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not-neverland06 · 2 months ago

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forgotten promises

pt two of broken promises (I know I'm so creative with names)

bodyguard!logan howlett x fem!runaway reader

a/n: SMUT 18+ MDNI they, like, never use protection (don't be silly, sheathe your willy) but I’d like to make it 100% clear now that she has a magic uterus and there will be absolutely NO baby-making. Just rocking unprotected sex 😎👍 If you’re tagged in this, it does not mean that I am permanently adding you to my taglist. It just means I saw you in my comments/reblogs/inbox asking for a part two and this was the easiest way to let you know I made one. If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to ask. Summary: Life on the road isn't exactly glamorous. Cramped spaces and too many cheap motels have you and Logan at each other's throats. You feel eyes tracking you everywhere you go but you're afraid to tell him, afraid it will be the end of the road for the both of you. One cheap bar and an explosion later and your whole life is flipped upside down.

“What are you doing?”

You glance over Logan’s shoulder at the register. The man behind it isn’t looking at either of you, just disinterestedly scrolling through his phone.

“Isn’t this what you do?” You ask, motioning to the pack of beef jerky you’re stuffing down your jacket.

Logan scoffs and shakes his head. “No, kid.” He takes the bag from you and rolls his eyes.

“Well, then how do you pay for this stuff?”

“Normally, with the money I get from my jobs. But your dad wasn’t too forthcoming with my last paycheck.”

You feel that familiar burning churn of guilt roiling around in your gut. You’ve definitely added another complication to his life and it makes you feel like nothing more than a burden sometimes. “Oh, Logan, I’m sorry.”

Logan glances down at you. He gives you that familiar appeasing look, squeezing you closer, and drags you towards the register. He tosses the snacks and drinks onto the counter. The guy just barely glances up at you both.

“Will that be all?” He asks in a tone that says he could care less.

“Yeah,” you answer, eyes drifting towards the magazine rack. Your face is plastered on the cover of a cheap tabloid.

LOCAL POLITICIANS DAUGHTER STILL MISSING

Exclusive interview with family on PG. 6

Your eyes go wide and you turn your face further into Logan’s chest. He gives you a confused look before his eyes are snagged by the same thing that caught your attention.

“Why don’t you go wait in the truck?” You nod and slip out of his hold, being mindful to keep your face away from the security camera near the front.

That keeps happening. You hadn’t thought you would have made news, but your father was making this a part of his campaign. Claiming you’d been taken by a mutant bodyguard and that he’s been praying for your safe return. “Experts” have been claiming that with no ransom demanded you’re being turned into a message for anyone who goes against mutants.

Now, mutants despise you and everyone else thinks you’re a martyr. In a few years, you’re sure you’ll be turned into some true crime documentary where people you’ve never met before are crying over your disappearance.

You slide into the truck and let out a deep sigh. You’d thought running away would be freeing. But even a hundred miles from him, you can still feel the cold grip of your father’s hand around your throat.

“Twenty on pump seven,” Logan tosses the cash on the counter, eyes drifting to you in the truck. It was instinct at this point, always keeping an eye on you. Especially since one of your father’s more fanatic supporters had spotted you in a shitty diner a week ago. They’d called the cops and tried to bar you and Logan from leaving.

It hadn’t gone over well for him.

He’d been trying to keep you a little more hidden since then, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d gotten you out of that house to show you what real life was like, to give you a taste of freedom.

He felt like he was no better than your father, keeping you cooped up and covered constantly.

When the kid in front of him doesn’t say anything, Logan clears his throat. He gives him a quizzical look but the boy’s eyes are stuck on the door.

“I swear I know her,” he mutters. Logan’s eyes drift towards the TV behind the counter and he sees an old news story of you. They’re using the footage of the acid attack, claiming you’ve always been the mutant movement’s target.

“Can I get twenty on pump seven,” Logan repeats, voice firm. The kid finally looks at him and whatever expression Logan is wearing is enough for him to finally start moving.

The second the receipt is in his hand he’s rushing out the door. He doesn’t know how long it’s going to take that dumbass to piece two and two together but he can’t risk dawdling.

He fills the tank up, eyes scanning the gas station the entire time. He’s had a cloying sense of paranoia ever since the incident in the diner. He knows that at some point this little run of yours is going to come to an end.

He doesn’t know if it’ll end with cops finding the two of you. Or if you’re going to realize the real world isn’t all that fun and leave him behind. He knows that a girl like you, one who's used to the finer things, is never going to be satisfied by the life he can offer.

But he’s hoping that you come to your senses later rather than sooner. He’s enjoying traveling with you a lot more than he wants to admit.

He gets in the truck, starts it up, and glances over at you. You smile, the smile that makes him feel things he doesn’t like admitting to himself or you.

“All good?” You ask.

He nods, driving off without a word because he doesn’t want to tell you the truth. Doesn’t want to admit what you both know to be a fact. The time you have together has an expiration date and he’s worried it’s creeping closer.

Logan’s inside some shitty roadside motel. Whatever he’s talking about with the owner is clearly getting heated. You can see the way the anger’s growing on his face. His body is tensed up and he looks like he’s five seconds away from leaping over the counter and taking the greasy man leering at him down.

There’s a final word exchanged between them and then Logan is storming back towards the truck. He slams the door closed so hard you’re surprised the windows don’t shatter. Normally, you sleep in the trailer. It’s not always the warmest or coziest, but you make it work.

It’s too cold out tonight to do that and Logan doesn’t have a spare tank for the heating. He’d thought he’d had enough for a cheap room for tonight, but clearly, he doesn’t. There’s a tense silence in the truck as you mentally debate saying anything to him.

His fists are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel you can hear it creaking. You shift, sitting up straighter in your seat and uncurling your legs. There’s a stiffness to your joints that has you groaning. It’s involuntary, ripped out of you simply because you’ve been sitting for too long.

It catches Logan’s attention and he glances over at you. There’s a resigned sort of guilt on his face and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. He’s used to this type of lifestyle, and sometimes you think he’s embarrassed to share it with you.

You’d never judge him for roadside motels or living off cheap gas station meals. You know you were privileged living up with the wealth you did. But there is something infinitely more satisfying about being poor and happy than there ever was being rich and miserable.

“Look, kid,” he lets out a heavy sigh and you mentally prepare yourself for what you’ve been expecting. You were a fun time, a nice ride, but you’re becoming a burden and he can’t deal with it anymore.

You let your nails dig into the thin skin of your palms so you can attempt to ground yourself. “I need to make some money tonight, so I just need you to bear with me for a while.”

Like there is every time he doesn’t boot you to the curb, a relieved rush of air expels from your chest almost violently. “Okay,” you say tentatively, the word dragging out while you try and understand his meaning.

“I just,” he stops and it looks like he’s struggling to find the words to say to you. You wait patiently for him to finish, or try to at least. “There’s a bar nearby. I’ll find some work there,” his words are ominous. They give you nothing and convey so much.

Clearly, he’s hiding something from you. You can tell that much from the way he’s avoiding eye contact with you. He pulls out of the motel’s parking lot and turns the radio on. You’ve learned that's his way of telling you he doesn’t want to talk without being a dick about it.

You want to respect his space because you still feel like an imposter. But it’s hard. He’s being oddly cagey about this.

The drive is short but it feels like you’ve been transported to an entirely different town than the one you were in before. He takes only backroads and middle-class homes turn into shady shops with barbed fences. Caged dogs bark at the truck as it drives by and you get a sinking feeling in your gut.

Perhaps it’s a little classist of you to automatically assume a few low-end homes equate to a bad neighborhood. But instinctually you know something is off about this place.

He parks in front of a run-down bar. Even from here, you can hear loud shouts and jeering coming from inside. You don’t know what’s being said but they’re certainly passionate. Logan turns towards you, the expression on his face so serious you feel like you’re about to be scolded.

“I need you to stay here. I won’t be gone long, just an hour at most. But you need to stay in the truck.”

Your jaw gapes and you scoff at him. “Logan, an hour that’s rid-”

He cuts you off with a stern call of your name. Your mouth snaps shut and you narrow your eyes at him, teeth gritting together to keep your tongue at bay. “Stay here, I mean it. Got it?”

You nod and he repeats your name, sounding aggrieved. “Fine,” you huff. “I got it.” He lingers for a moment. You don’t know if he doesn’t trust you or is just reluctant to leave you alone. You’re reluctant to be left alone, especially in a shady dark parking lot like this. But clearly whatever is going on inside is worse than whatever could happen to you out here.

“I’ll be back soon,” he makes this whole thing sound so grave. It makes your brows furrow and doubt churn in your gut. What could he be doing in there that’s so awful?

He gets out and you watch his form under the flickering street lamps until you can’t see him anymore. You sit quietly in the truck for at least three minutes before you already feel the boredom set in.

You’d thought you’d be able to last longer. You used to go for hours dissociating at your father’s galas. This is different, though. You’re a little afraid to let your guard down here.

You try to listen to music but you feel bad wasting his gas so you just turn the truck off and huddle under a blanket in the trailer. You try and let yourself fall asleep but you don’t last long.

It’s too cold outside to really get a good rest and you can hear people moving around outside the trailer. After about an hour of rolling around and frozen limbs, you figure enough is enough.

As much as you don’t want to provoke Logan or give him any reason to get rid of you, you can’t stay in here all night. Besides, Logan said he wouldn’t be long, you can always just lie and say you were worried about him.

Satisfied with your excuse you leave the comfort of your blanket behind and slip into Logan’s jacket. You tuck the truck keys in your pocket and walk out into the snowy night. It’s less cold outside than it was in the trailer, you can see why he wanted a motel room for the night.

A few people linger by the cars, smoking and muttering to themselves. You slip past them, ignoring the feeling of their eyes burning into your skin. You’re sure it's because you look like you don’t belong here.

The noise in the bar gets louder the closer you get and it reminds you of the night Logan had snuck you out of the house. But you’d had him to lean on, right now, until you find him, you’re on your own. For all the noise coming from the building, the bar is surprisingly empty.

Only a few old men are sitting around, drinking beers in silence. The bartender cleans glasses behind the counter, sparing you an odd look before getting back to work. There’s not very far for you to look before you figure out that Logan isn’t anywhere nearby.

“Excuse me?” The bartender spares you a fleeting glance before barely grunting in greeting.

The floor underneath you tremors and you glance down at it in surprise. You can hear something going on underneath. You figure that has to be where all the noises are coming from. “I’m looking for someone. Tall, mean as hell, he’s got this hair,” you swoop your hands up by the sides of your head, trying to mimic the odd fluff of Logan’s hair.

“Downstairs.” You nod and move around the bar, trying to get to the door behind him. He reaches out, grabbing your bicep and stopping you before you can get far. “It's a forty-dollar entrance fee, sweetheart.”

Your brow furrows in confusion and you frown as you dig around in your jacket pockets. You’ve come too far to be deterred now. Ignoring the moral implications, you slip Logan’s wallet out of his jacket and give the man forty dollars.

He nods towards the door and you give him a weak thank you as you slip past him. Opening the door is like breaking a seal. The noises bombard you almost immediately, so much clearer than they were before.

You still can’t understand what they’re screaming but there’s a violent atmosphere slipping around you as you head down the stairs. The heady smell of cigars and cigarettes threatens to suffocate you. Your eyes water at the smoke in the air.

You’d think you’d have gotten used to secondhand smoking after being around Logan, but he’s less inclined to hotbox the car if you’re beside him. The second your feet hit the floor you’re being jostled to the side violently by the people around you.

It’s nearly impossible to elbow your way through the crowd, but you’re determined to figure out what’s in the middle of the cage that’s got them all excited. You can hear the people around you screaming out bets and numbers you don’t understand.

For one nauseating moment, you think this might be a dog fighting ring, that Logan gambles on it to earn his money. It makes you want to turn around, to shield yourself from the truth. But this is something he tried to keep hidden from you and you need to know the truth about whoever you’re traveling with.

You can hear the announcer, but you can’t get close enough to see anything yet. “Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?” There’s a resounding NO! from the crowd that makes you jump.

A booming voice shouts over the throng of voices, “I’ll take him!”

“Our savior ladies and gentlemen!” You shove through two men, ignoring the way they complain about how their beer sloshes on their sleeves.

“Hey-” You glance over your shoulder as one of them reaches for you. You flick your wrist, sending him and his friend tumbling back into the crowd. You roll your eyes and turn back towards the cage.

Your eyes widen and so do Logan’s as you finally see what exactly is going on. He’s cage fighting, this is what he’d been so secretive about. Honestly, it’s a relief compared to the brutality you were bracing yourself for.

You can see his lips starting to form the shape of your name but the man from before is barrelling into his side as the bell goes off. You wince, jumping away from the cage as you hear the meaty impact of his fist against Logan’s face.

The people near you scream, shouting for Logan’s blood. It’s easy to figure out that he’s been beating everyone he’s gone up against based on some bloody faces in the crowd. It’s smart, easy money. He can always heal, and can never really be beaten, not when he’s literally got fists of steel.

You’re surprised that no one’s ever caught onto this scam of his. You also wonder why he had been so adamant about you not seeing this. Sure, it’s brutal watching blood spray against the mat. But you don’t care. Besides, he’s ridiculously attractive in just his jeans as he pummels into some guy.

Maybe that’s not a normal line of thinking.

You shake your head, shelving that for later as the fight dies down. The man is limp on the mat of the cage and Logan is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigar and pointedly not looking at you.

You feel that familiar twisting feeling in your stomach and wonder if this was a horrible idea. You should have just stayed in the car like he asked. You’re sure it would have only been another hour of tirelessly rolling around before he came back. But you couldn’t help yourself.

He tells you so little about himself. If you get a chance to learn more, you’re going to pounce on the opportunity. Maybe it was a violation of his trust. You sincerely doubt that he would ever willingly have revealed this sort of lifestyle to you, though.

He seems to be under the same misguided intention that you need to be sheltered. It reminds you a little of your father. That might be a cruel comparison but it’s the same suffocating feeling of being kept in the dark to suit their needs.

The guilt you’d been holding unfurls and blossoms into anger. You find yourself retreating away from the cage and rushing back up the stairs of the bar. You don’t want to watch him fight any longer. You don’t want to look at him.

You just want him to treat you like an equal. Not like some little girl who’s going to run at the first sign of things getting hard.

You burst through the door of the bar, ignoring the cold laughter of the bartender behind you. He clearly seemed to think you couldn’t handle a little blood. He wasn’t the only one.

You’re only a couple of feet from the truck when you hear footsteps loudly stomping through the snow behind you. “What the hell were you doing?” You scoff, unbelieving that he would have the gall to shout at you.

You whirl around on him and it catches him off guard. His right foot slides against the slush as he tries to stop himself from ramming into you. “I’m not a little girl, Logan! You don’t need to hide stuff like that from me.”

He crosses his arms and glares down at you. “I wasn’t hiding anything,” he insists. But the tone of his voice gives him away. He doesn’t like that he was caught. “I don’t need to tell you jackshit about what I do for money.”

You can’t believe how he sounds right now. Why is he getting so defensive about this? “I don’t care what you do for money, alright. I just don’t get why you felt like I couldn’t know about this.” You hate the way the hurt is audible in your voice. You wear your heart on your sleeve, even when you try and cover it.

In the same way, he’s masking his feelings with anger, so are you. Just with less success. Something draws across his face, some emotion you can’t discern. His voice goes cold and quiet as he shoves an envelope full of cash into your hands.

“Go back to the motel. Get a room.”

He storms past you and walks towards the trailer. You follow after him, slightly dumbfounded by how he’s behaving. He rips his motorcycle out from the back and rolls it into a parking spot. You watch him do all this with your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

It’s only when he starts to head back towards the bar that you realize he’s not coming with you. “Logan!” You call out, trailing after him slightly. He barely turns back to face you. “Are you,” the words die on your tongue and you can’t find it in yourself to finish.

Are you angry?

Are you leaving?

Are you going to ditch me at the next bus stop?

Instead of asking any of your ridiculously pining questions, you turn on your heel and storm towards the truck. You rip the door open with more force than necessary and drive off without looking back at him. But you know he watches, know he keeps an eye on you until he can’t see you anymore.

Your rides with him are normally silent, but this one feels painfully so.

You nearly get a room with two beds. But you feel like if you do it will be a horrendous mistake. Reluctantly, you give the man behind the counter enough for a room with one bed large enough for the both of you.

You’re not exactly excited about sharing a bed with him, not after how he behaved tonight. You grumble to yourself as you drag your bag inside and toss it on the ground. You picture putting up a wall of pillows between the two of you, just to be petty.

It’s as you’re showering that you realize you might not even have to. He might not come to join you tonight. He won’t know what room you’re in. And he’d made it pretty clear how pissed he was at you for sneaking into the bar.

Maybe you’ve finally pushed him too far. You’ve been toying with the boundaries of his patience for a while. Little tests to determine whether he truly wants you around simply to have a warm body ready beside him. Or if he wants you because he genuinely cares for you.

You suppose tonight, whether you want it or not, you’ll finally have the truth.

The thought keeps you awake. You toss and you turn for hours, fighting with yourself. You should be happy, finally figuring out what’s been haunting you. But you’re not. You’re petrified. You’d rather keep living a lie than finally accept that he truly doesn’t want you.

You throw the covers off, the scratchy material only further adding to your irritation. You stomp into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind you. You turn on the sink splashing some cool water over your face to try and rid yourself of the warmth lingering under your skin. You don’t know if this feeling of being uncomfortable in your own body is from pent-up anger or anxiety.

You don’t care. You just want to sleep this night away and pretend it never happened. But, of course, the universe has other plans. The motel door creaks open as you’re hovering over the sink, debating whether or not you’re nauseous enough to throw up.

You tilt your head slightly towards the sound. Growing up in your house, filtering through rooms like an unheard ghost, allowed you to get good at recognizing footsteps. Logan has finally decided to grace you with his presence.

You listen to him as he creeps silently across the room, landing on the squeaky bed. You press your ear against the door and can hear the way the sheets rustle and he cusses under his breath. There’s worry staining his voice and you figure you shouldn’t drag this on much longer.

You open the bathroom door and flip the switch, turning the lamps on like a disappointed mother waiting up for her teenager. You cross your arms mutely and lean against the doorframe as he winces under the sudden light.

He jumps, just slightly, and glares over at you. “Thought you weren’t here,” he accuses. He tries sounding angry, but you have a sudden rush of clarity in that moment. Where you would normally focus only on him being upset with you, you can see the truth of his concern.

Same as you, he doesn’t know where he stands in this whole situation. You doubt he had a clear plan when he rescued you from your tower like some ridiculous storybook knight. He most likely thought that you left, the same way you thought he would.

You remain silent, though, still a little too flustered to speak coherently. Instead, you examine him. There are cuts and blood all over his shirt. Splatters of it on his face. Though, you know if you looked there would be no physical evidence of him ever being hurt.

His brows furrow the longer you stare, a wall building between the two of you. “Kid?” He questions, equal parts worried and defensive. Does he really think you actually give a fuck about him fighting?

You shake your head and walk back into the bathroom. You rustle around in the cabinet underneath the sink until you find a washcloth. Wetting it, you bring it back out to him. You station yourself between his spread legs, holding the cloth between you like a peace offering.

He looks doubtful as he glances between you and it. Finally, he lets out a rough sigh and simply nods his head. But when he reaches for it you snatch it back, much to his chagrin. You offer him a small smile and tilt his chin up towards you, gently wiping some of the dried blood off his cheeks.

He doesn’t flinch or hiss away from the less-than-gentle fabric. He stares at you unblinkingly, like if he closes his eyes for a moment he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream. “You don’t have to do this, kid.”

You roll your eyes and crane your neck to get a better look at him. “Would you shut up?” You whisper teasingly.

His lips quirk slightly and you can see his shoulder slump in relief at the sound of your voice. “So, she can talk.” You can’t help the little laugh that comes out of you. He grins fully at that and his hands come up to rest on your hips.

His thumbs rub soothing circles along the sides of your waist as his hands dip a little lower. “What are you doing?” Your hand drifts down to his neck to wipe some blood off there as well.

He shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You lift your gaze to his and your lips fall flat, “Logan-”

He cuts you off before you can finish. In one smooth motion, his hands drop to wrap around your thighs. He lifts you slightly and drops you onto his lap. He grins at the slight huff of surprise that rushes out of you.

His arms go back to your waist, pulling you closer to him and grinding you a little against him. You bite your lip to stop any noises from escaping. As much as you wouldn’t mind what he’s thinking, you need to talk.

“Logan,” you scold.

He smirks and tilts his head patronizingly, “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“It’s not happening,” you tell him firmly, hand still working on cleaning him.

He sighs and one of his arms drops away from you. He cups your hand in his, stilling your movements and forcing you to meet his gaze. Gently, he takes the cloth from you and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. “I’m fine,” he whispers, eyes searching yours.

It’s hard meeting his gaze. The worry and anxiety from the night still weigh heavily on your shoulders. He repeats himself, fingers tilting your chin up to face him. “Alright?”

“I don’t care,” the words come rushing out of you before you can stop them. His brows raise in shock and he gives a slight chuckle of amusement. A lump grows in your throat and your eyes grow wide. “Wait, I don’t mean-”

You cut yourself off and rub your hands over your face, trying to get your head on right. Logan’s patient, rubbing your back and clearly trying not to laugh at you. You finally take in a deep breath and face him again.

“I don’t care about the fighting,” you can see his shoulders tense slightly like he doesn’t believe you. “I don’t care, Logan. You do what you have to survive and I’m not gonna judge you for that.”

“What if I enjoy it?” He cuts you off, tone harsh as he glares down at you. There's experience in how quickly he doubts you, how quickly he tries to get you to change your mind about him.

You wonder how many times he’s been rejected just for being a mutant. You’ve only ever been rejected by one person because only he ever knew. Your father. And that hurt enough for one lifetime.

You can’t imagine going for as long as he has and constantly being called a monster for something he can’t control. Your brows furrow and you lean into him until your lips are brushing. He remains stiff beneath you but you don’t let it deter you.

“I don’t care,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his before slowly pulling back. You wait for him to respond, physically or verbally, but he’s still looking at you with that cold unfamiliar gaze.

You wonder if maybe it was a mistake, to bring it up at all. But just as the thought comes he’s surging forward. His lips catch yours, his hands digging so desperately into your shirt you know it rips.

Your arms go to his neck, holding onto him so you don’t slip off his lap. You haven't been this close for a few days. You think it might have made you both feel on edge. There’s a relief that comes from not just having sex with him, but also just being intimate and close to one another.

It’s a reminder that you’re not alone, that there’s someone here beside you to be a partner and a pillar of stability. You’ve never had that before. Someone that you can rely on and trust fully. You don’t think he has either.

He craves you the same way you do him. Each kiss, every shared breath, is treated like it will be your last. You don’t know when your father will finally catch up to the two of you. You don’t know when the police might finally recognize Logan.

There’s no definitive future for either of you. It’s a real possibility that this could be your last night together. And neither of you wants to be upset with each other. Because you were never truly mad. You were always just worried.

Your hands drop to his shirt, dipping to find the holes in it from his fight and ripping at the flimsy fabric until you can just yank it off. He smiles against your lips at the eager way you move atop him. But he can’t tease you, he’s already annoyed with the buttons on your shirt.

He pulls back, glaring down at the fabric like it's insulting him. Without another word, he slices through it, leaving it in tatters on your shoulder. You grin, shrugging the rest of it off. “That was yours.”

He grips your hips tightly and leaves marks where his fingers are as a reminder that he was here. He flips you over, leaves you breathless as he hovers over you. “I really don’t give a fuck, sweetheart.”

You’re addicted to his voice. How breathy and desperate it is when he’s with you. It’s a level of vulnerability you rarely get to see from him. He can’t hide himself when he’s with you like this. He wants you just as badly as you do him.

It gives you a confidence rush like no other, makes your ego grow ten times its size. If you can make a man like this fall to his knees from nothing more than a kiss, then you’re capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for.

But you don’t want that tonight. You reach for him before he can go much further, grabbing him by his hair and tugging until you know it stings. He nearly fucking moans at your rough touch, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. The green of them has been wholly consumed by his desire for you and it makes you ache for him.

“Not tonight,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone. As much as he might want to taste you, devour you, all you want is to be as close to him as possible. You want to be covered and filled by him in every way you can be.

His head falls against your thigh, a rough groan tumbling from his throat at your words. You drag him towards you, pulling him up your body until you’re face to face. You smile softly up at him, lifting your head so you can meet his lips again.

You’ll never get enough of kissing him, of tasting him. Sometimes you have to stop yourself from reaching across the seats and kissing him while he drives. You’ve nearly made him wreck a few times and forced him to pull over so you could both have some fun in the back.

Addiction isn’t the right word for what you feel for him. It brings along its own negative connotations. The taint of dependency and toxicity. With addiction, it’s a parasitic relationship, hurts you but makes you feel good.

This is just goodness. This is a kind touch for the first time in your life and finally feeling safe in someone elses arms. This is opening yourself up to him fully and not once feeling like you need to mold yourself into something else to make him happy. It’s accepting him as he is, a broken dog who likes to fight to punish himself. You don’t want to change him or make him “better.” You just want him to be happy.

You use your powers to help yourself, flipping him over and straddling his hips. You drag his jeans down his legs and flick your wrist, sending them flying somewhere across the room. He watches you with eyes filled with awe, hands drifting over your curves like something to be worshipped.

You know he’s waiting for it, for you to sink yourself down on him and finally be filled. But you wait, hover over him even as the muscles of your thighs tremor. “You don’t hide things from me anymore,” you warn him. You’re not asking, for once, you’re demanding what you want.

He doesn’t look angry like you’d been expecting. Instead, it only seems to turn him on more. “Ya know,” his hands drift to your hips, dragging you down and over his cock until it’s wet with your want. Your nails dig into his chest until there’s blood beading under them and you’re trying not to let your noises slip out.

“I kinda like it when you’re all bossy like this.”

“Logan,” you grit his name out. It takes everything in you not to look as affected by him as you feel. “No more hiding shit.”

He leans up on his elbows. His hand drifts to the nape of your neck and drags you down until your lips are nearly touching his. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Like a taut rope being cut, you sink into him, your hips finally drop and he guides you down every inch of him until you feel like you’re so full you can’t breathe. He lets you linger for a moment, and get used to this feeling while he steals the very air from your lungs.

He’s greedy with the way he touches you. His hands always moving like he’ll never fully be satisfied with how much of you he can feel. He’s always reaching for you like he needs to make sure you’re actually real and not just something he’s dreamt up.

Even with how impatient he is, you’re always the one that moves first. You roll your hips over him, moaning at how he feels inside you. It’s like he’s perfectly molded you around him. He always manages to brush against the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head.

The second your hips begin to roll, he’s wrapping his heavy arms around you, grinding you down into him. He keeps you trapped in place, using you like a toy as he bounces you on his lap. Your mind is fuzzy, every bad thought and feeling shoved out while he makes you go dumb on his dick.

You love how boneless you go. You don’t have to think now, don’t have to worry. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, shifting yourself further on top of him until you're practically burying yourself under his skin.

Not thinking always comes with its own consequences, though. Your powers slip a little out of your grasp. The walls trembling and the drawers and cabinets opening and closing. The both of you have gotten used to the noise, know how to drown it out, and just focus on each other.

One of these days, you’ll need to figure out a way to have sex with him without bringing the room down around you. That’s a problem for later though. His whispered praises and grunts of your name filter through your mind until there’s nothing left inside you but him.

“Fuck,” he hisses in your ear, “you’re so fucking tight around me. You close?” He grunts, hand drifting down to rub tight circles on your clit. You dig your nails into his shoulders, nodding your head frantically against his neck. “Words, sweetheart.”

“Shit,” you can barely think of your own damn name. Let alone what you want from him. “Fuck off,” you hiss. He chuckles at the attitude and you almost expect him to stop, just to be a dick because you were a brat.

But he’s just as close as you are and he’s too selfish to tease. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes down on you as your body shakes against his. He follows quickly after you, warmth shooting up inside you and almost leaking down your thighs. You feel stuffed, like your body’s been pushed to the limit and further.

You both sit together in silence for a while. You ignore the way your skin sticks to his uncomfortably, instead reveling in the warmth he provides you. Anyone else, and you’d be rushing to get away from them.

You’re always extra sensitive after sex, every little thing setting you off. But there’s a comfort to the way his hairy ass chest brushes against your breasts and his arms squeeze around you. It’s a nice grounding feeling.

The tips of your fingers drift over his arms, following the path of his veins and brushing against his fingers lazily. He flips his palm over, encasing your hand in his own wordlessly. Little things like that ease your worries. Makes you feel like something more than just a quick fuck.

He breaks the silence first, which is rare for him. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

You frown and peer up at him. “I told you, I don’t care about the fighting.”

He sighs and shakes his head, “Not that. I shouldn’t have gotten so fucking mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You want to interrupt him, assure him that you both acted pretty childishly.

But you understand it’s difficult for him to express himself verbally. He usually prefers silent acts of apologies and expression, you don’t want to mess him up before he can get out what he wants to say.

“I don’t want to be like your father.” Your face screws up a little and you shift uncomfortably on his lap. He loosens his grip, giving you room to leave if you want to, but you stay put. “I’m trying not to coddle you, sweetheart, or hide you away from the world. But I don’t like you seeing that shit.”

“You’re not my dad, Logan. He wouldn’t give me a choice,” you try and joke but it just seems to make him more irritated. Sighing you straighten up, bracing yourself on his chest and staring down at him.

Your head tilts to the side in contemplation and he almost looks uncomfortable under the attention. “I’m not so fragile or sheltered that I’m going to shatter at the first taste of the real world, Logan. I mean, for god’s sake, I’ve had acid thrown at me and bodyguards since I could walk. I know how dangerous it is. Whatever you want to hide from me, I’ve seen worse.”

You let your words sink in for a moment and he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You know that it’s odd for him, to comprehend a girl who was afraid to go into a bar swallowing down an illegal fighting ring like it’s nothing. But you’re not lying. Everyday little things are what you’re unused to. But you’ve lived alongside violence your whole life.

“Look, fighting, sleeping in shitty motels, and your truck, that doesn't bother me. But I don’t like when you hide things and I don’t,” you take in a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. This is what you’ve been trying to tell him for weeks.

A few little words have your tongue tied and make you desperate to cover yourself up again. He can see the shift in your expression, and feel how tense you get. He sits up a little more, thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand.

“I don’t want to just be someone to fuck you, Logan. I didn’t come with you so you’d have easy access pussy,” he looks thoroughly amused at your crude words, but there’s something else lingering in his expression. Something like hurt.

“Is that what you think?” He asks, tone distant. You can’t find the words so you simply nod. He sighs and shakes his head. He eases you off his lap and you worry you’ve truly fucked this up somehow.

He goes into the bathroom, returns with a wet washcloth. He still doesn’t speak and you’re on edge the entire time he cleans the both of you up. You can see he’s thinking, biting his tongue, and trying to figure out what it is that he wants to say to you.

You’re impatient, five seconds away from just demanding a response from him. He tosses the cloth and drops into bed beside you. You draw the sheets up to your chest, glaring down at him while he rubs his hands over his face with a tired sigh.

When he opens his eyes again he laughs at how close you are. “Jesus,” he wraps an arm around your waist, dragging you down into his chest even though you fight him. It must be easier for him to speak when you’re not staring at him.

“I didn’t go back for you so I could fuck you, kid. I… care about you,” there’s a long pause before he says the word care. You think it’s funny, that he can’t bring himself to admit what he actually feels. But you’ll take it, you’ll give him the time he needs to come to terms with the truth.

For now, you let yourself fall asleep, feeling just a little bit better about the road ahead.

Things get easier between the two of you. And somehow harder at the same time. You don’t walk on eggshells around each other, no longer afraid of scaring the other off now. Which also means that you find it easier to bicker with him about little things. Like, not just tossing his trash everywhere in the truck. You’re practically living out of the trailer, the least he could do is help you keep it tidy.

You know it’s weird for him. Suddenly having someone nag at him not to be a slob or to take breaks in between driving so he doesn’t wear himself out. It’s an adjustment you see him struggle with sometimes.

You try not to be too pushy, but there’s only so many times you can flick crumbs from his burgers off your seat before you lose it. “Logan!” You snap, glaring at him as you stand up only to find chip crumbs squished into the fabric of your leggings.

He glances over at you and shrugs, “What?”

You glance between the crumbs and him with a glare but he doesn’t seem to be connecting the dots. “Fucks sake,” you grumble, passive-aggressively wiping the truck seat off before you slam the door and storm towards the diner.

You’re sick of being cramped in the truck. You’re sick of the greasy food. You’ve begun to crave salads lately. Which is beyond weird. But the novelty of shitty food and milkshakes wore off a hundred miles ago.

Logan catches up to you, huffing with irritation as he swings the door open for you. You take a seat in the booth near the corner, snatching up the menu and pointedly staring at it and not him. “Really?” He demands. When you don’t answer he tips the menu down, forcing you to meet his gaze. “What is your problem?” He hisses, trying not to draw attention to you both.

You lean in, voice a harsh whisper. “How hard is it to just not make a mess? We live out of that damn truck, the least you could do is keep your crumbs on your side.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in the booth. You’re both sick of having the same fight. But there’s really nothing else to do anymore. When you’re stuck together for so long, it’s the small things that get to you.

You’re going to say more but the waitress pops in front of you out of nowhere. “Hi!” She beams and gives you her name, the bows in her hair trembling at how hyper she is. “What can I get you both today?”

You and Logan place your orders, and he shoots you an odd look when you only order the salad. “We’ve got a couple more hours ahead of us, you’re gonna get hungry.”

You cross your arms and shrug, “No, I won’t.”

He licks his lips, sucking on his teeth and leaning against the table. “Yes, you will,” he argues with a stern voice.

You narrow your eyes at him and give him a bitter smile. “Kiss. My. Ass.”

Your stomach grumbles for the third time and you know that Logan can hear it. You’re pointedly not making eye contact with him. It feels like it's louder than the music at this point and you really don’t want to prove him right.

Without a word, he begins to dig around in the center console. You glance towards him, confused, “What’re you doing?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tosses whatever he’s grabbed onto your lap. You glance down at it and frown. It’s somehow cold as you unwrap it. You pull the parchment paper away and let out a relieved sigh.

He ordered you a wrap from the diner without you realizing. You take a bite, your hunger steadily easing away. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, pointedly looking out the window.

He glances over at you and scoffs. “What was that? Couldn’t hear ya, kid.”

You roll your eyes and turn to glare at him. He’s already looking at you, a teasing tilt to his lips. “I said I’m sorry,” you snap. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch.”

He shakes his head and waves you off. “I haven’t exactly been pleasant myself. I’ll,” he huffs lowly and forces the words out, “clean up more.”

“I think we’ve just been stuck on the road too long. We’re gonna end up driving each other insane.”

His eyes glance along the signs on the highway. There’s a notice for food and shopping at the next exit and he nods towards it. “We’ll stop at a motel for a few nights. Take a break.” You want to ask him if he’s sure that’s smart.

It seems risky, to slow down for so long. But you need to walk around, breathe fresh air, and stretch your legs. You’re too selfish to tell him not to stop and keep going. Instead, you nod and smile at him. “That sounds really nice.”

He gives you a slight smile that’s gone as quickly as it came, reaching over and resting his hand on your thigh. You move closer to him and he turns the radio up. You wonder why he doesn’t want to talk anymore but you don’t push it. You’re too excited to finally get out of the truck again.

The town is nice enough. It’s small, with only a few shops where you buy some new shirts to replace one’s that Logan has torn up. The motel you’re staying at doesn’t have a washing machine so you have to use the laundromat to wash your clothes.

Logan says he’s going to see if he can find a quick job nearby. You wonder if that means a real job or a more bloody one. You decide not to ask questions, instead taking the little change you have and figuring you’ll try to get the smell of grease out of all your clothes.

As you load the machine up and put your quarters in you can’t escape the feeling of someone watching you. You’ve been on high alert ever since Logan stole you away from the house. But this is different.

You’ve gotten used to your own paranoia, you know when it’s real or not. You walk away from the machine, glancing out at the glass walls near the front and trying to see if there’s someone out there. This, oddly enough, doesn’t feel like a police stakeout where they’re going to track you back to the motel and bust Logan.

This is something different. There is a deep-seated primal fear in you that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your heart races as your eyes search the dark street outside. What little glow comes from the streetlights isn’t enough for you to clearly make anything out.

But you feel them, tracking your every move. They’re somewhere nearby, you can’t see them but they see you. You feel sick to your stomach. You glance at the door before racing towards it. You turn the lock, slowly backing away and keeping your eyes trained on the street.

You look into the shadows and find shapes and movements where there are none. Your eyes spin as your brain crafts a horrible image of some monster waiting outside for you. When the timer for the washer goes off you let out a sharp scream, spinning around and clutching your chest as you glare at it.

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter, angrily running your hand over your face and trying to catch your breath. You put the clothes in the dryer and by the time you're done, the feeling is gone. You don’t know if they were never there to begin with, or if they got bored and left.

You’d told Logan that you didn’t need a ride, you’d just walk the short distance back to the motel. Now, you use the phone on the front counter and call him, telling him you’ve changed your mind after all.

By the time he picks you up, he looks incredibly concerned. You know you sounded panicked when you called him. You still feel upset about the whole thing. But when he asks what’s wrong you just tell him you got a little scared walking back in the dark.

You don’t tell him someone was watching you because you know he’ll make you pack up and leave again. You want some stability. Even if it's just for a week. So, as stupid as it is, you lie to him and say everything’s fine.

When you try to go to sleep that night you feel like you’re being watched again. Even with the curtains closed their eyes burn into you. You toss and turn under the heavy weight of the sheets, struggling to get comfortable.

There’s a low grumble behind you before Logan throws his arm over your waist and tugs you back into his chest. “Stop movin’ around,” he demands, his voice barely audible. You smile a little at how tired he sounds before forcing yourself to settle down.

He doesn’t give you much choice, using his body as a weight to keep you pinned. You still feel their gaze, even more now, but his proximity brings you enough comfort to get a little bit of restless sleep.

Logan’s up before you, he always is. He comes in with cheap coffee and free breakfast from the lounge. You push the sheets off your legs, your shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat of your nervous sleeping. You feel a little more at ease this morning.

You wonder if you’re developing some late-in-life fear of the dark. You don’t know why you were so upset last night, you feel perfectly fine now. It’s almost like it was all one bad dream. Logan walks over, handing you the coffee wordlessly and rustling around in your bag for something.

He pulls out the envelope of cash you keep stashed away and frowns at the contents. “Found a job,” he mutters, stuffing the envelope away and turning back towards you. He leans against the desk, face pensive.

You rub your eyes, trying to wake yourself up a bit more so you sound coherent. “What is it?” You take a sip of the coffee and your face screws up at the aftertaste.

“Fighting,” his tone is clipped and you wonder what’s got him up in arms. He walks past you, heading into the bathroom, and closing the door behind him. You tilt your head, gaze following him curiously. He doesn’t normally close the door, he usually likes to invite you to join him.

Something happened and you wonder if he’s hiding the same thing you are. You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath and closing your mind off to the fear from last night.

By the time Logan is done in the bathroom, you’re feeling more awake. You can’t just dismiss what happened last night. You’ve never gotten scared like that before. You refuse to ignore your instincts, but you’re also not going to let whoever that was terrify you into going back on the road.

You don’t want things between you and Logan to grow more tense than they already are. The time away from each other yesterday helped a lot. You no longer want to strangle him when you hear him breathe. You’ll just stick closer to him today and see if you feel the eyes on you again tonight.

“So,” you start, testing the waters to see if he’s still in a bad mood. He glances over at you, eyebrows quirked in curiosity but you’re tongue-tied as you stare at him. However many weeks you’ve been with him and you’re never gonna get used to seeing him straight out of the shower.

The towel is draped low on his hips, giving you a taunting look at what lies underneath the white cloth. Droplets drip down his abs and you’ve never wanted to be water more than you do right now. It’s unfair, just how attractive he is.

You always forget what you’re going to say. You can’t think when he has a shirt off, it’s infuriating. Scoffing, you turn away from him and shake your head. You hear him chuckle, you know he knows what you’re thinking about.

“What’s wrong?” He creeps up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you back into his chest.

“Logan, dammit,” water soaks into the back of your shirt uncomfortably and you tilt your head to glare at him.

He smirks down at you, “Cat got your tongue, kid?”

You roll your eyes and push away from him. “I can’t even remember what I was going to say.” You snatch a shirt from the dresser and shove it into his hands. “Put this on.”

He scoffs and gives you a disbelieving look. “Are you serious?” You wait for him, gaze expectant. You’re not gonna be able to think when he looks like this. Sighing, he acquieses and tugs the shirt on. His lips fall into a sarcastic line, “Happy?”

Like a switch being flipped you finally remember what you were going to ask him. “The job you told me about. Where is it?”

You can see on his face how little he wants to divulge that information to you. But you know he’s going to tell you. You two made a deal not to hide things, although, you might be breaking your side of that right now.

“Some shitty bar a few miles from here. Listen-”

You’re not gonna like it.

I don’t want you tagging along.

You should just stay here and read or some shit.

You wonder which one he’ll pick today. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s just a shitty little place where I can make some quick cash.” Look at that, it’s rarely ever your first pick excuse. You must be getting better at reading him.

“I’ll come with you,” you tell him because you’re not asking. You’re not staying by yourself tonight and you both need the money. You grin at him even as his face falls in disappointment. “Maybe I’ll fight.”

He doesn’t even say anything and you immediately regret what you said. The look he’s giving you would put you six feet under if it could. “It was just a joke,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t funny, kid,” he tells you, tone clipped as he moves around you to grab his jeans. “I don’t even want you in those places, let alone fuckin’ fighting.”

You purse your lips and take a seat on the bed, handing him his jacket when he begins looking for it. “I have abilities too, you know. Maybe I could win a fight.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “I win because I can take the hits people deal me. You can’t,” you don’t bother arguing with him that you heal too. You understand what he means. You might be able to recover physically, but there’s a mental aspect to being knocked on the ground. There’s humiliation and fear in cage fights, you probably wouldn’t be able to handle that side of it.

He waits for you to say anything else but when he realizes you’ve dropped the subject he lets out a relieved sigh. “You’ll stay in the truck,” he tries.

You give him a deadpan look, slipping the keys out of your purse and handing them to him. “No way in hell, but I’ll stay by the bar if it makes you feel better.” He stays silent and nods but you know he’ll try and convince you otherwise when you actually get to the place. Tough luck, though, you don’t think it’s safe for either of you to be apart tonight. Even if it’s just staying in the truck.

The setup of these places is always the same. Though, this bar seems to be particularly disgusting in comparison to other ones you’ve been to. You position yourself near the corner, your back to the wall so you’re less likely to be noticed in the crowd.

The fights never last more than a few minutes. And that’s if Logan is feeling generous. Most of the time you only need to be here an hour before people get pissed off and go home. Someone bumps into you and you hear a small, “I’m sorry,” before they rush to claim a stool.

The crowd’s already begun to die out. Most leave while they still have a little money left in their pockets. You duck your head down, catching the eye of the girl who’d bumped into you. She looks young and incredibly skittish. Her eyes keep darting to the tip jar near the bartender.

She quietly asks for water but the bartender just shakes his head, tugging the jar closer to him. You don’t know why you’re drawn to her, maybe it’s because she looks like one of those sad pound puppies, but you take a seat beside her.

“Water,” you order, slipping him some change. When he gives it to you, you pass it off to her, spotting the greedy way she eyes it. You know a runaway when you see one, she clearly needs a little help. But Logan’s got enough on his shoulders, you’re not gonna bug him with adding another person to the mix.

“Thank you,” she gulps it down like she hasn’t drunk anything in days. You feel your stomach twist with empathy. What little cash you have in your wallet, you slip into her bag as you pass by her. Logan will have made enough for it to be spared and it's the least you can do.

Not everyone is as lucky as you to have someone help them navigate a new life.

Logan grabs his jacket, wiping blood off from under his nose and heading towards you. You know he’ll want a drink before you go, he always does. Before he can say anything someone’s shouting the name he uses in the cage. “Hey, Wolverine! I want my fucking money back.”

The big man he’d knocked down earlier takes a step towards him. His friend tries to hold him back, but there’s no stopping him. He’s already had his ass kicked once, what makes him think this is going to be any different?

“Not your money anymore, bub.” Logan scoffs and turns back towards you. You just want to leave now. You don’t want to stay for a drink or go get something to eat. You feel the eyes on you again, but when you turn to find them there’s no one there but the girl.

And she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are wide and staring at something else. “Behind you!” She screeches, and both you and Logan whirl around to find the man barreling towards him with a knife outstretched.

Logan moves so quickly that you stumble back slightly. He grabs the guy's arm, twisting his wrist until the knife drops to the ground. He shoves him back against the wall, claws out and pinning him there.

“Shit,” you whisper, glancing around as the few patrons of the bar stare in horror at Logan. The people counting his money stop and tuck it back into the cash box. You clench your eyes shut in irritation, he’s not gonna be getting paid tonight, that’s for sure.

There’s a strange noise behind you, like someone cocking a gun. You turn around slowly, gasping when you see the bartender pointing the barrel of his shotgun at your chest. He’s not aiming it at Logan, he’s aiming it at you. Like he somehow knows that’s the only way to get him to back off.

It’s not like he was going to kill the guy, besides, he came at him with a knife first. What’s the difference if Logan’s a mutant? He’s defending himself. Why does no one understand that?

“Get out of my bar,” the old man warns lowly, taking a step closer to you. Logan turns around and finally spots what’s going on.

“Pay me and I’ll be on my way.” You know you’d be able to heal from the shotgun blast, but you don’t exactly want to go through it.

The old man laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not getting paid, buddy. Get the fuck out of my bar before I put a hole in your little girlfriend.”

Your eyes narrow in disbelief. You debate with yourself for a moment, if this is smart or not. But the guy’s being a prick and you’re sick of people treating mutants like they’re less than nothing. You flick your wrist and the shotgun goes flying out of his hand.

You glance over at the cashbox and it comes floating towards you, landing easily in your outstretched palm. “Be thankful I’m not blowing a hole in you,” you warn, glaring at the cowering man. You walk forward and he stumbles back and you try not to focus on the sick feeling of satisfaction it brings you. You grab the tip jar and shove it towards the girl at the end of the bar. “Good luck, kid.”

Logan releases the man from the before, taking a step towards you. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and rush towards the exit of the bar. You need to just get the fuck out of this town as quickly as possible, you’re not safe here anymore.

Logan seems to agree with you. He gets into the truck and doesn’t turn back to the motel. Instead, he turns onto the highway while you keep your eyes peeled on the trees outside your window. There’s someone out there, still following you.

“Something’s wrong with the suspension,” you glance up from where you’d been working on breaking open the cashbox and frown. Logan’s glaring down at the steering wheel, it seems like he’s struggling to get it to turn properly.

“What?”

He scoffs and glares at you, “How should I know?” He pulls over to the side of the road, opens his door, and lets in a rush of cool air and snow. You toss the cashbox to the back of the trailer and follow after him.

He goes to where he’s pulling his motorcycle and you feel like you notice an extra bump under the tarp. “What’s that?” You take a step towards it just as Logan pulls it back. You have to bite back a laugh when you see the girl from last night curled up next to his motorcycle.

She gives you both guilty looks and slowly sits up. “I’m sorry,” Logan offers her a hand and she gets out of the trailer. He grabs her bag and drops it at her feet. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Find a different ride,” he growls, already heading back to the truck. You open your mouth, prepared to argue, but you can’t force her on him. As much as you might want to help her. She’s better off away from the two of you.

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” She snaps at him, a little attitude finally showing through.

“Yep!” He gets in the truck and you know he wants to drive off immediately but he has to wait for you. You shoot her an apologetic look as you follow after him, slipping into the seat beside him. He starts the engine, driving off slowly, eyes drifting towards the rearview mirror.

You bite your tongue, trying not to point out how cruel he is leaving her on a snowy highway in the middle of nowhere. He glances over at you, “What?” He snaps.

You shake your head and shrug. “Nothing.” You’ve barely finished speaking before he’s slamming on his brakes.

“God dammit,” he mutters, running a hand over the stubble on his jaw. You can’t help the grin on your face, reaching over to open your door. It doesn’t take long for the girl to catch on, scooping up her bag and chasing after you.

“You’re such a softie,” you tease him.

“Shut the hell up.”

Rogue is nice, if not a little odd. She claims to be a mutant too but doesn’t want to give specifics on her abilities. You don’t want to push her but you are curious about the gloves she wears. “What kind of name is Wolverine?” She asks, spotting Logan’s tags.

He glances over at her and smiles slightly, “What kind of a name is Rogue?”

She goes to say something but you throw your arm out, holding her back as you shout, “Logan, watch out!” He tries to hit his brakes in time but the tree’s already coming down. The truck slams into it and it’s like time slows down, only for a moment.

You can feel the impact of your body against the windshield, the glass dragging along your scalp and skin. It’s like a million razors each slicing into you. And then, you’re flying through the air, head snapping so hard against the ground you can’t see anything.

You hear something happening around you, a roar that doesn’t sound human echoing through the air. There’s the sound of metal crunching and someone is screaming in the distance but you can’t see. It’s not like a total void of darkness, there’s just nothing.

You feel the blood slowly leaking down the back of your skull and something lands harshly against your head. You don’t think much time has passed. When your eyes finally open, however, you’re not lying on the pavement.

The world around you is foreign. It smells like a hospital but it’s not like any you’ve ever seen. X-rays are hanging on the wall and paperwork is scattered on a desk near the bed you’re lying on.

Your mind is blank for a moment. Slowly turning back on while you process the sudden change of scenery. You don’t even remember closing your eyes, you don’t know when your vision came back to you or how long you’ve been here.

The terror sets in quickly. You throw the blankets off your legs, staring down at the pajamas you wear in disgust. Someone had changed you. They’d run tests and done X-rays on you and you don’t remember a second of it.

You rip the needle out of your arm, tossing it to the floor and running towards the door. Your feet slip on the metal floors as you run but you’re afraid to stop. Everything around you looks more and more like a lab.

Did someone from the bar call some government agency? You’ve heard horror stories from your father about the tests the military has run on mutants. You’re starting to worry that’s what's happening to you.

But you doubt the military would make it so easy for you to escape. This has to be something else. You’d heard other voices when you’d been lying on the ground. People who had been trying to help. Could that be who took you?

“You caught on quicker than your friend.” You nearly fall flat on your face, flipping around to see who spoke. But no one’s there. You’re completely alone. “I’m just grateful you didn’t choke out one of my associates.” it’s coming from beside you now.

It’s all around you, the voice floating through the walls until you think he might be in your mind. “Much faster than your friend,” he sounds gleeful and it makes you even more anxious. “I’m a telepath, darling, nothing to fear. If you’d just take that elevator and come up to meet me.”

You’d have to be an idiot to actually listen to the voices in your head. But you don’t see another way out of here. So, reluctantly, you follow the floating voice’s instructions and slip inside the elevator.

When the door opens up again you don’t have a chance to step inside before someone’s pushing you back. Logan stands in front of you, hands clamped tightly around your shoulders while he looks you over.

You sink into his arms, hugging him tightly to you. You’d been terrified you were all alone here. It’s more than a relief to see him again. “You’re okay?” He asks, pulling back to look at you one last time.

You nod, throat too dry to try and form a coherent sentence. You glance over his shoulders brows furrowed at the people awkwardly watching you reunite. There’s a man in a wheelchair smiling at you, “Ah, glad you could make it.” The floating voice, of course. “Logan here was quite worried about you.”

Logan turns to glare at the man and you offer a slight smile. There is something comforting about him. You’re not exactly threatened by an old guy in a wheelchair. The redhead behind him, however, is bugging you. Something about the way she’s looking at Logan doesn’t sit right with you.

“Welcome to my school for the exceptionally gifted,” something about the way he says that makes you tilt your head in confusion. You don’t know what he means until there’s a puff of smoke behind him and some kid is walking by with their hair on fire like it’s nothing.

Mutants. It’s an entire school for mutants. You think you could pass out again.

“It’s the best place we could have ended up, Logan. This is amazing.” You’ve been going back and forth for an hour. He won’t see reason. He keeps saying you need to leave. That you don’t know these people and it could all be one big trap.

You don’t understand him, why he’s so desperate to get away from people like the both of you. You’re rejected in every other corner of society. You could have something real here.

It hits you at once. That’s the problem. He’s not ready for something real. He’s not used to it because he’s never had it before. At least you could pretend at a sense of normalcy living at home. It’s an entirely new concept to him, sticking to one place for so long.

“We don’t know these people,” he hisses, leaning over the bed to argue with you. You narrow your eyes but your conversation is cut off by a knock on the door. You sigh, walking away from him and swinging the door open.

Jean is on the other side, a surprised look on her face when she sees you. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was trying to drop these off to Logan.” You glance down at the towels in your hand and give her a strained smile. That’s a flimsy excuse if you’ve ever seen one. “I must have the wrong room.”

You step to the side, opening the door wider so she can see him. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy angrily unmaking the bed. “No, you have the right one.” You hold your hands out expectantly, “I can just take those for you.”

The look on her face is priceless and finally causes a real smile to grow on your lips. She wordlessly hands you the towels, looking disappointed. You don’t know if it's because of what she was trying to do, or because she couldn’t do it.

Before she leaves you call out a quick, “Tell Scott I said thank you again. Wouldn’t be here without him, after all.” Her shoulders tense and she rushes back down the hall. Whatever little crush or interest she has with Logan is going to need to be dealt with on her own.

You’ve got enough shit going on without having to worry about her too. You shake your head and slam the door shut, tossing the towels on the desk. Logan sits on the bed, watching you with an odd look.

“What was that about?”

“She’s into you,” you tell him bluntly, waiting for his reaction. He doesn’t even blink, just glances between the towels and you before shrugging.

“Not interested.” You don’t want to admit that you feel any relief. There was never any real doubt. But it’s still nice to be reassured.

You slip into bed beside him, taking his hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. “I know that this isn’t what either of us was expecting, but this is good, Logan. We don’t have to worry about pretending we’re something we’re not. We don’t have to worry about my dad or anyone finding us.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced. But he lets out a heavy sigh and drags you closer to him. He tucks your head under his chin, placing a brief kiss against your forehead. “If you want to stay, we’ll stay. But I’m not putting on that fucking costume.”

You laugh a little, peering up at him with a grin, “Deal.”

There’s a place for you here, even if there isn’t in the rest of the world. You can be safe here, you don’t have to worry anymore. You don’t have to fear the eyes on the back of your head because they can’t get you here.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡

Logan Taglist: @nonamevenus @smexy-bucky-waifu @wh1sp @peony-always @corvusmorte

@mrs-ephemeral @wolviesgirl @allilium @insomniachox ♡

Asked for part two: @enchantedbutterflies @strawberrylore @ittoscumdump @enananawoah @wotcherboo

@cali0101 @fluffy-b33z @pcrushinnerd @izbelross @saltwaterburns

@likeficsinthewnd ♡

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #wolverine #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #hugh jackman x reader #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman

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jjunieworld · 5 months ago

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THE PLAYER’S GAME ˒˒ 엔하이픈 ❨ 𝓈𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝓂𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ❩

─── “there’s no winner in the player’s game. it’s best to know that before it’s too late.”

they say that all is fair in love and war, but how much more can you take? how much more are you willing to take? limits will be tested and they know just what buttons to push until you find out. do be careful of ending up with a broken heart… it’s highly unlikely that they will be there to pick up the pieces. must be read in order for each story to make sense .ᐟ

genre﹙📖﹚⸝⸝⸝ written series, ??? to lovers, smut, a lot of angst, fluff, beach au, summer fling/summer romance, lifeguard!jake and lifeguard!jay, surfer and stoner!heeseung, love triangle, please refer to full genres in each part…

warnings ‎⸝⸝⸝ the boys are very toxic, player!jake and player!sunghoon, fwb!heeseung, jealousy, manipulation and gaslighting, possessiveness, corruption kink, alcohol and drugs (weed), a lot of unprotected sex (don’t do this!), soft dom!jake, mean dom!jay, hard dom!heehoon, please refer to full warnings in each part…

kipo’s note ‎⸝⸝⸝ so surprise!!! a lot of people were asking for part two of meet me at our spot and i’ve granted you a whole written series in return! the updates for these will be slow as i am a slow writer. each part will be long and that will take some time to write, so please don’t rush me. things on this mlist are subject to change as i get more things planned and outlined! i hope you enjoy and remember, do be careful of ending up with a broken heart. all feedback and reblogs are welcome! ♡

∿ [ total wc: 49.5k so far ] ⋆ [ status: ongoing ] ∿ [ continue on to . . . series tag , playlist , masterlist ]

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏YOU HAVE NOW RECEIVED A MESSAGE FROM . . . ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏answer now or ignore it?

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

▸ THE TOWN’S RENOWN PLAYER, JAKE SIM.

[ PART ONE: ] MEET ME AT OUR SPOT

with the news of your grandma’s depleting health, life has you moving to your mother’s seaside hometown for the summer to your aunt’s. while there, you meet the illustrious player—jake sim—that everyone can’t seem to stop talking about. what you never expected was to gain his attention and spend the three months you’re there falling for him.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ sim jaeyun x fem!reader 𓄵 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 jungwon, lifeguard!jay, player!sunghoon, and oc hana (jake’s ex)

genre﹙📓﹚⸝⸝⸝ angst, smut, fluff, strangers to temporary lovers, beach au, summer fling/summer love, lifeguard!jake, blonde!jake, kindaaa slow burn, h2o jokes references (i had to), slice of life, lifeguarding & surfing inaccuracies, reader is jungwon’s cousin please check actual post for full warnings!

∿ [ 22k ] ⋆ [ click here to be added to series taglist! ] my permanent taglist will already be added! minors, ageless, and blank blogs will not be added.

[ PART TWO: ] THE SALT UNDER THE SEA

the death of your grandma has you returning back to your mother’s seaside hometown—the same town you left jake in a year ago—for good. now that you’re back, so are the feelings you really desperately wished to leave behind. it doesn’t help that now you’re caught in the crossfire of two guys with a rough past who want to be with you.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ sim jaeyun x reader, park jongseong x reader 𓄵 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 cousin jungwon, bestfriend!jay, player!sunghoon, and oc hana (jake’s ex)

genre﹙📓﹚⸝⸝⸝ exes to lovers, bestfriends to ???, angst, smut, fluff, lifeguard!jake, ex player!jake, bestfriend!jay, lifeguard!jay, lifeguarding inaccuracies, love triangle, slice of life, some h2o references, beach au, summer romance please check actual post for full warnings!

∿ [ 27.5k ] ⋆ [ click here to be added to series taglist! ] my permanent taglist will already be added! minors, ageless, and blank blogs will not be added.

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

▸ THE ONE WHO GOT PLAYED, JAY PARK.

[ PART THREE: ] JADED DAYLIGHT

after recent events, jay decided that the whole dating scene isn’t for him. that is, until you break down all of his walls and change his whole perspective.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ park jongseong x fem!reader 𓄵 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 surfer and stoner!heeseung, mentions of jake’s y/n, lifeguard!jake, mentions of oc hana

genre﹙📓﹚⸝⸝⸝ strangers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine trope, jay is kinda mean lmao, angst, smut, fluff, lifeguard!jay, lifeguarding & surfing inaccuracies please check actual post for full warnings!

status ‎⸝⸝⸝ in progress . . . ⋆ wip post

∿ [ 0.0k ] ⋆ [ click here to be added to series taglist! ] my permanent taglist will already be added! minors, ageless, and blank blogs will not be added.

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

▸ THE HEAD GAMEMAKER, PARK SUNGHOON.

[ PART FOUR: ] THE ONLY HEARTBREAKER

you knew you should’ve stayed far, far away from him, but you had fallen on hard times and were desperate. after a particularly bad breakup, your road led you right into sunghoon’s bed—and he didn’t seem to mind that you were using him as a sort-of rebound.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ park sunghoon x fem!reader 𓄵 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 lifeguard!jake

genre﹙📓﹚⸝⸝⸝ friends with benefits to lovers, angst, smut, fluff, player!sunghoon, reader treats him as a rebound and he’s -sort of- okay with it, hoon is a real asshole, he fell first and he fell harder please check actual post for full warnings!

status ‎⸝⸝⸝ in progress . . . ⋆ wip post

∿ [ 0.0k ] ⋆ [ click here to be added to series taglist! ] my permanent taglist will already be added! minors, ageless, and blank blogs will not be added.

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

▸ THE UNDERCOVER PLAYER, LEE HEESEUNG.

[ PART FIVE: ] NO STRINGS ATTACHED

there’s only one thing that is worse than getting hurt by somebody—getting played. worse? getting played by someone when you’re the player. especially by someone with an ego bigger than the sun.

pairing ‎⸝⸝⸝ lee heeseung x fem!reader 𓄵 iηcℓudᥱs 𓈓 lifeguard!jay

genre﹙📓﹚⸝⸝⸝ strangers to friends with benefits to lovers, angst, smut, fluff, surfer and stoner!heeseung, lifeguarding & surfing inaccuracies please check actual post for full warnings!

status ‎⸝⸝⸝ in progress . . . ⋆ wip post

∿ [ 0.0k ] ⋆ [ click here to be added to series taglist! ] my permanent taglist will already be added! minors, ageless, and blank blogs will not be added.

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏

∿ [ continue on to . . . series tag , playlist , masterlist ] all feedback and reblogs are welcome! ♡

🏷️ 1﹙ want to be added to my permanent taglist? click here ﹚ @jjunberry @gothgyuu @gyuuberries @beargyuuzz @kittyhyuka @dani-is-tired @riaawr @yeonjunsfox @nxzz-skz @chaconadine @rapmonie2047 @soobieboobiedoobiedaboobie @aaa-sia @jeonghaniehaee @todorokiskitten @onlyhyunjin @un06 @nenesz @branchrkive @dreamiestay @lilyuwon @lilactangerine @kaykay11sworld @kirinaa08 @cherlv @zl-world @cloud-lyy @sunpov @samouryed @immelissaaa @y4wnjunz @who-tf-soddhi @minaateez @jajenoric @americanojake @in-somnias-world @ghstzzn @bobaikeu @cupidscourt @nctsshoes2 @helenngxz @jakeswifez @usnve @won4me @sakanelli-afc

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end-otw-racism · 2 years ago

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End OTW Racism: A Call To Action

A fan protest against the lack of action from the OTW on addressing issues of harassment and racism on AO3 and within the organization

This is a Call To Action for Fans of Color and Allies

AO3 has acknowledged that they have a harassment & racism problem that its parent organization, the Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), needs to address. Currently, people can use AO3 to harass others through fanworks, comments, and tags. Just a few examples include: racist Untamed “spitefic” that used anti-Indigenous slurs and was written specifically to lash out at fans of color; a Transformer fic that used its Black-coded character to reenact George Floyd’s murder in July 2020; someone naming a fandom scholar who criticized their Nazi omegaverse fic in the tags of the fic specifically to incite harassment to the scholar; writers using racial slurs against commenters who pointed out racism in their hockey fic; and so much more.

In June 2020, after the murder of George Floyd, the OTW committed to addressing these issues. It has been nearly three years and they have not yet implemented any of the changes they promised, other than a blocking/muting tool that was already in development before 2020. We need to hold the OTW accountable to their own promises. (See the section further down on “Why Are We Doing This” for even more detail.)

As fans, together, we are powerful. We are organizing to protest the lack of action on promises made by the Organization for Transformative works to deal with issues of racism and harassment on their platform, Archive of Our Own.

We call on fans to do any or all of the following actions any time between May 17 to 31, 2023 to send a message to AO3 and OTW that we will hold them to their promises.

On AO3

Change the title of ten (or more!) of your most recent or most popular fanworks to include ‘End Racism in the OTW’ in the beginning, and provide a link to this post in your summary or first/top creator’s note

Post a new fanwork any time between May 17th to 31st with “End Racism in the OTW” either as the title or at the beginning of the title. The fanwork does not have to be long - it can be a 100-word fic, a quick sketch, a podfic of a ficlet, a 20-second vid/edit, a short piece of meta, etc. In the summary or first/top creator’s note, provide a link to this post

If updating any WIPs with a new chapter, add ‘End Racism in the OTW’ to the title and provide a link back to this post in your summary or first/top author’s note

Update your AO3 icon using the profile pic graphic in our Social Media Toolkit

Plan to maintain these changes until May 31, 2023, or longer if you wish

Send a message to the OTW asking for an update on their 2020 commitments!

For Readers: leave encouraging comments on fanworks with the "End Racism in the OTW" title to show your support of this initiative.

On tumblr

Reblog this Call to Action with the tag #End OTW Racism

Update your profile pics and banners using the graphics in our Social Media Toolkit

Follow this account for updates and signal boost our posts

On Twitter

Follow @/EndOTWRacism (remove the backslash) and signal boost our pinned tweet

Update your profile pics and banners using our graphics, and change your display name to include #EndOTWRacism

Use sample tweets and graphics from our Social Media Toolkit to tweet about your fanworks, and use the hashtag #EndOTWRacism

Help us make this a long-term campaign - sign up to help with other anti-racism projects and future actions!

What Do We Want?

Since their June 2020 statement, OTW has been working on updating their Terms of Service (TOS) to address racist and bigoted harassment, but with little transparency and only the vaguest of updates. It has been three years since their commitment to this update - we want to see the results of their work implemented in the next 6-12 months. Their TOS updates and complementary policies should include:

Harassment policies that can be regularly updated to address both on-site harassment and off-site coordinated harassment of AO3 users, with updated protocols for the Policy & Abuse Team to ensure consistent and informed resolutions of abuse claims

A content policy on abusive (extremely racist and extremely bigoted) content; by abusive, we are talking about fanworks that are intentionally used to spread hate and harassment, not those that accidentally invoke racist or other bigoted stereotypes

These points are not particularly new and are not our own innovation; please refer to Stitch's article written over two years ago, asking for several of these very things.

OTW has also already committed to various process-based actions for longer-term works towards centering antiracism, including hiring a Diversity Consultant. The last update that OTW published said that the consultant would be hired within the next five years (after already having had three years to work on it since their original commitment). That is not soon enough. We want to see the following process-based actions implemented:

Hiring a Diversity Consultant within the next 3-6 months

Committing to a policy of transparency on this topic, with quarterly updates on the progress of these projects including challenges and their plan for overcoming those challenges. These quarterly updates should be published on OTW News page and newsletters, not solely discussed in Board meetings

Why Are We Doing This?

16 years ago, Astolat famously published her manifesto calling for a fandom Archive of One’s Own. In that time, AO3 has grown to be a central pillar of fandom, likely far outstripping its founders’ original vision. It is more than just an archive now; it is a central hub of the modern fannish experience. AO3 and the OTW must continue to grow and evolve with fandom over time to remain a healthy and functioning pillar of fandom. To that end, there are several areas in which the organization, as it admits itself, is lacking.

In June 2020, in the wake of the George Floyd protests and the uprising of the Black Lives Matter Movement, The OTW published a “This Week in Fandom” referencing the works of Dr. Rukmini Pande and Stitch, among others in which they discussed ‘making change for a better society’ through ‘conversations about race and racism’. In response, Dr. Pande and Stitch submitted a letter to the OTW calling for a more formal public statement than an offhand reference in a News Roundup that only served to call for thoughts and discussion without any indication the organization intended to do anything, policy wise, to address the issues being raised.

Eventually, the organization did remove the references to the works of Dr. Pande and Stitch and then made an official statement on the issue of racism within the organization and AO3. In it, they identified several things they would be prioritizing to combat harassment and benefit users. Some of those have been implemented (notably those that were already under development). However as of this writing, little else has been done especially in regards to:

Improving admin tools for the Policy & Abuse team

Reassessing the current mandatory archive warnings with the possibility of implementing others

And, most importantly, reviewing the Terms of Service (TOS) to allow the Policy & Abuse team to address harassment that is currently not covered by the existing TOS

By their own admission, the current tools and policies of the OTW are not sufficient to deal with issues of harassment and racism.

Several people who were involved in the founding of the OTW, including previous OTW Board members and staff on the original OTW Content Policy Committee, acknowledge that the founding of the OTW in 2008 and early board iterations failed us as a fandom by not doing enough, and by not even considering the way racism is perpetuated in fannish spaces, despite a long history of racism in fandom.

It has been nearly three years since the original commitment by the organization with little visible, measurable progress on these three crucial issues and a complete lack of transparency on where they are in regards to even beginning to deal with these issues. In fact, in Q&As, it was heavily implied by a member of the board that those calling for OTW to deal with issues of racism (which OTW had already acknowledged as a problem!) were not really fans but outside agitators.

This has cast significant doubt on the organization's sincerity and commitment to their stated goals, and on their position as leaders of a central fan tent-pole. Fans of color are not outsiders. They are right here, members of our community, and they are being harassed and targeted and driven out while space and platforms are being given to racists.

We, as fans of color and our allies, find the current state of fandom and current actions (and lack thereof) unacceptable. Fandom is our space, all of ours. We, as a fandom, have a right to a racism-free space and have a duty to our fellow fans to create that space. Unlike so much of the world, this is a space we can control and make better. It is a space we must make better. To read even more about this movement, visit our FAQs.

#fandom #ao3 #otw #EndOTWRacism #End OTW Racism #racism in fandom #organization for transformative works #archive of our own #antiracism #otw board

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acewizardinspace · 2 years ago

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I have so many posts I want to make but I know they would be controversial and my anxiety can't take people being mean to me

#maybe if i posted them but didn't tag them as anything so only people following me would see them?#theoretically my followers will be normal #or maybe turn of reblogs? But I hate doing that because I welcome sane commentary and debate #i have so much respect for the people regularly pumping out pro jedi posts with no fear #you all know who you are and you are AWESOME #i have only gotten a few mean comments and messages but they have been enough to upset me #so much so that I haven't made controversial posts in months #i just type them up then leave them in my drafts to gather dust #i have like 16 now #the curse of enjoying writing meta analysis in a fandom full of actual fascists i guess #personal #rant #feel free to ignore me #i am just talking to air and explaining why i have been quiet lately

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ddejavvu · 2 months ago

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Spring Fling - Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Part Four) (18+) / Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Summary: You should have known the ‘no refunds’ detail on the website for Spring Fling was a red flag. But you paid no mind to it, eager to be assigned a quick fuck for spring break. When the man that walks through your cabin door is none other than Jake 'Hangman' Seresin, your wildly infuriating fellow pilot, you have two choices: bicker the entire time and have a miserable spring break, or fuck.

Contents/Warnings: smut, minors dni. fem!reader, pilot!reader, enemies/rivals to lovers, lots and lots of arguing, could these two people be any less cooperative, sex seven ways to sunday and then some, seriously like so much smut it'll make your eyes bleed, makeouts, rough sex, oral (m+f receiving), penetrative sex, will add as i post

WC: 4.8K / navigation / inbox

A/N: Day two begins!! thank you to everyone who's been reading along, and if you're just finding this series for the first time through this part, welcome! I hope you enjoy, and though this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, it packs some punches. You will get more insight into why they act the way that they do in this chapter, in the next chapter! bear with them please, they're dumb </333 please let me know how you're feeling about the series so far! <3

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Daniel’s shoulders are so broad that they block your view of both the cabin and his face, everything completely obscured by the heaving, sweaty, tanned mass of muscle flexed over you. Daniel’s toned arms frame your head, his lips tug your own into a string of merciless kisses, kisses that leave you panting when you’re granted even the slightest of respite. His cock pumps in and out of your throbbing cunt with every thrust of his strong hips, and all that you’re capable of is a pathetic stream of whines and whimpers as Daniel undoes you.

“Oh Dan- Daniel! Please, harder, I want- I want more, please!” You babble, gripping at his back, smoothing your hands and scratching your nails over every inch of his glistening, taut skin, “Please, please, I need more, please, more- harder, more, I need you!”

Pleasure shoots through your core stronger than you’ve ever felt it before, and you chase the feeling desperately, lifting your hips to press yourself into Daniel’s steady thrusts. The new angle of your body allows for your head to be tipped backwards, and you catch sight of the hazy face that had eluded your vision before. But where Daniel’s scruff blankets his face, there’s only tan, smooth skin, squared at the chin and leading into the tight, determined snarl of none other than Jake Seresin.

“Jake!”

You wake like it’s from a nightmare, a gasp leaving your throat and your stomach dropping at the image of Hangman having his way with you. You’re sweaty and sleep-ruffled, and you realize with a still-throbbing core that you’re clinging to one of his arms, rutting your hips against him like a man starved.

Fuck. Fuck, your throat is dry which probably means that you’ve been moaning, god forbid his name, and- and he’s going to tell everyone that you’re desperate, and you’re never going to be able to look him in the eyes, and you might as well quit your job because he’s won and there’s nothing you’ll ever be able to do to make up for how ashamed you’re going to be… when he wakes up.

He’s asleep.

His lashes are softly resting above his strong cheekbones, lids covering eyes that did not witness you at your most vulnerable. He didn’t see, he’s been asleep- he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, which means that you never have to talk about it, which means that you can go to the bathroom and take a cold shower and pretend that you woke up on the floor instead- maybe you’ll even tell him he kicked you off in the middle of the night so that he feels bad enough not to tease you for the day. And nobody ever has to know that he’s in your dreams, whether they be that or nightmares.

You stagger out from under the bedsheets and over to the small bathroom faster than you’ve ever been awake and alert in your life, and you’re instantly relieved by the sanctuary of the bathroom when it lets you shut a door between you and Jake.

The slamming of the door or the squeaking of the shower knobs is not what wakes Jake. It happened to be a very loud, very wanton cry barely minutes prior, when he’d woken to find your pinched-up face buried into the heated skin of his bicep. You’d whined and whimpered and moaned until a very sizeable tent had grown in his pants, and you’d fucked your hips onto his thigh over and over and over again until he’d felt a wet patch blossom that stuck his boxers to his thigh. He’d remained civil- respectful about it, keeping still even if his mind was racing, but when you’d suddenly moaned out his own name- Jake would have reached for his cock but that was when you’d woken, and he’d already had his eyes snapped shut in the desperation of conjuring a mental image of you writhing below him so that it seemed like he was still asleep. Blessedly disguised, Jake listens as you beeline for the bathroom, and when the door slams, his eyes fly open.

A quick glance beneath the sheet reveals a stain of translucent slick that’s soaked into his boxers, big enough to account for the way you’d been grinding so desperately onto his thigh. Knowing that you’d said his name, not Daniel or Damien or Dallas or Dalton or Devon- you’d been dreaming of him. It’s enough to have Jake frantically prying at the hem of his boxers, tugging on his cock with one rough fist while the other hand prods desperately at the wet spot on his boxers for something to lick up. Jake was the name you’d said, Jake is the man you’re thinking of.

Jake cannot be the man you’re thinking of. You don’t have nearly enough energy when you close yourself into the bathroom to shower right away, so you take to sitting dejectedly on the lid of the toilet rather than scrubbing down right away. But you feel dirty, you feel wrong for fantasizing about the jerk from work instead of the dreamboat you’d frenched in an elevator less than 24 hours prior. It’s not fair. Why does your brain have to latch onto Jake? Why can’t you just be peacefully separate from him, why does he have to nail himself to your door and bleed through the gaps?

And why did he have to dress you in lingerie?

You realize you’re staring down at your pink silk-covered stomach, and your nose scrunches when you note how little fabric there is to cover what’s between your legs. Christ, he couldn’t have dressed you in something a little more modest?

Although, you suppose, you didn’t bring anything more modest. Actually, the pink getup is probably the most modest nightgown you’ve got- you’d anticipated sex. So he gets a pass on that one, but you’re still peeved about the way he won’t leave your head.

The shower is warm and being clean feels delightful against your slick skin, washing away the sins you’d rubbed into Jake’s thigh, but you’re so disturbed by your dream- or more so it’s subsequent meaning, that you can barely enjoy any of it.

In stepping out of the shower you realize you’d been in such a rush to get in that you’d forgotten to take clothes with you. But if you’re lucky, at least Jake will still be asleep, and you won’t have to endure any-

“Fancy droppin’ that towel, darlin’? Since you got in the shower without me, I figure it’s only fair I get to see what I missed.”

Any teasing. If Jake was still asleep, you wouldn’t have to endure any teasing. But there he is, hair tousled from sleep, eyes slightly bleary, but smirk in full force as he stares at your towel-clad form.

You’d be locked and loaded with a quip back any other day, but the memory of the pleasure writhing through your veins like blood itself at Jake’s hands has thrown you severely off-kilter. Instead you stand there, winded, lost for words as a strange and unexpected surge of tears sting at your eyes.

Jake notices, blinking as the smirk vanishes instantly from his face.

“Hey, woah, that’s- don’t do that. I was just teasing, don’t- don’t do that.”

“I’m not-” You defend uselessly, blinking rapidly as you back towards your suitcase, but Jake’s concern dims into something like disappointment.

He recites, “We didn’t do anything last night. You were shit-faced and you passed out the second you were in bed. I’m not…” He struggles, glancing away from you and towards the wall in thinly-veiled distaste, “I wouldn’t do that.”

You’re almost as stunned by the accusation as he seems. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind at all, but- in another man’s hands, you might not have been safe. You hadn’t felt a sliver of distrust towards Jake, and there’s something strange about that. Would you have felt comfortable going home with Daniel? Perhaps last night, several drinks in, you would have. But now you feel a strange camaraderie with Jake, now he feels familiar and safe and you’re glad he was the one to escort you to bed. You’re not used to respecting him, to relying on him, to letting your guard down around him. But you had, and you had even forgotten that you might not have been safe until he’d brought it up himself, convinced your crying fit is because of some awful thing you think he did to you last night.

You’d much rather use that excuse, but you’ll give credit where credit is due.

“I know,” You admit softly, clutching your towel tight around your body, “I didn’t think- thank you for taking me to bed.”

He doesn’t speak- he doesn’t think he ever could. But he nods, once, face tight and stiff because if it wasn’t it’d be soft. And you’d already shorn deep into his newly unguarded, tender flesh- he doesn’t need more wounds.

“Are we eating breakfast together?” Is your indirect way of asking- nay, demanding that he eat with you as thanks for the night prior without actually asking. Because asking would be crazy, you don’t even like him.

And you don’t want to eat with him, except for the fact that you eat with him near every day, and if you’re not going to be in a candlelight setting, you might be able to convince yourself that you’re not on a sex cruise, and that you’re just eating with your fri- teammate. That you’re just eating with your teammate, and all else can be ignored. Especially your dream.

“‘Was plannin’ on it. Hey, wear your bathing suit under that,” Jake nods at the romper you’ve chosen for the day, “We’re goin’ swimming after breakfast.”

You raise a brow at his tone, “Oh, are we? I was planning on meeting Daniel.”

“Where?”

“He mentioned going to the pizza place for lunch.”

Jake snorts, “Real romantic. Well, I walked by there the other day, and the pizza place is a poolside bar. So, put on that skimpy little bathing suit I saw in your suitcase, and you can swim with me until Danny-boy gets there.”

“I don’t want to swim with you,” You feel a little like a petulant toddler snapping back at him, but it’s true. You don’t want to be splashed and dunked and held down in what will surely prove to be the most stressful time you’ve ever had in a body of water- which is really saying something, because you’d had to eject into the Pacific before. Breakfast is one thing- a thank-you. This is different and you’d rather have a tooth pulled.

“Fine, then, princess. Sit on a lounge chair and read a book. I don’t care, just come with me.” You think this might be an invitation, a genuine hand outstretched amidst the numerous other jabs you’ve taken over the duration of your voyage so far. You meet his eye, but there’s a mischievous glint in them and it’s too late to stop him before he continues, “I’ve gotta keep my lady close, or else there’ll be a swarm of other passengers beggin’ to hang off my arm, and we’ll sink the ship if everyone rushes to one side.”

It’s pathetic to admit that you have nothing better to do than go with Jake. His cockiness creates scenarios that are so easy to refuse- so tempting to reject if only to see the light in his eyes fade into a more manageable dulled hue. Now though, you’re stuck. You’re not willing to spend the entire time on board locked away in your cabin hiding from Jake- you came for the fun and sun, dammit. And being in the sun sounds lovely, and the main character of the novel you’re reading will bring you a welcome respite from Jake until Daniel comes to sweep you off of your feet.

“I am not getting in the water,” You warn, fishing your bathing suit out of your suitcase while keeping a firm hold on your towel, “I am going to sit on a lounge chair and read a book. And you’re going to leave me alone, and do whatever it is you like doing in the pool. Chase those little diving rings, maybe?”

“I’m not six.” Jake wrinkles his nose in distaste, “I use the torpedoes, like a real man.”

Your eyes itch to roll back into your skull until they’re stuck there, and you never have to see his smug face again.

“Your torpedoes, then. Get my book from out of my bag,” You nod towards your purse, “And bring your own towel, because I’m not getting one for you.”

The door drowns out the beginning of Jake’s bitching when it slams behind you, but even in the tiled bathroom you can still hear him speak.

“-prissy today, aren’t you! Y’know, the hunk on the cover of this romance looks a lot like me. And- ohhh,” Jake’s wicked laugh instills fear- real, actual fear in your chest as you rush to get dressed, “This is one of them porn books, ain’t it?”

He’s holding the book like a trophy when you finally step out of the bathroom in your bikini, the way a fisherman would proudly display a 38 pound halibut. It’s got a cowboy on the front that’s wearing a hat similar to the one Jake wears at ‘Honky Tonk Night’ at the Hard Deck, and the female lead is draped over his chest, leaning in for a kiss.

“Wanna roleplay it, darlin’?” Jake moves forward, his free hand reaching for your waist to force you against him like you’re on the cover of your novel, “You could do exactly what it says on the cover, ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’.”

You catch his arm instead and use it to give you leverage in your attempt to take back your book, but he’s holding it high over his head, and he’s tall even without his combat boots giving him a good extra inch or two.

“Daniel’s got a bit of a southern drawl,” You choose to fight with words if you can’t win a battle of heights, and Jake’s bicep tightens in place as he tenses, muscles flexing.

“That boy’s got nothin’ on mine,” Jake tilts his chip upwards- ah, so you’ve hit a weak spot: that precious Texan heritage he boasts about.

“I like his better. It’s subtle, not too in-your-face.” You shrug, and now that Jake’s frozen, buffering, you’re able to reach up and take back your book without him fighting back. But he follows you when you step away, and your back hits the wall of the cabin when he leans forward and down to match your height.

“See that?” He inspects your expression, and even though you’re wide-eyed in bewilderment he finds something satisfying in it - “You like it when I’m in your face.”

Maybe it’s your proximity- the way his face is closer to yours than it was even in your dream last night, or maybe it’s the way he murmurs the words instead of boasting them, like they’re a secret. Something strips you of your ability to fire back, and you share a moment of silence before he pulls away and gathers a set of towels from the corner of the room.

He’s wearing his swim trunks already. You hadn’t noticed. Well, you’d noticed his lack of a shirt, but you hadn’t bothered to check what was below that. You’ve seen him in them before, a beach day with the dagger squad or a pool party for Penny’s birthday, but you’re not sure you’ve ever noticed the faint fish hook outlines on them.

“I can feel you lookin’,” Jake snickers, giving you a rather impressive view of his ass, “I’ll let you squeeze it if you admit Daniel’s not all that great.”

“The only thing I wanna squeeze is your neck, Hangman,” You scoff, hurriedly looking away from his ass and gathering your belongings- key card, phone, book that’s been discarded on the bed, “Now let’s get out of here before I change my mind and lock you out of our cabin.”

“Oh, but you’d be so bored in here without me,” Jake’s croon exudes fake sympathy, “Who would you bicker with all day?”

“Not Daniel.” You purr, grinning mischievously as you head for the elevators, your door clicking shut behind you as Jake nearly steps on your feet, “If I was with Daniel, he wouldn’t be able to talk through all the pussy on his tongue.”

That shuts him up.

The elevator ride is silent, and by the look on Jake’s face, you’d have thought he’d been declared a spare on a mission amongst a group of new recruits. HIs jaw is stone-set, sharp and tight, and his eyes bore uselessly but fiercely into the silver wall as the elevator moves up- something is brewing in that hard head of his.

Finally, some fucking peace and quiet.

Something about the ding of the elevator snaps him out of his funk, and he holds the door open to the breakfast hall for you with his signature shit-eating grin. It’s the same place you’d eaten lunch the day before, and you wish again for Daniel to knock knees with you beneath the table. It had been so cutesy, so intimate, so-

“Here,” Jake plucks two trays off of the stack, one for you and one for him, “I’ll hold it while you load up a plate.”

“I can do it myself,” You insist, snatching the tray from his hands and setting an empty plate on top of it, “I’m not falling for that act, Hangman. You’ll steal my breakfast if I let you hold it.”

“Now that’s not true,” He scolds, scooping eggs onto his plate, “I’ll steal it no matter what.”

The ship’s pancakes look surprisingly well-made, and you’re starting to marvel at how nice the amenities are for the price you’d paid. Maybe you’d been the guinea pig voyage, and they’re testing how feasible this sort of thing really is.

“Hands off my syrup, Hangman,” You elbow him in the side, bumping him out of line for fresh pastries while you snag one for yourself, “I don’t want your sticky fingers getting all over my book.”

“So you do want me readin’ that thing,” He grins, reaching over you to pluck a chocolate croissant off of the tray, unbothered by your teasing, “I guess I’ll need to get into character. Tell me, how big is he? Anything under nine inches just won’t be realistic for me.”

“Please! I’ve heard things from Rooster,” You laugh, topping your plate off with butter packets, “Four is more like it.”

“You tell Rooster,” Hangman shoots a hand out, stopping you from snagging an empty seat at a table for two, “That he’s gotta stop swapping our measurements. Tell him to keep my name out of his mouth.” He pulls the chair out, clearly expecting you to sit.

Under his fiery, watchful gaze, you sit.

You don’t know what makes you do it; you’ve always felt Hangman’s faux-chivalry was condescending at best. He always seems to be mocking you- let me do it because you can’t, or let me do it because I don’t think you should.

Now it seems more like let me do it because I want to. And for that reason, you’ve obeyed.

Hangman’s terse mood from earlier seems to flicker in and out, but breakfast is pleasantly casual- nothing like your tense candlelight dinner the night before.

“You’re lucky Phoenix isn’t here,” You raise your brows briefly at Hangman, eyeing the way he’s sprawled out over the bench, “She’d tell you to quit manspreading.”

“I like manspreading,” Hangman grins, thankfully concealing his mouthful of food in the process instead of showing it off, “Let’s everyone know what I’m working with.”

After a quick, fake look at his crotch, you decide, “Nothing?”

He takes the teasing good-naturedly, rolling his eyes and insisting, “You’re gonna be sorry when you find out how wrong you were, darlin’. First time y’see it your eyes are gonna bug out of your head.”

“I’d prefer not to see it at all,” Your nose wrinkles, “I’m perfectly happy with your current state of dress.”

“I know that’s right,” He snickers, “I saw you eyein’ up my tight little swim trunks earlier.”

“I was not.” You snap, but he’s only goaded into being further convinced, “Your back was to me, how could you have possibly known where I was looking?”

“I heard you stop moving the second I bent over,” He winks at you, and it’s a gaudy, grotesque display of cockiness, “You were transfixed, darlin’. One look and you forgot what you were doing.”

“That was because I couldn’t believe how skimpy your legs are,” You speak around a mouthful of pancakes, perhaps not the best etiquette but you’re not trying to impress anyone. “Next time you hit the gym, work on your calves.”

“Skimpy? Skimpy?” He shoves his foot into your lap, forcing you to stare at his exposed calf as you try avoiding the sole of his flip-flop on your bare stomach. You shriek, and you try tamping down laughter that threatens to escape as you attempt to shove him off of you.

“These things are tree trunks,” Jake insists, and when you finally manage to wrestle his leg off of you he leaves it on your side of the table, his foot resting just beside your own, close enough to touch.

“You want some?” Jake offers you a forkful of scrambled eggs, but you shake your head, leaning away from the fork.

“Fine. Picky.” Jake shrugs, eating the eggs himself, “How come you’ll eat off of Payback’s fork but not mine? You think you’ll get all blushy if our lips touch the same thing?”

“I’m thinking I’ll vomit, not blush,” You correct him, “Payback brushes his teeth every once in a while, so eating off of his fork’s no big deal.”

“Damn, you’re vicious today!” Hangman observes, but he doesn’t settle into the back of the seat like you’d expected him to. It unnerves you when he leans forwards, “I brush my teeth twice a day,” He insists, and this time his antics are a little more intense than hiking his foot into your lap, “See?”

He stands so that he can lean farther over the table, flashing his grin in your face like you’re the lens of a camera he’s modeling for. It’s so forcibly charming, so irritatingly dazzling that leaning away- showing weakness - doesn’t even cross your mind, and you’re stuck staring at his pearly whites mere inches away from them, a sour scowl on your face.

“No cavities in sight,” He drawls, “But if you don’t believe me, you can inspect it yourself. Thinkin’ your tongue might work.”

“You’re a sicko,” You decide, your face blank, if not a smidge downturned as you sit inches away from Jake’s grin in full-force, “Sit down, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m embarrassing you.” He corrects, sinking back into the plush booth with a hiss of air and the spreading of his legs once more, “I can tell you’re blushin’ over there.”

“Must be an allergic reaction to something,” You sigh morosely, observing your plate, “There’s probably an ungodly amount of chemicals in all of this.”

“Tastes fresh to me,” Jake shrugs, reaching his fork across the table to pick at your fruit, “Give me that.”

“No- not the melon!” You clash your fork against his, an ugly scraping sound created by metal-on-metal as you fight to protect your fruit, “You can take anything else, just not the melon!”

“You can have my melons,” A smooth, melodious voice straight out of a porn intro comes from beside the table, and you and Jake look up in unison to see a woman in stiletto pumps and a skirt standing next to your seats.

Jake barely takes a second to process her bold words, and his face melts like butter into that greasy grin he’s always sporting around the ladies.

“Is that so? Well, thank you darlin’, that’s very kind of you. Might take you up on that if this one keeps holding out for a nobody.”

Jake points his fork vaguely, uncaringly at you, eyes still glued to the woman’s low neckline- her melons are, admittedly, nothing to sneeze at.

You find yourself incapable of speaking, so you take to pulverizing your fruit on your tongue instead of talking to the woman.

Once she and Jake have properly eye-fucked she struts away, and your nose curls to make way for a sneer at the clicking of her heels on the floor.

“What a bitch.” You retort, and Jake’s all-too-pleased with your indignance, “And those fucking heels? Who wears heels to breakfast on a cheap cruise?”

“Hey, I thought you were into all that girls-supporting-girls stuff,” Jake munches on a grape, “Ain’t that a little judgy? Maybe she feels pretty in the heels.”

“Girls support girls’ girls,” You insist, shaking your head disapprovingly, as Jake tries processing the tongue twister, “She was not a girls’ girl. She was trying to take my man!”

“Your man? I’m your man now?” Jake leans forward again, suddenly extremely interested in you rather than Miss Miniskirt, “When did that happen? The second someone else tried snatching me up?”

“No, you’re not my man,” You scoff, fork clattering against your plate, “But when we’re on a sex cruise together as unfortunate roommates, and we’re dining together, conversation flowing, clearly engaged with each other- when you were just leaning across the table asking me to lick your teeth two seconds ago- no girls’ girl would swoop in and try to take you away from me!”

“I think you’re just jealous,” Hangman points that damn fork at you again, and you still in your seat, prickling with annoyance, “I think you’re pretending to be all wrapped up in Daniel so that I go crazy, but it almost backfired on you when she started chattin’ me up. Hell, you called me your man! You can’t have it both ways, Y/N. Either let me go, or make me stay.”

“Go.” You seethe, eyes flashing with anger, with the indignance of being accused of puppetting him. You’ve been on edge this whole voyage, but something about his audacity combined with the sheer mortification of your dream last night means that your mouth is running without a filter. “I’m not pretending anything, Hangman, and- and I’m not going to ‘make you stay’, that’s ridiculous! I’m interested in Daniel. If you really want a woman who swoops in on what looks like a couple, then by all means, have at her. But you don’t get to bitch about Daniel and then act like I’m some controlling monster when I try to stop you from talking to bad ideas.”

“I’m not bitching about Daniel,” There’s a dangerous edge to Jake’s voice, the one that’s typically heard on the tarmac, “I’m trying to-”

“You’re trying to control me!” You accuse, and now it’s you that wields the fork, aiming it violently at Jake.

“I wasn’t done.” Jake snaps, but you don’t care.

You continue over his meager protests, “You are bitching about Daniel, 24/7. You’re trying to knock him out of the way so that you can schmooze me like you schmooze women back home, and it’s not going to work. You use people, Hangman, you hook up with women and then you push them away like they’re pathetic when they try staying with you for longer than a night! But I know you better than they do, and I won’t fall for it. You think I’m dumb? You think I don’t realize how much of a leg up you’d have at work if you got to tell everyone I fell for your little game? That’s why you want it so bad,” You huff, “You’re, like, obsessed with winning now- because I fly with you, and because I’m the only woman who’s ever told you no, you’re going crazy trying to get me to say yes! You are the one freaking out whenever Daniel talks to me! You are the one that’s clinging desperately to the unfortunate coincidence of us being roommates, and you are the one who refuses to let go. You won’t win. You cannot make me stay.”

Jake’s mouth had been open during your vicious speech, ready to fire back in a tone that would have made your skin crawl, but when you finish off, it falls shut. He stares, on the brink of disaster, one slip of the controls away from tailspinning. He’s always been like that: dangerous.

You don’t give him the option to spin out.

“I’m not hungry anymore. You know what? You can have the fucking melon,” You stand, dumping your remaining fruit unceremoniously onto Jake’s plate as he stays frozen stiff, watching, “Maybe you’ll get lucky and score hers, but I doubt she’ll be interested if she’s not competing with anyone anymore.”

You barely remember to grab your belongings on the way out of the breakfast hall, and you don’t spare Jake another glance as you beeline for the elevators.

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

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embracing-the-ineffable · 4 months ago

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Beware clickbait accusations

Hi fandom, here's what happened yesterday: A reporter named Rachel Johnson, who is the sister to Boris Johnson and a big terfy supporter of JK Rowling, released a 4-part true crime podcast featuring two women accusing Neil Gaiman of SA. Yesterday. The day before the UK elections. This post explores the possible political links in more detail.

CW: this post is free of graphic details, but if you follow these links, there may be explicit descriptions of sex, kink, and bdsm, plus mentions of mental illness and suicidal thoughts.

I want to believe and support survivors, and I also want to base my thoughts and actions on facts. I thought the xitter livestream commentary from Not Becky for all 4 episodes was very insightful. There's also a first episode transcript without extra commentary. (Edit: released after I wrote this post: the full audio plus transcripts for all four episodes of the podcast are now available to download here, or you can read all four transcripts in your browser.) I have since concluded (pending more time to think and read and learn, or any new information, of course):

This seems like the worst kind of clickbait, an unjustified mess that will hurt everyone involved (except possibly a few politicians who might benefit somehow, we'll see). The evidence the "reporters" present directly contradicts their accusations. They're counting on people reading headlines and not digging any deeper.

They tried to make something sinister where there was apparently consent and a caring relationship. Have they exploited one or both of these women? S, in particular, is described as vulnerable and with a history of unspecified mental illness. They have all of the message history between S and Neil, and her messages make the sexy stuff between the two of them sound enthusiastically consensual. There are even messages (multiple!) where she specifically says everything was consensual. Here's one:

They're playing horror music in the background to try to make us feel horrified, even as S reassures us that things were consensual. It's emotional manipulation by the reporters.

The times S sounds upset during the interview are the times she talks about Neil leaving her behind or not paying attention to her. Not the times she talks about consent violations. Her stories during the interview are inconsistent, and they contradict her messages with Neil and with others. Maybe we'll get better information from a more reputable news source, or maybe not, I don't know. I also don't know why anyone who cares about her would have advised her to do this interview.

Then they tracked down lots of other women who know/have dated Neil and they all had glowing things to say, except one other lover from 20 years ago, K. She described some bad sex, and then pointed to a time in their 2-year relationship when she felt something wasn't consensual and he thought it was. And after their breakup, they continued to text and flirt, for decades.

This podcast "exposé" feels like explosive clickbait with political ramifications. The evidence here doesn't support a pattern of poor conduct so much as establish Neil as a fellow well-meaning human with imperfect judgement. That doesn't mean the accusations are all made up; intimate partner violence is complicated, and the responsibility for checking in and getting regular enthusiastic consent from partners is very real, especially when kink or bdsm are involved.

I don't know what the right balance is here between supporting survivors, thinking critically, assuming good intentions, and waiting for better information, but I feel confident that this podcast alone is not enough to condemn anyone aside from the irresponsible journalists who inflicted it on the rest of us.

PS/edit: I'm tagging my relevant posts (mostly reblogs) with #ineffable grief, and you can see all of them here.

#neil gaiman #clickbait #think critically #ineffable grief #be kind #intimate partner violence #mental health #Irresponsible journalists #uk politics #good omens fandom #good omens

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hederasgarden · 2 months ago

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On the Horizon (2/?)

Summary: You've been pining over your coworker for a while now. He might not have realized but someone has. Pairing:Tyler Owens x F!Reader (with minor Scott x F!Reader) Word Count: 4.3K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Angst and asshole!Scott who brings a side of gaslighting. Future chapters will be smutty. Not all themes are tagged. A/N: Thanks to @writercole for the summary and @ryebecca @mermaidxatxheart @clairewritesandrambles and @a-reader-and-a-writer for their beta help.

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my www inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Masterlist

The sound of the rickety old air conditioning unit sputtering to life jolts you awake. You roll over with a groan, throwing an arm over your face to shield yourself from the sunlight trickling in through a gap in the curtains. It takes you a long moment to realize the other side of the bed is empty and cold. When you do, the remnants of sleep scatter, a wave of awareness washing over you.

You tuck your chin against your chest and pull the scratchy sheets closer to your naked body. The old clock on the bedside table stares back at you as you struggle to ignore the hollow ache in your stomach. You didn’t expect Scott to stay the night. Both of you knew it wouldn’t be smart, though it still stings, just like it did the first time. But that was Scott, you remind yourself, always thinking two steps ahead, anticipating and reacting. Whatever you two had needed to remain a secret. As he reminded you last night, when it came to sleeping with a coworker, people were always harsher on the woman. It was better this way. Wasn’t it?

You close your eyes and draw in a pained breath, catching the faint, musky scent of Scott’s cologne that still lingers in the sheets. The smell brings a rush of memories from the night before, vivid and overwhelming, like a sense memory that refuses to fade. The way his long, thick fingers curled inside you. The sound of his shuddering breath when he came.

Your phone buzzes, and you jerk upright, expecting or perhaps hoping to see Scott’s name. Instead, it's Andy letting you know he’s grabbing coffee for everyone. You thank him and, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess yourself, shoot off a message to Scott. You watch as the status changes from “Delivered,” to “Read at 7:22 AM.” You wait for a reply but minutes tick by without an answer.

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed and prepare for the day, but as you move through your routine, your mind keeps drifting back to the unanswered message. It’s after 8 a.m. by the time you leave the hotel room with your duffle bag in hand. Outside, the parking lot is full of other storm chasers who mill around quietly, their mood more subdued than last night.

You find Scott with a clipboard in hand, talking with Javi. He spares you a glance but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge you. It’s not personal, you remind yourself, feeling better when you remember you're both assigned to Scarecrow. You’ll have a chance to talk with him then without having to worry about anyone overhearing you.

On the way to the car, you catch up with Andy, looking dubiously at the greyish cup of gas station coffee he hands you. It's been weeks since you had a decent cup. You're half-busy lamenting the absence of Starbucks when a sharp whistle catches your attention. It's Tyler, and he’s giving you a curious look, raising his chin in Scott's direction.

You know what he's asking. You should give him a thumbs-up so he knows the ploy worked, but before you can a sharp, unexpected wave of shame crawls up your throat. Tyler wrinkles his brow, hands on his hips. When he takes a step forward you turn away without answering him. You head for your assigned car, only to stop abruptly when you see Peter, one of the meteorologists, sitting in the passenger seat with the door ajar.

“Morning. I think you might be in the wrong car,” you say.

“Hey,” Peter greets, looking up from his computer. “Scott changed the rotation. You’re riding with Javi. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Oh.” You stare at your coworker unblinking, for a long moment. It was probably an oversight. Scott was so busy. "O-of course he did, I must have forgotten," you lie, forcing yourself to chuckle. “Lack of sleep,” you explain.

“Tell me about it. These motel beds are killing my back.”

“For sure,” you agree, offering him a wave and promising to catch up with him later. The second you turn away, your eyes sting and you brush at them angrily. Why are you crying? It’s not even a big deal. You liked riding with Javi, everyone did even though he was the boss.

You head in the opposite direction of the others, unsure of where you’re going. All you know is that you need to move to dislodge the pressure in your chest. It’s only when you reach the edge of the motel’s property, standing at the boundary of the farm next door, that you finally stop. You drop your bag, sending up a small cloud of dust, and press a hand to your mouth as you stare across the field of knee-high corn. This was all so stupid, a childish overreaction. There’d be time to talk with Scott tonight again. You were getting upset over nothing.

You have only a few precious seconds to collect yourself before you hear footsteps approaching. Quickly, you scrub your hands over your eyes, trying to dry the tears as best as you can. It doesn’t matter who it is; you just don’t want to be seen like this.

“You know, sweetheart,” Tyler begins, his southern drawl softening the endearment, “I’m not used to chasing after a woman.”

He stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed steadily on the horizon. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, his cowboy hat shading his expression from view. He's not exactly who you want to talk to at the moment but it was better than someone from your team.

“Well," you start, clearing your throat to dislodge the unwanted emotion from your voice. "You’re welcome for the unique experience, I guess."

He turns to face you, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You’ve amused him. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” he says, clearly waiting for you to elaborate.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Scott spent the night and that was what you wanted so why didn’t it feel that way?

“Ah, he shit the bed, huh?” Tyler asks, understandingly. Your nose wrinkles at the euphemism and this time he laughs. “Well, we can always try again tonight.”

You realize then that Tyler thinks nothing happened between you and Scott last night. You should set him straight, but instead, you find yourself saying, “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Come on now. We both know everyone here is heading up to Bartlesville. The conditions look promising.”

“What do you have planned to help me?”

Tyler tilts his cowboy hat up with a finger, stepping close enough that you find yourself beneath its brim. You look up at him and notice, for the first time, the dark stubble along his jaw and the dimples that appear when he smiles. You’ve always known he was handsome — everyone knew it, mostly because that was all Peter talked about after enough beers. But right now, it feels like you’re seeing Tyler Owens for the first time.

“You leave that up to me. Just be ready by 7 p.m. Wear that dress from last night.”

He steps away and you feel like you can breathe again. “Okay.” You agree.

“Okay?” he questions. “They don’t teach you manners up north?” He teases.

His comment catches you off guard and startles a genuine laugh from you, the first one you’ve had in a while, you realize. “Thank you,” you reply sincerely.

Just like last night, Tyler taps your nose playfully and steps back. “7 p.m.,” he reminds you before he turns and heads off.

You don’t even notice it until you’re back at the truck, but the pressure in your chest that’s been weighing on you all morning is gone.

–

Riding to Bartlesville with Javi isn’t half bad, he’s more than willing to share the endless supply of snacks he’s got stashed all over the vehicle. You rummage through the glovebox, pushing away a questionable-looking melted bar of chocolate for a package of Skittles.

“So, you gonna tell me what last night was all about?” He asks.

You freeze, anxiety skittering up your spine. Does he know about you and Scott?

“Javi, I —”

“Tyler Owens?” he presses. “I saw you with his crew last night, and Scott mentioned he was bothering you this morning.”

At the mention of Scott’s name, there’s a familiar, painful tug in your chest. You ignore it, just like you do with the knowledge that Scott saw you and Tyler together. You don’t want to think about him right now.

“Are you asking as my friend or as my boss?” You question, propping your foot on the dashboard and tossing a Skittle into your mouth.

“As your friend I want to make sure you’re being safe. And as your boss, I wanna know why you’re spending time with the competition,” he says. “Also, take your damn foot off the dash.”

You flash him a grin and place your other foot beside the first. Javi sighs in annoyance but extends his hand, waving his fingers expectantly. You sift through the bag and hand him the green Skittles. Despite the years that have passed from when he was a fresh-faced Corporal with a buzzcut and you were a civilian contractor feeling way out of your depth, you appreciate this part of your relationship remains unchanged.

“He was looking for some contouring tips.” You joke, earning another look. “He wanted to know where we were headed next,” you tell him, surprising yourself with how easy the lie comes to you.”Don’t worry, I told him we were going to Broken Bow.”

“He’s gonna meet us in Bartlesville, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree, rummaging through the Skittles bag to find another handful of green ones. “Does he really bother you that much?”

Javi shrugs, his expression thoughtful as he takes the Skittles from you. “He’s annoying and disruptive, but…not really, I guess. We’re still getting good data when he isn’t shooting fireworks into tornadoes.”

You laugh. “Peter loved that. He kept showing clips to everyone. I think it was the highlight of his week.”

“Yeah, how about you? You like Tyler Owens, too?”

You raise an eyebrow, a touch of exasperation in your voice. “Javi…”

“What?” he asks innocently, his gaze meeting yours. “It’s just a question.”

“Okay, if we’re just asking questions, how’s Kate doing?”

Javi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he avoids your eyes. “You really shouldn’t be asking your boss personal questions like that.”

“Mmmm, okay,” you reply.

For as long as you’ve known Javi, Kate’s been a topic of conversation. It wasn’t until recently that he reconnected with her, though, flying off to New York to recruit her for the team. She turned him down but texted him sporadically. It was clear to you he was painfully in love with her.

“We’re texting again,” Javi admits finally. "And she agreed to go to dinner when I'm in New York again next week," he reveals with a smile.

“Look at you go,” you encourage.

“Don’t make it a big deal,” he says, reaching over to fiddle with the radio.

Static bursts through a second later before it’s replaced by a soft, crooning voice. You settle back in your seat when you sense Javi’s done talking about the Kate situation. Based on the radar, you know it’s best to catch some sleep while you can. You close your eyes and tilt your head towards the sunlight streaming through the side window, letting the warmth wash over you. Tension drains from your body as you drift off to sleep, listening to Javi sing off-tune to the radio.

–

At exactly 7 p.m., there’s a knock on your door. You open it to see Tyler standing there, leaning casually against the doorframe, cowboy hat tipped low. He’s wearing a pearl snap shirt and sporting an impressively large belt buckle.

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” Tyler reminds you with a smirk. Your cheeks heat as you meet his gaze, feeling slightly embarrassed. “It says ‘Tornado Wrangler.’ Just in case you were too distracted to read it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, though your tone lacks any real bite.

“But I do love a little flattery,” Tyler counters, extending his arm toward you.

After a moment of hesitation, you slip your hand around his bicep, allowing yourself to be guided along. The parking lot is quiet. It seems that the weekend storm chasers have all gone home. There’s only one solitary figure in the distance, their cigarette glowing briefly with an orange flare in the darkness. Most of the motel rooms you pass are dark and you wonder if everyone on your team has gone to the bar Peter suggested in the group text.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

“Only the finest establishment Bartlesville has to offer,” he replies.

“So the bar everyone else is headed to.”

“You city girls,” he says with a shake of his head. “Come on now,” he encourages, pulling you with him as he sprints across the road to another parking lot that’s crowded and brightly lit.

The neon letters flashing above the entrance proclaim that you've arrived at Cowboys’ Dancehall. As you and Tyler approach, you both hand over your IDs to the bouncer stationed outside. He scrutinizes the out-of-state licenses for a long moment before waving you on.

Inside, it’s loud and dimly lit. Couples spin around the dance floor to a fast-paced country song. The bar is crowded, but Tyler cuts through the throng of people with ease, keeping you beside him with a hand at your hip until you reach the old wooden bar. When he leans in to speak to the bartender his chest brushes your back.

“I’ll take a Bud Light, and the lady will have a rosé,” he tells her, his voice raised just enough to be heard over the music.

The bartender, an older woman with deep lines etched into her face, stares at Tyler before she pops the caps off two Bud Lights and slides them across the bar. “That’ll be $7 even,” she announces.

You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh at the exchange.

“Well alright,” Tyler says, reaching for his wallet.

“I can pay for myself,” you insist, digging through your purse but he’s faster, dropping $10 on the counter.

“A fake date is still a date.” He tells you.

You’re relieved to escape the crush of the crowded bar as you make your way past the dance floor toward the quieter back area where tables are scattered. Peter spots you first, his face lighting up when he waves you over enthusiastically. You’re taken aback to see most of your coworkers seated at a table with Tyler’s crew. Boone greets you with a lopsided salute, while Lily gives you a fist bump. Tyler pulls out a chair for you, and you take a seat, distracted as you search the room for a familiar face.

“Don’t worry,” Peter half shouts to you over the table. “Javi and Scott are meeting with that investor guy.”

“Oh,” you respond, nodding and wondering just how often your coworkers hung out with Tyler’s team in Scott and Javi’s absence.

You were never one to go out with them before, preferring to wind down alone with a good book or movie. It’s clear that this isn’t the first time they’ve gathered like this; everyone seems pretty comfortable together. Tyler, in particular, is completely unfazed to find his crew mingling with Storm Par.

“You’re not going to rat us out to Scott are you?” Daniel asks nervously.

“City girl wouldn’t do that,” Tyler says confidently, resting an arm over the back of your chair. “Would you?” he asks.

He leans in slightly, his thumb brushing gently against your bare shoulder. The unexpectedly intimate touch startles you, and it takes a moment for you to regain your composure.

“Your secret is safe with me,” you promise, offering Daniel a reassuring smile.

He seems to accept your words and you settle back into your chair, letting the conversation of the table wash over you. Sipping your beer, you occasionally glance toward the door. There’s no sign of Scott and you’re left wondering about Tyler’s plan. Everyone else seems confident he and Javi won’t make an appearance tonight.

“Alright, enough sitting. Let’s dance,” Tyler announces, offering you his hand.

You nearly choke on your beer. “Dance?” you repeat, waving him off. “No one mentioned anything about dancing.”

“I can’t have you leaving Oklahoma without learning how to two-step.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” you challenge.

“I get the impression you don’t let yourself have a lot of fun,” Tyler replies quietly. The softness of his eyes and the utter sincerity in his voice make it hard to hold his gaze. It’s unsettling how clearly he seems to see through you.

“Come on,” he says, offering you his hand. “It’ll be fun.”

You glance at the door again before letting Tyler guide you toward the dance floor. The beat of the song is fast and you watch how effortlessly the other couples move, their steps fluid and graceful. Tyler takes your right hand and wraps his left arm around you, his palm resting firmly on your shoulder blade, drawing you close. After a moment’s hesitation, you place your left arm on his bicep. He feels warm and strong against you.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” You say, feeling silly and out of place.

“Nothing to it. All you gotta do is follow, I’ll lead,” Tyler promises, surging forward and taking you with him.

You stumble a little, but Tyler’s quick to adjust his pace for you. He keeps you to the outside of the dance floor, guiding you through the moves. You watch his feet, trying to coordinate your own, but you end up stepping on his toes more than a few times. He doesn’t seem to mind, gently correcting you. It feels like you have two left feet and your anxiety flares in response.

“Look up here,” Tyler says, waiting patiently until you meet his gaze before continuing. “Don’t overthink it — just feel it”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“So let’s keep that big brain busy. Tell me about yourself. Did you go to a fancy school like MIT too?” He asks, his tone playful.

“Uh. No,” you say, glancing down only to have him tap your shoulder. You look up again. “I went to a state school.”

“So did I,” he reveals. “Though it was just for meteorology and atmospheric science.”

“You did?”

“Hey, no need to sound so surprised,” he replies, feigning mock hurt.

“A cowboy and a scholar,” you tease.

“Don’t forget a pretty great dancer, too,” he adds, lifting his arm to twirl you around before pulling you back into his embrace. When he does it again, a breathless laugh escapes you.

“Atta girl,” Tyler says, pulling you even closer. “Now we’re having fun.”

Your skin tingles and you feel warm all over. The world narrows to Tyler’s handsome face, his green eyes deep and captivating in the dim light. Your chest tightens, only allowing you to pull in shallow breaths that leave you lightheaded. In that moment, you realize you haven’t stumbled once — you’re moving perfectly in sync with him.

“One more dance?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you agree.

The current song fades into something softer and more subdued. The crowd begins to thin, but Tyler doesn’t seem deterred by the change. He lowers his hand to the small of your back, holding you close as he guides you in a slow, graceful sweep across the floor. Despite the smoky bar and the crowd of people, all you smell is Tyler's clean, crisp scent. It reminds you of the first storm of the season, the air electric and charged with energy. Full of potential.

Tyler stares steadily at you as he continues to move you across the floor, and you find yourself unable to look away from him. The music seems to fade, leaving only the sound of his breathing and your own. Your lashes flutter and you close your eyes, allowing yourself to simply feel — weightless and free.

It’s only when someone else bumps into you that your eyes snap open and reality comes rushing back. You stumble, but Tyler catches you, pulling you gently to the side.

“Doing alright?” He questions.

You nod, feeling strangely shaky. “I think I need some water.”

Hand still in yours, Tyler tugs you along until he reaches the end of the bar, where a large water jug sits. He hands you a cup, and you drink deeply, surveying the crowded bar. It takes you a while to realize you’re just taking in the sights and sounds, and you haven't thought about Scott at all.

“Our beers are probably warm by now. You want another?” He asks.

“I shouldn’t.”

He smiles and pulls out his phone, opening the weather app. The screen shows a mess of red and yellow just south of you. “You’re probably right,” he admits.

You both head back to the table, where Boone groans at Tyler’s announcement that his crew should return to the motel after finishing their drinks. Your coworkers seem to agree, with some heading to the bar to settle their tabs.

“I’ll walk you back.” Tyler offers.

Outside, the moon is obscured by thick clouds and it feels cooler than when you first arrived. Your eyes roam the parking lot, catching sight of Scarecrow. Scott and Javi must be back from their meeting. A pang of disappointment hits you. You’d hoped Scott would have seen you with Tyler again.

“Well…this is you,” Tyler says, stopping in front of your hotel room. “Not a bad night.”

“It wasn’t,” you agree. “But Scott didn’t show up.”

Tyler presses his lips together, his gaze falling away to look at something past you. His nostrils flare and then his eyes return to you, but the tension in his jaw remains.

"You had fun, didn't you?" He prods.

Even if tonight hadn't gone the way you wanted it to, you have to admit he was right. You had fun.

"I did,” you say, offering him a shy smile. “Thank you.”

“Well, then, it wasn’t a total loss. You had a good time,” he says, his tone warm. To your surprise, he leans in, removing his cowboy hat and holding it level with your face, effectively blocking your view to the left. His hand settles lightly on your hip. “Looks like we’ve got an audience — tall, dark, and a total dipshit.”

You stare up at him, your whole body tingling. “Scott?” You whisper.

“Mmmhmm,” Tyler returns. “Now if you're asking for my advice, I'd let him stew a bit. A man should have to work for you. Put in some effort.”

You nod, and Tyler steps back, pulling his hat on. When you finally look to the left the walkway is deserted, bathed in the dim light filtering through the curtains of the neighboring rooms. Tyler insists on waiting until you're safely inside, and you watch him linger by the door for another minute before he finally turns to leave.

With a sigh, you sit on the bed and slip off your shoes, feeling strangely adrift and unsure. Your text to Scott from this morning remains unanswered and you have no idea if what you’re doing with Tyler is going to help the way you want it to. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to clear your mind.

Lost in your thoughts, you nearly miss the soft knock at the door. You crack it open, looking up at Scott. His dark hair is damp, curling over his forehead. He smiles at you and your heart flutters in response. You almost invite him in on instinct, but Tyler’s earlier remarks rise to the surface.

“What?” Scott asks.

You straighten your shoulders, gathering the courage for what you want to ask. “Why didn’t you respond to my text message?”

His brow furrows, like he has zero idea what you’re talking about.

“I sent you a text this morning,” you clarify.

“We’re not supposed to text and drive in a company vehicle, you know that.”

His response immediately makes you feel silly because of course that made sense. Just last week Javi got on Daniel about texting and driving.

“Are you really going to make me stand out here?” He asks, quickly looking down the hall. He was probably worried someone would see the two of you.

“Of course not.” You step back to let him inside, chewing on the inside of your lip. “I just…why did you have me move cars?”

Scott presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and exhales loudly. You wrap your arms around yourself and take a step back, but he follows you.

“You’ve ridden with me the last two days,” he says quietly. One of his large hands cups your jaw. “I can’t have people accusing me of favoritism, can I?”

You shake your head, frowning. He’s too close, his aftershave nearly overpowering. You need some space.

“Scott, I —” Whatever you were about to say is cut off as both your phones suddenly buzz, and outside you hear the all too familiar wail of the tornado siren.

♡

I no longer have a tag list, please follow @hg-library and turn on notifications.

#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens #twisters #on the horizon

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aces-and-angels · 4 months ago

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DONATE TO SHAHED'S FAMILY

dear moots/lovely lurkers:

if you've been online for these last few weeks- you may have noticed how often i've been pushing shahed's gfm. her campaign has been verified (source -> no. 224 on el-shab-hussein/nabulsi's sheet of vetted campaigns). and if y'all haven't had the chance to become acquainted, this is shahed:

shahed is a 21 year old who used to be a student at al-azhar university before the genocide began. with both her parents having taken ill, she is the sole provider for her family right now, including her five siblings, youngest of whom is just a baby. before the war, shahed used to take/share the most beautiful photos. this is one of them (taken from her tumblr @shahednhall | shahed's instagram

with the generous support of friends/strangers alike, shahed has been able to reach over $40K USD, enough to begin evacuating some of her family members (her younger siblings + her father) who are in desperate need of medical care

however, our work is far from over

shahed + her family are 17 strong and they all deserve a chance to live a life worth living. the situation in gaza is beyond catastrophic and grows more dangerous with each passing day. i have been in communication with shahed and would like to share her most recent message to me:

shahed: I have been displaced from my area, my circumstances are very difficult. I can't open the Internet for long periods, so I want you to help me more in publishing my campaign. I want to have reached a very difficult stage. I want to complete the campaign as soon as possible. I want to rest, I feel that I really survived. I don't want my campaign to stop halfway.

just yesterday, shahed shared that she narrowly escaped death while trying to get food/water for her family. the attacks/bombings at her campsite have forced her to move yet again

every displacement puts both a physical and emotional strain on these families. more often than not, there is little warning before they have to move- and when the time comes- they have to act quickly, leaving behind whatever they can't carry on their backs/can't afford to take with them <- yes, it costs money for them to be able to move.

every message i receive fills me with a mixture of relief and heartbreak-- i do not wish to know what i'll feel if i were to stop getting messages from shahed. i can't. not when i know there's a path to get her family to safety

that is why i am starting this donation match for her campaign. i don't have very much to offer, but i know that if enough people contribute a little, it can amount to a lot 🖤

for those able, please consider matching my donation of $5 USD (proof of donation below cut). shahed has a long way to go before she can achieve her goal of $80K. even if you cannot match me at this time (which is totally okay)- please share this post so others may have a chance to help

IMPT NOTE: @journalsforpalestine is raffling a set of beautiful journals. 4 winners will be chosen on August 31st. for anyone interested in entering -> please read the rules here for the first person to reblog & match my donation (and wants to enter in this raffle) i will give you my entry, so you will be entered to win twice* *(every entry= $5, so if you donate more, you will be entered accordingly).

current stats: $42,726 raised of $80,000 goal

tags for reach (sorry yall- please let me know if you wish to be removed from this list- no hard feelings, truly 🖤)

@timetravellingkitty @meaganfoster @briarhips @mazzikah @mahoushojoe

@rhubarbspring @schoolhater @pcktknife @transmutationisms @sawasawako

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@interact-if

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@aria-ashryver @mydemonsdrivealimo @cadybear420 @thosehallowedhalls @ascindio

#shahednhall #donation match #free palestine #not choices #🍉#art campaign boost #signal boost

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imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul · 3 months ago

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The Prince - Chapter Three

A/N: Hi hi! I always make moodboards for my longer fics and came across this little secluded garden image and just had to work it into the fic. Hope you like this one! Thank you for all your likes, reblogs, comments, messages, they mean the world to me <3

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader Word Count: 4.6k Synopsis: Tensions grow as the reader tries to pursue other marriage options, with Jace's help. Sparring, sneaking away, and midnight garden confessions ensue.

Tag List: @rinisfruity14, @gaiaea, @rexorangecounty

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

You are an idiot. You replay the events of last night in your mind and grow more ashamed by the minute. You had thrown up in front of the prince, and then minutes later, nearly kissed him.

You write to Jeyne what you can, trying to leave out details that reveal just how mortifying the event was, but needing her advice. You wish you could wait, she's to come to King's Landing in a few months at Rhaenyra's request, but the matter seems too pressing to put off.

You wish you could tell someone here, but the only people you are close with are Jace’s brothers and Rhaena, sister to his fiancée. Rhaena had become a close friend during her time in the Vale, but you do not delude yourself that she will want to discuss your budding feelings for her sister’s betrothed. You are to meet with her and Baela in an hour, and you need all thoughts of the prince gone before you see them.

When you arrive in Rhaena’s chambers, she and Baela are looking at something on her table, completely transfixed by it that they don’t hear you enter. You clear your throat and they both look up with a smile.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Rhaena says, grabbing your arm and dragging you over to the table.

“What’s all this?” you ask.

“A list of potential prospects,” Baela says proudly. There are a dozen names on the list at least.

“I can’t believe you did this,” you say. Rhaena knocks her shoulder with yours.

“I want you to be happy,” she says, rolling her eyes, “Of course I did all this.” You take a quick scan of the names, recognizing a few lesser lords, third-born sons, men who wouldn’t mind marrying a woman without a title.

“Thank you,” you say, looking at them with wide eyes.

“We can go through the list together,” Rhaena says. “And weed out the bad. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” she asks Baela.

“It’s not that I don’t want to judge a group of men with the two of you,” she says with a smile, “But I already promised Jace I would fly with him today.” Your stomach flips excitedly at his name.

“Fine, leave all the fun to us,” Rhaena says.

“What kind of fun?”

The three of you snap your attentions to the doorway where Jacaerys stands, a bemused expression on his face. You say, “Nothing,” at the same time Baela says, “A list of suitors for Y/N.”

“Oh?” Jace asks, tilting his head, his eyes meeting yours. He walks over to the group, filling in the space between you and Baela.

“Y/N,” he says lowly in greeting.

“Your Highness,” you say, for some reason, suddenly breathless. He looks at the list for a long minute, a frown on his face. He turns it over, like he expects more names.

“Nothing indeed,” he says, pursing his lips. You glare at him, but it only makes the corners of his mouth upturn.

“What do you mean nothing?” Baela asks, snatching the slip back from him. “Rhaena and I worked hard on this list.”

“I can name at least four names on that list that are older than fifty. Lord Farwynd is a drunk, Ser Mollen a cheat. I could keep going.”

“Please don’t,” Rhaena says. “It was just a place to start.”

“Well, if you would like my opinion, you know where to find me,” he says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I will keep that in mind, Your Highness,” you say.

“Good.” He turns his attention to Baela. “Are you ready?”

“Yes." She exchanges a glance with her sister, rolling her eyes. Rhaena hides her smile from the prince.

“Ladies,” Jacaerys says, nodding to you and Rhaena both, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment.

“Good luck,” Baela says, urging Jace out the door with her hand on his shoulder. You look away when the sight makes envy twine through you. The door closes behind them and Rhaena sighs.

“The list isn’t perfect,” she begins, “But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “We’ll just have to do our research is all. There’s got to be someone good on here.”

For the next week, that is all you do. You spend every day with Rhaena, sometimes joined by Baela, discussing what they know about each name on the list, what the maids can tell them, and what little they can find out about their families in the history books of the library.

You meet with a few men, taking strolls with them through the gardens, sharing a meal with them, and even attending gatherings of theirs. So far, nothing has clicked. The men are more often kind than not, but the attraction just isn’t there.

At lunch one day, after a long week of researching suitors, and making forced conversation with a few, you find yourself enjoying a rare, quiet meal. The room you’re in has a large window, and is up so high, you can’t hear the chatter of the city.

You take a moment to center yourself, to recognize how lucky you are to be here. The suitors had been boring, but they had all seemed kind. Each of them was far better than Lord Blacktyde.

It was foolish to assume that you would find a love match, and one so quickly, too. It was best that you just picked one, one who laughed at the jokes you told, and looked into your eyes while you spoke, not down at your chest. Fantasizing about a knight in shining armor wasn’t going to get you anywhere.

The door opens across the room, shaking you from your thoughts, and Aegon walks in, Viserys following with two maids.

“Well, hello, Your Highnesses,” you say, standing as they approach.

“Y/N,” Aegon says, “You have to come see us spar. Jace taught us so many new moves since the Vale.”

“Really?”

“Really!” Viserys chimes in.

“He says we’re nearly as good as Joffrey.”

“Well, I definitely need to come see for myself, then,” you say. The boys smile excitedly.

“We are sparring in an hour,” Aegon says.

“I will be there,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze. He laughs and squeezes yours back, before turning and running out the door with his brother, the maids racing after them.

An hour later, you arrive at the sparring grounds. The moment you step outside, you are met with the sound of swords clashing, grunting, yelling, and the smell of sweat. It is unpleasant, but it confirms you are in the right place.

Walking across the viewing platform you stop along the railing. A rare sea breeze reaches your face at this height, and you breathe it in greedily. It is a reminder of home, and one that settles you. When you look down at the sparring grounds, you find Jacaerys’s eyes on you. He is smiling gently and doesn’t look away when you meet his gaze.

He strolls over, looking up at you, his eyes squinting slightly in the sun. He is still smiling when he greets you.

“Hello there,” he says.

“Good afternoon, My Prince,” you say, leaning over more to meet his eyes.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you here before,” he says, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Aegon invited me,” you say, nodding towards the younger boy, making his way across the field, wooden sword in hand.

“Ah,” Jace says, his smile growing.

“He wants to show me some of the new things he’s learned from his brother,” you say. You cannot help but stare at Jacaerys. Sweat clings to his brow and hair, the latter of which has been slicked back with it, highlighting the angles of his face. He wears dark armor that clings to him favorably. When you snap back into the present, the prince is smirking at your perusal.

“Well, we’ll be sure to put on quite the show,” he says, nodding to you before walking over to Aegon. Viserys and Joffrey make their way onto the grounds, both giving you a kind smile when they spot you.

Jacaerys begins with Aegon, giving the younger boy a few instructions. Aegon is a bit nervous at first, missing his step and tripping over his own toes. He settles after a moment. He lunges for Jace, who blocks the move easily. He parries back, testing Aegon. The boy does as he was taught and meets his brother’s wooden blade. You cheer for him and clap.

They both turn towards you. Aegon is beaming proudly. Jace is smiling, too. Your gaze meets his for a moment too long. A moment, which is only broken when Aegon takes a swing at his brother, knocking the wind out of him.

You stand up, a hand covering your mouth in shock. Joffrey and Viserys make their way towards the other pair, looks of surprise on their faces, too. Jace stands up slowly, a hand to his stomach. When you realize he is alright, you are the first to start laughing.

Jace looks at you in mock offense, a smile pulling across his face. Aegon starts on next, equally amused and proud of himself. Joffrey falls into laughter next, followed quickly by Viserys, who seems to want to match his brothers.

“Something amusing?” Jacaerys asks. You keep laughing, striving to catch your breath and call your answer back to him, but it takes another moment. When you look at him, a smile is plastered to his face.

“I’m sorry, Jace, but that was one of the funniest things I’ve ever witness,” you say, fighting off your laughter. He tries to look angry, but his smile returns at the fact you said his name, and he smiles again.

“So,” he calls out, turning to face to his brothers, “What was my fatal mistake?”

“You took your eyes off your opponent,” Aegon says.

“You were staring at Y/N,” Joffrey says, smirking in your direction. Heat spreads over your cheeks, but you don't break his stare.

“I became distracted, yes,” Jace says, “Ideally, when you do face an opponent, there won’t be a beautiful woman there to distract you, but it is important to always stay vigilant.” He puts the younger boys back into position, calling moves for them to display.

You watch for another half an hour or so, admiring the care Jace takes with his brothers; the subtle way he’ll cuff their chins or ruffle their hair after giving them a firm correction. The younger boys catch on quickly and clearly enjoy the extended attention from Jacaerys.

When the younger two leave the field, you plan to do so as well, until Jace calls your name. You meet him again over the balcony, looking down at him. He has gotten sweatier, his curls becoming more unruly. He stripped off his breast plate, leaving him in just his undershirt, which clings to his chest. You think he has done it on purpose, given the delight in his eyes when you can’t take yours off him.

“Care to join us?” he asks, panting slightly.

“What?”

“You said you were a sparring partner for Joff back in the Vale,” he says, a growing smile on his face, “I’d quite like to see what you can do.” You are momentarily speechless, laughing in disbelief.

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,” you say.

“We’ll go easy on you,” he says.

“Is that what you think I’m worried about?” you ask, cocking your head to the right slightly. Jace beams, biting his lip to try and hide the smile.

“No, I think you’re afraid to be close to me right now,” he says, quiet enough that only you can hear. “Given how you have been staring at me all afternoon.”

“You think highly of yourself, Your Highness.”

“Come down,” he says simply. You take in a breath, knowing that you can’t fight him anymore.

“Fine,” you say.

When you step out onto the training grounds, Jace is stunned into silence. He is not sure he has ever seen you in trousers before, and the pair you wear now cling to your thighs, leaving very little to his imagination. The blue tunic you wear over top is fitted as well, cinched at your waist, pushing up your cleavage prominently. Joffrey looks between you and Jace as you walk onto the field and just shakes his head with a laugh.

“Good luck with that,” he says, patting his brother on the back.

“You’re not staying?” Jace asks.

“No, I think I’ll give you some alone time. Besides, Aegon bruised the hell out of my chest,” he says, rubbing the spot. “Think I’ll need a few hours of rest at the very least.” He finishes his sentence with a wink before walking away. He says something to you on his way out.

“I think you scared Joffrey off,” Jace says when you walk up to him.

“He remembers my fighting prowess all too well,” you say with a smirk. Jace extends his hand out to the rack of weapons. He watches your eyes widen on the Valyrian steel swords, the axes, and the mace. You pick up a wooden sword.

“A fine choice.”

“Are you going to make fun of my decisions or spar with me?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest. The aggravated look you give him for some strange reason heats his skin, and he picks up his own wooden sword to give himself something else to look at.

“So,” he says, “How goes the suitor hunt?” He readies himself into a fighting stance, waiting for you to do the same. When you do, you lunge first, a simple move, but executed perfectly. Jace blocks you easily and both of you back up.

“It’s been a lot of work,” you say, quickly moving your sword when he tries to cut into you. Jace smiles, impressed. “You cannot believe how many men Rhaena and Baela have found.”

“No one standing out?” he asks, jumping back slightly when you advance towards him.

“Not for the right reasons,” you say. Jace strikes back against your blade, pushing you back a few steps with a flourish until you nearly fall onto your ass. He grabs your arm before you can, righting you gently.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be,” you say breathlessly, looking up at him. “That was a good move.”

“Thanks,” he says, a soft grin on his face as he steps back.

“Show me,” you say, “How to do that.”

“I can,” he says, “But I’ll have to get closer to you.” He watches your cheeks heat and is filled with pride.

“This again?” you ask, “I was not watching you.”

“Of course not,” he says. He moves behind you, nearly shaking as his hands straighten your shoulders. He moves his arm around you, holding your own as he moves them into the correct position. He can feel the quiver of your breath, and has to center himself to keep from doing something stupid in front of the rest of the men on the field.

“So, you’ll hold your blade upright like that,” he says, watching in awe as gooseflesh appears across your shoulder at his words, spoken close to your skin. “And when you lunge, you’ll move like this.” He puts a hand on your waist and moves forward with you. You barely move, so shocked are you by his close proximity. When you butcher the move, you laugh, your head thrown back just slightly, so that your hair falls onto Jace’s arm, and he gets an extended view of your neck.

“Sorry,” you say, shaking your head as you right yourself again.

“Don’t be,” he says gently.

“Like this?” you ask, stepping forward, Jace still locked with you. You execute the move perfectly, but Jace has you try it another few times, to keep you close to him for longer. When he knows he can’t stay behind you for any more, he breaks away and watches you complete the move.

“Well done,” he says, trying not to stare at your sweaty brow, the few hairs that cling to it. You are panting, and the rise and fall of your chest does wonders for the already exposed cleavage. He is not sure where he should turn his gaze.

“You are an excellent trainer,” you say.

“You’re my first,” he says. Heat rises to his cheeks, before he corrects himself, “My first pupil, besides my brothers.”

“Right,” you say, returning the wooden sword to the rack. “Well, thank you again. This was a lovely distraction from . . . everything.”

“Anytime,” he says. You turn to leave, but he stops you as he says, “I mean it. Anytime. I know you have your meetings with the suitors, but if you ever need an out, I’m here.”

“Thank you, My Prince,” you say, giving him a kind smile before leaving the field.

The next two weeks, you do take him up on the offer. You find him after a torturous afternoon spent with Lord Musgood, who said very little to you, and instead spent most of his time studying the flowers in the garden. The prince helps you craft a lie to leave him in the gardens, and you end up spending the rest of the day with him instead, creating a list of lies to use when you need to leave a meeting.

On days when you have no meetings, you spend at least one meal with him, recounting the events with the men, what they did to make you laugh, what you knew would make him laugh.

On the third week of your suitor meetings, you are searching for an out that never seems to come. Ser Rowan never gives you a chance to tell a lie, given that he rambles on and on about the livestock in his home. As you pass through the halls of the Red Keep, one you’re sure you’ve passed once before, you are desperate for an escape.

He's left you no choice but to literally escape. As you near the entrance to the very gardens you left Lord Musgood in, you slow your steps. Ser Rowan doesn’t seem to notice. You stop completely, giving him one second to notice your absence, before you slip out into the night air, into the dark, damp of the gardens.

You wait silently by the entrance, waiting for him to turn around and call after you. After a few minutes, you let out a breath and wander deeper into the gardens. A few aisles down, you hear a crack of a twig. You expect it to be a gardener, or perhaps Ser Rowan, but when you turn around, Jace is there instead.

His sudden appearance startles you. You put a hand to your chest, to soothe the pounding heart underneath. He stops underneath an archway, a few feet from you.

“Your Highness,” you say in a breath.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was out here. I didn’t mean to startle you.” You nod your head, letting out a deep breath. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were spending time with Ser Rowan.”

“Unfortunately, I was,” you say with a frown, stepping closer to him. Jace bites back a smile, studying your face.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I now know about the mating habits of cattle at his home,” you say, relaxing when he laughs. “There is one cow in particular, bit of a harlot,” you say.

“The scandal,” Jace says, leaning against the archway. “How did you get away from him? Did you use the story we used on Ser Dayne or did you fake an illness like we did with Ser Rosby?”

“Neither, actually,” you say, leaning up against the opposite end of the arch. “I couldn’t get a word in, so I just ran when I had the chance.” This sends Jacaerys into a new wave of laughter, snorting at your folly.

“So, this one isn’t a keeper either,” he says gently.

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but you’re sure he doesn’t mean it.

“So am I,” you say, “I’m starting to run out of options, and with my history of abandoning these men, I won’t even be able to settle for the boring ones, either.”

“If only you didn’t have to settle,” he says. For once, he isn’t looking at you.

“A luxury I, unfortunately, don’t have,” you say.

“But if you—"

“Y/N?”

Jace quiets as Ser Rowan enters the gardens, calling out your name. You look to him with wide, panicked eyes. Quickly, he grabs your hand and pulls you into the maze-like gardens. The lord calls out again, clearly hearing your footsteps. Jace pulls you into an alcove, surrounded by shrubbery, with a fountain at its center. Pressed into a corner, you both wait with shallow breath to see if the lord follows.

After a few minutes, he grumbles to himself and enters the castle proper. When he is out of sight, you both let out a gasp of relief. The movement brings Jace’s chest to your back, and you suddenly realize how close you are standing. Your body is sheltered by his arms, fitted perfectly against his.

You make to move away, but Jace stops you with a hand around your wrist.

“What are—”

“You’ve got something.” His other hand reaches into your hair delicately and extracts a twig that had gotten caught from the shrubbery.

“Thank you,” you say, stepping back quickly. He watches you move away with a strange expression on his face.

“He does seem the sort to ramble on about cattle,” he says, making you laugh. It releases a tension in you, and you can see Jace notice the change.

“Now you see why I ran,” you say with a smile. You walk over to the fountain, your fingers trailing through the cool water. “You’re lucky to have Baela,” you say. Jace doesn’t say anything, but follows you, looking at your reflection in the fountain. “She is lovely.”

“She is.”

“The sort who wouldn’t wax on about cattle,” you say, chancing a look up at him. He smiles, but it’s not the same. It seems to be working hard to mask the sadness that is really on his face.

“I have never known her to, no,” he says.

“It must be a relief, that you know your future spouse so well. No surprises.”

“It can be difficult, too,” he says, looking into the water. “I have known Baela all my life, and while she is lovely, we don’t necessarily have a love match.”

“Does anyone?” you ask with a laugh.

“I’d like to think so,” he says, turning to meet your eyes. You can see that he is serious.

“Sadly, I don’t think people get to marry the ones they love too often,” you say. “Politics always seems to get in the way.”

“It’s something I’d like to change when I become king,” he says boldly. You raise an eyebrow at him, before pacing around the fountain, your fingers running along the wet grout pattern.

“You’ll be married to Baela by then,” you say, “Your mother will live a long life as our queen, and by the time you get to the throne, you and Baela will have five sons already.” He doesn’t say anything, his jaw clenched tight, and you realize how inappropriate what you just said was, how inappropriate you’ve been with him all night. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, “I’m not sure what’s gotten into me today.”

“Y/N,” he says, stopping you when you circle back to him, his hand on your forearm. The motion draws your face up to his. “Where will you be?”

“What?”

“When I am king, with five sons by Baela, where will you be?” he asks.

“I suppose married as well,” you say, your voice suddenly weak. At his proximity, you are once again nearly speechless, your heart thudding.

“With five sons?” he asks.

“If the gods see fit to bless me with them,” you say, glancing down at the hand still wrapped around you. Jace drops his hand, looking down at his own.

“And who is this husband?” he asks.

“I haven’t a clue,” you say, sitting along the edge of the fountain, “You’ve seen my candidates.”

“No love matches there,” he says.

“No.”

“But there must be some contenders? Someone who made you feel something,” he says, looking at you. The conversation has taken a turn somewhere it can’t go, and you sigh.

“Jace,” you say. He moves closer to you, his eyes searching your face frantically as he shortens the minimal gap between the two of you. A gentle, calloused hand cups your cheek and makes you look him in the eye.

“There’s no one who makes you feel anything?” he asks again.

“None of the suitors,” you whisper. He is moving closer, and you both want to stop him and want him to close the space between you. But when you feel his breath on your lip, you turn away, taking in a shaky breath. You stand and put a few paces between the pair of you.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“How are you able to fight your feelings?” he asks quietly, a tortured expression on his face. He runs a hand through his hair anxiously, leaving his curls strewn haphazardly. “I know you feel the same.”

“Jace,” you say with a sigh.

“How?”

“I keep those longings locked away,” you say, hating that you’re admitting to him these feelings.

“Why?”

“Because following them can lead nowhere good,” you say, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. He moves in closer, his hand on your waist, keeping your chest pressed to his.

“This doesn’t feel good?” he asks with a shake of his head. You put a hand to his strong chest, pushing off gently.

“That’s not what I mean,” you say. “You are a prince, Jace, and you are betrothed. Letting these feelings out . . . it won't end well."

“So, you’ll just live without ever knowing?” he asks. “Without knowing what it’s like to kiss me, to be held by—”

“Yes,” you say, cutting him off, “Yes. If they stay thoughts, they cannot hurt me. We’ve already done it all in my mind, and that is enough. It has to be,” you say.

“You deserve so much better than those third-born sons,” he says.

“I don’t,” you say.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t, Jace. I deserve exactly these men. They aren’t asking for a dowry, for land, or a title. They are asking for a wife. That is the only thing I have to offer them.”

“You have so much more—”

“Stop, please,” you say quietly. He moves closer, just a step, and draws your eyes to him. He is so beautiful, the pale moonlight lighting his features, spotlighting the pain in his eyes. He has been nothing but kind to you, and you hate that you are causing him pain.

“It’s best if we pretend these feelings don’t exist,” you say, nodding up at him, waiting for him to agree.

“If that’s what you want,” he says quietly.

“It’s what I need,” you say. “It’s a vow we both need to uphold, somehow.”

“Alright,” he says, his face falling. “We’ll pretend.”

“Okay.”

“You should probably get back to your quarters,” he says, moving away from you with a sniff. “Before he comes looking again.”

“Right,” you say, straightening. “Thank you, again, Your Highness.” He frowns at the title, but nods.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys x you #jacaerys velaryon #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction

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alieinthemorning · 3 months ago

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Low Temperatures [Sylus]

Content: Fluff, Established Relationship, Sick Character, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: None

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

“Why is it so cold in here?” The moment your bare feet grazed the marble floor of Sylus’ room, a sharp chill ran up and down your body.

“Did you know that you should sleep with the room temperature at between sixty and seventy-two degrees?”

“So fucking freezing and freezing?” You padded your way over to the thermostat, turning it up to 75. “Don’t touch it.”

“It’s my thermostat.” You rolled your eyes at Sylus’ pout, heading over to the bed.

“Well now it’s our thermostat since I’m sleeping in here tonight.” Throwing the covers back, you flopped down.

You should have known simple words wouldn’t have stopped Sylus. You should have walked out the moment he brought up that cold ass “correct” temperature bullshit. All you wanted was sleep, a quick rest, a simple rest of the eyes. But now here you were, cold, cranky, and cuddled up against the culprit.

“Why is it so fucking cold?” Your voice was rough, you sure were sick.

“It feels quite comfortable to me.” Despite being burrowed deep in the covers, you could hear the smug smile. “You were holding onto me so tightly…am I to assume it was because you were cold and nothing else?”

“Shut up—” Your words became a wet, garbbed mess of coughs.

You felt Sylus shift closer. “Are you seriously sick?”

“Did you seriously touch my shit when I told you not to?” Another string of harsh coughs.

Silence blanketed the room, for once he had nothing to say. You untangled yourself from the blankets, making your way to the thermostat. You could feel Sylus’ gaze on your back, but you ignored it.

It was at 62 degrees.

You headed for the door.

He didn’t try to stop you.

You hated being sick. You hated being away from home, and sick. You especially hated being away from home, sick and living under the same roof as the person who made you sick as a fucking gotcha (or whatever).

“Man, you’re weak.”

“Yeah, sixty-two degrees isn’t even all that cold.”

“Get out.”

You were not in the mood for Luke and Kieran shenanigans because if they were gonna shenan once, they would shenan again.

“No can do.”

“The boss gave us explicit orders to watch over you.”

You groaned (mistake, turned in another bad cough), and rolled your eyes. “Then watch me quietly. I want to sleep.”

“But you’ve been doing nothing but sleeping this entire time.” Kieran pointed.

“And that’s boring.” Luke agreed with a nod.

“Yeah, we should—”

A ping cleared the air, cutting Kieran off. Luke slipped his phone from his pocket, glancing at the message.

“It’s boss. He wants to see us.”

“Really? I thought we had the day off.”

“Good, hurry up and don’t come back.” You would have physically pushed them out, but your body was aching, so you hoped a fierce glare was enough to get them moving.

It wasn’t. They took their sweet ass time leaving your room, but at least they were nice (see: being a nuisance) enough to turn the lights off as they left.

Finally, peace and quiet. Well, peace, quiet and pain. But with a commentary video on in the background, you were able to lull yourself to sleep.

The next few days went by slowly, and uneventful. The twins never came back after Sylus had called for them. You were both grateful and a bit annoyed (you would have liked to have a bit of entertainment as you were getting better). Then you were fully recovered, and the twins still hadn’t reared their masked heads. You rolled your eyes, turning on your heel and headed for the reason why.

Entering the room, you immediately beelined it for the thermostat.

It was set to 75 degrees.

You headed for the bed.

He didn’t try to stop you nor move from his spot.

You snuggle into the bed, happy with the comfort that surrounded you. You were content with the silence, not really expecting him to speak to you, and you weren’t willing to extend the olive branch. But then he spoke,

“I’m sorry.” He sighed, as his book clapped shut. “For disregarding your words, and getting you sick.”

You let the apology settle in the air for a moment before responding. “I don’t like that you did that—I’ve got a weak constitution.” You paused, toying with your bottom lip. “...but I should have told you that before just changing something and expecting you not to change it back. So I’m sorry too.”

“Now that we’ve both gotten the apologies out of the way,” You felt him lean over you, “Will you return to the bedroom?”

“Oh? Was someone lonely without me?”

His lips grazed your ear. “Of course I was.”

“Oh.” You shuddered. “What should we do about our loneliness then?”

“I can think of a few things.”

For the first time ever

NSFW Continuation

Everyone thank my friend and Sylus for this.

Ko-Fi | Commission | Masterlist

#alie ficlets #alie ficlets: love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #lads x reader #lads sylus x reader

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thorough-witness-enjoyer · 3 months ago

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In the face of recent news about our beloved Destiny, I think it’s more important than ever for us as a community to come together and support each other in numerous ways.

It’s been a very hard week for all of us, especially those who lost their jobs and outlet for their passion in mass lay offs. Losing a position that allowed you to craft magnificent stories alongside some of the most ambitious people in the gaming industry, especially in worrying economic circumstances, must be excruciating to deal with and I wish the best for all those laid off from Bungie.

For us fans, it hurts more than anything to see the game you care so much for get put in headlines for how little that care is shared amongst the people responsible for making decisions on it. I’ve been into Destiny since it first dropped, making it the love of my life for nearly two-thirds of my whole existence , and to hear about how it’s just another product to be sold when it’s everything and more to me is just despairing. I wanted to become a writer and concept artist to create a game for others that made them feel as cared for as I did when I played Destiny and now I’m sitting here seeing all the people who helped foster that feeling be treated as another expenditure.

It’s awful, a lot of us are feeling really uninspired and betrayed at the moment, not sure we even want to see what will happen to this masterpiece of a game in the hands of the current executives. We are also dearly missing the developers, artists, writers, and more who made Destiny more than a fps looter shooter.

But it is times like these where we are torn and confused that we must uplift one another and not let the bitter taste of Bungie’s actions make us speak with hostility. This is not about decisions on whether to support Bungie or the actual game, but about refocusing on what truly makes Destiny enjoyable to so many.

Its world is immersive with care put into every story and that clearly shows in just how eager fans are to create masterpieces for it. It was never playing the game or the notoriety that kept me coming back for more, but the joy of creation I could share with others.

It stings to see a disinterest in nursing the potential of the Destiny universe from the executives with motivations other than monetary gain, but when the executives won’t care, we can. There are still employees at Bungie who adore their work and we can continue to support them by speaking up against horrible industry practices and show that we won’t abandon their efforts to make Destiny what it is.

Make ocs, write fanfictions, follow the former employees wherever they go, draw til your heart is overflowing, join Discords, roleplay, share headcanons, create aus with friends, do whatever keeps Destiny alive and flourishing for you!

Destiny will never die to me, even when it’s long forgotten and the servers shut down, because Destiny made me who I am and I intend to repay that gift an infinite amount of times over. The characters and universe will be alive and well to me until I die, regardless of the fate of the game and Bungie.

So go out and prove that Destiny’s themes of the power of community and hope are more than just morals behind a screen, that they are life changing messages that we will carry on despite hopeless news!!

Reblog charming artists, message people about ships you enjoy, leave questions and tags that contribute to conservations, write essays about what Destiny means to you!!

My messages and inbox for questions are always open if anyone would like to talk (I’m trying to get better at answering them, even if they are months late)! You are all welcome here and I want to start reblogging and liking more freely even if those things scare me sometimes!

We can decide our fates and we can decide the fate of Destiny’s presence in our lives as well! We can choose to care when others won’t and refuse to make our enjoyment debatable!! In troubling times, we should be able to reach out into the dark and find hands to hold onto tight!!

#destiny 2 #destiny #destiny the game #d2 #destiny art #destiny concept art #destiny fanfiction #destiny community #destiny fanart #destiny oc #destiny au #I need to stop yapping #I love you all so much I love the people I’ve met in this community #destiny the game you are

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runningfrom2am · 1 year ago

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leveling the playing field IX

summary: with nowhere else to go after getting caught cheating to help lucy gray, you both make some desperately stupid decisions.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.6k

tags/warnings: capitol brat!reader, maybe slightly ooc coryo, idk i tried my best. do they love each other or hate each other? who knows (we do, kind of). implications and mentions of abuse, so read with caution!! also a little bit of swearing but that's neither here nor there

masterlists // nav // requests

join my taglist here

a/n: here we are!! 'season' two!! thanks so much for reading it and I'm SO so glad lots of people seem to love it :) if you do, please reblog it or leave your thoughts in the replies or in my inbox! i love hearing from you and talking about it so don't be a stranger !

without further adieu,, enter buzzcut coryo <3

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Coriolanus's stomach twisted as he could hear your screams from the hall, even though by then he was all the way on the other side of the school. He thought that was unsettling, only for them to abruptly stop just before he left. The silence that followed was so much worse. He didn't get any sleep, sitting on the roof in Grandma'ams rose garden with Tigris all night, wondering if you were dead.

He was just sick about it, even as he left the following morning, so early that the sun was yet to rise. It was a long, painful ride, and he spent the entire thing certain that you were dead. It was his fault, he had only wanted you to come with him, so he wouldn't be alone, but now he truly is alone and he won't even have you to write to back home. Regardless, he would try.

Rather than sit with the idea that it might even be pointless for him to live another day, especially with this unflattering haircut and a uniform that challenged the discomfort of the academy one, he decided to write to you on a paper he had found bunched between the train seats to ease his mind.

Y/N/N,

I hope you're reading this. I hope this gets back to you at home and finds you safe and sound, and you're sitting over your desk with a textbook open getting ready for university in the fall. That's not what's happening though, is it? You're probably dead. I probably killed you. If you are reading this in your room, or your library, or over my shoulder as I write this because you are only alive in what's left of your spirit, I hope you know that I am sorry. I did it because I wanted you with me, because in the moment I was so sure you'd be better off with me in the districts than you would be at home with your father. I think I was wrong. But I still miss you. You meant more to me than I ever told you. I guess, more than I ever told myself either until these last few weeks.

I think I heard them kill you after I left you with the Dean. If they did, boy, did you go out fighting. I always knew you would. I can't stop writing in case I never get to speak to you again. But again, maybe you're not dead, right?

Please tell me you're not dead.

Yours,

Always yours, your Coryo

He smoothes out the wrinkled sheet as he writes, hand shaking through most of it. He doesn't know if he should even bother sending it, or if he should just fold it up and throw it out the window in hopes that the message will find its way to your ghost. No, he has to send it. Otherwise he'll definitely never know, at least not for twenty years, and he couldn't bear that.

The wind hits the trees into the windows of the train as it rolls along the tracks, demanding that the branches be heard against the glass. It reminds him of you. Then again, what doesn't these days? Maybe it was just you letting him know you had read his letter, and that you forgive him. That would give him a semblance of peace for the rest of the ride.

When you woke up, it was impossible to tell what time it was. You only knew that it was dark, and your bedroom door was locked from the outside when you got up and carefully tried to open it only to be blocked by the mechanism.

"I have half the mind to agree with you on the Avox thing." You hear your dad sigh, his voice echoing from his study just down the hall. Your eyes widen and you try the knob again. Yep, still locked. "But we could always send her to Nine or Ten as a nurse. She's not staying here, that's certain."

"I don't want to push your decision, here, but she was saying she would tell everyone. She knows more than we thought, more details." Highbottom was here too, great.

"No, that's impossible. What did she say?"

"She knows we're selling, likely that you're storing it all here somewhere, and she knows it's enough to be treason. I don't know what else she knows, but it's risky business ever letting her out of that room again. The procedure might be our best option, here." You've heard enough, quickly making for your window instead. It's locked as well, but draping your old uniform over the lever gives you enough freedom to crush it with a particularly heavy, hardcover textbook without making much noise.

You change quickly, grabbing a few essentials that you could fit into your book bag, then climb out the window and slide down the back porch column before making as quiet of an escape as possible. Adrenaline carried you a few blocks away, but now, you were unsure what to do. You couldn't return, and you couldn't be seen, and you had a tragic shortage of friends at the moment. You find your feet carrying you toward the building you know Coriolanus lives in.

You're not particularly excited to see him, but with no other options, you're sure you can find it in yourself to be forgiving just this once. You could go to Sejanus's family home, but it's not far enough away, and you're not sure what his father would say. He'd probably call your dad in a second and it would all be for naught- you couldn't risk it. So, Coryo's it was.

You enter the building, walking straight for the elevator. He was in the penthouse, so you just have to hit the very top button and figure it out from there. You've never been to his home before, but he's talked about it plenty. Enough that you could find your way there, at least.

You groan when you quickly realize the elevator doesn't work, looking over at the stairs. It's a tall building, so you've got a long way to go. You wonder how he does this every day as you climb up set after set of stairs, taking note of how the walls are basically crumbling around you.

You knew he didn't have money, that he couldn't eat, but you didn't think he lived like this. No wonder he was so thin, and no wonder he still had any muscle left on his body. It was these damn stairs. That couldn't be it though, that wouldn't explain how his shoulders just seemed to go on for miles- maybe he had some kind of workout routine you never knew about.

You're drawn from your thoughts when you reach the top of the last staircase, hesitating to open the industrial looking door in front of you. Just beyond that was the front door to the Snow penthouse, and now that you're here, you're not sure what to do. Do you knock? You don't even know what time it is.

You sit by the door, deciding to think it over for a bit. It doesn't take you long to fall asleep leaning up against the wall where it meets the dusty floor.

Waking up, you're met with a gasp. "Y/N?" You blink open your eyes, seeing Tigris crouched in front of you, forehead creased with worry. "Are you okay? What are you doing here?"

"Tigris, hello." You mumble, gathering yourself to stand up as she helps you. "I, uh, I didn't know where to go, so..."

"Okay, okay. Come in for a second." She nods, holding your shoulder as she guides you back into the apartment. You squint at the sunrise through the large bay windows, she must have been on her way to work. "Can I get you anything? Some tea? You must be freezing..." She says, immediately shuffling into the kitchen.

"No, no. It's fine. Thank you, though." You insist, trying not to stare at the state the apartment has fallen into.

"Okay, well, please, take a seat. Tell me what's going on."

You nod slightly and move to sit down at their dining table where she joins you, reaching out for your hand which you gratefully take. "Did Coriolanus leave already?" You ask and she nods, giving you a sad smile.

"I must admit, I'm relieved to see you." She says, taking you by surprise. "Coryo thought you were dead. He was just so torn up about it, he said it was his fault but he wouldn't tell me why. I was expecting to see your passing in the papers this morning."

"Well, my days are numbered." You sigh, looking out the window again. The view was stunning. Maybe you would prefer a penthouse to your own large, empty feeling home. "My father and Dean Highbottom were discussing turning me into an Avox as a pity punishment, and I don't doubt that my father would rather bury me than have that on his name. I didn't stick around to hear their decision."

Tigris listens intently, squeezing your cold hands between her own. "And now, I don't know what to do. I had nowhere to go, I'm so sorry to intrude-"

"No, my goodness, please. You are always welcome here." She assured you. "But... what will you do?"

"I have to leave." You nod to yourself. "I have to leave and I can't come back, can I?"

"One day I'm sure it will be safe for you to return." She says, notably trying to put a positive spin on it. "I'll tell you what-" She stands quickly, going over to a hall closet and pulling out a large fur coat. "Take this, it can hide you and keep you warm. Take the next train to Twelve, that's where Coryo went." She places the coat in your lap. "He'll be ecstatic to have you and see that you're well."

You nod, standing up and pulling it on in a hurry. It was a beautiful coat, you could tell it was real fur. This must have belonged to one of their mothers. "Thank you, Tigris."

"There's another train headed there in about twenty minutes, if you rush you can make it. I had to check the schedule last night for him. Don't buy a ticket, just climb in a transport car from the opposite side, not the platform." She instructs you hurriedly,

You dig in your bag as you both head for the door, pulling out a handful of money and rifling through it to give some to her. You'll need some, but she will too.

"Here, Tigris. Take this." You say as she holds the door for you, and she instantly is shaking her head.

"No, no. I couldn't." She smiles awkwardly, waving a hand at you. "You'll need it more than I do, Coryo will be sending us cheques."

You smile at her understandingly, holding it out to her again. "If not for your help, then for this lovely jacket. Please take it. I insist."

Tigris sighs, taking it from your hand before pulling you into a hug which you gladly return. "Tell him we love him, okay?"

"He knows," You say, chin resting on her shoulder. "But I will."

It was dark again when your train reached its final stop, and you were curled up under the coat trying to sleep. You scramble to get up, having to bolt from the train before anyone came to unload the car.

Unfortunately, you didn't get the privilege of having a place to stay when you arrived, so once you're out of sight of the train, the best you can do is wander.

You don't have to wander long before you hear music. You didn't realize people were happy here, so the sounds of laughter and shouting and dancing coming from inside what looked to be an abandoned building made you tilt your head at the idea. Maybe you would just sit outside, around the side of the building where you won't be seen and you can listen.

You don't even get the chance to sit before you hear the singing start. It's Lucy Gray. You mentally scold yourself for not thinking of her sooner as you stand again quickly, finding yourself quite lightheaded. You must be hungry. Maybe there will be some food inside, or maybe you can find talk to Lucy Gray and maybe she'll let you stay with her. Just until you get yourself situated here.

Clutching your new coat tightly around yourself you walk in after attempting to dust off and salvage your clothes. Your favourite skirt and shoes took quite a beating throughout the day, and you're disappointed, to say the least. Hopefully Lucy Gray has a washing machine, but you doubt it. Did these people even know what a washing machine is? By the look of everyone in the room, the answer was a definite no.

Sure enough, Lucy Gray was on stage, singing her heart out. You had never seen her smile so wide, of course, and the kids surrounding her onstage were just as talented as she was at all their instruments. You've never seen live music like this before, only classical or opera where everyone sat quietly and listened until the end. This environment was entirely new to you.

Not wanting to interrupt, you wait until Lucy Gray steps offstage and her spot is replaced with a little blonde girl who couldn't have been older than ten.

"Give it up for the amazing Lucy Gray Baird!" The girl shouts into the mic, gesturing to your friend before more music started to play. "She'll be back, she's just taking a little break, but until then, you lot are stuck listenin' to me."

This is your chance. You push through the crowd and step into the hall you saw Lucy Gray go down. "Lucy Gray?" You call out hopefully, watching your step as to not roll a heel. In hindsight, these shoes were not ideal for the journey you took, but your options were limited by a time crunch.

"Lucy Gray?" You ask again, turning a corner and peeling into a large open room. It's a few moments before your eyes land on her, and she turns to face you having heard you walk in.

"Oh my days, I thought I recognized that voice!" She smiles, opening her arms and running up to you. "Y/N, my word, what are you doin' here?" Her excitement fades quickly into concern as she drops her arms from around you.

"Long story..." You chuckle nervously, pulling at your coat again as she nods for you to continue. "We got caught, for the compact. And the snakes, somehow. Coriolanus put our handkerchiefs that you used in the tank so they wouldn't attack you, I guess. I didn't know. Then they pulled us out of class the next day, he told them it was me, so then I put up a fight and they sedated me. When I woke up I was at home and they were talking about having my tongue cut out and turning me into one of those servants but I'm sure my dad would rather have me dead. So," You sigh, trying to summarize it as quickly as possible. "I ran."

Lucy Gray shook her head, mouth agape in shock at all the information she just took in. "Okay, wait... So they were going to kill you?"

You nod.

"But that teacher of yours seemed so nice."

"Sorry?"

"Yeah, he gave me some money and escorted me into the train himself."

You scoff, shaking your head. "He's never liked either of us, but that's only because I have dirt on him. I don't know what Coryo did."

"Well," Lucy Gray sighs, rubbing your shoulders gently. "I'm glad you're here. That you're safe."

"You too." You smile. "Can I just say, too, we were so proud of you. We were so lucky to be your mentors."

"I count myself the lucky one." She grins. "Let's move on, shall we? On the up and up."

"Yes, sounds lovely." You grin at her.

"Can I get you some water? Liquor? What do you need?" She asks, turning at that and going over to a bench in the middle that had a few water bottles.

"I would love some water." You breathe out, joining her and sitting down as she hands one to you.

"Lucy Gray, could I ask you for a really big favour?" You say after taking your first sip.

"Please." She nods.

"Can I stay with you?"

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