopping it from staying permanently?

Let’s debunk this thoroughly:

Shifting doesn’t require you to return to your CR. You’re not tethered here by some metaphysical leash. If you can spend weeks in a DR, why not forever?

This take assumes that your CR body is what keeps you “alive.” Wrong. Your consciousness is the seat of your existence, not the meat suit you’re wearing in your CR.

The only barrier to perma shifting is fear or lack of belief. People who say it’s impossible are projecting their own limitations. If shifting is real, so is perma shifting. Stop trying to box people into your doubts. Perma shifters are already out there living their best DR lives while you’re here arguing with yourself. 🖤✨

12: "Your body will not get up and do things while you're shifting."

Okay, I’ll give credit where it’s due—this one is spot on. Your CR body doesn’t suddenly start sleepwalking or doing the cha-cha while you’re in your DR. Shifting doesn’t override your physical body’s autopilot mode. Instead, your CR body stays in a deep state of rest, like sleeping or meditating.

Here’s why this is accurate:

Shifting is a relocation of consciousness, not physical movement. Your awareness moves to your DR, while your CR body stays put. It’s like putting your computer on sleep mode—it’s still there, just inactive.

If your CR body did start moving, you’d be blending realities, which isn’t how shifting works. Shifting creates a clear boundary between where your consciousness is and where your body remains.

That said, your CR body can react slightly to your DR state—like twitching or deepened breathing—but it’s not going to hop up and do laundry. So yes, you’re right, but don’t act like this is revolutionary knowledge. Most people know this already. Your body stays put while your mind does the exploring. 🛏️✨

13: "Most people treat scripting and shifting as a choose-your-own-path fanfic instead of reality."

This one’s got layers, and I’m ready to dig in. First of all, who cares if someone treats scripting like fanfic? Scripting is a personal tool, and people can approach it however they like. But let’s get real: scripting is way more than fanfiction.

Here’s the nuance:

Scripting is a powerful manifestation tool. It sets clear intentions for what you want to experience in your DR. Treating it like a story doesn’t make it any less valid. If imagining yourself as the protagonist in a beautifully detailed “fanfic” helps you focus, then it’s working, period.

Not everyone scripts for the same reasons. Some people use it to map out specific DR details, while others treat it as a loose guide. Neither approach is wrong—it’s about what works for YOU.

Also, let’s not act like scripting takes away from the “reality” of shifting. Scripting isn’t fake—it’s preparation. The moment you shift, what you scripted becomes as real as your CR. So stop invalidating people’s methods just because you don’t like the format. 💁‍♀️✨

14: "Putting your DR on a pedestal makes it harder to get to."

Okay, now we’re talking sense. This take is 100% accurate, and it’s a trap that a lot of shifters fall into. When you treat your DR like it’s some magical, unattainable place, you create mental resistance that makes shifting harder.

Here’s why this is true:

Your subconscious mind follows your beliefs. If you see your DR as something distant or godlike, your subconscious will act accordingly. It’ll say, “Oh, we’re not worthy yet? Cool, let’s not shift.”

When you overhype your DR, you’re also adding unnecessary pressure. Shifting becomes less about the journey and more about the desperation to “make it happen.” That desperation creates doubt, which blocks your progress.

The trick? Normalize your DR. Think of it as a natural extension of your existence, not some impossible dream. It’s real, attainable, and waiting for you—you just have to stop psyching yourself out. DRs are exciting, but they’re not fairy tales. Treat them as real, and your subconscious will follow suit. ✨

15: "I'm really excited about going to my DR in the same way that I'm really excited about going to a theme park or to a museum. Something very exciting but also very real and attainable."

Another solid take—this is exactly the right mindset. Approaching your DR with excitement, but without putting it on a pedestal, is the sweet spot for successful shifting. It’s the energy of anticipation, not desperation, that aligns your mind with your destination.

Here’s why this works:

Excitement fuels intention. When you’re genuinely excited about shifting, your subconscious is more likely to cooperate because it associates your DR with positive emotions.

Seeing your DR as “real and attainable” grounds your belief system. If you treat it like a natural part of your reality, your mind will perceive it as such.

This take is also a great reminder that shifting is a journey, not a chore. Approach it with the same joy you’d have for any adventure, and the process becomes smoother. Your DR isn’t some untouchable fantasy—it’s a place you can visit with the right mindset. Theme park energy, but make it metaphysical. 🎢✨

16: "I'm not excited about going to my DR like some heavenly dream world. That's just unrealistic."

Thank you for saying this, because it’s time to drag the “heavenly DR” myth. DRs aren’t utopias, and expecting them to be perfect sets you up for disappointment. Shifting is about experiencing another reality, not escaping to some flawless paradise.

Here’s the tea:

Every DR has challenges. Just like CR, your DR will have ups and downs. That doesn’t make it any less real or amazing—it just makes it dynamic and authentic.

Thinking of your DR as a “heavenly dream world” adds unnecessary pressure. When you finally shift and realize your DR isn’t perfect, you risk feeling disillusioned or disappointed.

The truth? Your DR is real, but it’s not going to solve all your problems or fulfill all your fantasies. Treat it as an exciting new chapter, not a flawless escape. The more grounded your expectations, the more satisfying your experience will be. ✨

17: "Judging people for what they do in their DR based on CR standards is usually wrong."

Finally, a take that makes sense! This is the kind of nuance we need in the shifting community. DRs operate on their own rules, and trying to apply CR standards to them is like judging a fish for not climbing a tree.

Here’s why this is on point:

Different realities, different rules. What might be morally or socially acceptable in CR could be completely irrelevant in a DR. People shift to explore and experience, not to replicate the exact conditions of CR.

Judging others is counterproductive. Shifting is deeply personal. Someone’s DR journey might be about exploring sides of themselves that they suppress in CR, and that’s valid. As long as they’re not harming others, it’s not your business.

Let’s be clear, though: this doesn’t excuse harmful behavior in DRs. If someone’s intentionally scripting unethical or damaging scenarios, that’s a different conversation. But for the most part, let people live and shift without your CR morality checklist. 🌀✨

18: "Every single thing you script has far-reaching consequences that you cannot imagine until you get there. If you script that you can't sweat or can't grow body hair, you'll show up in your DR with some medical condition that causes those things."

Girl, when we thought there was progress... you do THIS?! Let’s break it down, because this take is serving a mix of paranoia and half-truths, and I’m disappointed.

Yes, scripting can shape your DR reality, but this idea that every single detail comes with “far-reaching consequences” is dramatic and misleading.

Scripting sets intentions. If you script that you don’t sweat, your DR might interpret that literally, but it doesn’t mean you’re suddenly cursed with a medical condition. Your DR adapts to your intentions, not in some twisted monkey’s paw way, but in alignment with your desires.

This take leans heavily into fear-mongering. It’s important to script mindfully, but implying that a poorly worded script will backfire catastrophically is unnecessary drama.

Let’s not scare people into thinking shifting is a minefield of unintended consequences. Scripting is flexible and intuitive. If you don’t like something in your DR, you can shift back and adjust. Chill, girl—it’s not that deep. 😒✨

19: "Things in reality don't just fucking happen for no reason."

This is facts, but let’s unpack it fully. Whether it’s CR or DR, reality operates on cause and effect. Your actions, intentions, and beliefs shape your experience.

Here’s the tea:

In shifting, your subconscious mind plays a huge role. Nothing “just happens.” If you experience something unexpected in your DR, it’s often tied to unintentional thoughts, emotions, or residual CR beliefs.

This take is a good reminder to take responsibility for your scripting and intentions. You are the architect of your DR. If something goes awry, it’s not because the universe is out to get you—it’s because of how you set the framework.

That said, let’s not act like every single thing needs to be micromanaged. Part of the fun of shifting is letting your DR surprise you. Control the big stuff, but leave room for spontaneity. Your DR doesn’t need to feel like a sterile checklist. ✨

20: "Scripting yourself a dysfunctional abusive family on purpose is fucked up."

YES, babe, say it louder for the people in the back! This is a take I fully agree with. If you’re intentionally scripting harmful or abusive dynamics into your DR, you need to seriously reflect on why.

Here’s why this is so problematic:

Your DR is a space for growth, healing, and exploration. Why would you willingly bring toxicity into it? If you want to explore complex relationships, that’s fine, but scripting outright abuse is deeply concerning.

This kind of scripting raises ethical red flags. Even if DR characters are technically constructs, the energy and intent behind scripting abuse can reflect unresolved issues or harmful tendencies.

Shifting is a powerful tool—don’t misuse it by scripting negativity for the sake of drama. If you’re scripting toxic situations, ask yourself what you’re really seeking. Your DR should uplift you, not drag you into unnecessary harm. Do better. 🖤✨

Let’s wrap this up with love and clarity, babes. 💖✨"

So, after unpacking @sectumsempress’s (Christine’s) points, here’s the bottom line: Shifting is YOUR journey. Some of her takes were valid, others were shaky, and a few? Well, they needed a reality check. But hey, that’s the beauty of conversations like these—it gives us a chance to reflect, grow, and strengthen our understanding of shifting.

Remember:

Shifting is deeply personal. What works for one person might not work for you, and that’s okay.

Misinformation doesn’t define you. Always question, explore, and trust your intuition.

You are capable, worthy, and enough. Whether you’re scripting, visualizing, or just starting out, your DR is closer than you think.

At the end of the day, the shifting community thrives when we support, uplift, and educate each other. So let’s keep pushing forward with confidence, kindness, and a whole lot of sass. Your reality is yours to create—don’t let anyone dim that light. 💅✨

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dimlylittorch · 21 hours ago

Text

i am on my knees for this man. and he’s on his knees for me. (this is roughly 5k words)

My Masterlist🌱

Silco x transmasc!reader

small synopsis: reader ends up getting beaten up- bro is NOT happy. Hurt/comfort with some angst, fluffy ending :3

Warnings: very brief mention of SH

You were the one soft thing in his life. The one thing that was untouched by evil, or greed, or hate. When he found you wandering alone around an entrance into the Undercity, he knew from the moment he saw you.. you were different.

You had been giving a homeless person, probably shimmer addicted and dangerous, food. And soft words. And your time. Something he never thought he’d see. Someone so gentle they would think about sewer rats like that. You’d gone so far as to sit next to them, pulling whatever you could out of your bag for them to have. “I’m sorry I don’t have more.” You had said softly, practically sending a shiver up his spine at the time. And then you had offered to bring more tomorrow.

And so, that next day he waited at that entrance. And around that same time, you came back with an extra bag full of food. Good food. Homemade. He watched as you walked along the wall, offering some to anyone who was there. And when you’d reached the entrance.. you saw him.

“Sir?” You’d asked with a soft tone. “Would you like something to eat?”

He could see you were hesitant- as you should be. You’d probably grown up being told of the dangers of the Undercity.. but here you stood, putting yourself in harms way for people who wouldn’t do the same for you.

“Hm.” He had hummed as his eyes trailed over you. “What is it?” He asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

As you stepped closer to him with a shy smile, you opened your bag to show him. “Oh, it’s just muffins. Nothing too special, but I thought they might help.” Reaching into your bag, you pulled out a blueberry muffin wrapped in tissue paper and offered it to him. He stared at your hand for a moment before tentatively taking it from you.

“I see.” He murmured quietly as his eyes meet your own. Stepping into the light, he walked closer to you and kept his gaze on yours. “You’re a pretty little thing.” He mused faintly. “This is a dangerous place, you know.”

When you saw his full face in the light you shrunk back slightly, but only for a moment. Staying still, you look right back up at him, much to his amusement. He didn’t think he remembered a time when someone hadn’t cowered under his gaze. “You don’t seem like the rest of them” you said softly as your eyes scanned over his face.

“Well aren’t you clever” he chuckled faintly. “If any other topsider was this close to my territory.. I fear we’d have a problem.” He murmurs with a small smirk. “But you pose no threat to me, little one.”

“You talk like you’re in charge..” you murmur as you take a step back, eyes glancing over his slender form.

He smirked wider at your words, pulling out a cigar and a lighter. “That’s because I am.” He muses followed by the click of his lighter.

Before he can say anything else, you suddenly pull the cigar out of his hand, leaving him stunned as he looked down at you. “Don’t you know this is bad for you?” You huff as you look up at him with a scolding look. “What kind of leader doesn’t care about his own health?”

He stares down at you completely dumbfounded. The nerve alone.. you threw him for a loop completely. Before he can think he lunges forward to try and grab the cigar, but you quickly move away, a smile forming on your lips. “Hey! No- you’re not getting this back”

Your innocence makes him sick. But your smile makes someone inside of him burn. “You are nothing but a pest” he growls as he stalks towards you.

When you realize how angry he looks you can’t help but laugh as you walk backwards. “I’m trying to save your life here” you grin cheekily as you playfully try to get away from him. Before you know it you’re halfway through the threshold into the Undercity.

When Silco realizes how close you are into the dangers of Zaun he rushes forward, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt and pinning you against the stone wall. His breath is heavy as he keeps you there, staring down at you as he collects himself from his anger. “Never.. go in there alone.” He says lowly, a rough growl near your ear. “Do you understand me?”

Your smile had quickly been wiped away when he grabbed you, a surprised sound slipping past your lips when he pinned you against the wall. Looking up at him, you hesitantly nodded your head, your breathing quick and face flushed. “Yes sir” you whispered breathlessly, the tension palpable.

He didn’t even know you.. but he felt protective of you. He felt like you were his. Letting go of your shirt, his eyes softened as he looked down at you and saw how your face was flushed. “Forgive me.” He murmurs faintly, his eyes locked on yours.

Gazing up at him, you couldn’t help but gently reach up to straighten his tie, eyes shifting to the collar of his shirt. His gaze follows your hands, silently watching as you fix his shirt. “You’re okay.” You murmured softly. His heart skipped a beat at your words. You could’ve said ‘it’s okay’.. but you said ‘you’re okay’. Words he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Before you can say anything else he leans forward, hands on either side of you against the wall as his lips meet yours. A small gasp leaves you as he kisses you, but you can’t stop yourself from kissing him back. It only lasted for a few moments before he pulled away begrudgingly. “Come back tomorrow.” He whispered against your ear before he took a step back and left through the threshold, leaving you standing against the wall, his cigar and your muffin left forgotten on the ground.

That was weeks ago. Now he saw you almost daily, insisting that you kept coming back. You could’ve easily denied him- returned home and never came back. But you did. You always came back. Like a moth to a flame.

You made him feel like a teenager again, revitalizing his youth. Before you he couldn’t recall the last time he had been kissed. His scars and power always drove people away, understandably so. It took a silly little topsider like you to see the man he used to be.

Sneaking into his office after meetings, pulling him into random alleyways.. all just for a little time with him. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve something like you. He just hoped you would keep coming back like always.

Every day he would wait at the threshold between Piltover and Zaun. He would walk you through the Undercity, bringing you to where he could keep you all for himself. And every day you would show up with a wide smile, just happy to see him.

He always met you around noon, but one day you decided to slip into the Undercity earlier than usual. You knew he had been working hard recently, and you wanted to surprise him. You’d woken up early just to make him a special batch of treats, hoping to cheer him up from his recent stress.

Walking into the Undercity on your own.. the one thing he’d warned you of. You were a big boy- surely you could handle yourself for one day, right? You just had to put your hood up lay low, not drawing any attention to yourself. At least.. that’s what you thought.

You always met him at noon on the dot. For the first time in weeks you weren’t here at the threshold. Silco’s foot began to tap against the pavement with anxiety rising up inside of him. Had you finally figured out the kind of man he was? Made the smart decision to leave him and the Undercity behind?

After waiting for almost an hour he throws his cigar at the ground before turning and heading back into the Undercity. Taking his usual route to his office, he glares at anyone that dares look at him. Needless to say, he was seething. You had this hold on him- and now you were gone? Just like that? He was tempted to send Sevika to find you. But he knew he would look weak.

As he walks down one alleyway in particular, his eyes trail along the different people crouched on the ground, poor and probably shimmer addicted. He scoffs in disgust when he looks over them, seeing people begging for help.. something he swore he’d never do. Before he can turn the corner he catches a glimpse of a familiar colored bag, pausing in his stride as he looks over. That was when his heart stopped.

There you stood, hand and head resting against the dirty stone as you coughed weakly, blood dripping from your mouth. Your knees looked weak, and he could see bruises on your arms starting to form. Before he could say anything, he hears a faint noise slip past your lips. And then a few clear droplets fall onto the pavement. You were crying.

Within a second though, your sadness turned to anger. Pushing off of the wall and kicking a trashcan over, you let out a choked yell. As the volume faded, it turned into a weak sob, followed by you throwing your bag into the alleyway, which made people’s heads turn.

He’d never seen you angry. He’d never seen you cry either. It had only been a few weeks, but he’d started to believe those emotions didn’t even lie within you. He was stunned into silence, his body frozen as his eyes follow your bag before looking back at where you collapsed on the ground.

“Fucking take it” you muttered hoarsely as you wipe your eye with your wrist. “Take it all.” You snap at the people eyeing your bag. “The one thing I needed for myself- you took. Don’t bite the hand that fucking feeds you.” you practically seethe. Even in your injured state- he could feel the anger. He understood it too. The pain of being kind in a world that doesn’t return the same sentiment.

After a few more moments he quickly steps forward, kneeling down and pulling you against him. “What did I say?” He whispers against your ear, but there’s no chastising tone in his voice. Simply guilt that he wasn’t there for you.

You sniffle weakly when you realize it’s him, letting him pull you close. Resting your head on his chest, a soft sigh leaves you. “M’sorry” you whisper weakly. “Just.. wanted to surprise you. But I messed up.”

He sighs softly as he looks over the state of you. You have a black eye and bruises on your arms.. a cut here and there. He hoists you into his arms and stands up, but as he steps away only then does he see the puddle of blood on the ground. His eyes widen and he quickly looks over you, trying to see if it was from you or not. He uses his hand to feel along your back, but only when you cry out does he realize his hand feels warm.. and wet.

Making his way through the streets as fast as he could, he made it back to the last drop, storming in where all of his usual patrons sat. When the doors slam, everyone quickly turns to see Silco standing there with you in his arms and pure rage on his face.

“If I don’t have their heads within twenty four hours” he practically growls as he looks around the room. “I’ll pull every limb from every body in this room. Go.”

Your eyesight grows dim as you feel yourself being set on the couch in his office. You look up slightly to see Sevika standing over you, grabbing a roll of bandages. When you look to the right you see straight out of the door that leads from Silco’s office into the alleyway. You’d never seen him angry. Not like this. He had someone by their collar on their knees, punching them in the face repeatedly before tossing them aside with a yell.

When Sevika turns her back you stand up on shaky legs, walking towards the door the best you can. Managing to reach the doorway, you watch as Silco kicks a trashcan, letting out a yell of frustration. You didn’t know how much time had passed.. but you felt more lightheaded by the second. “Sil?” You say weakly, wishing he would be able to relax. His head snaps around, and when he sees you standing he quickly rushes forward and holds you up.

“Sevika- I told you to watch him!” He snaps as he brings you back over to the couch. Hearing Sevika’s sigh of frustration, you feel tears start to well in your eyes- especially as the shock starts to fade, leaving you with more pain than you’d ever experienced.

When Silco sets you down on the couch and starts to step away, you quickly reach out and grab his arm with a weak yelp of pain. “D-don’t leave me” you choke out as tears start to spill down your cheeks.

He quickly turns when he feels himself pulled back, and when he sees the tears spilling from your eyes his anger starts to mold into concern. He moves to sit next to you on the couch, pulling you into his arms. He positions you so Sevika can see your back where you had a small stab wound- probably from some dirt ridden pocket knife. He seethes at the thought of some low life leaving you in that alley. Wrapping his arms around you, one arm hooked under your own, he holds you as close as he can with your face tucked against his chest and the back of the couch.

“You’re okay” he murmurs softly against your ear, his breathing starting to slow from his previous anger. “Shh, shh..” he says faintly as you cry in his arms. “I’ll never leave.” Hearing a scoff from Sevika, he shoots her a glare. He knew he looked weak- he couldn’t stand it. But the way he felt for you outweighed how others viewed him. Adjusting you slightly so Sevika can treat the wound in your back, she gestures for your shirt to be taken off. He hesitates for only a moment before helping pull your shirt off, tossing the blood stained cloth aside.

Now- you and Silco had been fooling around. But it had never gotten quite this far; shirtless, I mean. Sure, you’d made out every now and then, but he was a busy man.. curling up into him as you tried to hide your embarrassment, you tense as Sevika starts to treat the stab wound. Shaking in Silco’s arms from the pain, you can’t help but cry more. It was embarrassing.. these were two of the most powerful people in the Undercity. And here you sat, crying in front of them like a baby.

Silco could practically read your thoughts when he saw how you curled into yourself. Resting his head against your own, his breath fans out over your ear. “You.. are so strong.” He whispers faintly so only you can hear. When he senses your confusion from his words, he pulls you a little closer. “Any other spoiled Piltover brat would’ve laid down and taken it.” He murmurs softly. “But I can tell you fought. My strong little thing.” He whispers against your skin.

Sighing softly, you relax in his arms slightly. “I made you cupcakes.” You whisper faintly after a few quiet moments.

Silco’s eyebrows quirk up and he looks at Sevika for a moment before looking back down at you. “What?” He questions softly as he brushes a piece of hair off of your forehead.

Sniffing slightly as Sevika tapes down the bandage, you sigh. “I wanted to surprise you.” You whisper quietly, as if embarrassed. “Since you told me you guys don’t.. do birthdays much down here- and you’ve been working so hard.. I guess they thought my bag had money in it. When they realized it was just food they..” you trail off faintly, curling into his chest more. “I should’ve listened to you.”

Silco practically feels his heart break as he listens to your words, looking down at you in disbelief for a few moments. When your wound is patched up well enough he motions for Sevika to leave, who does accordingly. Gently using his finger to lift your chin, he looks down into your tear filled eyes. “I will burn this whole city to the ground if I have to.” He says coldly, and you can tell he meant it. “You will never feel unsafe again. Never. Do you understand me?”

Gazing up at him for a few seconds, you gently nod before tucking your head under his chin. The two of you sat like that for a few minutes before your voice reached his ears. “Maybe I should’ve listened to my parents.” You whispered faintly, your shaking tone indicating how hard it was for you to admit that.

He tensed at your words, his arms tightening around you. He felt how blood rushed through his ears at the thought- the thought of you two never meeting. “No one” he says lowly. “Will take you away from me.” He growled.

You should’ve been scared. His anger should’ve frightened you. But.. you never felt more wanted. Maybe it was problematic- or unhealthy. But you could tell he needed you. Just like you needed him. You had been overlooked your whole life. Or if you were noticed, it was for an achievement. Not for you.

When he realizes what he said, and how it may have come off.. the tension fades from his body. He hugs you closer, his lips against your hair. “Forgive me.” He whispers faintly.

“Do you love me?”

His heart stopped when your words registered, and he swore the air stood still. Sitting up to get a clear look at you, he watches how you tilt your head up towards him, your soft eyes locking on his own. “Love..” he murmurs softly, looking off to the side. “Is a tricky thing.”

Gently leaning up, your lips brush against the underside of his jaw. “I think I might love you.” You murmur softly against his skin. His heart rate quickens at your words, and you can tell how he doesn’t know how to handle it. You’d only know each other for weeks- a few months at the most. Surely stealing a few kisses here and there wasn’t enough to establish love?

“You don’t understand what love is.” He sighs quietly, resting his arm along the back of the couch and resting his mouth in his hand as he avoids your gaze.

Your eyes narrowed slightly at his words, and you try your best to sit up to look at him face to face. “Who are you to tell me how I feel?”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he looks at you. “Whatever you feel for me.. it’s not love. Infatuation, perhaps. You’re too naive.” He mutters as he rubs his forehead. It hurt him to say those words, although he’d never admit it. He did love you. That much he was sure of. But is it fair? For a man like him to love again? Let alone a little thing like you.

“You’re so full of shit.” You snap as you manage to scoot further away from him on the couch, ignoring the burning pain in your back.

He quickly looks over at you, annoyance on his face. “Excuse me?”

When you see his anger bubbling slightly, you falter for a moment. “Y-Yeah.” You stutter. “You’re- you’re not nice to anyone else” you say quickly as you try to think. “Not like you are to me. And I’ve never seen you be soft with someone. And here you are holding me-.”

He rolls his eyes and stands up, turning his back to you as he walks over to his desk and leaning over it as he looks out of the window. “It’s pathetic. Truly.” He mutters. “How a spoiled little brat from topside finds one man to hug on him, and all of a sudden it’s love” he spits as he turns to look at you. He felt his heart ripping as he spoke. But he couldn’t stop himself. “Poor little you, all touch starved and unloved.” He seethes as he pushes off of his desk, walking over to you. “You are nothing.” He says dangerously as he steps in front of you, grabbing your chin and yanking you upward, making you yelp slightly. “Nothing to me. Nothing to the world. Nothing at all.”

When he lets go of your face you quickly grab it yourself, trying to soothe the ache in your jaw. There would definitely be bruises tomorrow.. his fingerprints left indented on your skin. Tears spilled down your cheeks as he spoke, and as soon as he turned away from you, you managed to stand up and grab your shirt, walking towards the door. He watched you leave, wanted desperately to reach out and apologize. But years of hatred had festered in his heart.. stopping him completely.

It was a wonder you even made it home. At least, that’s what you thought. Silco had Sevika tail you to make sure you didn’t collapse in an alleyway. But you didn’t need to know that.

Your parents were in a state when you entered the house, the both of them having dinner when they saw you standing there, battered and bloody. They immediately shacked you up in your room, calling the closest doctor to examine you.

That was four days ago. You’ve hardly left your room, deciding to stay curled up in bed, thinking about everything you did wrong. Silco had to be wrong. If you didn’t love him, why the hell did it hurt this bad to not have him around?

Meanwhile, Silco was in the same boat. He still went to the threshold every day, silently hoping you would return, coming in with violent optimism and putting him in his place, making him love you. But every day.. he stood alone. It was starting to eat him up inside. He couldn’t believe he’d done that to you. Said that to you. Touched you like that after promising you’d never be hurt again. He’d gone as far as putting out his cigars on himself. Just as a reminder of what you must’ve felt- having your heart ripped to pieces by a man who was supposed to keep you safe.

Needless to say, neither of you were taking this well. Right after you’d left that day, someone had brought him the sewer rats that had beat you. He spent the next two hours doing whatever he could to make them hurt.. taking out his own frustrations as well.

Coming up on day five of no interaction, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Putting on a cloak, he made his way into Piltover unnoticed. He knew where you lived thanks to Sevika, but when he saw the mansion your parents owned he knew he couldn’t just knock. He managed to case the house to the best of his ability, but he got lucky. He watched as you stepped out onto your small balcony connected to your room, and he knew where to find you.

Now, don’t ask about how he managed to climb up onto your balcony. Once he slid over the railing, he looked through the glass doors and found you lying in your bed, curled up into a ball under the blankets. He sighed softly when he saw how your head was hidden under the covers. He knew he must have torn your heart out. He could barely stand the thought. Managing to slip into your room silently, he rested against the wall near the balcony in case he needed to take his leave suddenly- like if your parents walked in. He pulled off his cloak and set it on your vanity before sitting in an empty chair.

What could he say to you? He knew his apologies would probably be worthless. He watched the way your body rose and fell in tandem with your soft breathing. He had never felt so alive as when watching you simply exist. Seeing you breathe, seeing you laugh.. it all reminded him of life itself. How to some.. there was good in the world.

After a few moments pass with him sitting and thinking of what to do, he suddenly hears a weak gasp. Looking up immediately, he sees you sitting up on your side with your back to him. He sees the way your body starts to rattle with sharp sobs that no doubt send shooting pain throughout your wound. You were having nightmares. And it was probably all his fault.

After a moment you turn with a wince to rest your back against the headboard, but you freeze when your eyes land on him sitting near your balcony. He saw the way your whole body tensed, and how you quickly tried to wipe your tears away so he wouldn’t see. With a heavy sigh, he gently stood and walked over to your large bed, sitting on the end of it with his back to you. Resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, the two of you stay quiet for a few moments, the only sounds being his tired breaths and your sniffles.

“Love is too complex of an emotion for my body to handle anymore.” His voice says quietly, but you heard him clear as day in the wide open room. “Often.. I wake up and wonder what it’s all for. Money, power.. humanity. You.. have ruined me.” He whispers faintly, his voice gravelly. “You are everything I am not. Everything I can never be again. Please.. forgive me. Forgive a damaged fool who burns up in the presence of your light.” He murmurs through tired breaths. “You deserve nothing as scarred as me. I wish I could say my flaws are only skin deep. But I’m afraid my heart is as marred as my face.”

After he speaks, his voice raw with honesty, he’s left in silence. After a few long moments, he tenses as he feels your arms slide around his waist, pulling him close as your head rests on his back. “I’m just a stupid kid- like you said” you choke out, voice raw from how much you had been crying. “And you’re so.. so much more.” You sob softly, arms tightening around him as you bury your face against his shirt. “You’re beautiful. Especially when you’re broken.” You add through tears, giving him the hug you always wished someone would give you.

Shaky breaths slip past his lips as he tries to comprehend your words. God, how he missed feeling human. Once he manages to breathe again, he gently turns onto the bed, grabbing you from behind him and pulling you to rest over his lap. Your legs hang over his thigh, still on the bed as he presses his forehead against your own, one arm around your shoulders and the other around your hips. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He chokes out softly, his eyes closing as his hands rub over your clothed skin.

Sighing softly when he pulls you into his lap, you can’t help but snuggle into him with a weak yawn. Your face was red and tear stained.. you looked like you’d barely slept. “My parents will kill you if they find you here.” You chuckle weakly against his chest. “You’re not exactly the kind of guy they want me to bring home.”

With a weak smile crossing his face, he presses his lips against your forehead gently. “I would trust their judgement.” He murmurs as he gently rocks you back and forth ever so slightly. “You shouldn’t forgive me so easily” he whispers against your hair. “You deserve better than that.”

Sighing softly, you lean up to press your lips to the underside of his jaw. “Yeah.. well. Believe it or not, I still feel safest with you.” You murmur tiredly. With a faint sigh he gently picks you up, walking around the length of your bed and setting you down, your head resting against your pillows. Yawning gently, you snuggle into your blankets and the pile of stuffed animals next to you. “go lock the door” you order sleepily.

With a faint chuckle he follows your command, locking your bedroom door before he walks back over to where you lay in your bed. Bending down to slip off his shoes, he moves to lay underneath the covers with you, pulling you into his arms with a contented sigh. “Is this alright?” He murmurs softly.

Cuddling into his hold, you nod as your eyes start to close. “if you hear my parents just wake me up and hide under the bed.” You say faintly, melting into his arms as he keeps you warm.

Smiling against your hair he places a kiss to your forehead, his hand reaching up to rub your upper back soothingly. “Don’t worry.” He whispers against your skin. “This is our little secret.”

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