#and it was just going to be a bit of dialogue in their house

[glassmermaids]

THREE'S A CROWD — donaldson/zweig

𖡼 an extended version of this blurb; years of unresolved issues and feelings make for one hell of a dinner. | content/warning: angst, some awkward dialogue icl, reader also played tennis and went to stanford, thoughts of cheating and/or emotional cheating I guess? | wc: ± 3700

𖡼 thank you @diyasgarden for proofreading this for me and giving me the encouragement to actually post it, you are a literal angel ilysm

You don't think you've ever been this nervous in your life.

In all honesty, that was an exaggeration. You could think of a few moments that rivaled your current situation; the day of your graduation, the night you scraped together the courage to finally kiss the boy you had a crush on and later on the first time you found yourself naked underneath him, the day of your wedding.

All of those times, it felt like the world was trying to swallow you whole and eat you alive, like everything around you was rapidly crashing down and you had no way of controlling it.

That same feeling has overtaken your body now; your chest feels constricted as you take labored breaths, but you ignore it as you wipe one of the many surfaces in the house for the umpteenth time. You could probably see your reflection in every tabletop by now, but you needed to do something to keep yourself occupied.

The whole day had been like this, up early in the fear of not having enough time to prepare. The morning was spent deep cleaning, and after that, you had started preparing the very meticulously thought out menu for the night. You had been on your feet the whole day, to the point where Art had grown increasingly worried.

He finds you in the living area, wiping at one of the photos' frames, eyes distant and anxious as you stared into the picture. Your efforts are interrupted by a hand placed on your shoulder, effectively stopping you on your self-destructive path.

You turn around to find your husband's warm yet almost pitiful eyes, sparing you a comforting smile. "Everything's already perfect, y'know," he says, hand smoothing down your arm before he grabs ahold of your hand. You sigh softly, shoulders deflating as the tension leaves your body at his words and his reassuring touch.

"I know," you say softly, "I'm just a little nervous." He smiles again, almost as if the notion of you being nervous is hilarious to him. "Don't be," he simply says, "It's just Patrick."

It's just Patrick. Now it's your turn to laugh, shaking your head as you let the words settle in your unnerved mind. "Right," you agree, "It's just Patrick." Art nods as he notices your now much calmer demeanor, hand giving yours another loving squeeze, and he takes a moment to really appreciate your outfit for the night.

The dress fits you like a glove — a gift from your last anniversary, he notices — and the low neckline places attention to the beautiful diamond necklace also gifted by him. You had chosen a pretty pair of kitten heels to match, he knows because he remembers them laying next to the bed this afternoon, but you've since switched to a pair of bunny slipper seeing as you've been on your feet almost all day. He smiles at the sight, scoffing a laugh when he sees you wiggle your toes in the slippers.

"You look beautiful," he compliments you, reveling in the way you turn shy at his words.

The intimate moment is interrupted by a knock on your door, and at once, Art can see and feel the tension return to your body as your shoulders go rigid and your hand squeezes his. Art checks his wristwatch quickly before his attention returns to yours again. "Everything'll be fine," he says softly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead before he urges you forward.

You make your way to the door, taking a few deep breaths before you open the door with a bit more force than intended. Infront of you he stands like a dream, or maybe an hallucination, holding a small bouquet of flowers with an unsure smile.

You're absolutely beaming, he thinks to himself, watching as a smile stretches across your face, ear to eat. "Pat," you breathe before you're moving to wrap your arms around him in a greeting filled with so much warmth. He feels his heart ache hearing the nickname you've bestowed onto him so many years ago.

He reciprocates your embrace immediately, welcoming your embrace and taking the moment to enjoy the smell of your perfume and body lotion; sweet vanilla and cinnamon. He tries to ignore the standoffish, almost indignant look Art gives him from behind you, still standing in the threshold with crossed arms.

You pull away, and Patrick immediately misses your warmth, the type of warmth he's embarrassed to say he hasn't felt in a long time. You usher everyone inside, accepting the rather cheap, store-bought bouquet from Patrick with a genuine and thankful smile and soon everyone is sat around the dinner table engaged in what could only be described as awkward small talk.

It saddens you in all honesty, the way things now seem so strained between you all. You were obviously expecting a little bit of tension because there would obviously be after all these years of no contact, but you had underestimated to what extent that tension would be.

You can't help but reminisce about how things used to be between you; when the heat of summer would suffocate you in Art's dorm room as you all sat spattered around the floor with a half finished six pack and only each other's company to keep you entertained.

You've been together for as long as you can remember, starting out as long-limbed, awkward teenagers at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy who somehow found each other at a really crucial time and never really separated after that. You remember the night's they'd sneak themselves into your dorm room and you'd spend hours talking about anything and everything until they were inevitably kicked out by your bunk mate when it got too late and she grew tired of your hushed whispered. Some of those nights you'd end up talk about how you imagined your futures would look like.

And as you grew older, your friendship only flourished further, no longer awkward teenagers but confident young people who knew exactly what they wanted from life.

It was clear Patrick simply wanted a comfortable life like the one he was accustomed to since birth. He wasn't willing to work or it, and figured his talent would be enough to get him by and keep him relevant without having to grovel at his parent's feat. In short; he wanted the life his family had provided him, without his family providing it for him.

Art wanted what everyone around him wanted for him; to do good in school and tennis, to reach great success in his career, be able to make some money off of it, and then finally settle down and reap the fruits of his hard work.

You were hungry for your place among the best. You wanted to fully showcase the potential everyone had seen in you from a young age and to establish yourself in your abilities, prove to yourself and everyone else that the opportunities given to you were not in vain and make a name for yourself.

It all worked out for the most part, you suppose.

The reverie you find yourself in is broken at the sound of your husband's voice, shortly followed by the sound of his knife slightly scratching against the porcelain plate as he cuts at his steak. "You still playing, Patrick?" he asks, not really looking at him until the words leave his mouth. Patrick nods, mouth full as he quickly chews, not having expected Art to ask him anything seeing as the conversation had been kept afloat mostly by you.

"Yeah," he finally speaks, and Art hums, his mouth pulling to the side the way it always does whenever hes about to say something snarky or sarcastic. "And how's that going?" he quickly follows up. You can see the way Patrick pauses, utensils frozen in his hands before he's raising his head once again with a smile. "It's going," he says, turning to you before he continues. "I think I have a chance at the Open."

"That's great, Pat," you say excitedly, smile so wide is almost looks like it hurts. Your hand touches his upper in a quick squeeze to show him your excitement. It's an innocent gesture, but because Patrick is an emotional masochist in that way, his mind fixates on the feeling of your hand on his skin, warm and soft.

He returns the smile you give him, not as enthusiasticly but just as genuine, smile lines visible. "Thank you," he says, hands finally continuing to cut at his food. "You retired though, right Art?" he asks after a short while, now looking Art square in the eyes. "Yup," Art replies, popping the p a little too hard. "Why?" Patrick asks, "you still had a few good years in you, we all know that."

"I just didn't wanna play anymore," Art stated plainly, "I wanted to be home with my family more. Tennis isn't the only thing I've got going on." Patrick can't help but laugh a little at a jab so obviously being thrown his way, nodding in defeat and understanding before his attention now turns to you. You squirm a little under his now undivided attention.

"What about you? You still play?" he asks before he brings a cut up piece of steak to his mouth. You sputter a little at his question. "I kind of reached the end of my career I guess?" you answered, shrugging dismissively. "I've won a few slams, signed a bunch of brand deals. It was fun, but that's not my goal anymore," you continued.

"What is your goal now?" he asks, eyes gawking your every little expression as if he's trying to engrave it in his mind; from the way you nervously bite at the skin of your lips as you consider his question or the way your neatly manicured nails lightly drum against the table as you think. He looks at you if he'll never again get a chance to look at you upclose after tonight.

In a way, he already knew what your answer would be. His mind goes back to a few months ago, a sports magazine he had been paging through while staying the night at some dingy motel when he found the article of you inside. Like some lovesick teenager, he had spent close to an eternity staring into the pictures of you displayed in neat boxes between the chapters of the article. It felt like the first time in years he had allowed himself to really look at you, after what felt like a lifetime of trying to run away from you and your ever looming image.

The second last paragraphed had covered the same topic that had now been brought up at the table.

What are your main goals now after your early retirement? the question had laid in italics, catching his attention so much so that he had brought the magazine closer to his face as he laid in bed. Ironically, your answer had been the exact same as it is now.

"I feel like I've already proven myself in my ability. I just want to settle down, focus more on the domestic side of my life," you answered with an almost shy smile, shrugging again. Patrick hummed, smiling at how similar you and your husband's reasonings were. "Damn, you guys have changed," he says to no one in particular as he continues stabbing and cutting at his food. "I remember there was a time both of you would've been willing to play till you physically couldn't anymore, all in the hopes of 'becoming something', being the best. Especially you," he says, pointing his fork at you, "And now you're playing house." The words taste unnaturally bitter in his mouth, so he spits them out at you in a sardonic tone.

"But it's nice," he says, a futile attempt at defusing the situation, "that you wanna settle down, yknow? Really cute." A silence settles in the air after that.

The rest of the dinner goes surprisingly smoothly, albeit much more awkward than ever before thanks to the added tension of Patrick's brash words.

When all the now empty plates were being taken to the kitchen, Patrick quietly excused himself to smoke and you had directed him to the patio before you made your way to the kitchen where Art had started with the dishes. You watched as his broad back flexed and moved as he worked, your hand not resisting to come up and rub between his shoulder blades to relieve the tension that you could practically feel radiating off of him. He sighs at the feeling of your hand, quickly drying his hands before turning around to face you.

"Hi," you say "Hi," he returns, eyes briefly scanning over your features. "You alright?" he asks, hand comes up to squeeze your upper arm. "Yeah," you say softly, "I'm just hoping he had a nice time." Art's face scrunches a little but he quickly fixes it, humming in understanding as you once again get lost in your thoughts.

"I really think he hates us, Art," you say with after a few moments, looking up at him with eyes that looked like they were on the verge of tears. "He doesn't," Art says very assured, hand moving from your arm up to your cheek as his thumb quickly wipes the one tear that managed to escape. "He doesn't hate you," he continues. "I'm more inclined to say he hates me," he adds with a sad laugh, but you couldn't really find it in you to laugh. You move your head to place a kiss to the inside of his palm before you wordlessly made your way onto the patio.

Patrick doesn't notice you at first, only when the click of the sliding door closing rings through the silence. You spare him an awkward smile as you rub your arms to try and shield them from the biting cold of the outside. Wordlessly, you move until you're standing next to him, a silence loaded with everything left unsaid filling the space between you. His cigarette, half smoked, now hangs from the side of his mouth, secured by his teeth as he starts digging into his pockets until he pulls out a smushed packet of cigarettes. He opens it and offers the pack to you, to which you softly shake your head in decline, giving him an apologetic smile.

"I don't smoke anymore," you say softly, watching the way his eyebrows raise in suprise before he's haphazardly stuffing the packet back into his pants with a huff of laughter. "You really did change," he comments more to himself, making you furrow your brows at his town.

"I don't think that much has changed, Pat," you reasoned, voice uncharacteristically small as his words settle deep in your stomach like bile. "You're making it sound like we've turned into these horrible people." He spares you a look as he takes the half smoken cigarette out of his mouth, huffing out a cloud of smoke as he watches you intently. He not so subtly gives you a complete once-over, eyes going from the top of your head down to the bunny slippers that you were still wearing, having forgotten to change them. He huffs a small laugh at the sight.

"Why did you invite me over?" he asks, ending the question with your name. It shocks you how foreign it sounds from his mouth. You don't even have time to reply until he continues. "Is this some sick joke between you and Art? Bring poor old Patrick over and show him how much better things are going with us? How much better our life is without him in it?"

"No, Patrick, of course not," you retort, not even giving the statement a chance to settle in the air. "Then what is it? Why am I here?" Patrick asks, voice rising slightly in frustration as he raises his hands in the air, the cigarette between his fore and middle finger already died out. "I just wanted to see you Patrick, is that so hard to believe?" you ask, voice raising slightly as the irritation now settles in your body. He laughs at your question, and it makes you want to slap him across the face for finding anything funny in your frustration.

"What's funny?" you finally ask him. "You wanted to see me?" he repeats mockingly, shaking his head at the mere thought of it. "Yes! I wanted to see you, Patrick! I've always wanted to see you," you say defeatedly. "It can't be that hard to believe, I mean—" you scoff, "—You're completely estranged from us. You never call anymore, nor do you answer my calls. I invited you to our wedding, and you didn't even have the fucking decency to show up!" There's hurt in your voice, but it's overpowered by the immense anger. "What makes you think I would want to come to your wedding?" he asks, and it's like someone threw a bucket of ice water on you. The words hurt more than you could imagine, coming from who you consider one of your closest friends.

"What?" you ask, voice small and now absent of any anger, but an overwhelming sorrow takes its place. "You threw me out! You two found each other, forgot about me and all of a sudden it was just about "your perfect careers" and "your perfect relationship". I didn't fit into that mold but you were just to scared to tell me that. So you lead me on until I'd leave on my own acord." The words sound smaller and more far-away the more he talks, and you have to take your focus away from your own internal turmoil to notice how the tears seem to sit shallow in his eyes.

It's unnerving seeing him in this state, you believe you've seen Patrick cry atleast two times in all the years you've known him. The reasons are long forgotten, memories corroded with time, but the hollowness that had formed in the pit of your belly at the sight of him so broken was an unforgettable feeling. You feel it now as you stand in the wind, staring at Patrick who was desperately waiting for you to say something, anything.

"There was never a mold, Patrick," you find yourself saying. "That was never the intention, yknow. To make you feel like you didn't fit into our lives anymore. If me reaching out meant anything, it's that I always wanted you in my life. In our life." He says nothing, and for a moment your mind drifts to Art. Wondering if he was still in the kitchen washing dishes. If he had maybe heard the commotion by now. If he heard it and just decided to stay out of it and allow the two of you to verbally lash each other out on his patio.

It's always been left unsaid, but he knew you and Patrick had a different bond. You became close to him first before you ever even warmed up to Art. You had always gravitated towards him, because you were in many ways just like him. Art tried not to think about it for too long because inevitably the question of why him and not Patrick would pop up and he'd lose sleep for a few days.

Patrick's notion was so far off and he didn't even know it. He didn't know how much he actually fit in, or atleast how much you had wanted him to fit into the so called mold you had created. He was deeply threaded into every part of your life and being in a way he wasn't even aware of. A few years ago, when Art had proposed to you, you had thought about the possibility of inviting Patrick and it made your heart flutter. His seat ended up being empty on the day of the ceremony. When the conversation of kids had came up, you thought of Patrick being able to see your children grow up. The possibility that his children and yours could be friends like you were.

It was unhealthy — to be so attached to someone who apparently wanted nothing to do with you anymore, but you couldn't help it. At times it even felt adulterous; thinking of another man that much while being in such a happy and practically perfect marriage.

"I really enjoyed the dinner," Patrick speaks up suddenly, although his voice is soft and devoid of all the earlier anger. He ends the sentence with your name, but it still sounds so foreign coming out of his mouth, like poison he'd rather regurgitate than keep in his system. "Please, Pat," you beg. For what? For him to stay? To stay in your life and play part in the fantasy you had of your perfect life where all of you could be together forever? You don't even know yourself.

As quiet as ever, he throws the already dead cigarette on your wooden flooring of your patio, watching as it falls perfectly between two floor boards and onto the ground before turning his attention to you once again. His big hand grabs the side of your face so softly, fingers curling to the back of your head in an almost protective nature. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, lips lingering there as he takes in the smell of your shampoo. He pulls away slowly and looks down at you with sorrow eyes, but you can't find it in you to look at him in fear of bursting into tears.

For good measure, or maybe because he's greedy and wants one last taste of you, he presses another kiss to the side of your head before he's retracting and leaving you outside in the biting cold. You hear the sliding door close with a click before he makes his way back inside and then back outside to wherever he had come from. To your own disgust, the thought lingers that you wish he had kissed you one more time.

[brodygold]

Darling, I have a bit of a homophobe problem. Some of my male family members believe that you all are corrupting good men and want to turn you into Christians to find good wives and establish proper family values. Can you have them see things your way and maybe recruit them into your...masculine brotherhood?

I'll be glad to help you out, bro. I'll invite your family members over for a quick chat at my house under the guise of getting to know more about their religion. I'm not one to turn down an offer, after all. I'll let you know how it goes.

Your family sure knew how to dress for the occasion. They looked just like a true pair of missionaries! I led the two into my living room, my big Christmas tree casting a perfect backdrop for our conversation. I even wore my favorite suit for the occasion. Wanted to show them I mean business, even if what we call "business" may be different...

I thought it would be a nice dialogue about our different beliefs, but it quickly turned into a lecture about us turning our backs on God and how being gay is a sin and we need to find wives, be fruitful and multiply and all that stuff, blah blah blah. Now it's nothing I haven't heard before, but having it happen when I invited your family over struck a nerve with me.

They continued to lecture me as I snapped my fingers, hypnotizing them to remove their suits. The two never even noticed what was happening, too into talking down to me instead of taking off their jackets, ties, and shirts. The pants came next, being discarded onto the floor as they talked about traditional values and how regular church attendance is vital for any good Christian.

Another quick snap of my fingers and their muscles grew larger, their arms becoming massive and legs becoming huge tree trunks. It's a good thing they took off their suits before. They would have had to come off anyway!

Still mid lecture, I tossed the two their new golden jerseys, glistening in the light of the mid morning. They put them on while talking to me about how they plan on starting a soccer league at their church with their wives. Already it's turning more into a conversation again, I'm finally able to get some words in edgewise and turn it into a real dialogue. My words have some magic laced into them though, and their minds are rewritten right before me.

They're still religious, I'm not going to take that away from anyone, but they're much more liberal in their beliefs. Gone is the idea that being gay is a sin. Instead, the two now want to find husbands of their own! They're dumber too, only really able to think about sports and bros, sports and bros. The order of importance changing depending on their current mood.

The Golden Army is their true home now, with their new golden names worn with pride. It doesn't matter who they were before, right? They're now Marcus and Deshaun, two golden jocks who are proud of their accomplishments and all that God helps them accomplish.

I did leave a few memories intact though, just slightly altered. They still remember you and the rest of the family, so the next family gathering should be quite interesting. Just be careful, bro, or they may try to convert you too. Not that that would be a bad thing...

[thetriggeredhappy]

I know we’re on spoiler lock down and you can respond at your pace but OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THIS IS HANDS DOWN THE BEST BIRTHDAY GIFT IVE EVER GOTTEN! HOW IS THIS GOING TO EFFECT YOUR TAKING SHOTS CANON? ARE YOU GOING TO BE WRITING OTHER FICS IN LINE WITH THE FINALE CANON NOW???? Oh my god HOW ARE YOU FEELING?????

yeah i know right! this does mean i’m going to need to go back and edit taking shots a bit to be more canon-compliant, here’s some of my initial notes on it:

fixing scout’s last name to reflect “willis”.

fixing spy’s first and last name to reflect “eugene hinkle”.

adjusting to make room in dialogue for scout being definitively a brunette, as we saw near the end.

a few tweaks to better fill in the implications the comics seem to have for how the respawn system works.

in the same shot we saw the photo of scout and his mom, opposite that we see a picture that i believe is of scout and a doggy—i’ll need to add that into the story somewhere, maybe from his brothers telling a story or something similar.

already word on the street is that some of his kids seem close enough in age to probably be twins, which actually does imply that it’s likely some of his brothers are twins! this is good, but i should really lean in more—maybe more of his nieces are twins?

”willis” is an english name, so i’ll need to slightly adjust some backstory to make them english-catholic or perhaps protestant, not irish-catholic.

obviously i’ll need to adjust to include the address of the house and a better approximate location, as well as adjust all timings mentioned to account for the correct distance and travel times.

scout seems to be big on rushing into marriages, so i’ll most likely need to rework the fic slightly to include a proposal within the first chapter or two.

since sniper knows how to fly a plane, it makes sense that they would probably just fly to boston rather than road-tripping, which means i’ll need to edit out most instances of driving that sniper does.

obviously, spy hadn’t come clean about being scout’s father, so i imagine that he probably never will, and instead that entire storyline will pivot, instead being about something else, perhaps that spy wants to romance and marry his ma, who he met some five or six years previously.

since there is apparently some kind of indoor public pool in the area they live in, all scenes outside of the home will be moved to take place in that pool.

it seems like sniper’s reaction to scout’s rambling to miss pauling about his courting would imply he is aware of scout’s crush, so the story and dialogue will be altered to instead have sniper suggest they be a throuple of some kind. this will lead to complications in which Benny and Terry are irritated that they’re being copied so blatantly.

speaking of which, scout gave two of his kids names that start with “t”, which to me implies they perhaps have some kind of naming convention in their family involving repeating first consonants. to reflect this, some of scout’s brothers will be renamed, meaning his brothers (oldest to youngest) will be named Jack, Jenry, Jarcher (Jarchie for short), Jolin, Jenjamin and Jerrence (Jenny and Jerry for short), and Jony.

while going over these changes, i realized that i’d completely forgotten to account for spy’s cyanide tooth, and written a moment where he’s gritting his teeth. unfortunately, that means that in my rewrite, spy will need to die during that scene when the cyanide tooth most certainly pops mistakenly. this will be inconvenient, but a gifted writer knows how to play with the cards dealt.

since unfortunately we now know that scout is terrible at marriage, i will most likely need to write a scene where scout finds out he is pregnant and sniper immediately leaves him. i find this difficult because i’m unsure how sniper will be able to get into a plane quickly enough to escape in the pre-established suburb, but i will make do.

i will have to kill scout’s mom.

oh and happy belated birthday!

[itsgirlcraft]

Heyoooo back at it again with my old "dragon!Sabre saves knight!Rainbow from Princess Nightmare" au

Sooo this is from 1/31/2021, apparently. I'll put the first bit from the og fic idea down, bc the second half is just rambling about Sabre's backstory and I wanna talk abt Nightmare tbh.

@woahrarepairsagemare potential sagemare fic incoming? And also @its-indigos you n your man ((Genesis)) wanna join the fic? :)

...

The eldest princess of the Yellow Kingdom was said to live within a hidden castle in the Nightmare Mountains' forest, supposedly performing dark spells and horrifying experiments on not only herself but the people of the Kingdom of Yellow. They will fear the name Nightmare Stevens. And. They. Will. BOW.

Princess Night used to be sane. Some say she was infected with a strange ailment known simply as "The Darkness," which caused her to go mad with power. Others say she was locked away in that void-like ruin of a castle, but why? Was "The Darkness" worse than we thought? Did she get locked away for her safety? Or for ours? Did she do something so horrible I dare not utter another word, that she deserved to be locked up? Or was she never sane in the first place. Perhaps her heart was always dark.

The Kingdoms may never know why, only that Night was no longer an innocent girl who had to be protected. She was scarred. Broken. A force of nature which no man could stand up to. Something that no one will be able Magic and against unless they wished to be dead. Some thought she was a lost cause. Others wanted her dead.

"After all, we all have a dark side, I simply chose to show mine to this useless excuse of a world." The Nightmare whispered as she breathed life into her first Dark Creation. "You shall be known as Dark Steve, and together we shall rule all the Kingdoms," Nightmare cackled as her Corruption Magic gave Dark startling deep blood red eyes against glassy white, hungry. "You shall be my general, and you will command The Soldiers of Darkness as the second-in-command of the Night Terror Army!" the insanity of the isolated princess causing her yellow eyes to finally crack, the light searing her eyes, leaving the once-loved Yellow princess as a mere reflection of her former self. Twisted and broken, she kidnapped a young knight said to have been a Color Kingdoms' Creation destined to end "The Darkness's" reign of chaos with finally stopping Nightmare and her plans for complete and utter rule of the Color Kingdoms, and later the entire MC Realm.

But the Rainbow Knight was far too young to be fighting such a dangerous enemy. He lacked control and understanding of the powerful and dangerous abilities a member of the Color Kingdoms could have, and being a collective Creation between all Colors, he held far more potential than he could imagine. But with great power comes much, much, MUCH longer training sessions, and Rainbow was getting nowhere.

Meanwhile, Nightmare could already destroy chunks of land with her new Darkness fireballs the size of the average Yellow apartment, big enough to house up to 8 people. Not only had the dark princess improved her new Red Kingdom skills quickly, but she could already run from the far end of the Nightmare Mountain range to the other end where the Night Terror Castle stood within 5 minutes! Dark was greatly pleased with the progress his young creator had made on her original abilities, her Yellow-Born powers. The Rainbow Knight and the Nightmare Princess may be similar in mental age, but there was no likeness of one in the other. Neither were aware of each other's saddeningly young age, until the kidnapping came.

...

Ngl, it feels kinda cringe n edgy, but I think I like it that way. It's a good starting point for a revamp. Sooo obviously reworking Night's dialogue and the narrative around her would be good, but I think it could be REALLY good with some Sagemare.

This og version feels kinda mehhh at best in terms of how alive the characters feel, they're one-dimensional at best. I kinda wanna mess around with including Sage as the knight or dragon, but ehh it might work out easier if I just keep Sage separate from that dynamic.

So one key thing here, is that the Steve Realm is both RQ and TSS at the same time, it's very vague. And if I'm including technically SSO for Sagemare, I might as well add in the rest, yknow? I mean that I wanna add dragon!Genesis and dragon!Indigo, too. Because I've got those mcrp designs and like. Why not.

I could get a real bingo with all these series 💀 like Sabre starts off in Assassin's Creed, then we've got RQ/TSS as the MC Realm, then add in SSO and SL for flavor. AND the dimension/kingdom that Sabre comes from feels like a knockoff Cozen kingdom, so we've got AR too.

I feel like drawing some callbacks to AR would do a lot of good in fleshing out all of this, especially the og part after this lil analysis. The Guardian of the Spirit World is the one to send Sabre on his way, but it seems kinda out of place, tho if I wrote it more as a multi-chapter, the pacing would probably fix itself. Maybe mixing some AR in with that would make this 2nd part a little less awkward.

I also think the vagueness doesn't really work well here, especially with the color kingdoms. Exploring how Rainbow/Nightmare's dynamic effects the kingdoms would definitely fix some of the awkwardness as well, and including other dragons besides Sabre.

And here's the second half:

The strange dark gray/green dragon which came to save the Rainbow Knight was not the strongest or the most powerful dragon. In fact, he was not always a dragon. He is a...peculiar case, random curses and hybrid origins and assassin friends litter his past, like one insane plot twist after another. E.S. thought he was human, back in the so-called "True Reality" Realm which he called home. After he and his father were chased by men claiming to simply be guards wanting to collect tax, the young boy's parents were both killed.

Some time after being taken in by assassins, he learned that the men who killed his parents were, in fact, not guards at all. You see, E.S. lived in a world where magic and inhuman beings were real, but were all in the MC Realm or taken away/killed. "True Reality" was called such thanks to mass anti-magic propaganda that said those who were hybrids, cursed, magic etc. were simply monsters or did not exist, and that the MC Realm did not exist. The ones who killed E.S.'s parents were supporters of such, and were like magic police that tried to censor and remove anyone against them and/or were magic.

E.S.'s mother had a family curse, while his father was a hybrid trying to live a normal life. But both caught up to E.S. when his hybrid side began to show and the curse had finally appeared physically. E.S.'s curse caused his eyes to change constantly, cycling through almost human eyes, to animals like cats, snakes, etc., demonic/bloody eyes which could get particularly scary, and code-like patterns which sometimes made him "glitch" with a spike of pain throughout his body.

E.S. discovered this on his 16th birthday, to his horror. Almost a month later, E.S. found white wings growing on his back. Later the feathers continued appearing along his torso, shoulders, neck, and upper arms. That was when he realized his parents were far more interesting than they wanted him to think. They tried so hard to let him live a normal life without their own past ruining it. E.S. began wearing a reddish-brownish dark gray bandanna around his eyes, and his adoptive father made him a special little hoodie which would make an illusion that would hide E.S.'s feathers as a chicken suit.

E.S. continued to wear both as his journey as an assassin continued. That is, until he got a job to kill a particularly nasty man who was deeply obsessed with finding a way to enter the MC Realm. The man had done so many horrid things to other people and their loved ones while exploring the magic of the MC Realm. E.S. got many jobs from different people asking to kill the obsessive man. He was the first target that saw through the magic hoodie and magic bandanna, and the man seemed to recognize E.S. rather than be fearful. He violently took down E.S., plucking out a few feathers as E.S.'s scream of pain was muffled.

Ripping off his bandanna, the crazed man ignored E.S.'s struggles and collected some blood from his crying eyes, murmuring "you are the one, yes yes yes you must be the chosen, I am sorry my winged child but you must fulfill the prophecy, the boy with rainbows for eyes needs your help, you are the only one who can save us from the dark beasts now, the terror queen must die to the dragon within the child of a cursed and the winged one, you must rescue hope from the nightmare my boy."

'How can this thin old man keep me pinned to the ground?!' E.S. was sure there was no way that the man was somehow stronger than him, he is a hybrid after all. Soon something happened while the man was mixing strange things with the blood and feathers. A portal. And not just any portal. The only one to the MC Realm.

"You truly are the chosen one!" the man wheezed, as a strange concoction finished brewing. E.S. could not move, what was this man planning to do to him? Was the job really all a hoax?? How, how was the man keeping E.S. down without touching him?! Why did the portal just appear?!? E.S. barely managed to grab his bandanna before the man slouched over to him, holding the strange bottle. The liquid seemed to shine in the dim light, like a green fire against metallic scales.

"You must take this, my boy. You may be a hybrid, but. You. Will. NOT SURVIVE. Unless you take on the identity of the dragon within you," the man began pouring the liquid on E.S.'s wings as he spoke. It burned. It burned through his veins as some was forced down his throat. His vision went blurry, barely catching a glimpse of his wings. He had no feathers. There was a green shine on them now. The man wheezed in joy as he dragged the panicking young man towards the glittering glitched purple portal.

For a moment, there was kindness in his voice. "I am sorry for all I have done," the man spoke with a softness E.S. had never heard, "I have grown too old to return to the broken MC Realm, please, help them. The Color Kingdoms used to be my home, but now I cannot reunite with my family until the Darkness Age is over. You should be able to get help with returning home once you end the Darkness, mention that The Guardian brought you." And with that, he pushed an oversized iron sword into E.S.'s hands, which were growing sharp black claws. E.S. looked up at the older man, tears in his eyes. "Save them. I wish we had more time but we don't," the man whispered with a sad smile before pushing the rapidly transforming boy through the portal, still clutching the sword.

And thus, E.S. became the dragon sent to save the Colors from the Darkness. He took on the name Sabre, his middle name, as his dragon form. The oversized sword fit perfectly in his new clawed hands, now a glittering purple and blue, almost like a galaxy. The previously empty socket in the handle had what looked to be a star, having fallen long ago. E.S. went on to find the Rainbow Knight, knowing that the two of them were the only ones who could save the Kingdoms. With some help from each Color, of course. He could not do it alone, even if he were the so-called "saviour." The once-human dragon must rescue the young knight from the Nightmare princess, or else all will be lost.

[thedragonagelesbian]

A Lesson in Drowning with Prophet Delilah Dubois

Adelaide first saw the headlights. The rain scattered their light, diffusing the fluorescent brightness into a hazy glare that consumed the whole world. She was standing square in the middle of the road, but she did not wince as the car beared down on her. She was too busy wondering what it would be like for it to consume her too. Would she also disappear into the white noise? Or would it be more like a classical devouring, replete with metal tongue and a cavernous chrome stomach?

She stood her ground.

Then, the jeep swerved. It missed her by inches, sent a shower of muddy water up her stockings, and rattled to a stop some yards away.

Adelaide’s next instinct was to run. She could sprint between the well-manicured lawns to her right or scale the nearest fence to her left and take her chances with Warwick Lord’s German shepherd howling something pathetic in his yard. But she had barely taken one step toward her escape when the driver’s door swung open. A tall, slender figure stepped out, features obscured in the storm.

Still, she knew who it was.

“Adelaide Lenora Dellouise, just what do you think you’re doing out here?” 

The full name did make her flinch, but Adelaide squared her shoulders and set her jaw, trying to hold herself taut enough that she couldn’t shiver.

“Walkin!”

As he came around the back of the car, Adelaide caught a glimpse of her father’s dour expression in the red sheen of the tail lights, all furrows from his sandy hairline to the bridge of his nose.

“In the middle of a shelter-in-place advisory? Without so much as a raincoat on?”

For all his exasperation, Wyatt Dellouise didn’t have to strain to be heard over the sound of the raging storm. Then again, he had his deacon voice on. This wasn’t the soft muttering of a man who seemed perpetually ashamed to be alive for risk of deriving some pleasure from the whole ordeal, but rather the preacher’s booming, fit for a pulpit and louder than thunder.

Adelaide responded with a shrug. As much as she tried to hide it, though, she couldn’t ignore how cold and damp she was now that she had stopped moving. The wind ripped through the thin, soaked fabric of her sundress, and she had so much water in her shoes her toes squelched with every slight shift of her body. A moment later, her teeth began to chatter, and they wouldn’t stop knocking against each other no matter how hard she pressed her lips together.

Her father folded his arms and moved between her and the trunk of the car. Shadow eclipsed his face again, and all Adelaide could make out through the sheets of rain was his hazy red silhouette.

“Are you fixing to get pneumonia?”

“I was thinking I’d let the storm wash me out to sea, actually!”

The silence that followed delighted Adelaide so much she almost didn’t care how true her words were or how deep they hurt her. She’d swallow a knife and let it rend her from the inside out if it meant he knew it was his fault she was bleeding.

“Quit this foolishness,” her father said at last, sighing like a tempest gale. “Just come with me, Addie, please. We’ll go shelter together in the church.”

“Just drop me off at home!”

“Get in the car!”

And that was that, as Adelaide knew it would be since the moment the jeep rolled up, an outcome equal measures inevitable and terrifying. Who, after all, could ignore a direct order from Deacon Wyatt Dellouise? The voice of the First Church of Her Will spoke. You listened. That was the way the world worked, as immutable as any law of physics. Adelaide couldn’t fight that, no matter how hard she had tried over the last two years. For as many days as she had spent steeling herself against her father’s influence, in that instant she withered under his ironclad certainty like she was still seven years old and arguing about her bedtime. She could not help but be compelled.

She took a few teetering steps toward the jeep as an arc of lightning split the sky above them. In the crack of white, she saw her father’s face soften.

“Thank you, Addie.”

She shivered, tucked in on herself, and said nothing.

The worst part was that it actually was nicer in the car. Her father had already turned up the heat all the way, opened the passenger-side vents, and switched on the seat warmer. She didn’t want it to feel good. She wanted to resent it like she resented everything her father touched, but her body obviously hadn’t gotten the message. Feeling returned to her slowly, nipping at her numb extremities and stiff joints and hunched, frozen spine.

“Weeeeeell, Lady Dellouise… So kind of you to join us.”

Adelaide bolted upright as a low, smooth voice from the backseat interrupted her involuntary relaxation. She whipped around, damn near relishing her skittering pulse and tight lungs because it meant her defenses were still up, but there was no monster behind her. Just a man. Slimy John, as he was colloquially known, was certainly one of Harborview’s more disquieting citizens, with a penchant for selling knives to children. But he was still just a man, and he gave her a toothy, human smile.

“Johnathon and some other residents will be sheltering in the church with us.” Her father had climbed back into the car. There was a megaphone in the driver’s seat which he rested in his lap as he closed the door, dampening the storm. “Folks who’d be safer there than anywhere else, you understand. The Davises are cooking up dinner for everyone, and the Owens have lent us some camping equipment to help stay comfortable while we wait this thing out.”

“I am much obliged, Deacon Wy,” commented Slimy John. “Y’all really don’t have to go to so much trouble.”

“We’re a community. We take care of each other.”

Adelaide scoffed under her breath. She knew exactly where this so-called community’s care ran out, and it was at crossing her father.

They drove straight back to the church. As they trundled through Old Harborview, her father rolled down the window to blare his pronouncements about the shelter-in-place advisory and the church’s open doors, but he didn’t slow down to accept any other transients. Adelaide could only assume the new haste was for her benefit. The sooner she was locked inside, the better, right?

Adelaide dug her nails into her skin, glanced at her phone, and started counting the minutes til the storm’s passing, just like she and her best friend Nat used to do during Sunday School. Whoever could go the longest without checking the time got the other’s oreos during snack break.

She always lost.

Lit beneath by a pair of austere spotlights, the First Church of Her Will surged from the darkness, its single spire towering and curved like a giant rib jutting out into the night sky, a carcass picked clean. As the car pulled up, the wind’s rabid howling grew louder, screaming against the windows. Adelaide, who could finally wiggle her toes again, couldn’t decide which would be worse: braving the storm once more or facing whatever was waiting for her in the cathedral.

“I’ll get the umbrella out of the trunk,” her father announced. “No need for you to get any wetter than you already are.”

He turned off the engine. The car plummeted into darkness, and when the heat cut out, Adelaide shuddered, an ugly, reflexive twitch.

She snapped, “I’m fine,” and reached for the car door.

Before she could open it, however, Slimy John let out a long, low whistle of a laugh.

“Whew! She really got Melanie’s quick temper, don’t she, Wy?”

Adelaide and Wyatt both went rigid.

For her part, Adelaide was rarely ever equipped to talk about her mother, fifteen years gone and mourned more in the last two than at any other point in her life. On that particular day, when she was already hanging on by a thread, just the name was enough to send her trembling. 

Worse than the name, though, was her father, who mirrored her tension in the corner of her eye. The symmetry between them, clamped tight around the same loss, made Adelaide sick to her stomach. Suddenly, she needed to get out of the car as fast as possible. Even the church had to be better than sitting in that moment of connection.

She threw herself out into the storm. It swallowed her up for a moment, but she ran up the slick steps and through the heavy double doors, and in an instant, the hurricane disappeared. In its place, the First Church of Her Will opened up before her for the first time in a year.

And in that instant, Adelaide knew she had made a mistake: this was worse.

Like her dad’s car, like the mansion down the road, like just about every inch of Harborview, it felt so much like it should’ve been home that she nearly burst. The memories slammed into her, cresting and crashing from every corner of the nave: the worn pews where she and Nat used to play hide-and-seek, the glinting prayer candles where she had knelt after her mother’s funeral, the lectern where her father had stood for so many days of so many years still larger than life, the painting behind the altar rendering the church’s founder, Our Lady Prophet Delilah Dubois, in severe beauty, each stroke of her countenance exactly as Adelaide remembered it after spending one too many sermons lost in her oil-slick eyes, each detail another mouthful of saltwater she couldn’t swallow.

And mercy, it was warm like the undertow wrapped around her throat

And it was full. The smiling faces of familiar strangers dotted her horizon, all brought together under the banner of community care and that stubborn, unerring streak of self-sufficiency that defined Harborview, and Adelaide hated it so much she could’ve choked on it. 

The storm surge of her rage broke through its levee, and she was too full too sudden and sputtering for air as her vision blurred white-hot. Her mind churned, dizzy and desperate, around one furious thought: how dare?

How dare this no longer be her home? How dare he spoil that too?

And how dare they abide it? Her so-called family friends, the congregation that had raised her and now sat by twiddling their thumbs while her father drowned her?

“Adelaide!”

In one moment, the entire world was tilting around her, as if she were a liferaft thrown out to the roiling sea. 

In the next, there was a hand on her shoulder. Her focus broke, and everything went still and straight again.

Nat’s father, Duke Owens, beamed down at her and tugged her inside. 

“So good to see you, kiddo. How long’s it been?”

Adelaide blinked and stumbled after him. Sluggishly, the social scripts of polite society and normal conversation came back to her.

“Too long…”

“Well, it’s great you’re here. Sarah Davis is making her famous collard greens, and her, uh, third… the current husband brought over a huge batch of potato salad, and we’ve just put on a pot to cook some corn. We’ve also got water, juice boxes, even a lick of bourbon if you think you can get away with it.” He winked as he directed her down the aisle. 

A shake clearer-headed, Adelaide got a better sense of who else was milling around in the shrine to her poisoned youth. About two dozen of Harborview’s fine citizens sprawled out across the pews. They were split half and half between those who were dispensing the charity and those who were receiving it. Among the latter, Adelaide identified a smattering of residents from the trailer park at the west edge of town, a stoned vanlifer, a young city couple whose car had probably broken down, a handful of farmers who didn’t trust the structural integrity of their houses, and Madame Tilly, the congregation’s oldest and most devout member.

The other half—composed of Mary Owens, her two sons, Sarah Davis, her daughter, her current husband, one of her ex-husbands, and another priest—clustered at the front of the nave. That, Adelaide knew, was her destination: the insufferable snare of small town small talk with people she had known all her life and resented.

The altar and the lectern had been pushed back to make room for a pair of mismatched folding tables. One held the Owens’ camping stoves and large, bubbling stock pots, while the other was attended to by the younger generation, who were setting out plates, bowls, silverware, and napkins. Combined with the drink coolers and the warming tupperwares of potato salad, the spread could have been any church potluck or community barbecue.

Indeed, the only indication of the hurricane was Adelaide herself, tottering to a stop in front of them and once again failing not to shiver.

The fussing began immediately.

“Oh, sweetheart, what happened to you?” cooed Mary Owens.

“Poor thing, you gotta go change!” exclaimed Sarah Davis. “I’ve got some spare stuff in my duffle…”

“Dang, Adelaide, you’re gonna get sick going out dressed like that,” tutted Nat’s older brother, Jack.

“That’s what I told her.” Adelaide felt her father’s hand on her shoulder like a vice. “I found Addie halfway back home. She got caught out in the storm when the advisory went into effect, but, mercy be, we’re all safe here now.”

The others, ever the faithful parishioners, nodded and intoned, “Mercy be.”

Smothering the urge to gag, Adelaide cleared her throat and mustered up her most charming cheerleader smile.

“Mrs. Davis, that change of clothes sounds swell just about now.”

The church’s holiness had never quite extended into the single-occupant bathrooms in the basement. The consecration stopped short at the harsh fluorescents, speckled linoleum tiles, grimy ceramic, and the half-empty trash can perched on its throne of wet, crumpled paper towels. The closest thing to sanctity in the room was the pastel cross-stitch wall art reminding its viewers that Delilah preached moderation in all things… except cleanliness!, and even that couldn’t compel anyone to actually throw their paper towels away.

It was as close to an escape as Adelaide was going to get.

She had to peel her sopping clothes away from her skin, like wearing away the adhesive of a band-aid until she was hunched and nearly naked in the middle of the bathroom with two handfuls of dripping fabric. Her flats were coming apart at the seams, and her stockings were so drenched and muddy that she abandoned any hope of salvaging them. Instead, she threw both articles of clothing in the trash before trying to ring out her dress over the sink. The twisting and squeezing yielded some measure of success, so she stuffed the dress into the plastic bag Jack had offered her.

She then began to rifle through Sarah Davis’ assorted athleisure: a pair of neon pink and green tennis shoes, socks that said namaste, two tight yoga pants, and an assortment of sporty tank tops emblazoned with bubble text that ranged from mere novelty (KEEP HARBORVIEW WEIRD) to outright suggestion (MY EYES ARE UP HERE). Adelaide picked one that said FINE LIKE WINE not because it suited her particularly but because it had the loosest fit. Both pairs of pants, however, were as form-fitting and skin-tight as the wet stockings she had just taken off, hugging every curve and divot of her legs.

In the end, she was dressed but exposed, unable to control something so simple as her appearance, hating the glimpses of herself she caught in the mirror. 

Even her face seemed foreign to her. The rain had ruined her makeup, leaving streaks of mascara down her cheeks and blotchy patches of red lipstick on her mouth. Her hair hung from her in frizzing, ropey strands plastered to the sides of her face and neck. She didn’t recognize the face staring back at her with the tears rimming its wide, desperate eyes.

That other person trapped in the glass snarled, wrenched a paper towel from the dispenser, and clawed the rest of its makeup off. A moment later, it raked its nails through its hair in a biting impression of a brush, gathering the strands together in a loose ponytail with a scrunchie from Sarah’s duffle bag.

At least she had control over something.

At least she could still control the muscles of her unvarnished face, massaging out the furrows in her brow and slackening the tension in her jaw and schooling her lips into an effortless smile. 

When she looked in the mirror one last time, she almost resembled herself again.

Supper was up by the time Adelaide went back upstairs. Townsfolk were gathered at the front of the chamber, salting and buttering ears of corn and taking deep, indulgent whiffs of the collard greens, laden with thick-cut bacon and leftover ham hock. Strains of jovial conversation reached her by the stairwell. How is so-and-so doing? Some weather we’re having, huh. Got any holiday plans? How old is so-and-so now? She’s where? Oh my, but they grow up so fast…

Adelaide heard Nat’s name in the mix—something about an athletic scholarship at Clemson—and felt sick again.

Her empty stomach grumbled its complaints as she turned away, but she ignored it, forcing her attention to settle on Madame Tilly, who had not joined the others for dinner. Rather, the old woman, sporting her trademark purple velvet cap and elaborate gem-encrusted beetle brooch, was still kneeling by a box of candles near the front door, lost to the world as she muttered her prayers.

Adelaide reasoned that that, at least, was a conversation she could handle.

Matilda Lawrence had been just as much a part of Adelaide’s life growing up as the Owens. For as long as she could remember, she and her father had been checking up on Madame Tilly after Wednesday service. It had been Adelaide’s earliest act of charity, a kind deed for a kind elder whose mind had wandered even in her youth. Even longer than those visits, though, Adelaide recalled her unwavering faith. As distracted as she might be elsewhere, in church, Madame Tilly was nothing but resolute and focused. Indeed, her knowledge of canticles, verses, and hymns was second only to Deacon Dellouise himself.

Adelaide used to think it would be nice to grow up and be someone like Madame Tilly: refined, devout, at peace.

Nowadays, she just barely had one of the three.

Adelaide squatted beside the prayer box, three tiered rows of tea lights set in small glass bowls. Only a few of the candles were lit, each a pinprick prayer glinting above a puddle of grey wax. She watched them flicker as she listened to Madame Tilly continue her supplications without so much as a glance in her direction.

The words were as familiar as the low, hoarse voice that mumbled them:

“That I may deliver my own salvation, I bequeath upon myself a clear mind and a strong heart. That I may shoulder my own burdens, carry my own weight, and discipline the limits of my own desires, such that I never exceed the boundaries of restraint and propriety. That I may survive the oncoming storm, I pray for clarity, fortitude, and tenacity…”

“And in so praying,” the words spilled forth from Adelaide’s marrow, deep and reluctant as every fiber of her being, “I grant upon myself such virtues as foreseen by our lady prophet.”

Madame Tilly lifted her head, blinking, and smiled up at Adelaide, slow and indulgent.

“Little Addie,” she murmured, gums stretched wide. “How are you?”

“Surviving by someone’s grace.” Adelaide didn’t know if it was her own or her father’s or Delilah’s herself. Probably wasn’t her own. “How ’bout yourself?”

“All is as we will it.”

Typical Order of Dubois bullshit response. Adelaide smiled back.

“Well, it looks like dinner’s up, if you’re hungry.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, but I can’t stop praying. There’ll be time to feed myself later. Harborview needs my prayers now. It is as our lady prophet says.” Madame Tilly tapped her forehead with the second knuckle of her right pointer finger, tracing a loose oval between her brows. “‘In seeing clearly, might all the Earth resolve itself in perfect and accurate order.’ Worship is the only way to a clear mind’s eye. A clear mind’s eye is the only way to a righteous world.”

Righteousness seemed a terribly inappropriate framework for understanding a natural disaster, but Adelaide’s good sense told her not to argue. 

Instead, she picked up one of the lit prayer candles and tilted it forward. The melted wax pooled to one side, threatening to drown the pinpoint of light quivering inside the glass. When she narrowed her eyes, the flame blossomed into a thin white line across her vision. Its expansion was an optical illusion, she knew, but if she focused hard enough, she could trick herself into thinking that the glass was heating up, cracking, splintering, shattering…

“We could all use some clarity just about now,” Adelaide remarked as she spun the bowl, watching the silvery wax swirl like wine.

“Don’t I know it… You seeking clarity yourself, little Addie? I haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

“Y’know how it is.” Eyes open, eyes closed, flame thinning and widening and winking like blinding starlight, glass hotter and hotter against the pads of her fingers. “One day, you’re suddenly an adult, and you gotta take some time to figure things out.”

“I’ve been an adult for quite a while, dearie. I did all my figuring out long ago.”

“And how’d that go for you?”

“She simplified things a good bit.” Madame Tilly nodded toward the back of the church, and Adelaide followed her gaze to the oil painting of Delilah Dubois. The prophet’s watchful steely eyes stared back from underneath a windswept cowl. “I was a wild and wayward soul once upon a time, but I wandered back to her eventually, and she set me on the straight and narrow… You could always come back too, y’know. Give it all a second chance.”

Adelaide’s grip on the bowl tightened.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Ah, but showing up is only half the work.” Adelaide glanced back at her out of the corner of her eye. Madame Tilly responded by touching her finger to her forehead again. “You still have to have faith, dearie. Otherwise, it’s only a paper moon.

“That was the first lesson Lady Delilah taught us, after all. She saw the end of days on the horizon, the plagues and the storms and the fires that would burn this world to its core, and she turned to prayer. Not just mumbling a few half-hearted words, you understand, but complete dedication of body and soul to her worship. That was her salvation.

“And it’s saved Harborview dozens of times since then. Right before you were born, actually, we had another hurricane. This one got so close the state put us under an evacuation notice, so your daddy rented a whole fleet of buses and he went out in his jeep with his megaphone to round folks up and make sure they got out safe and sound before the storm got bad.

“But instead of leaving with them, he and Melanie came back here, and the three of us set about doing what Delilah mandated we do in the face of travesty. We dedicated ourselves to our piety. We didn’t eat, we didn’t drink, we didn’t sleep, we just prayed.

“And we were rewarded, as Delilah said we would be. For all those weather boys saying we would be wiped off the map, the hurricane only grazed us. Oh, there was some superficial damage to a few buildings on the Docks, and we lost the old community center to the flooding, but we survived. Harborview survived, as it always has, on the back of its own self-efficacy. 

“That is the power of faith, child: making divine and mortal providence one in the same.”

But much of Madame Tilly’s sermon had fallen on deaf ears, for Adelaide could not let go of the thought of her mother holed up in this church listening to the world end around her. She pictured her crouched before this same prayer box, hands clenched, eyes shut, trembling.

Had she wanted to stay? Or had she been coerced, her husband never being one to let his things wander too far from his domain? She was a devout woman, but did her faith hold? Did she believe Wyatt when he told her devotion was the only way to salvation?

Did she have any other choice but to believe, to paper a smile over the worry and go through the motions of her worship while her fear gutted her from the inside out? How many screams and sobs did she smother because doubt was still the worse sin in the eyes of her husband?

Did she nurse some secret seed of resentment toward him for condemning her to die alongside him?

Adelaide’s own fear spiraled as sudden as a lightning strike. It was an old anxiety at this point, but it hadn’t yet lost its edge or its weight: that moment of feeling the entire ocean bearing down on her chest. Too tight to move, too heavy to breathe, just the water in her lungs trying to drag her down.

Trapped.

Crack!

The candle holder exploded.

Madame Tilly yelped as glass and wax showered the ground. The still-burning wick hit the carpet. A chorus of gasps and shrieks and questioning grunts surged from the other side of the church.

But all Adelaide knew was the flame. The orange glimmer cut through the fear, and for a blinding moment, she had that holy clarity that the Order of Dubois revered so much: a crystal-clear image of the church reduced to smoldering ash and burning rubble, so real she could taste the heat and smoke sweet on her tongue. If she just focused…

Some smell like ozone and chlorine hit Adelaide square in the nose. Her vision blurred, head swimming as that sublime image warped before her eyes. She tried to hold onto it, but it vanished out from underneath her, like missing the last step in the dark. For a moment, she reeled in the free-fall, stomach plummeting and body lurching, staggering back onto her heels.

Then, her vision settled. She was back in the church. It was normal and whole. The flame was out. And her father was staring hard at her from across the room.

Outside, the thunder boomed as loud as any pipe organ, deep enough to shake the church’s foundations.

The power went out.

The congregation gasped again as the darkness took them. The precious few points of candlelight were quickly joined by the glare of cellphones at the front of the nave. Madame Tilly merely shook her head and resumed her praying, while Adelaide stared at the faces huddled near the altar, cast in a waxy and uneven sheen by the weak flashlights they clutched to their chests. An anxious murmur bubbled up amongst them until their deacon cleared his throat so loud even the rain seemed to hold its breath for him.

“There’s no need to panic, folks.” Wyatt Dellouise only owned a flip phone, so for a moment, his voice seemed to emanate from the darkness itself, ever-present and ever-vigilant. Duke Owens switched on a camping lantern, suffusing the back of the church in a too-white glow. Wyatt appeared, his features ghastly as the light carved steep shadows into his countenance. “We knew this was a possibility, but the church has a generator precisely for this situation. I’ll go out back and turn it on. Duke, you mind if I borrow a flashlight or a lantern?”

“Of course, Wyatt, and if you need someone else to go out with you—”

“I’ll go.”

The glaring cellphones all turned toward Adelaide as she stretched her hand up into the air. A stuttered silence followed. Her father’s thin silhouette shifted.

“That’s awful kind of you, Addie, but—”

“You shouldn't have to go out there alone, Daddy!” Adelaide interrupted brightly. “I wanna help.”

He couldn’t deny her this, not when she was playing the dutiful, smiling daughter he wanted so badly to have back. With a nod and armed with raincoats and a high-powered flashlight, her father led her out the back door of the church.

Stepping back out into the storm, Adelaide’s mind wandered to her other childhood best friend, the one she tried her damnedest not to think about. Once upon a time, before Adelaide had ruined everything, Zak Ibis had been the genderqueer prom king to her prom queen. As the self-proclaimed arbiter of good taste and cultural relevance in a backwater town he resented, Zak could deliver gospel as well as any priest over DairyQueen blizzards or in the Barracuda’s locker rooms. Their vast but shallow reserves of amateurish expertise included computer science, film, sports, economics, and numerous pop science areas like sleep health, fad diets, and wolfpack dynamics as allegories for the human condition.

One such lecture came to mind as the first splash of rain hit Adelaide’s face, turned up toward a patch of clouds where the faint light of the moon filtered through the storm. She remembered one of her many late night break-ins to the lighthouse down the street from the Dellouise Mansion. With Nat giving her a boost, Adelaide would shimmy into the cracked second story window and open the door. Nat provided the snacks, Zak the weak booze, and they’d spend hours playing card games or listening to Zak pontificate.

Over cold, congealed nachos and watered down beer, Zak had once opined about the mammalian diving reflex— in his words, how to trick your lizard brain into thinking the world’s not ending by being in some water about it.

And in the storm’s totality, it did feel like being swallowed up by the sea: the whole world disappeared in the torrent, no ground, no horizon, no body, just the numbness where the droplets pelted against her skin.

Zak was right, it was kind of relaxing.

Would that she actually were in the ocean, sinking into the abyss so that her corpse could give rise to untold and monstrous ecosystems deep beneath the tides. Instead, the swinging of her father’s flashlight, cutting sharp through all that wet nothing, reminded Adelaide of where she was.

“The generator’s just back here.”

“Mhm.”

“Hold the flashlight, will you?”

Adelaide lifted the light up to illuminate the boxy grey generator on the ground and the paneling in the wall above it, which her father began to fuss with. She watched him work in silence, trying to puzzle out the function of the multitude of switches and blinking lights. She didn’t have the faintest idea what her father was doing with them. 

Then again, that was the way the two of them functioned, wasn’t it? She didn’t have to know much of anything because daddy dearest could always solve all of her problems.

The irony of being dependent on a man who had dedicated his life to preaching self-sufficiency was so bitter that Adelaide drew in on herself, shivering in Mary Owens’ raincoat and Sarah Davis’ yoga outfit and despising the kindness they had shown her.

“What are you going to do if we ever have to evacuate?!” she shouted over the roar of the storm.

“We won’t need to evacuate,” he responded evenly.

“Sure, not this time around, but there’s always next time, ain’t there, and the time after that? We have a million fucking storms every summer, what are you going to do when one of them finally threatens to wipe this miserable shithole off the coastline?”

Her father’s hands paused, hovering over some button or another. Adelaide could not see his face, but she watched the outline of his Adam’s apple quiver.

“Watch your language, Addie,” he mumbled at last. He pushed the button, and light flooded out of the stained glass window suspended above their heads.

“That’s not an answer, and you fucking know it! Tell me what you would do!” 

Desperation seized her as he finally turned toward her, mouth set like a tombstone to match the hard granite of his eyes. Adelaide could not feel her lips spluttering around her words, but she tasted the rainwater against her teeth. 

“Would you let me go?!” She came so close to pleading that she wanted to retch. Barely swallowing the bile, she spat, “Or would you trap me here like you trapped Mama?!”

What little color was left drained from her father’s face.

“Addie, don’t—”

“You’d rather see me dead than gone!” The tempest didn’t stop for her like it did for him, but she could match its fury. “You’d let me drown before you’d let me leave!”

“I’d— I’d protect you!” He reached for her, stammering out familiar pleas and supplications. Adelaide shrunk away from his grasp. “I’d keep you safe, like I always have!”

“You’d just keep me!”

He tried to grab her again. Adelaide stepped backwards, slipped on the slick grass, and plummeted to the ground. He lunged to catch her, but she slapped away his hands as she fell. She’d rather have the pain: the sharp ache of a future bruise thrumming through her thighs and up her spine, the scrape of her knuckles against the ground, the twist of her wrist as she held onto the flashlight like a liferaft.

Standing above her, Wyatt’s face contorted, no longer the picture of the austere deacon but of a tired, sad old man.

“Addie, please,” he whispered, extending his hand again, “please just stop this. You’re only hurting yourself.”

In response, Adelaide chucked the flashlight as hard as she could in the other direction. 

Somewhere in the darkness above her came a sigh, followed by heavy footsteps headed toward the flashlight, which had rolled to a stop near the fence of the cemetery. Still, Adelaide made no move to pick herself up. Instead, she leaned back to lay down in the mud, letting the rain wash over her.

She couldn’t see the sky.

She couldn’t see much of anything, but she knew Harborview’s geography well enough to draw a straight line from her outstretched fingertips to her father’s house, less than a block away but lost in the storm. She could extend that same, unerring line through to the lighthouse, that last bastion of unspoiled childhood, and she could stretch it out further to the ocean beyond.

She could feel it out there, roiling just out of sight. And if she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, she could almost feel it inside her too. In her mind’s eye, she saw a wave as tall as the sky cresting over the town, poised just before breaking. It would flood every street, level most buildings, wash away thousands of lives, erase Harborview from the face of the Earth and drag its fractured remains out to sea… and maybe that could free her.

Maybe it would be enough to call her father’s bluff and scare him into breaking the magic that tethered her to Harborview. 

Or maybe the magic would break on its own if there was no Harborview.

As soon as it had occurred to her, Adelaide couldn’t let that thought go. The flood, the catastrophe, the destruction, the death. The horror sunk its fangs deep into her, gnawing the edges of morality and logic alike, and she let that callousness fester because it burned oh so tenderly even as she was slowly losing feeling in her limbs.

Why, after all, should she care about the wellbeing of the people who showed up twice a week to suckle at the teat of her father’s dogma despite everything he had done to her?

Why shouldn’t they drown too?

Who was Adelaide to deny the prophecies of her Lady Delilah?

[theprincessandthepie]

replaying dragon age inquisition is just an exercise in “the rebel mages would not fucking do that”

[sforzesco]

marcus licinius crassus & his sons

hey do you guys ever think about how crassus' father and brothers died, leaving him the surviving son, and then the tragedy repeats with marcus jr (with his father and brother dying at carrhae)

anyway, tfw you tell your brother not to do reckless shit when you're not around, and he immediately goes off and does All Of That the second he arrives in gaul. what do you MEAN there was a hostage crisis. what the fuck.

The Sons of Crassus, Ronald Syme

Publius Crassus - ‘optimus adulescens’ and his unfortunate career, Ireneusz Łuć

Pompeius Trogus, in the epitome of Justin, 42.4.6

society6 | ko-fi | twitter (pillowfort, cohost) | deviantart

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt Sif Odile duo looping au again and I wanna be able to plot everything out more coherently but act 5 eternally looms overhead and boy I do not wanna look up

[desperatepleasures]

guhhhh i am struggling so much with ch3

[blujayonthewing]

so I've finally actually read A Christmas Carol and I'm actually astonished at how closely Scrooge sticks to the source for most of the story, considering how absolutely wildly it goes off the rails in the third act

[nomaishuttle]

prev post is legit me ehen im trying to make a small tweak to a mod or something

[keeps-ache]

almost done with this second part, i am SoFast :33

[buriesitsteeth]

ngl I am Struggling today

[snowballseal]

Pretty Bird

Sylus X Reader

Summary: Sylus is jealous of you giving Mephisto attention. That's it. You tease him when you find out.

Word Count: 2123

Note: Nothing really, hope I did him justice! His dialogue is a little harder for me to nail down.

---

The first time it happens is when you cross to the N109 Zone to accompany Sylus on an “errand”.

The first thing you do when you reach the ornate, empty house - of course - is say hello to your favorite bird.

“Hey there pretty bird.”

Mephisto squawks, bobbing excitedly on his perch as you bound up to him. You grin and give the crow a gentle scratch on his head. He preens under your touch, mechanical feathers fluffing with another quiet, scruffy caw. Adorable.

Despite his unnerving gaze, which you find to be eerily similar to a certain Onychinus leader, you can’t help but love the little bird. For some reason, it always comforts you a little bit to see him perched outside your apartment, or following you around Linkon. He always tries to act like he’s not spying on you, but you know he is, and you know he’s going to report right back to Sylus. Maybe that’s why it’s comforting.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to sway his loyalties.”

Speak of the devil.

“As if,” you snicker, giving the bird one final scratch before spinning on your heels to face Sylus. He sits across the room in one of his big armchairs, eyes glued to the gun he’s loading, face carefully blank. As always. You saunter over and pop yourself onto the arm of the chair, bumping his shoulder. “You know Mephisto doesn’t listen to anyone but you. I’m just like the fun mom who gives him things.”

His lips twitch ever so slightly, “Mmm, does that make me your husband in this situation?”

Heat creeps up your cheeks.

You are no stranger to Sylus’ flirty nature. That’s how things have always been between you, though it only really gets to you now. Before, when you kind of hated his guts, it was just annoying. Well, maybe even then-

“You wish,” you retort, but there’s no hiding the blush painting your cheeks.

“Hm, I thought you knew me better than that, sweetie.” In an instant, his hand curls around your wrist, giving it a sharp tug that knocks you off balance. You let out an undignified squeak, tumbling right into his lap. And before you can squirm away, Sylus locks an arm over your legs, keeping you trapped against him. Those red eyes freeze you in place, dark and warm with mischief. “Why would I wish for something I could so easily take?”

You stare at him, eyes blown wide, face completely red now. You can’t even form any words in response, which seems to amuse him even more. A smirk curls his lips, and he gives your hip a playful pinch.

“What? Crow got your tongue, sweetie?”

You sputter, finally finding your voice, “Sylus!”

“Good. Now that you’re focused, we can go handle business.” Sylus sets you on the ground, making sure you’re steady before he stands nonchalantly and tucks his gun in its holster. Like nothing just happened! “We don’t want to be late now, do we?”

Before you can even say anything more, he’s heading for the door. It takes a few seconds to shake yourself from your  state of shock, and then you’re quickly following after him.

“Sylus-!”

He cuts you off, that stupid, attractive smirk still on his lips, “And by the way, try not to spoil Mephisto too much, sweetie. He’s grown rather petulant when you’re not around.”

You’re pretty sure your blush sticks around for the entire car ride after.

---

The second time is when you visit on one of your off days. 

When you get there, Sylus is still asleep. You take a moment to crouch by his bed, a fond smile adorning your lips as you take in his peaceful face. You remember when he used to sleep sitting up, so he was ready for anything, but now he looks relaxed. Though you still spot the gun tucked under his bed.

Deciding not to bother him, you quietly make your way back out to the living room and grab a book. It’s about the only way to pass time in the N109 Zone, at least, without getting yourself into anything dangerous. As soon as you sit down, Mephisto flaps across the room and lands on your arm, plopping himself down into your lap like a cat.

A giggle escapes you when the crow throws his head back, looking up at the most awkward angle you can imagine. You give his beak a little rub, and he makes a soft clicking sound, beady red eyes falling shut.

“I swear, it’s almost like you’re a crow with cat programming,” you hum, mostly to yourself. Mephisto ruffles his feathers, though, at the word ‘cat’, eyes flashing back open. You snort, easing a hand over his wings, “No worries, pretty bird, no cats. I’m just kidding.”

He settles back down, seemingly embarrassed by his reaction, which only makes you want to coddle him more. So cute. If only Sylus would be this cute with you. Heat tinges your cheeks at the thought of the tall man resting against your lap, looking up at you with softly narrowed eyes, humming in content as you pet his ha-

Snapping your book open, you throw yourself into the story in hopes of banishing such rogue thoughts. If Sylus knew what you were imagining, he would tease you for years. You really don’t want to feed his ego even more. Mephisto wedges himself between your arm and your side, happy to just fall asleep as you read, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

It doesn’t take you long to actually get immersed in the storyline, though. So much so that you don’t hear the steps coming up behind you.

“It seems you come here more often to spend time with Mephisto than with me.”

You practically jump out of your skin when a strong arm circles your shoulders. Sylus’ voice is a low rumble in your ear, thick with sleep. He leans over the back of your chair, and you narrowly miss the way he eyes the bird in your lap with distaste. He looks far too content curled up on your lap.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were sleeping,” you hum, closing the book.

He grumbles, sleepy eyes shifting to bore into you. The smallest pout pulls at his lips, and you have to stifle a giggle as you reach up to smooth down his messy hair. Sylus leans into your touch, much like Mephisto did, his eyes flickering shut. Okay, maybe he is just as cute.

“Are you mad I didn’t come cuddle with you?” You tease. Sleepy Sylus is definitely your favorite Sylus. “I didn’t know the big, bad Onychinus leader likes to snuggle.”

“It’s simply to ensure you don’t cause trouble in the N109 Zone,” he murmurs, still just as quick-witted though he’s half-asleep, “I can’t have my kitten wandering around all by herself, now can I?”

“I was just reading, Sylus. No trouble here.”

“Hmm, then you might as well come read in bed.”

You hesitate, fingers tracing along his jaw lightly, “You sure I won’t disturb your sleep?”

Those dark eyes blink back open lazily, a rare, genuine smile dancing in their depths, “Trust me, kitten, my sleep will be much better with you at my side.”

God, you’re weak for this man. Mephisto squawks his complaints as you lift him from your lap, but takes off to his perch without much fight. Sylus feels a flash of victory as you intertwine your fingers. The sensation of your small hand in his eases the strange tightness in his chest whenever you’re apart. He curls his other arm around you possessively, sending the bird a smug smirk.

You catch it this time, lifting a brow as you glance between him and Mephisto. Your brain stalls. Was he…jealous? No way. There’s no way Sylus would be jealous of you spending time with his bird. He’s more mature than that…or maybe not, you realize as he drags you back to his bed, only to lay himself over you like a large cat, using your lap as his pillow. Exactly as you imagined.

Your heart flutters a little, which you’re sure he hears somehow, because he squeezes your waist teasingly. You pinch his cheek lightly before running your fingers through his snowy hair. It’s always softer than you expect.

“Go to sleep, Sylus,” you murmur, voice far too fond, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He hums, and you can feel the sound vibrate through his body. Almost like a purr.

God, you don’t even have a chance, do you?

---

The final time is when you visit the N109 Zone to attend another auction with Sylus. And this time, you catch him in it.

“Where’s Mephisto?”

Sylus’ face sours at your question. You bite back a smile.

Ever since the day you spent napping in his room, you haven’t been able to escape that thought swirling in the back of your mind. So you decided to test your theory. Sylus is always messing with you, afterall. It’s only fair you get a bit of revenge.

“I sent him out to gather intel,” Sylus huffs eventually. Why do you always look for that d***  bird first? “That is his purpose, afterall.”

“Oh.” You feign sadness, letting out a long sigh. “That’s too bad! I brought him some treats.”

“Well, you can leave them here. I’m sure he’ll eat them later,” he says, voice dismissive as he fixes the cuffs of his coat.

“Hmm-” You slowly make your way over to him. Those perceptive eyes narrow on you, watching you carefully while you straighten his collar. “Will he be here later? Maybe I can give them to him after the auction. I miss my pretty bird.” 

Amusement curls in your chest when you see the man’s brows twitch ever so slightly. He’s really annoyed. Now you understand why he loves pushing your buttons so much.

“No, I’m afraid he’ll be busy all night.” You can practically hear him gritting his teeth. Almost there. You keep your eyes focused on his coat, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. He’s trying to figure you out and you’re scared that if you look up, the laughter you're holding back will break loose. Instead, you put on an exaggerated pout.

“That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping to see him tonight.”

Sylus growls. Actually growls in annoyance.

“Would you prefer to have Mephisto on your arm tonight instead of me?” His words come out biting and harsh, tinged with unmistakable jealousy.

The air goes silent.

Before you burst into a fit of giggles. Sylus’ eyes widen when you collapse against his chest, your entire body shaking with laughter. He freezes, though his confusion quickly gives way to realization. 

You were playing with him.

“I suppose this is some form of revenge,” he hums, shaking his head. It’s surprising it took him so long to catch on. With anyone else, he’d be beyond angry, but your laughter is so bright, so infectious, that he can’t stop the small smile that pulls at his lips. When you finally look up at him, tears glint in the corners of your eyes. Who thought this would amuse you so much?

“You’re jealous! The Sylus is jealous of a little bird. His bird.” You bite down on your lip in an attempt to muffle the giggles that keep coming, but it doesn’t do much to help. It’s just too much for you. You never ever thought you’d see Sylus actually jealous of someone, let alone an animal.

Sylus narrows his eyes, though they glow with a certain fondness. “Such a sadist, sweetie, messing with a man’s heart so lightly.”

“Oh, but your reaction was so adorable,” you sing, reaching up to poke his cheek. He playfully bites at your finger, making you draw it back quickly with another laugh. “Just the fact that you could even think I like Mephisto more than you is so silly. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Hmm, then I’m afraid you’ll just have to prove my silly conclusion wrong, won’t you?” His hands settle on your waist, drawing you closer to the warmth of his body. You oblige him, stretching your arms up and around his neck to draw him down.

“Of course. I can’t have my pretty bird walking around thinking he’s second best,” you tease, fingers curling through his hair. “Even if he has a jealousy prob-”

“Quiet.”

Anything else you say is muffled as Sylus finally kisses you.

Safe to say, after that, you make sure to give Sylus extra attention, especially when Mephisto is around. (Though you do still sneak him treats when Sylus isn’t looking.)

[gothgoblinbabe]

Drunken Words, Sober Thoughts

Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Warnings:  ( MDNI 18+) neighbor!reader,fem reader, Logan’s kinda rude for a lil’ bit, neighbors to frenemies to lovers? Idk, alcohol consumption (nothing 18+ happens while anyone is intoxicated), swearing, i can’t write Wade’s witty dialogue for shit pls bear w me, implied age gap, unprotected sex (wrap it up I beg of you), poking fun at the Kardashians a little, swearing and I think that’s it, but pls lmk if I missed any!

Summary: You have a little too much to drink one night in Wade's living room, resulting in an indirect confession that Logan absolutely hears through the thin drywall of his bedroom. Wade then ditches your usual weekend plans in an attempt at playing cupid - and it may just be the best favor he's ever done for you.

Word Count: 8K (get comfy bitch)

divider credit here and here

Being Wade Wilson’s best friend and neighbor included two main components:

Watching trash TV and getting drunk every other weekend - usually at the same time - and Wade wasn’t going to let his new roommate's attitude ruin it in the slightest.

“She’s gonna be here any minute and if you don’t pull the stick out of your ass and be nice, I'm going to lock you in your room like a sad, lonely dog.”

Logan only grunted in response, sipping his drink in the doorway and watching him run around the living room to make the place look livable.

He’d only moved in a couple weeks ago and Wade had been trying to introduce you both - inviting you over when he knew Logan had no plans - but every time, he was out the door before you were even opening yours across the hall. He’d try everything he could to avoid meeting new people, fearful that any type of real connection with someone would be ripped out from under him just like it had been many times before.

Wade huffed in satisfaction when he was done moving a few things around, standing in front of Logan with his hands on his hips.

“I mean it, kitty cat. She’s a sweet girl - keep the claws in.”

“Told you to stop callin’ me that.”

“Too bad, so sad, kitty.”

As Logan was considering puncturing three evenly spaced holes in both sides of Wade’s chest, they were both interrupted by a knock on the front door.

You were on the other side, of course, a twelve pack of beer under your arm. You rocked back and forth on your heels while you patiently waited for Wade to let you in. You did kind of hope you’d maybe get to meet his new roommate this time - it was a little odd that he was never there when you were.

He answered the door after a second, placing a hand over his heart dramatically when he saw the beer in your arms.

“For me? Aw, sugar, you shouldn't have,” he sighed as he took the box from your arms, ushering you inside.

“Did I have a choice?” you joked back, kicking off your shoes.

You followed him into the living room only to stop in your tracks.

Logan stood near the couch in his sweatpants, looking like he’d been dragged into the middle of the room to be put on display. He did reluctantly agree to stay for a second and finally let him introduce you so he could sulk back to his bedroom and nurse a bottle of whiskey till he fell asleep.

“Well, there he is,” Wade said in a lackluster tone, “now, he is house trained, but he does bite occasionally - “

“Fuck off.”

His deep voice surprised you a bit, unintentionally raising your eyebrows with your gaze still on him.

“ I'm Logan.”

You nodded politely and introduced yourself, shoving your hands in your pockets nervously. He was tall, definitely a good couple years older than you and incredibly handsome, all of which made your stomach erupt into butterflies.

And Logan did not like the way you were looking at him.

He’d seen it more times than he could count on the faces of every pretty young thing that tried to take him home from the bar, batting their eyelashes at him and laying hands on him like it would be persuasive in any way. It never worked, as his dismissive attitude sent a clear message. He couldn’t be bothered to take any of them up on their offers and wasn’t interested in fulfilling some fantasy they had about being with an older man. He didn’t think much about stuff like that anyway, avoiding any chance of vulnerability and attachment to someone he was sure he’d eventually lose.

And you still had that look on your face.

“Night.”

With that, Logan disappeared down the hallway to his room and shut the door.

“He’s not much of a talker,” Wade assured you, “probably for the best.”

From then on, you’d occasionally see Logan come out of his room while you were over - getting something from the kitchen, doing his laundry, coming and going - and each time you had to feign complete disinterest. Wade had quickly taken notice of how you tried to keep your head down every time Logan entered the room to hide your pink cheeks and - naturally - there was no way for him to be quiet about it.

When Logan came out of the bathroom one time with a towel around his waist and dripping wet hair as you and Wade sat at the kitchen island, your best friend was more than eager to run his mouth.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t do that to her!” he exclaimed, gesturing towards you, “you’re practically dangling meat in front of a starving dog - poor girl.”

You had your face buried in your hands with your elbows on the counter, wishing more than anything that you could sink into the chair and through the floor.

“God, shut up.”

Your voice was muffled by your hands but he still heard you.

“And put a stop to my job as cupid?”

Logan rolled his eyes and shook his head, turning towards his bedroom. He’d seen the way your eyes widened the second he’d opened the door, traveling all the way from his bare shoulders to the trail of hair that dipped under the towel. You’d turned pink almost immediately. It would have been something he’d found cute maybe a couple decades ago, before the very last bit of his naivety had faded away. Now, it was just infuriating to him. He could try to drop every hint on earth that he wasn't interested (which for him, just meant avoiding you completely) and you still looked at him like a lovesick schoolgirl.

This weekend came along like every other, texting Wade back and forth about snack options and finally getting up to shuffle across the hall with a bag of chips.

He answered the door as usual, ushering you in. You plopped yourself down on the couch and kicked your slippers off, clad in sweatpants and a tank top. He sat beside you and you propped your legs up on his lap, snatching the TV remote from the coffee table to flip through channels. You heard what you assumed was Logan’s bedroom door open down the hall, keeping your eyes glued to the TV. 

“Peanut! Care to join?” Wade exclaimed as he watched his roommate enter the open kitchen, digging around in the fridge.

You still didn’t tear your gaze from the screen.

“Hell no.”

That wasn’t much of a surprise.

“Your loss!” Wade reached for the pack of beer on the table, offering one that you gladly accepted, “but don’t bother us, keeping up with the kardashians is incredibly important.”

“Uh - huh.”

Logan disappeared again in seconds and Wade shook his head.

You focused back on the TV screen.

“So, how many minutes into the episode do you think one of them is going to start a fight?”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Hours and many beers later, you were on the floor with your knees to your chest between the couch and coffee table as you tried to stifle your giggling. Wade was laid on the couch, no better off than you.

“Hey - hey, I wanna ask you somethin’,” his voice became a little serious, but he still had a shit eating grin on his face, “what are you into Logan for anyway?”

You dreaded the question, groaning and closing your eyes.

“Seriously! I mean, I’ve been here the entire time - “

“Wade.”

He looked at you expectantly, awaiting a response.

You contemplated your answer for a moment, your filter diminishing more and more with every sip of beer, “God, I don’t know, he’s - he’s jus’ big.”

You were snickering behind the beer bottle you drunkenly held in front of your face in an attempt to hide.

“I don’t think he’s that impressive. You know, he’s got small feet - tiny, like a child.”

That had you both doubled over, trying to muffle your laughs with your hands and the throw pillows strewn on the floor.

“Stop, stop - ” you choked out when you finally caught your breath, wacking him on the arm.

“Okay but really, what is it? I know you, you’re not into beefcakes,” he laughed and shook his head.

You sighed, not really thinking for even a second before you started speaking again.

“He’s older and he’s hot -”

“And completely cold and dismissive towards you.”

You rolled your eyes at his interruption but still nodded, “yeah - yes, but that’s not my point.”

Wade took another sip of his beer and motioned for you to continue talking.

“He, uh - ” you tried to bite down a giggle, your face turning pink, “I don’t know, I think he’d be good in bed.”

That made him sit forward on the couch, his mouth open in surprise, “I knew it! I knew you were a horny freak!”

“Am not!” you picked a pillow up from the floor and launched it at his face, “I’m allowed to be, anyway!”

“Whatever,” he caught the pillow in his hands, “I'm on operation ‘Cupid’ and I have never quit a mission, cupcake. So, what about him makes you think that? Is it because he's a hundred and eighty - something years older than you? He’s probably been passed around the block like a wh - “

“Okay,” you cut him off, cringing at the thought, “ I think I got the picture.”

Your mind began to wander again about Logan and you narrowed your eyes in thought, staring at nothing.

“What’cha thinkin’, honey bun?”

Wade's voice cut through your concentration and you shrugged, a smile creeping onto your face.

“Oh no,” he started, stretching the vowel, “you’re having a sex fantasy right now, I can see it on your face - disgusting. Tell me more.”

“What, you want details?” You laughed, giving up on trying to hide it if Wade could already read you like an open book. You were both terribly honest with each other - almost to a fault. 

“Not the full middle-aged-white-women erotica novel version,” he answered, “I can accept cliff notes.”

You thought for a moment, going down the mental list you’d made of all the assumptions you had about the older roommate that you rarely ever saw.

“He’s gotta have a huge dick. Like, massive.”

Wade nearly spit out his beer but nodded for you to continue.

“I’d let him, like - like,” you were giggling between words as you tried to form a sentence, “ fuckin’ rearrange my guts.”

That did make Wade spit his beer, which set off a train of uncontrollable laughter that you both tried to stifle. 

Still, throw pillows and hands over your mouths were not as effective as you believed. 

Logan’s eyes fluttered open, squinting in the dark. The digital clock on his nightstand read ‘2:24 am’ in red LEDs. He closed his eyes again and tried to drift back to sleep, only to be jolted up by the sound of the two of you laughing obnoxiously from the living room.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbled to himself, getting up to walk towards his door so he could tell you both to keep it quiet. As his hand touched the knob, he halted when he heard your voice.

“He’s probably good at eating pussy. He’d be like an animal - “

Logan was stuck in place, his eyes narrowed. Who the hell were you talking about? 

“Can we go back to the rearranging guts thing? ‘Cause I have to tell you, sister - he’s made of metal and he’ll really do it.”

That couldn’t be about him. He refused to believe you two were actually talking about him like that in the next room.

“I’d let him,” he could hear you snickering.

“Is this a daddy issues thing? The ‘I can fix him’ maneuver?” 

“I didn’t say I wanted to fix him, I said I wanted to fuck him.”

If this was about some guy, Logan should be relieved; thankful that you’d found a new target of infatuation. He should be relieved, but he was gripping the door knob like he was going to break it off.

Wade’s voice broke through his thoughts, “you’re lucky Logan’s not much into relationships, then.”

So you were talking about him. 

Your voice echoed in his head, your words cementing themselves into his brain. 

On the living room floor, you were chucking pieces of popcorn into Wade's direction, trying to land one in his open mouth. 

“Hey,” he started after catching a piece between his teeth and eating it, “if you do end up in Wolvies bed? Pics or it didn’t happen.”

You gasped and nearly chucked your empty bottle at his head, deciding against it when you remembered Logan was asleep in the other room. 

Logan was in the other room.

Just as you were about to panic to Wade about Logan overhearing your foul-mouthed and horny drunk rambling, you both heard the click of his door coming unlocked and the creak of the hinges. He appeared at the doorway in a beater and pajama pants, his hair sticking up in every direction. Truthfully, he looked cute.

“Shut the fuck up, both of you. It’s two in the morning.”

Adorable, even. 

“Oopsie! Sorry, Peanut. We had very important things to discuss,” Wade replied.

Without another word, Logan shut his door again and you and Wade sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“Do you think he heard me?” you whispered, grimacing.

“We’ll find out.”

With that, you both decided to call it a night and you returned to the familiar comfort of your apartment.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The next morning, Wade was up far earlier than his roommate, as usual. He sat on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, turning his head when he heard Logan’s door open.

“Sleeping beauty! So kind of you to bless me with your presence. What’s the occasion?”

“Breakfast.”

“Technically it would be lunch, peanut.”

Logan was facing the pantry in the kitchen and Wade could still feel the anger radiating off him. 

Ignoring his seething silence, Wade began to speak again, “you didn’t happen to overhear any conversations last night, did you?”

Logan was facing him again, pouring cereal into a bowl and speaking without looking away from it, “you mean the one where your little friend said she wanted to fuck me? Yeah, I heard enough of it to get the jist.”

Wade had a gleeful look plastered on his face as he turned in his seat, “so you’re gonna take her up on the offer, right?”

“That wasn’t an offer, and besides,” Logan was shoveling cereal into his mouth, “ ‘m not interested.”

“See, you say that, Peanut, and yet you just have to come out here at least once while she’s over.”

Logan was glaring daggers into his skull. 

“I live here.”

The younger of the two clicked his tongue, turning his attention to the TV screen, “All I'm saying is that she’s our neighbor, she's a sweetheart, she is single and has a job and an apartment all to herself, dude. Bone city.”

“Ew.”

“Think about it.” “Don’t need to.”

As Logan scarfed down the rest of his breakfast and put the bowl in the sink, Wade was already typing furiously in his messages to create a plan. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Another week rolled by, meaning it was time to get hammered and make fun of the Kardashians again. You held your breath waiting for Wade to answer the door, anxiously picking at your fingernails. 

He opened the door and ushered you in like any other time, except he was dressed to go out instead of the usual PJ attire.

“What, are you leaving me for a hot date?” you teased, dropping the snacks you brought onto the kitchen island.

“Yes!”

You furrowed your eyebrows and frowned, awaiting his explanation.

“I’ve got a date with Vanessa, but - “

Logan emerged from his room, navigating his way to the kitchen as if neither of you were there.

“Peanut! So glad you decided to join us! Hey - “ Wade tapped the kitchen island, motioning for him to come over so he could talk to you both at the same time.

“Okay - I have a date with Vanessa tonight, so I need you,” he motioned between the two of you, “to get along.”

You were about to interrupt, insist that you can just reschedule, but it was as if he’d read your mind.

“You’re already here, cupcake, just stay and chill out. And you - “ he turned completely towards Logan, “you’re going to be nice like I asked you. Do you think you’ll survive?”

Logan was staring at him, unblinking with a scowl on his face.

“You, uh, you don’t have to sit with me,” you mumbled to him, forcing him to finally acknowledge your presence.

He’d half expected it to be your idea as much as it was Wade’s - some kind of ploy to get him alone - but you weren’t jumping at the chance, trying to be touchy-feely with him, begging him to stay. 

He almost wished you would.

He cleared his throat and looked back to Wade, “I'm not gonna babysit your friend.”

“Who said I needed a babysitter?” you chimed in.

 They both turned to you to watch you slam the top of a beer bottle on the edge of the countertop, sending the metal top flying somewhere into the living room. 

“We have a bottle opener in the drawer,” Wade sighed in defeat, ”anyway - you don’t need to babysit her, I'm just saying she doesn’t bite and It would be uncool to leave her all alone.”

“Aren’t you the one leaving?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer.

“Not the point,” he answered, grabbing his jacket from the coat stand as he walked towards the front door, “play nice, don’t eat anything in the fridge with my name on it and there’s condoms in my nightstand!”

He opened and shut the door, leaving the both of you in awkward silence. Logan’s face was actually red, a mix between rage and mild embarrassment. 

“He’s a dick,” you muttered, trying to make some kind of small talk, only to be met again with silence. You sighed, going to the couch and picking up the remote. You finally made yourself look Logan in the eyes, your cheeks burning uncontrollably when he never broke his stare.

“Listen - it’s fine, I get it, you’re like…the lone wolf,” you laughed a little to yourself, having to divert your eyes to the fabric of the couch, “I’m not gonna burst into tears if you don’t sit with me.”

He was a little taken back by your bluntness, though it was refreshing. He figured you’d be pink in the face - practically begging him to stay - but you weren’t. You pretended you couldn’t give less of a shit with your eyes now glued to the TV. You were as cool as you could act on the outside, but you nearly lost that cool when he spoke again.

“I can sit for a bit,” he shuffled over to the couch, settling himself down next to you. If you weren’t gonna be all over him like he thought you would, he could withstand a couple episodes of whatever the hell you and Wade had been watching. He didn’t dislike you, really - just terrified of the possibility of intimacy. You were pretty, and from what he’d overheard now and then, you were funny too. He liked the way the smell of your body wash and perfume flooded the apartment whenever you’d stop by and how you’d always bring some leftovers to be sure both of them had eaten - leftovers of which the roommates would always get into a spat over - usually because Logan ate it all before Wade could even see what was in the container. 

Unfortunately for Logan, he began to enjoy you being around.

You could feel your stomach tie itself in knots when he sat beside you but nodded in acknowledgment, flipping through TV channels. You settled on the Kardashians again, tossing the remote on the table.

“This is the shit you guys watch, huh?” he teased, grabbing a beer from the pack Wade left behind. 

You smiled a little to yourself, noticing how he was slowly getting more comfortable with you, “mhm, top tier - wait till you see one of them talk, it’s like watching an alien.”

You actually pulled a miniscule of a laugh out of him and your heart nearly skipped a beat at the sound.

As the show went on and you both made snarky commentary at just about everything, you felt more and more like you were just hanging out with Wade - comfortable and casual, except for the way your face burned up every time he stretched and his white beater rode up his stomach.

“So,” you began as the episode ended, “thoughts? Opinions?”

He was looking between you and the screen, thinking hard, “I don’t get it.”

You shrugged, “me neither, to be honest, but god is it funny to watch rich people lose their shit sometimes.”

He chuckled again at your response, placing his empty bottle on the table next to yours.

It was silent for a moment, the air tense with something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. 

“What do you usually watch on TV?” you asked, intending to flip the channel to whatever he may be interested in - if he had to sit through Keeping Up with The Kardashians, it was only fair.

“Nothin’, really,” he answered, his eyes moving from the screen to rest on you, like a heavy weight on your chest.

“Do you even watch TV?” you asked, the both of you having abandoned the idea of trying to find something else to watch and just letting it play in the background.

“Nah,” he shrugged, his arms crossed against his chest, “ I don’t do much of anything.’

You could tell his answer was earnest and you frowned a bit, swinging your legs up on the couch and turning to face him completely, “nothing? There has to be something.”

He was unsure about how close you were to him now, your knees to your chest as you looked at him expectantly. He thought he’d be met with that look - the one you kept giving him in passing that he hated so much - but your face was neutral, waiting patiently for him to respond. Truthfully, he didn’t hate the look itself - or you, for that matter - but hated how it made him feel.

As if there were some sliver of hope for a future worth living through.

He cleared his throat, turning his body towards you on the couch, “I work out, sometimes - “

‘’Yeah, clearly’’, you wanted to say.

“Other than that,” he continued, “I don’t know, the bar - sometimes I'll let Wade drag me out somewhere but I usually leave after half an hour.”

“Huh, so you really are by yourself a lot,” you realized aloud.

 Logan never thought it sad until he heard it from your mouth.

“I like it that way, most of the time,” he shrugged.

“I can tell - took you two weeks to finally say hello. I think this is the most I've ever heard your voice, actually.” 

He realized you were right and did feel a little bad, “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I just don’t like meeting new people.”

“Me neither.”

It was silent then - save for the TV - either one of you waiting for the other to explain just why that is. You figured it would be easier if you went first.

“I never really had a lot of friends growing up. I had a hard time in school and a lot of the other kids didn’t like me. It was just tough to make friends, especially because - “

You stopped, thinking over what details to include and what to leave out.

“Because?” Logan prompted and you sighed, biting back a giggle.

“Because I was goth. I don’t mean I just dressed in black - I mean I wore white face paint and huge boots and ate lunch in the art room.”

That actually pulled a real fucking laugh out of him and you couldn’t help but mirror his smile.

“I’m not laughing ‘cause you were goth, that's not weird” he clarified, “I'm laughing because I just can’t picture it.”

You didn’t embrace the style as much as you used to, trading Siouxsie Sioux makeup for reading glasses and teased hair for your natural texture.

“I’ll bring over my highschool yearbook sometime,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

Realizing it was now his turn to speak, he readjusted himself in his seat and cleared his throat, visibly becoming a little uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, you know,” you reminded him gently, giving a soft smile. 

It only made it harder for Logan that you were so damn nice.

He tentatively explained the timelines, the different versions everyone has of themselves, how he’d gotten there. You hung on his every word, unintentionally giving him a sympathetic look when he had finished explaining. 

“So…you were just alone after all that?” your voice was soft, worry clear in your tone.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “yeah, yeah.. ‘till I met Wade, obviously.”

You gave him a small smile, “you’ll never be alone again, you know.”

For some reason, the unfamiliar comfort made his stomach turn and he simply shook his head, “Yeah, I'm never gonna be able to get rid of him.”

That made you giggle, nodding in agreement.

“You can try, but he will always find you - like a determined cockroach.”

That got the both of you and you’d never seen Logan smile that way - though, to be fair, you never saw much of his face anyway.

The version of you that sat on the couch across from him was far from who he thought you were. He felt guilty now for assuming things just from looking at you, but it was a habit he had yet to shake. It was clear you were beautiful - that was never a question - but talking with you made him realize just how much he may have missed out by keeping himself so closed off. You laughed at almost every joke he had made, comforted him when he was nothing but rude and always checked up on him and Wade. You smelled so nice, your hair looked so soft and he almost found himself wanting to reach over and run his fingers through it. In his eyes, you seemed to be everything he was not; all of the best qualities he believed he didn't possess.

“Oh, hey - do you want some popcorn? I brought the microwave kind, I keep telling Wade to get it himself and he never does,” you snapped him out of his trance and stood from the couch, already walking to the kitchen.

“Uh, sure,” he found himself getting up to follow you, not wanting to pause a moment of conversation.

You tossed the bag in the microwave and hit the button, leaning yourself against the counter. Logan leaned himself besides you, significantly taller. You’d held your composure so far, but having him so close and realizing just how much bigger he was made your heart beat like a rabbit’s. 

“So, you never asked about the mutant thing,” He spoke over the popping, looking down at you and waiting for the twenty questions.

You only shrugged, “I figured If you wanted to tell me, you’d tell me. I wasn’t gonna interrogate you about it. Plus, Wade told me.”

“Of course he did,” Logan scoffed, “I’m afraid to know what exactly it was that he told you.”

“You’ve got adamantium instead of bones,” you replied matter of factly, “and you’ve got claws. I mean, I’ve never seen them, but that's what he told me.”

He thought for a minute, stepping in front of you a little. He was about arm-length away, putting enough distance between you both that he was sure he wouldn’t accidentally knick you.

In a second, the adamantium claws protruded from between his knuckles, glistening in the kitchen light. You flinched for only a second, leaning in to inspect them. 

“Woah,” you muttered, bringing a finger up to the very end of one of them and letting it poke you, “cool.”

He was a bit confused by your calm demeanor, but relieved by it anyway. It was never a good time when someone had a bad reaction to the claws. The microwave beeped and he retracted them, stepping out of your way. You opened it and held the scolding bag with two fingers, realizing you needed a bowl to put it in.

“Logan, can you grab a-”

You felt one hand on your hip and could see his other reach above you, opening a cabinet you couldn't and handing you a bowl. Your back was almost flush to his chest, making you feel warm all over. He reluctantly pulled away from you and you cleared your throat, shaking the popcorn into the bowl.

He watched you from where you stood, taking in the curve of your waist and hips and realizing he was in much more trouble than he’d originally thought. He’d heard your drunken giggling about him - heard you vulgarly talk about how good you think he’d be at giving head - but he was still thinking it over with his bottom lip between his teeth. He finally broke the silence that filled the room.

“You know, the claws aren’t the only thing abnormal about me.”

“Mm, no?” you laughed a little with your back still turned to him. You could feel that your face was hot.

“Heightened senses,” he said simply, “hearing and smell, mostly.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Like right now, I can hear your heartbeat.”

Your eyes went wide and you practically froze in place.

“It’s fast.”

His voice was closer.

“Really fast,” his breath was in your ear, his hands coming to rest on your waist, “got even faster when I pointed it out.”

You swallowed hard, knowing very well there was no way to lie to him.

“Jus’ nervous sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything,” you exhaled, attempting to still your shaking hands. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, his deep voice reverberating through your chest because of his proximity, “what about the other night, though?”

You narrowed your eyes and turned to finally face him, nearly chest to chest.

“What are you talking about?” 

You knew exactly what he was talking about - you just hoped it wasn’t what you thought.

His hands were on the counter behind you, boxing you in.

“C’mon,” he looked at you expectantly with a shit eating smirk on his face, “what made you think I’d be good at eating pussy, anyway?”

You were red with embarrassment, pulling your hands up to cover your face, but Logan caught your wrists gently and clicked his tongue.

“Pretty girl, it’s alright - “

His gruff voice calling you such a sweet nickname nearly made your knees buckle.

“I can smell how wet you get, you know that?”

One of his hands moved to hold you by your throat, barely using any pressure.

“F-Fuck off,” you managed to mutter, stuttering when he pushed one of his thighs inbetween yours. This was nowhere near what you pictured happening when Wade dumped you in his living room with a guy who would barely even look at you.

He chuckled, his other hand pushing on the small of your back to pull you closer into him.

“Yeah? I don’t think you really want me to, sweetheart. Besides, you didn’t answer my question.”

You could barely think, nevermind answer whatever it was he had asked. You were almost nose to nose, Logan craning his neck down a bit to level his face with yours.

“I, um,” your breathing was shaky, “fuck, I don’t know - I jus’ think about it a lot.”

“Me too,” he admitted before crashing his lips to yours, tangling his fingers in the hair at the back of your head. It was truthful - he’d probably thought of you every day since the night he heard you talk about him like that. 

You couldn’t help moaning into his mouth when he kissed you, letting him slip his tongue past your lips. His hands roamed down your back and to your ass, using his grip to rock your hips over his thigh.

“So beautiful,” he whispered as he moved down your jaw and neck, kissing and biting at the soft skin, “drove me crazy, hearing you say those things.”

“How much - how much did you hear?” you tried to ask, overwhelmed by his teeth grazing your neck. Your hands rested against his chest - as if you were going to push him away - but you never did.

You felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin, “heard enough.”

“And what exactly was that?”

If he was going to tease, you might as well bite back.

He pulled away momentarily to look in your eyes, knowing damn well he already had you where he wanted you.

“You don’t want to fix me, you want to fuck me, right?”

Your own words sounded so much hotter coming out of his mouth.

“Mhm,” was all you could manage to get out, too focused on the feeling of him pushing and pulling your hips over his thigh.

“Huh? Use your words, sweetheart.”

There was something about the affectionate nicknames he was using in contrast to the filthy way he was trying to push you down even harder on his thigh that made you lightheaded.

“Yeah - yes, I want to,” you practically whined.

That was all the confirmation he needed to hoist you up onto the counter with his hands on your ass. He was kissing you hungrily, his fingers hooking around the straps of your tank top to let them fall down your shoulders. You didn’t waste any time in breaking the kiss momentarily to strip yourself of the garment, tossing it to the kitchen floor.

“Fuck, jesus christ,” He groaned at the sight of your bare chest and immediately brought his large hands up to massage your breasts. A chill went down your spine when he leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue. Your hands were threaded through his hair, tugging every so slightly when he would pull his mouth off you with a popping sound. The majority of your chest was glistening with his spit when he finally brought his mouth to yours again, leaving a clear coating over the developing hickies that he left. You tugged at the hem of Logan's white beater to signal that you wanted it off. He did as you pleased, leaving plenty of skin for you to run your hands over. 

“Been thinking of you, all spread out of me,” he murmured in between kisses. He used his grip on your ass to grind you against him, his hard cock pressing against you. The pressure from it was enough for your pussy to start aching.

“I wanna know what you taste like,” he continued, holding your chin to tilt your head up, “can I find out?”

You nodded frantically and nearly choked on your own spit. You lifted your hips to let him strip you of your pants and underwear, leaving you completely bare on the counter in front of him.

You felt vulnerable, pressing your knees together only to have Logan use his hands to spread them apart.

“Uh-uh,” he clicked his tongue, “let me see your pretty pussy.”

He got on his knees on the kitchen floor, hooking his arms around your thighs and settling his face between them. He nipped at the hot skin of your inner thighs and you inadvertently tugged his hair every time he did so. He finally laid his tongue flat against you and you whined, the sound echoing through the kitchen. He was sloppy, practically drooling into your cunt and using it to lubricate his fingers so he could slip them into you. Your theory from before was proven right; he was kind of animalistic when he ate you out.

He was curling his fingers as he thrusted them in and out, sucking on your clit at the same time. You gasped when he spoke with his mouth still buried in your cunt.

“Tastes so fucking good.”

Your ankles were locked to keep his head between your thighs, leaning yourself back against the wall.

“Jesus christ, Logan - “ you whined, cut off when he growled into you.

“Mhm, ‘feels good, baby?”

You only nodded, unable to communicate with how deep he was curling his fingers into you. He continued to mumble praises against your cunt, amused by how much it clearly spurred you on.

“This is all mine, huh? Know you wanted it, could smell how bad you needed me every time you were over.”

You could feel the pressure in your lower stomach start to build.

“You’re so wet for me, such a good girl - makin’ such a fucking mess.”

It wasn’t long before you were pulling him back by his hair.

He reluctantly detached himself, looking up at you with concern. His mouth and chin were wet, his tongue peeking out to lick his lips.

“What’s wrong? You okay?”

“ ‘m fine, just - I was close -”

He groaned in a way that almost sounded annoyed, diving his tongue back into you, “C’mon, do it, then - come for me, pretty girl.”

His praise was enough to trigger your orgasm and you couldn’t help rocking your hips against his face as you rode it out. You were cursing, tears starting to form in your eyes when he didn’t let up. 

“L-Logan, fuck,” you cried. You could’ve pulled him off, told him it was too much, but he was so determined and skilled in the way he flicked his tongue that the discomfort of overstimulation dissipated into pleasure within seconds.

“One more for me, baby, one more. Think you can?”

You were moaning so loud at that point that you tried to bring a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound but Logan caught your wrist and brought it back to his hair, encouraging you to keep tugging and pulling.

Your second orgasms approached hard and fast, tears rolling down your cheek. Your legs shook uncontrollably as he finally sat back on his heels. 

When you caught your breath, he pulled himself up to slide his arms around your lower back and plant a kiss on your forehead, wiping your wet cheeks.

“Can I take you to the bed?”

You nodded and smiled wide, leaning up to kiss him.

He effortlessly carried you through the hallway and into his bedroom, your bare chest pressed against his. The second your back hit his mattress, his cellphone started to ring from his bedside table.

You watched Logan furrow his eyebrows and reach for the phone. He read the caller ID and bore an amused smile, switching it to silent.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, wrapping your arms around him when he came to hover above you.

“It’s Wade,” he chuckled to himself, “probably calling to see if everythings alright.”

That made you giggle, “yeah, we can tell him we’re doing just fine.”

“I’ll call him later.”

His lips were on yours again, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against you as he pinned you to the bed with his hips. You slid your hands from his neck, down his back and around the front of his waist to rest on his belt buckle. Your fingers made quick work of the metal fastener and you tugged the leather from his jeans. He stood up off the bed for a moment to strip himself of the rest of his clothing. When his cock sprung up from his boxers and hit his stomach, you almost had to choke back a gasp. Again, you were proven right - he was huge. He crawled back between your legs and positioned himself on top of you. 

“You’re okay with this?”

If anyone told you maybe two hours earlier that you’d end up under Wade’s grumpy roommate, your chest heaving from the anticipation of finally having him slot into you, you would’ve called them crazy. Now, however, it was a reality - one you would’ve gladly spent the rest of your life in.

You realized he was holding back, gripping the sheets next to your head and waiting for a definite answer.

You nodded and scratched at the back of his neck affectionately. He guided himself into you and you groaned at the feeling of his tip alone.

“ ‘s okay?”

Logan was practically slurring his words with how hard he had to hold himself back. Your warm chest to his, your thighs locked around his waist, the way you smelled; it was all overwhelming in the best way possible.

“So good,” you whined, trying to push your hips up to encourage him to go even deeper, “want all of it, please, please.”

He was chewing on his lip when he finally let himself fill you completely in one thrust. You dug your fingernails into his back, leaving scratches that healed themselves within seconds. He let out a guttural moan with his face buried in your neck, concentrating on trying to build a steady rhythm without finishing things too fast. He propped himself up on his elbows on either side of you as he tentatively rocked in and out.

“So fucking pretty,” he huffed, a hand coming up to wipe the sweat dampened hair from your flushed face. It was so sweet, so intimate; nothing you’d ever really expected with or from him.

“You're handsome,” you managed to reply, amused by how taken back he seemed by the compliment, “perfect.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone called him that - handsome, definitely never perfect - while actually looking at him like they meant it. Your eyes were trained on the features of his face, attempting to memorize every line and wrinkle; every bit of him that made him Logan. Your eyes felt to him like they could burn right through the wall he’d managed to construct.

Still, he instinctively scoffed as he hovered over you. He was never good at accepting compliments.

“I’m not the lying type, you know,” you assured him, whispering in his ear as he continued at a steady pace, “besides, do you think I'd be under you right now if that wasn’t true?”

“Mm - shut up”, he fought a smile and increased his pace in the hopes that it would render you speechless.

It did, of course.

You were a moaning mess atop his sheets with your back arched to accommodate Logan’s arm sneaking around you. His pace was enough to rock his headboard into the wall and he was thankful it was your apartment on the other side instead of a stranger’s. You were chest to chest as he whispered filthy things into your ear.

“Takin’ it well like I knew you would, baby doll - knew you’d like it when I fucked you like this.”

You were still at a loss for words, overwhelmed by the pressure in your lower stomach.

“You think you’ve got another one in you? C’mon, sweet girl, let me see it.”

His coaxing had your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head as he pounded into you. Besides the grunts and moans between you two, the only sound echoing in the room was the slap of skin against skin and the squelching of your pussy as he dragged himself out and back in again.

You were almost drooling from how deep he was able to fuck you. The familiar fire in your stomach had you feeling warm all over, building and building itself up. As if he could read your mind, Logan’s hand reached down between the both of you and he started to trace tight circles around your swollen clit.

“F-Fuck, my god, Logan - “

He hummed affirmatively, almost as if to acknowledge that was indeed his name that you were chanting.

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard that you almost saw stars when your third orgasm hit hard and fast. You were probably loud enough for the entire building to hear as he worked you through it.

“Good girl, good girl - c’mere,” he praised, flipping you over so that you were on your hands and knees. You laid your chest as flat as you could against the mattress and arched your back. He didn’t hesitate in fitting himself snuggly inside of you again, his hands kneading at and smacking your ass as he used his grip to push and pull you. It wasn’t long before his thrusts started to become sloppy. He leaned down and hooked an arm around you, lifting you up a little so that his chest was pressed to your back. He moved his hand to your throat to tilt back your head. The way you looked back at him, your beautiful eyes boring into his soul - that was all he needed to finally let go. You felt him flood you with his come, a mixture of yours and his soaking the sheets underneath you. He gently pulled out and almost immediately pulled you against him to cuddle, his eyes already fluttering close. You didn’t take him for the cuddly type but it was just another wholesome thing you’d learned about him.

“You should call Wade back,” you mumbled, already drifting to sleep with your head on Logan’s chest.

“ ‘m busy, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

You chuckled to yourself, letting exhaustion overtake you.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Wade practically sprinted up the steps to his apartment the next morning, keys already in hand. If Logan hadn’t answered - even if it was just to tell him to fuck off - something really bad must’ve happened. You hadn't answered any of his fifteen texts, either.

He unlocked his door and prepared himself to be met with a gorey scene, only to be surprised that there was no sign of a scuffle. There was untouched popcorn in the kitchen, clearly abandoned at some point right after making it. Did Logan upset you enough last night to make you leave early? 

Of course, he’d completely missed your clothing that had been tossed just out of sight from where he was standing.

Wade sighed in frustration, striding through the hallway and stopping outside Logan’s bedroom. He banged his fist on the door and rested his hands on his hips as he spoke through the wood.

“Hey! Peanut! Did you make our guest leave early last night? How’d it go? You didn’t answer your phone and neither did she.”

On the other side of the door, your heads both popped up at the sound of wade’s banging. You stifled a laugh, looking to Logan for him to say something.

“Uh, yeah…she had somethin’ to take care of.”

Now you had to bury your face in his comforter, uncontrollably snickering. 

Without warning, Wade groaned and swung the door open - one neither of you thought to lock because no one had been home.

“You better get your ass across the hall and apologize for whatever it is that -“

He was met with the sight of the both of you in Logan’s bed, covered by the bedding. It was obvious you were both undressed, Logan’s boxers somewhere near Wade’s feet.

He gasped, looking between the two of you in confusion before a giddy smile appeared on his face.

“Oh, I see, I see. Right, mhm - “

Logan was already trying to shoo him out but Wade wasn’t going to let him before he got the last word in.

“You're welcome, by the way!”

He shut the door and you laughed.

Logan laid back again, resting his arm around your shoulders so he could pull you back into his chest again.

In the comfortable silence, doubt settled itself in the form of a pit in your stomach. What if this was a one time thing? 

Almost instantly, you felt his hand comb through your hair.

“Hey, uh,” he started, looking down into your eyes, “listen, I know I was supposed to ask this before I got you in here, but - um..”

You could feel your stomach turn, borderline terrified of what he was going to say next.

“Would you want to go out for coffee sometime?”

A wide grin spread across your face and you nodded eagerly, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’d love that.”

A/N: this ones long as hell but so is just about everything else I write! if you've made it to the end I loooove u and pls interact if you enjoyed; hearing feedback is what motivates me to keep writing! as always, my inbox is open as well <3

[arolesbianism]

Ok did some fact checking and yeah unless I missed smth outside of Wendy, Walter is the character who refers to Abigail by name the most! Which is absolutely delightful news for me, the number one Abigail Walter besties believer