#but i DO miss having some threads with him.

[meleeyz]

୭ 𝗩𝗜𝗞𝗧𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘 ˚. ᵎᵎ 

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

viktor 𝒙 fem!reader (platonic)

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ I don't know, I just thought it would be a fun dynamic, enjoy!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

𓆤 Ekko crashing into you on his hoverboard was how it all began. It happened during one of your hurried trips back to Zaun after a grueling week in Piltover’s laboratories. You were distracted, engrossed in your mental checklist of materials Viktor had asked you to bring. You didn't even notice the faint whir of Ekko’s hoverboard until it was too late.

“Hey, watch—” Ekko started, his voice sharp with alarm before cutting off mid-sentence as the two of you collided.

You landed flat on your back with a groan, Viktor's precious schematics flying out of your bag. Ekko was quick to get up and extend a hand to help you up.

“Oh crap, I didn’t mean to—uh, are you okay?” Ekko asked with a sheepish grin.

“You should really watch where you’re going!” you snapped, brushing yourself off. Then your eyes locked. It was hard to stay mad at someone who looks like they actually cared.

From then on, every return trip to Zaun seemed incomplete without bumping into him, either by accident or by his deliberate attempts to "run into" you.

𓆤 Ekko had mixed feelings about your constant back-and-forth trips. He understood why you had to be in Piltover so much—your apprenticeship under Viktor was important—but that didn’t mean he liked it.

“You know, it’s kinda unfair,” he said one evening, as the two of you sat on the rooftop of a crumbling Zaun building. The view of the Undercity's twinkling lights stretched around you, and the new prototype of his hoverboard leaned against the nearby wall. “Piltover gets you all day, and Zaun just gets you at night.”

𓆤 Ekko loved your sharp mind. In fact, he found your involvement with Hextech fascinating, even if he teased you endlessly about being a “Piltover nerd.”

“Look at you, little Miss Zaunite Hextech Genius,” he’d say with a smirk as he watched you tinker with a device. “All fancy with your gears and crystals. Can you make something that doesn’t explode?”

You rolled your eyes.

“This is for science. Not for impressing you.”

“Oh, but you already impress me.” He’d wink, leaning over your shoulder to inspect your work. His genuine curiosity often led to him offering ideas that somehow worked, despite his lack of formal training. You suspected his innate knack for mechanics rivaled even Viktor’s.

𓆤 Ekko would often stop by you house in Undercity unannounced, bringing little gifts—scrap metal he thought you could use or metal flowers that he made with his own hands for you

𓆤 You, in turn, would surprise him with modifications for his hoverboard or gadgets to help the Firelights. His reaction to your gifts was always the same: pure delight.

𓆤 Leaving aside the jokes, he loved watching you work, claiming it was “like seeing genius in action.” You’d laugh and tell him to stop distracting you, but his presence always made the hours fly by.

𓆤 The two of you shared countless late-night conversations on rooftops, swapping dreams and fears.

𓆤 It started subtly. Ekko’s laugh lingered in your mind longer than it should have. His voice, the way he said your name, echoed in your thoughts while you worked. You found yourself doodling in the margins of your notes, spiraling into daydreams that left you blushing.

𓆤 Viktor initially didn’t think much of Ekko—at least not directly. He only knew of him through your constant chatter.

“Ekko said this really clever thing about—” “Ekko helped me figure out how to—” “Ekko...”

Eventually, Viktor sighed and set down his pen.

“I can’t believe you’re getting so worked up about some guy,” he said, exasperation lacing his words.

“This one is different!” you protested, fidgeting with a loose thread on your sleeve. “He’s honest, he’s sweet—”

“Please…”

“He would never do anything to hurt me!”

Viktor raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a guy.”

“He’s also... brilliant. And kind... and handsome... and—”

“Oh shit, here we go again…” He exhaled, completely tired.

𓆤 The meeting happened in Piltover, under less-than-ideal circumstances. You’d convinced the Academy to grant you temporary access to the lab for a personal project, ostensibly Hextech-related. In truth, you were helping Ekko repair an broken stabilizer for the Firelights

You thought you were being sneaky. You were wrong.

Viktor appeared in the doorway, cane tapping against the marble floor. His eyes immediately landed on the device in Ekko’s hands and then flicked to you.

“And what,” he asked dryly, “is going on here?”

Ekko froze, looking like a child caught stealing candy. You scrambled to explain, words tumbling out in a panicked mess.

To your surprise, Viktor didn’t explode. Instead, he regarded Ekko with quiet intensity. After a long pause, he nodded.

“You have talent,” he said to Ekko. “Perhaps more than you deserve.”

Ekko grinned, clearly amused. “Thanks? I think?”

From then on, Viktor tolerated Ekko’s presence, though he would often sigh dramatically whenever you brought him up in conversation.

𓆤 The news of Viktor’s declining health hit you like a blow. For all his brilliance, your mentor was mortal, and the idea of losing him felt unbearable. You confided in Ekko, who held you as you cried, his quiet strength grounding you.

“He’s proud of you, you know,” Ekko said softly, stroking your back. “He might not say it, but he is.”

Those words stayed with you, offering comfort during the hardest days.

𓆤 As Viktor’s condition worsened, he grew more reflective. One day, he called you into his office. You found him gazing out the window, his frail frame silhouetted against the light.

“You’ve been a good apprentice,” he said without turning around. “Better than I deserved.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered, your throat tight.

He turned to face you, his expression soft despite the lines of pain etched into his face.

“I’m sorry I won’t be there for your wedding day.”

Your eyes widened.

“What—?”

“I’m not blind,” he said with a faint smile. “Or deaf. That boy... he makes you happy.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“He does.”

“Then go to him,” Viktor said gently. “And live. Live, my dear. Work, yes, but also live. With him.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Frayed Edges

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky used to be so in love and so… ignorant of the roles you had to play, which lead to you breaking up. But that didn’t seem to keep you away from each other since you now act as Bucky’s nurse whenever he gets hurt. Based off my mini fic here.

Stitched Together | Pull the Thread | In Stitches | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

He was pissed off. His entire body hurt and he was really pissed off.

Sam dropped him off at your place. Bucky didn't want to deal with anyone else right now. He told Sam he'd call him when he'd need to get picked up.

He limps up to your door, grimacing at every move he makes. The stab wound in his stomach hurt like a bitch and he needed your help ASAP.

He knocks on your door, ringing the doorbell with urgency. The door swings open and your eyes widen, "Holy shit, Bucky!" You pull him inside and he groans in pain.

Bucky takes a quick glance at your table, seeing two sets of plates set out, "You expecting someone?"

You open your mouth to reply and there's a knock at your door, "Shit," you murmur, "Go to my room. Don't make a sound. Hurry!"

He obeys without a word. As soon as your bedroom door closes, you rush to your front door and pull it open, "Hey, dad! Sorry, was in the bathroom."

"It's alright, Bug," your dad kisses your head and enters your home, the bag of takeout in his hand. You take the bag from him and head to the dining table.

"Nice! Sushi!" you feign excitement, silently praying that, for whatever reason, your dad doesn't go to your room to find your ex boyfriend, now mob boss, bleeding on your floor.

"You still like the dragon roll, right?"

"Yup!"

"Good," your dad joins you at the table.

"Um, I have to finish some online training class really quickly and then I'll join you in a bit."

"Yeah, yeah. No problem. Go finish up. I'll be here," your dad waves you away and you rush to your bedroom, locking it behind you.

You head to the conjoining bathroom, as see Bucky cleaning his wound. “Why the fuck did you think coming here was a good idea?!” You whisper angrily at the bleeding mob boss in your home.

“I didn’t know your dad was coming over!” Bucky loudly whispers back in response.

“Exactly! You didn’t know which is why the smart thing to do would’ve been to call or text me to let me know you planned on coming!”

The mob boss scoffs, “Well sorry, I was a little too busy trying to not to die from a stab wound!” He gestures to his punctured skin.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh, “Out of nights you get hurt, it had to be the night my dad and I have dinner together.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “My bad. I’ll make sure to schedule my stabbings at a more convenient time.”

“Idiot,” you mumble as you grab your first aid kit from under the sink, and gesture for him to sit on your toilet.

You work in a quick and efficient silence. Bucky doesn’t make an effort of conversation because he knows you prefer silence when you work.

Despite your annoyance with him, you're still gentle. You apologize for the stinging of neosporin.

He watches you with an observant gaze, a softness in his eyes. A sense of longing fills him in the pit of his stomach...or maybe that's the feeling of the needle you're sewing him up with.

Bucky still can't believe this is where life has lead you both. You help save lives, he, on occasion, ends lives. You're light, while Bucky lives and works in the dark.

He knows coming back into your life was dangerous, but he couldn't help it. He just missed you so much and was desperate to have you back in any capacity. Even if he can't have you the way that he wants.

You finish up, taking off the bloody gloves you wore and throwing them into the trash, “Stay here. Take some meds. I’ll check up on you, but please be quiet. If dad finds you, he’ll kill both of us.” You state with concern and seriousness.

He nods and gives you a shy smile, “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Go enjoy dinner with your pop.”

You stand with a sigh, “Just text me if you need anything. I’ll pretend it’s America or something.”

“Got it. Thanks,” Bucky says as he slowly stands from your toilet after you stitched him up.

He watches as you quickly clean up and exit your room. He listens to the distant sound of you and your dad talking.

Bucky’s shoulder slumps as he lets out a shaky sigh. He wishes it never came to this, sneaking around and pretending like he still didn’t love you.

Because he does. He always will, even if you two are now worlds apart from each other, on opposing sides, never meant to be.

[colibrie]

Trilo Fang AU: Ephemeral

Hey there! So as some may remember, the one and only @trilobitepunch (aka the trilo bug) bit during whumptober, and I wrote some snips for her fang au where a virus created by the GDF mutates Donnie and Leo into feral instinct driven hunters. If you haven't seen it, stop what you are doing and click the link below. I promise you, you will not want to miss out on it. Anyway, I ended up expanding the snip I wrote for wisp, and Trilo was kind enough to make a new illustration to go with it! So please join me in screaming about it!

"Okay Nardo," Mikey whispered, glancing furtively over his shoulder to ensure the others had not noticed his absence before dipping down to kneel before his brother and leader.

"I know you're still in there. The others are scared and getting tied up in facts and details and possibilities, cause that's what they do. But I know you, and I know Donnie. You're in there, and you're fighting to come home. So, I'm gonna help you, but you have to trust me. Okay?"

He ignored the low growl that rumbled from the sliders throat as he leaned in, and he forced down the urge to flinch back into his shell when those hazy predator eyes slowly opened and settled on his. He hummed his own soothing reply, careful to keep his movements slow and measured as he reached forward to place the tips of his fingers on the pressure points on Leo's jaw and temple.

"Just me Lee. Just Mikey. Nothing to be afraid of here. We're safe. We can relax..."

Like a motor winding down his big brothers growl slowly tapered away, head nodding forwarded into Mikey's hands as the corded muscles in his neck released some of their tension.

"That’s right. Okay, here we go," Mikey mumbled, closing his eyes and bowing his head as he turned inward to grasp the bright orange flames of his ninpo.

It sprang readily to him, swirling and singing with the protective warmth of a bonfire and the potential wrath of an inferno, ready and eager to receive direction. He took half a second to greet it, to hold it close and appreciate it for all it represented, before pushing it inward to seek that place where orange fire met and melded with protective red, electric purple, and brilliant blue. The place that tied him to his brothers.

Normally that connection was easy to find. Once they'd unlocked their mystic powers to face the Shredder, it had sat like a second heart in his chest, beating out a message of love and together and family that had quickly become as essential to his life as blinking or breathing. It had remained against the strife of Leo and Raphs endless fights and surged back stronger than ever after reawakening in the battle with the Krang. It had held him together after the portal to the prison dimension nearly took their hope, and it had soothed him in the wearisome months of recovery. It was there still, yet so far away. Disparate and disjointed, baren threads struggling to hold together colors that should have been an interlocked tapestry.

Red curled away, stubbornly holding silver-grey, green, and aquamarine back from the howling vortex blue and purple had become. The twins’ energies were erratic, feral beasts throwing themselves blindly at the boundaries of connection as they screamed. Pain and confusion beat against the rest of them like storm tossed waves, pushing them back, enforcing the veil of isolation that was choking off those remaining connecting threads.

That had to go.

Pulling his flames in close Mikey lunged forward, diving like a burning arrow towards the heart of the maelstrom.

Sensation slammed him from all angles. Sight, scent, taste, touch, it had all been dialed to a hundred, stabbing and shredding like knives across tender and exposed nerves. Relentless instincts shrieked discordant harmonies, drowning all else out in a mesh of contradicting demands.

Danger. Flee! Hunt. Fight. Claw. Kill. Bite! Bitebitebitebite!

"Leo!" Mikey shouted, shouldering through the deluge in search of a hint of the red eared slider he knew and loved.

For a frighteningly long time, there was nothing. No slip of sparkling laughter, no flash of quick and glib wit, no quiet glow of cunning insight. All that existed was the moan of the abyss that sucked them in, pulling greedily at Mikey's ninpo as though to unmoor him from the bonds that tied him to home. But Mikey would not bow. He had torn a hole through time and space to keep his family whole. He was the greatest mystical warrior the world would ever know. And even greater, he was their little brother. He knew how to make himself heard.

"LEONARDO!" He bellowed, channeling every ounce of Dr. Delicate Touch as he bared his teeth at the indigo storm, "GET YOUR MIND RIGHT AND ANSWER ME!"

His heart skipped as something flickered beyond the tempest walls, a wisp of brighter blue trying to alight. His ninpo blazed in response, marigold tendrils lashing out to cut Mikey a path through the chaos. He lunged forward to cradle the fragment in his cracked hands, pulling it close as the tendrils of his power swiftly wove together to form a shield that shut out the storm.

"Leo?!"

The wisp trembled in his grasp before slowly blossoming outward into the hazy outline of his older brother.

"Mi-key?"

"It's me Lee," Mikey assured, “I’m here."

"H-hurt..."

"I know, I felt it. I'm sorry, we're doing everything we can to fix things.”

"No…You?"

"Me? No, I’m not hurt. I'm fine. So are Raphie, Dad, April and CJ. We’re all okay."

Leo's ethereal eyes drifted close in stark relief, his form wavering dangerously.

"Hey! No no no, stay with me Leo," Mikey demanded, hands shooting out to try and stabilize him. "Listen, you and Donnie are sick. Donnie got infected with a virus when we were in that creepy government lab, and you got infected when he bit you. It’s messed with some genetic stuff that I don’t really get, but that’s what is hurting you. Draxum is here and he’s coming up with some kind of fancy serum to fight the virus and try to fix the genes it mutated, but you and Donnie have to come back to us."

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can! I’ll help you!”

"Ho-w?"

"I.... I'll get Raph and Dad! Maybe the three of us can pull you out!"

"Don-nie…."

"Of course we’ll help him too, duh."

"No. He's... he's deeper," Leo heaved, visibly fighting to pull his form together. "It's hard to... explain…I can’t think past it..."

"Yeah, well. Thinking has always been Donnie’s strong suit, not yours," Mikey replied, grinning in triumph as the hint of a smirk slipped across Leo's face.

"He’s...nerd."

"If it gets you both out of this, he can be king of the nerds. We just have to reach him."

He frowned when Leo failed to respond, reaching out to hesitantly touch his big brother’s face.

"Hey, come on man. Don't-"

"I can find him," Leo interrupted, ghostly hand rising to press against his plastron. "He's here...always here... if I follow him and... and you pull us back."

"That's risky Leon."

"Wh-hats new?"

"Heh, yeah. We be we?"

"Always Angellllll..."

A sudden wave of dizziness slammed into Mikey with the strength of Aprils baseball bat, vertigo nearly taking him out at the knees. Leo flinched as Mikey's barrier faltered, teeth gritted and grinding as the weight of maelstrom pressed in.

"Hang on!" Mikey demanded, huffing as he forced iron into his legs and more of his power into the barriers.

"You need to go."

"What?! No! I barely found you this time Leo. What if I come back and you’re gone for good?! What if you go too deep and I can't pull you out again?!"

"Tag."

"Huh?"

"Like...like your art. If y-you tag m-meee...with your ninpo..."

"Then I can follow it to you and Donnie! Like a beacon! Nardo, that's a brilliant plan!"

"Heh, s'not jus m'face that's pretty."

"Yeah," Mikey forced a chuckle around the knot swelling in his throat as the older twin’s voice grew tired and faint. Both his shield and Leo's form flickered again, accompanied by another wave of faintness that warned that what little time he had was almost up. His hands shook as he reached out and pressed his palm to Leo's plastron, gathering his ninpo to coat his fingers like paint. Three quick swipes later, a overlapping H and M was emblazoned in brilliant orange on his brothers scutes.

"Find D," he ordered, fighting back tears as he lunged forward to hug his brother. "Find him and hang on tight, because I am coming back with reinforcements. Hear me?"

"Yeah, big guy," Leo mumbled, his head falling forward to rest against Mikey's before the shield broke and his form dissolved once more. "See you later."

[zahri-melitor]

So I've read the opening story of Tim Drake: Robin.

The opening issue is solid, highlighting a lot of Meghan Fitzmartin's skills as a writer. She picked up threads neatly from her earlier stories, showed her hand to the audience, and did do a fair amount of subtle character work. If I'd picked it up with no background knowledge of the fandom conversation about the title, I'd have been very excited for where it was going.

I liked the links back to how part of what prompted Tim to move out was Bruce being fussy over Tim having been shot in the throat in Batman #125. That felt realistic and a nice little link between titles.

As far as a story goes: I didn't mind it. Parts of it were very obvious, especially when you clued into the themes - if I'd actually been reading it as it came out and had a month between issues for things to soak in, I probably would have been tapping my toes over the reveal of who Moriarty was disguised as.

I would like to specifically dunk on both Meghan Fitzmartin and Moriarty for the detective novel writer selections, because...hmm. Kinda misogynistic there. Fitzmartin uses 6 writers for this, and 6 specific stories/franchises:-

Edgar Allen Poe – Murders in the Rue Morgue

Mark Twain – The Stolen White Elephant

Arthur Conan Doyle – Sherlock Holmes

Raymond Chandler - Goldfish

James Gelsey – Scooby Doo

Wilkie Collins – The Moonstone

What do you notice about this list, that I immediately noticed? They're all men. Who is an immediate name that comes to mind, who even had public domain stories as of 2022, who probably should be on a list like that and who also has incredible influence over the direction of the genre? Oh, I don't know, maybe Agatha Christie? (Also Dorothy L. Sayers is also right there and available, but skipping Christie?)

And once she'd built up this "it's all the detective stories" premise, Fitzmartin then went for a book code (cool!) from non-existent books (not cool). If you've just spent all this time glorying in how this is all related to Specific Classic Detective Stories, why not...use a real book code and refer to their actual stories? You've already done it for the plots! Commit to the bit!

Also I spent a good chunk of issue #4 staring at the page going "Carol Donovan? You mean Deb Donovan's judge daughter who recently appeared in Mariko Tamaki's 'Tec run? Tim, how are you missing something this straightforward? Also she's dead?" and then it never came to anything. Maybe do a quick check if anyone else has been using the name you just invented for the story.

"I even tried making a new costume for myself. It doesn't fit." - I did find it interesting that Fitzmartin was once again playing with the "is it time to move on" themes for Tim that were popping up around here in various conversations. Especially given she had Tim and Dick relitigate their conversation from Urban Legends #10 and similar themes in DC:YJ. It does suggest to me that she was working her way around to getting Tim into a new identity, but cancellation has once again left that in the 'not happening' basket.

In terms of the art: Riley Rossmo was the wrong pick for the title, but I do see the thought process that led into him getting the nod for the opening story, given the whole claymation villain set. It was very 2D animation style. I don't mind Rossmo (and interestingly he's developing a whole line up of detective stories he's done art for, given he's also had a Martian Manhunter book and got Wesley Dodds, he did one of the Batman/The Shadow crossovers...) but his highly malleable art style loses a lot of background detail or makes what is there harder to parse.

I did very much appreciate the way Rossmo drew Tim's detective work, though. I liked the technique for highlighting details and clues, and it actually very much reminded me of how some computer games present clues (including how it's done in Gotham Knights, in fact).

I know everyone has said this, but Bernard needs to develop a personality AND to commit to whether or not he knows Tim is Robin. Because sort of hinting that he knows, while Tim worries about hiding things from him, but not actually confirming either way is only really acceptable if you actually do build up to a big reveal moment where the whole drama has been paid off.

I did appreciate that MegFitz had clearly taken feedback and returned one of Bernard's two pre-existing personality traits (conspiracy theorist who thinks the Bats are urban legend cryptids), because one of the weaknesses of using Bernard, a side character with 6 preboot appearances, is that at lot of his existing personality was sketched in. He was a conspiracy theorist, and he desperately wanted to be popular but wasn't, so he presented himself as having a Cool Guy's Personality (see: 'your step-mom is hot'). Now, Meghan Fitzmartin wants us to read into that second trait as a facade that Bernard was putting up to deal with the fact he was gay and hiding it, probably even from himself, at the time. Which, fine, it's a perfectly reasonable reading of Bernard (and to her credit, MegFitz has Bernard spell it out a little on page in TD:R), but the problem is...you've just lost one of the two identifiable traits of 'Bernard' and it hasn't been replaced with anything else. And while 2004 in comics was still trying to hold onto the Urban Legends reading for the Bats to an extent (though it was failing), 2022 comics has so long since abandoned it that Bernard having kooky theories about Batman's connection to Mothman or whatever is very...why?

And because both of these pre-existing personality traits are under strain from the context, it really is sort of necessary to give Bernard something else about him for people to latch onto for his personality. And it doesn't really seem to be there yet (as of #6). It's the same complaint that people have about Jon/Jay and a whole host of other partners for recently out superheros: they're generically pleasant, supportive and bland, with about the depth of a mirror. Give me some of the toxic drama the 30 year old lesbians are allowed. Where is my breakup over custody fights with an ex and one of the two getting seduced by a vampire.

[nomie-11]

Chapter 2 - One Hundred and Eight Scars

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The flight field at Basgiath is still and dark, and appears deserted when they approach in the hour before sunrise, hugging the landscape of the mountains, the riot doing what they can to stay out of sight. 

“That does not mean that someone won’t spot us landing,” Tairn reminds her, his wings beating steadily despite having flown the last eighteen hours straight from Aretia. The window of time Xaden had given for them to get to the Vale without her being spotted is slim, and if they miss it, every hatchling will be put in danger. 

“I still don’t understand why the Empyrean would ever agree to let dragons bond human riders, knowing they’d have to guard their own kids not only against gryphon fliers but the very humans they’re supposed to trust.” 

“One, you’re projecting,” Tairn says, his voice a low grumble as he banks left to follow the geography. “And two, it’s a delicate balance. The First Six riders were desperate to save their people when they approached the dens over six hundred years ago. Those dragons formed the first Empyrean and bonded humans only to protect their hatching grounds from venin, who were the bigger threat. We don’t exactly have opposable thumbs for weaving wards or runes. Neither species has ever been entirely truthful, both using the other for their own reasons and nothing more.” 

“I never thought I needed to hide anything from you.” 

Tairn does that weird thing that makes his neck appear boneless, swinging his head around to level slightly narrowed eyes at her for a heartbeat before turning his attention back to the terrain. “You have nothing to hide from me, nothing you have ever done in your life has been morally wrong or irredeemable,” He says, his tone softer but weighted with something unspoken. “I can do nothing to remedy the last nine months besides answer your worthwhile questions now.” 

“I know,” She says quietly, wishing his words were enough to cut through the acrid taste of betrayal she can’t seem to wash out of her mouth. Or maybe that was the constant stomach acid from throwing up her guts four times in the last eighteen hour flight.But she knows that Tairn’s bond to Sgaeyl was stronger than her bond to him, so the blame is fully on Xaden. 

“We’re approaching. Get ready.” 

“Can I do a rolling dismount?” She asks, gripping the pommel of his back tighter as she leans down. Her body is already screaming after eighteen hours in the ‘saddle,’ and her awful, constant headache. But the summer wind feels nice, and she bets that sitting on the roof right now would be amazing. 

“A rolling dismount would tear you limb from limb on impact.” 

“No it would not!” She huffed, rolling her eyes, which seemed to be her new signature move. “You know rolling dismounts are a second-year maneuver, anyways.” 

“One that you will not be participating in.” Tairn grumbles. 

“Why all of a sudden are you treating me like I’m so weak?” She groaned, annoyance seeping into her words as they spilled out of her mouth. 

“Because you were poisoned by the most potent evil in our world and then decided by some miracle to live,” He dipped down, and she pressed into his back. “And no matter how good you feel right now, there is still poison in your system.” 

Well, the truth was, she did not feel good at all. And she was going to practice honesty. 

“I feel like shit.” 

“You don’t say.” Tairn’s dry tone thrummed through her, tinged with a rare warmth that almost made her laugh. “And that’s why recovery is non-negotiable.” 

“Recovery is overrated,” She muttered, stubbornly straightening up in her seat as they approached the final ridge before the flight field. Her bones ached in defiance, her head pounded, but she wasn’t about to let Tairn know she was hanging on by a thread. 

“Oh really?” Train snorted, sounding almost amused. “Then prove it.” 

With that, it felt as if something around her legs snapped open, and he tipped sideways in one fluid motion. She barely registered the movement before her stomach lurched, her grip slipping as her legs failed to keep her steady. She let out a shocked gasp as she tumbled off his side, the wind whipping around her in a dizzying rush as the ground loomed closer. 

In a flash, Tairn’s colossal head appeared below her, his massive eyes narrowed in exasperation as she snatched her mid-air, pinning her back onto his broad back with a firm push of magic. The landing jolted her, and she groaned, too winded to argue. 

“Still think recovery is overrated?” Tairn huffed, banking into a smooth glide again. 

She glared at him, but her limbs felt like jelly, making it impossible to keep her dignity intact. “You didn’t have to throw me off!!”

“It’s not my fault you cannot keep yourself seated,” He chuffed. “Do you really think you held on all the way from Aretia? I had to keep you anchored with my magic the entire flight.” 

Her mouth fell open. “You… you were holding me in place?”

Tairn snorted, his wings lifting them easily over the final ridge as Basgiath’s towers came into full view. “You were barely conscious for half of the journey. Don’t get cocky now.” 

Heat flushed her cheeks. She’d been so sure she’d managed it all on her own. Flying had been an escape, something she could control. But the truth, Tairn’s truth, was a harsh reminder that she was at the mercy of her own limitations. Fuck venin poison, honestly. 

Her stomach flips as he drops into the flight field. 

“I am dropping Andarna off in the flight field with Astrape and then return and circle nearby.” 

“You need rest.” 

“There will be no rest if they decide to execute the nine of you on the dais.” The worry in his voice clogs her throat. “Call out if you even suspect it will not go your way.” 

“It will,” She assures him. “Do me a favor and tell Sgaeyl that I need to talk to Xaden on the way.” 

“Please hold on tight when we land,” Tairn snorts. “I don’t want you to go tumbling off.” 

And that’s exactly what she did as Tairn splayed his wings to slow the descent, sending her tumbling down and over his shoulder to the ground. He laughs as she lands flat on her ass on the soft grass. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. “Love you, too.” 

Tairn whips his head to the right, where Sgaeyl lands with brutal efficiency, her rider dismounting in a much more efficient and graceful manner. “The wingleader approaches.” 

Xaden gives Tairn a wide berth to launch as he walks towards Genevieve, with Sgaeyl taking off next, followed by the rest of the riot until it’s just them left. 

Lifting her goggles to the top of her head and unzipping her jacket, she groaned. July in Basgiath was muggy as hell, even when you aren’t locked away in a humid dungeon. 

“You actually told Tairn to tell Sgaeyl that you wanted to talk to me?” He put a hand on his hip. 

“We both suck at communication. Don’t act like you would be any better.”

“You remember that you can…” He taps the side of his head and walks backwards in front of her. She rolls her eyes and secures a dagger on her thigh instead of paying attention to the singular curl that rests on his forehead and how not even a week ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to brush it to the side. 

“Talking that way feels a little too…” Fuck, why is this so hard? Xaden is Xaden, not some stranger, so why does it feel as if the person standing in front of her is someone completely new and random. How has every inch of her trust been unwoven and destroyed and put her back on square one as the girl who believed no one. “Intimate.” 

“And we’re not intimate?” He lifts a brow. “Because I can think of more than one occasion that you’ve been wrapped—”

She jolts forward and covers his mouth with her hand “We’re not intimate anymore, Xaden.” But the feeling of her palm pressed against his skin is enough of a reminder that whatever they had—maybe they were dating, maybe they weren’t, she never really knew—was physically perfect. Better than perfect. Addictive and electric. Her entire body warms as he kisses the sensitive skin of her palm, and she immediately drops her hand. “We’re walking into what’s certainly going to be a trial, if not an execution, and you’ve got jokes.” 

“Trust me—not joking.” He turns as they reach the steps, and heads down first, glancing back over his shoulder at her. Everytime he says trust me, she wants to strangle him. “Surprised that you’re not icing me out, but definitely no jokes.” 

“I’m angry at you for keeping information from me. Pulling a Violet and ignoring you instead of confronting whatever happened doesn’t solve that.” 

“Good point. What did you want to talk about?” 

“I have a question I’ve been thinking about since Aretia.” 

“And you’re only now telling me?” He reaches the bottom of the steps and shoots an incredulous look at her. “Communication is not your strength, is it? Don’t worry. We’ll work on it along with your and Violet’s shielding.” 

“Are you being serious? Do you hear yourself?” That is so ironic coming from him.

Xaden pauses at the bottom of the steps, and the barest hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, actually. Dead serious. I just have a feeling that if I don’t push you a little, you’re going to retreat back into yourself until you snap and you’re never actually going to say what’s on your mind.” 

She scowls, trying to ignore the way his smile is both infuriating and—unfortunately—disarmingly familiar. “Fine. Since you're so eager for honesty… What are those one hundred and eight scars on your back for? And why didn’t you tell me about the venin the entirety of the past year? Or why did you hide the fact that a rebellion my sister raised from its ashes was actively occurring?”

Xaden’s smirk vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze shifting away, a flicker of regret crossing his face. “Because I didn’t know how you’d react. And, yeah, maybe I was afraid you’d completely reject me the second you knew the truth. I didn’t want you to feel like you were being forced into a war you didn’t even know existed.” 

“You’re such a guy, you know that? It’s such a guy thing to ignore every question except for the last one.” She huffed. “I guess I have to ask one at a time. What are the one hundred and eight scars for?”

Xaden’s jaw tenses as he meets her gaze, and there’s a flicker of something raw in his eyes. He looks away, as if stealing himself, then back at her. “Those scars… Each one represents one of the kids of the rebellion. Each life I agreed to take responsibility for. One scar for each of us forced into the Quadrant—one hundred and eight lives that would’ve ended in execution if we weren’t allowed to fight for our freedom.” He forces her gaze to meet his once more, and her eyes feel as if they’re watching his soul. “It was one hundred and seven until I found out that there was a girl trapped in a cell underneath Basgiath being tortured for answers on my behalf. I just didn’t know that girl was you until you told me.” 

Genevieve stares at him, absorbing this revelation, and all her old assumptions feel flimsy, hollow. She wants to say something, but the words stick in her throat. He’s never shown her this part of himself, not fully, atleast. The realization crashes down on her that he’s the most selfless person she knows.

“So… when you found out about me, without ever even knowing me,” she says, barely able to keep the tremor from her voice, “you saved me?”

He nods, and for the first time, she feels as though she might suffocate from all the pressure from what he’s done for her. 

“And I called you a selfish bastard,” she swallows. “Twice.” 

“You did.” He nods. “And I was. I really was, Genevieve. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didn’t realize how keeping you in the dark so I could live in a selfish fantasy where you loved me for who you thought you knew I was was really just hurting you. I was scared. The rebellion, the venin… it was all too much. I didn’t want to pull you into my mess, and I certainly didn’t want to see you hurt because of me.” 

Her chest tightened at the weight of his words. It was one thing to hear him speak of sacrifice, but this was not just sacrifice. She wanted to reach out, to reassure him, but the distance between them still felt like a gaping chasm waiting to swallow her whole. “You know you could’ve trusted me.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I would’ve done anything to help. I still want to help.” 

“And do you trust me? Now, after everything?” 

“Do you want the uncomplicated answer?” 

Xaden glanced up at the tall doors that lead to the tunnel into Basgiath before he looks back at Genevieve. “Given our limited time alone, that’s probably preferable.” 

“Then yes, with my life. After all, it’s your life, too.” She knows that the rest depends on how open he is from here on out, but now probably isn’t the time for a ‘are we dating or do I hate you’ talk. 

There’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes before he nods, and then looks back to the other seven, who are quickly catching up. “I’ll make sure Aetos keeps his hands to himself and off of you and Violet, but you might have to play it along.” 

“Give me a shot at handling it first, and then you can do whatever it is you think will work.” Violet says and Genevieve nods, before the bells of Basgiath ring, announcing the hour. They have fifteen minutes until formation will be called for graduation. 

Xaden’s shoulders straighten. “Everyone clear on what’s about to happen?” 

This isn’t the man who begged her forgiveness for keeping secrets, and it sure as hell isn’t the one who vowed to earn back her trust in Aretia. No, this is Xaden the wingleader who slaughtered every attacker in her bedroom without blinking and never lost a wink of sleep over it. 

“We’re ready,” Garrick says, rolling his neck like he needs to warm up before combat. 

“Ready.” Masen nods, adjusting the glasses on his nose. And one by one, everyone agrees to ride into hell once more. 

“Let’s do it.” Genevieve lifts her chin. 

Xaden stares at her long and hard, and then nods. 

Her stomach twists as they enter the tunnel, mage lights flickering on as they pass. The other door is already open when they make their way through and she doesn’t argue when Xaden plasters himself to her side. There’s every chance they’ll be arrested as soon as their feet touch the quadrant, or worse, killed, depending on what everyone else knows. 

Power simmers underneath Genevieve’s skin, thrumming to life but not quite surfacing, ready if she needs it, but no one appears as they cross into the rock-filled courtyard. They have minutes before the space fills with riders and cadre. 

The first riders they encounter walk out of the dormitory and into the courtyard with cocky swaggers and Second Wing patches on their uniforms. 

“Look who’s finally here? Bet you thought you had the games locked down, didn’t you, Fourth Wing?” a rider with dyed forest green hair says with a smirk. “But you didn’t! Second Wing took it all  when you didn’t show.” 

Genevieve rolls her eyes and Xaden doesn’t bother looking in their direction as they pass. Garrick lifts his middle finger from Genevieve’s left. 

“Guess this means no one knows what really happened,” Imogen whispers. 

“Then we have a shot of this working,” Eya replies, and the sunlight glints in the piercing in her eyebrows. 

“Of course no one fucking knows,” Xaden mutters. He looks up to the top of the academic building, and Genevieve’s eyes follow his line of sight, her heart jumping at the image of the fire blazing at the top of the farthest turret. No doubt waiting for offerings to Malek—belongings of the cadets who didn’t make it through War Games. Her belongings if this all fails. “They’re not going to out themselves over us.” 

At the entrance to the dorms, the group shares a look and then breaks apart wordlessly according to plan. Xaden trails behind Genevieve and Violet as they follow down the corridor and into the little hallway they’ve called home for the last nine months, but neither of them go into their own rooms. 

Violet glances left and right to be sure no one sees them, before she pushes open the door to Liam’s room. She slips in, triggering the mage light overhead. 

Genevieve can’t even bear to look in at the room, let alone enter. She knows Violet is barely holding back tears as she looks at the bed where she once slept securely in the arms of her lover not even a week ago. She knows Violet is taking in each and every one of those moments that she ripped away from her when she chose Violet over Liam. 

I will not cry today. 

But it’s a lot. Everything is exactly the same as it was when they left. Violet has the stack of letters in her arms and a few unfinished figurines tucked into her pockets as she emerges, and Genevieve knows that she will regret not going into the room one last time for the rest of her life, but she can’t. 

Her feet are glued to the floor until Violet opens her mouth. “I got them,” She whispers, her eyes red. 

“Let’s go.” Violet walks right in front of them, emerging from the darkness as Rhiannon walks out of her room with Ridoc in tow. 

Oh shit. 

“Vi!” Rhiannon’s mouth drips open and she lunges, grabbing onto Violet and pulling her into a hug. “You’re here!” She squeezes tight, and Violet relaxes into her arms. 

Genevieve feels alone for the half a second she watches before Ridoc crashes into her with his arms prepared to wrap tightly around her. 

Genevieve’s heart swells as she is enveloped in the warmth of Ridoc’s embrace. His familiar presence wraps around her like a cocoon, making her feel at home in the midst of the chaos. The weight of his relief and affection momentarily dulls the pang of loneliness gnawing at her. She sinks into the hug, breathing in the scents of sweat and leather, a comfort she never knew she craved until now. 

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Ridoc chuckles, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “You had us worried there for a bit, you know.” 

“I’m sorry,” her voice is slightly muted by his embrace, until he pushes her back, his eyes scanning her for injuries the same way Rhiannon scans Violet’s for injuries. 

“With what everyone was saying, I thought you were dead.” Her gaze flits to Genevieve. “I thought the three of you were.” 

“There was also the rumor that you got lost,” Ridoc adds. “But considering who you were with, we were all betting on the dead theory. I’m glad we were wrong.” 

“I promise I’ll explain later, but I need a favor now,” Violet whispers, her throat closing as her gaze drops. 

“Sorrengail,” Xaden’s tone drops. 

“We can trust her,” Genevieve snaps, promising as she looks back at him. “We can trust both of them.” 

Xaden looks anything but pleased, but he nods. Guess they really were home. 

“What do you need?” Rhiannon asks, concern furrowing her brow. 

Violet steps back, and then pushes the letters and figurines into her hands. “I need you to keep these for me. Hide them. Don’t let anyone… burn them.” her voice breaks. 

She glances down at the letters, and her eyes widen before her shoulders curve inward and her face crumples. 

“What are tho—” Ridoc starts, looking over Genevieve to the letters and then falling silent. “Shit.” 

“No,” Rhiannon whispers, and Genevieve knows this isn’t her denying the favor. “Not Liam. No. Genevieve didn’t—” She cuts herself off, her gaze momentarily falling onto Genevieve before she slowly meets Violet's eyes. “I’m so sorry.” 

Violet’s eyes burn, but she manages to nod, clearing her throat. “Promise you won’t let them have these when they come for his things if I’m not–” She can’t finish. 

Rhiannon nods, before turning to Genevieve. “Are you alright? Your hair—” 

Genevieve shakes her head. She’s not lying. Not really, at least. The poison isn’t there anymore, just the after-effects that still plague her. “I’m fine, really.” 

“We have to go,” Xaden says. 

“I’ll see you guys at graduation,” Violet gives them a watery smile and takes a step back. The three of them walk again, turning the corner into the crowded main corridor of the first-year dorms. 

“How do you do it?” Genevieve whispers at Xaden as she watches Violet walk a step in front of them. 

“Do what?” his arms hand loose at his sides as he continuously scans the people around them, and he puts his hand on her lower back like he’s worried they might get separated. They’re in the thick of the rush, and for every person too busy to notice the three of them, there’s another who does a double take when they cross paths. And every marked one they see gives Xaden a subtle nod, and Genevieve knows they’ve been warned by the others. 

“Lie to the people you care about?” 

Their gazes collide and they pass one of the busts of the First Six, following the flow of the crowd past the wide spiral staircase that connects the higher years’ dorms. 

Xaden’s jaw clenches. “Gen–”

She lifts her hand to cut him off. “It’s not an insult. I need to know how to do it. I don’t lie to people I care about.” 

They break away from the crush of cadets headed out the door to the courtyard, and Xaden strides purposefully for the rotunda, yanking the door open and ushering the two girls through. He places a hand on Genevieve once more, but she shifts away from him. 

“Stay here,” he mutters to Violet, who just nods with her arms crossed. 

He grabs Genevieve and tugs her behind the first pillar they come across. The red dragon hides them from anyone who may pass through the space that connects all wings of the quadrant. Sure enough, voices and footsteps pass, but no one sees them behind the massive pillar, and no one sees Violet in the shadows covering her. 

“For the record, I also don’t lie to the people I care about,” Xaden lowers his voice as he faces her, the intensity in his eyes pinning her back to the marble pillar. He leans in, and he’s all she can see. “And I sure as hell have never lied to you. But the art of telling selective truths is something you’re going to have to master or we’ll all be dead. I know you trust Rhiannon and Ridoc, but you can’t tell them the truth, as much for their sakes as for ours. Knowing puts them into danger. You have to keep the truth compartmentalized. If you can’t lie to your friends, you keep your distance. Understand?” 

She tenses. Of course she knows that, but hearing it said so blatantly drives the knife deeper into her chest. “Does Violet know all of this too?” 

“Liam had her master this art last year when he spilled everything to her by accident.” 

“I understand,” she says after a sharp exhale. 

“I never wanted to put you into this position. Not with your friends and especially not with the General. That was one of the many reasons I never told you.” 

“How long did you know about my mother?” It’s definitely not the right time to ask this, but Geneveive will not die without answers. She needs to know. 

He exhales slowly. “I knew about it the minute she ran away from you.” 

Her lips part, and something heavy shifts, easing a weight that settled in her chest that’s been there since Resson. But another weight slams into Genevieve’s chest. Xaden’s known her mother longer than he’s known her. 

“What?” 

“You didn’t dodge the question.” She has to admit it, she’s a little surprised. 

“I promised you some answers,” He leans forward. “But I can’t promise you’ll always like what you hear.” 

“You owe me all the answers, if you ever want me back,” she huffs. “And I’ll always prefer the truth.” 

“You say that now,” A wry smile twists his lips. 

Her eyes narrow. “I always will.” The sound of boots shuffling behind them as students report to formation reminds her that they’re not entirely alone, but she needs Xaden to hear her. “If the last few weeks have shown you anything, it should be that I run from nothing, no matter how hard it is or what it costs.” 

“Yeah, well, it cost me you.” Her whole body tenses and his eyes slam shut. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.” He opens his eyes again, shaking his head, and the abject misery makes her head pound. “I know it was the not telling you. I get it. But when the lives of everyone around you—when your life—depends on how well you can lie, it’s not easy to realize it’s the truth that will save you.” A sigh moves his shoulders. “If I could do it all again, I’d tell you. I’d do it differently, I promise, but I can’t, so here we are.” 

“So here we are.” But where even is here? This isn’t home anymore. “But as long as you meant what you said about telling me everything—”

He flinches, and her head throbs again. 

“Oh hell no, Xaden, I swear on the gods, look me in the eye and tell me that you are going to tell me everything once I can properly shield.” Genevieve wants to kill him. She wants nothing more than to strangle him. “That’s what you promised in your bedroom, anything you want to know and everything you don’t. Those were your words. And I’m not joking when I say I will kill you if you can’t swear that that is what I will get.” 

“Everything about me.” 

She shakes her head. “I will not be playing these stupid games with two people.” 

He takes a step toward her, but she lifts her chin and her eyes narrow, daring him to touch her right now. And he’s a smart man for keeping his feet planted on the ground. 

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, I will answer any question you want to ask about me. Gods, I want you to ask, to know me well enough to trust me even when I can’t tell you everything.” He nods like those words had been included in the original promise when they both know damn well they weren’t. “Because you didn’t fall for an ordinary rider. You fell for the leader of a revolution, and to some degree, I’m always going to have secrets.” 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

For her entire life she was kept in the dark by people who thought that was best to her. Her father hid her away from the revolution and then he died, leaving her to scramble in his ashes. Her sister left and re-started her father’s rebellion and never uttered a single word in any of the letters she wrote, and Genevieve knows logically that those letters were being stopped and read, but the pain of being kept blind by those she trusts still stings. Her mother left, and didn’t look back for five years. She will not be hidden any longer. 

“I’m not kidding.” There’s zero apology in his tone. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t let you in like I promised. I’m an open book when it comes to—”

“If you’re still just going to lie to me I’d prefer you to just shut your mouth. You’ll be an open book when it comes to whatever you want.” She shakes her head. “And that’s not going to work for me. Not this time and not ever. I can’t trust you without full disclosure.”

He blinks, and for a moment she knows she’s managed to stun him. 

“I need all the details. Everything.” She demands, staring straight down into his eyes. “I reluctantly forgave you for keeping me in the dark before today. You did it to protect my own life, whether or not that being what I wanted regardless. But it’s complete and total honesty from this minute onwards, or…”

Fuck, am I really going to say this?

“Or what?” His eyes sharpen. 

“Or I’ll go back to what I was before I trusted any of you,” She took a deep breath. “A weapon.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey everyone! Fun little chapter, right? Something weird is going on with Genevieve… I wonder if anyone has picked up on it? And— if you have, what’s your theory? I would love to know what you are thinking! Also, I posted on Thursday a Liam Mairi x Reader, so if you haven’t gone to my Tumblr to read that yet, please go and let me know what you thought.

More about me as the creator of Genevieve, I actually struggle with chronic headaches and nausea (a beautiful long-lasting side effect from a medication i was put on four years ago), so writing Gen to struggle with these issues now is really interesting, because I’m just putting my own experience onto paper. I also recently passed out from blood loss (don’t donate blood if you’re anemic and also prone to throw up over anything), so I’m excited to now have some experience with that for future reference!

As always, if you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, or kudo! That’s it for now! See you all Wednesday.

-------

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml

[lookingfts]

My totally unqualified opinions of Wicked

Well I went to Wicked for JB and he did not disappoint. That man is fucking charming. My mom swooned for him and now wants to watch Bridgerton (she's never seen it).

I think most of the scenes he was in are things I've already seen in trailers or BTS. Which is to say, I would have been happy to watch him a whole lot more. But every scene he's in, I absolutely loved him. I don't think the role of Fiyero shows much of his emotional range and depth (I mean, compared to what we've seen him do as Anthony), but I think that's just due to the actual amount of time he's in it. But obviously he sounds amazing in the musical numbers, I loved watching him sing and dance and enjoying this other side of him. And his smolder is just unmatched.

Some light spoilers, but not much. Other random thoughts:

Costumes, 1000. I wanted all the clothes, especially Michelle Yeoh's coats.

Set design, very cool. Knowing how much of that was practical made me enjoy it more. Everything feels pretty immersive.

I'm not a musical theater fan, and I guess every musical has those songs that are like...eh, I could skip this. But I loved Dancing Through Life and Defying Gravity, and a few of the other smaller numbers.

It was way too goddamn long, but so is every big-budget movie these days. I think a lot of what could have been cut were musical numbers, but of course you have to include them if you're trying to adapt a popular show. And a few other scenes that just felt long. Overall though I thought the pacing was good, there was just a stretch in the third act that I got a little restless.

Cynthia, holy shit. I got chills several times when she sang. Also, as my mom said, Elphaba just cool and you would want to hang out with her.

Cynthia and Ariana have great chemistry together. Galinda is way over the top but she made me laugh quite a bit. If the central thread is their friendship, I think they really make that work.

Side characters are all great but most of them have so little screen time that they don't feel integral to the story yet - perhaps in part 2.

So, if you want to see it, I think it's very enjoyable! People clapped in my theater. I was happy I went. Will definitely see Part 2, and would probably rewatch Part 1, I imagine there are a lot of details I missed on first watch.

[cantuscorvi]

For some reason when I'm looking for Raum's muse lately, this little brat is the only one who is looking back at me. 😒

[sunnykeysmash]

Man of words

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[bonefall]

As a big sibling with a lil sib with epilepsy, when they read TBC they Honestly thought if they got struck with lightning reciting the lord's prayer they'd be cured like Shadowsight is from their epilepsy. I had a discussion with them on how that's not how it works, but ge was so upset they took it away from Shadowsight that he hasn't picked the books back up and has stated that 'he hopes Ashfur wins and starts a new religion.,'

I do not even know how to respond to this besides saying that your little sibling is 100% right to be pissed and I now also hope Ashfur wins and starts a new religion.

[satorugojoswiife]

What do you think about gojo ships

I feel like I'm pretty indifferent to most of them. This is super cringe of me, but whenever I fall super in love with a character I don't often like shipping them romantically with anyone. 💀 (im delusional I know)

It doesn't help that for some reason the jjk fandom (especially twt) is weirdly aggressive about ships. I know it isn't all the shippers and it's mostly just the loud minority, but seeing so much of the discourse has kinda put me off and I don't really engage much with the ships in the fandom except for rarepairs and selfships bc alot of the time those communities are more wholesome and cozy (if that makes sense LOL)

[swan2swan]

Absolutely incredible how I went into both Camp Cretaceous and Chaos Theory fully ready to commit to a gay ship but both of them wound up giving me next to nothing in the first season.

[mechahero]

Anonymous asked- 📺 + What’s one thing you always wanted to do, but haven’t? (and what’s stopping you?) send 📺 + a question, and my muse’s shadow will answer it!

"Kind of a big question, ain't it?" He asks with an a tilt of the head. It's a big question to him. He doesn't clarify that though. Instead, he carries on. "That's a real long list." He leans back in his chair. Is there a chair? "Off the top of my head, maybe, I dunno? I used to want to be a superhero but I'm already that so... maybe goin' to an amusement park? Always wanted to do that but we never really had the money for it."

"What's stopping me from doin' it though?" He lets the question sit there for a good long while. "Me."

[universestreasures]

@prominenceprison (BECAUSE WE HAVN'T HAD ANY OF THE CHRS IN NOBLES INTERACT WHO AREN'T IN THEIR SERIES SO ITS HIGH TIME WE FIX THAT, HUH?)

This was a risky move. Leaving the Akaba House unexpectedly and without her father's permission was practically a death sentence. He never liked any of his eight children making moves on their own, especially ones that involved escaping the reaches of the estate. However, at this moment, Yuzu doesn't care. For her escapade today was not to escape the horrible life she had been condemned to by a controlling parent, but rather to seek aid in finding the person she held most dear.

Yuya's disappearance was sudden, leaving the entire estate in a stat of chaos. His brothers, in some shape or form, had been dragged into conflict after conflict over these past few weeks. And then out of nowhere, her companion suddenly went missing overnight with no explanation. Yuzu knows Yuya wouldn't escape this place without his brothers or without telling her. So, the only logical conclusion is that he was taken by someone, but...who? No one knew of the true nature of the dragon retainers except for the Akaba Family, meaning no one knew of their true value.

The entire situation was puzzling. No one inside the Akaba House could provide any semblance of information, and...she didn't exactly feel comfortable contacting the Rainsworth or Dragon Star houses for assistance. Doing that would require, most likely, disclosing Yuya's true nature, something she wasn't exactly comfortable with doing with people she didn't know well.

That meant she only had one option, only one person she could turn to in a time like this: her aunt and sister to her mother, Eve.

Her aunt was rather estranged in a sense. Though, Yuzu knows tha'ts not my choice. It's no secret that her father wasn't exactly a fan of the Eden House's head mistress considering his ideals clashed with hers. Eve was always a proponent of helping people and the world around, while Lord Akaba was out for himself and his own ambitions. It was only natural the two would clash.

However, Eve still made sure to at least pay her nieces a visit whenever she could, usually through a public function. During those times, Yuzu and her would bond over a love of flowers and singing. Truly, they were precious memories for the young girl, ones that reminded her of her short-lived time with her mother. If there was anyone she could come to during a time of crisis, it would be Eve.

The young noble stands at the entrance to the Eden House, one that was beautifully surrounded by flowers and hedges. The building wasn't as big as the Akaba House, but that was mainly because her aunt preferred to keep most of the natural beauty of this area intact, only building the building to the size that would be needed for everyone to live and work. Those who admired her didn't call her 'Nature's Protector' for nothing.

Before she could even make it to the grand doors covered in flowers and vines, sapphire blue hues hone in on the sight of a figure approaching her. His rusted hues and turquoise hair were in sharp contrast to the greens that surrounded the place. Even without that difference, however, Yuzu figured out right away who it was. Only one person who lived in the Eden House looked like that, after all.

"C-Cousin Olivier! H-Hi! I-It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Despite speaking to family, Yuzu felt awkward in conversing with him. She doesn't know Olivier that well, other than his reputation as the Eden House's golden child who was loved by children of all the orphanages the house supported. If her father didn't hate her aunt and her ideals so much, there is no doubt that he would have tried to arrange some sort of marriage with Olivier and Ray. That was how notable a figure he had become among the noble houses.

Still, she couldn't forget why she was here. She had a mission, one she promised to herself she'd see through no matter what. Yuya...was counting on her. He was, in all in tense and purposes, her charge. She was the one responsible for him. Thus, it is up to her to bring him back home to where his brothers, his family, was waiting for him.

"I-I know it's very impolite to show up without notice, but...it's an emergency. A very, very dear friend of mine has gone missing, and...I need Auntie's help to find him. She's...the only person I can turn to for this. Can...Can you bring me to her?"

~

[xx-justsomeguy-xx]

gosh i want to write responses for dola’s rps so bad but im saving it all as a treat for after i finish all the sylus ones…

[eupheme]

— you’ve got me wanting you

[part iii of sugar, sugar] | [part ii] [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 7.4k

tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie

As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.

(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)

Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.

The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.

A stray cat coming around. 

Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch. 

Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating. 

Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him. 

Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other. 

You think it's pretty much perfect.

Well... almost.

“Do you think Logan likes me?”

It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit. 

“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”

“Wade.”

“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”

You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?” 

“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”

“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”

Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.

“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me." 

The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet. 

“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."

A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"

Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"

"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"

You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"

It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.

But you’ve never met someone like Logan before. 

He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return. 

Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear. 

"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you." 

You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.  

But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all. 

"He leaves after."

His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning.  I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"

Thought he’d want to stay with you. 

You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone. 

Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did. 

"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."

His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.

“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”

He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all. 

A beat, before your head turns. 

"Do you think it's me?" 

He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"

"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"

"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."

"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"

“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"

"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know." 

And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch. 

But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself. 

It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates. 

"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."

Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.

"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."

His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”

"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."

Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.

‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”

Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.

The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”

“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”

You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.

“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”

The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”

“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways. 

“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”

A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”

You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.

“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”

“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”

The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus. 

“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?” 

A frown, when he hesitates.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”

“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”

“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”

A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”

He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe. 

“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.

Wade finishes, with a smile. 

“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”

You keep catching yourself looking at him.

It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment. 

Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after. 

But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin. 

A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers. 

Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet. 

It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out. 

“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.

A glance around the room.

Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers. 

You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.

The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.

“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”

“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”

“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”

“I’m safe with you.” 

You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear. 

“How much longer do we have to stay out?”

A question that’s been on your mind as well. 

“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”

“What about Wade?” 

It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.

“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”

“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”

“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”

That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower. 

Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off. 

“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”

Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.

“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”

“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears. 

“Yes,” It comes out breathy.

“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.

A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you. 

It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.

“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”

The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes. 

“Been a while, darlin’.” 

You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.

No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt. 

“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”

Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself. 

“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”

“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.   

“Mountain man?” 

A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”

“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”

A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”

There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”

Your head shakes, “Not like that.”

There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.

“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots. 

A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”

“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man. 

“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?

The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.

“You watch it.”

Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly. 

You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.

“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”

And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running? 

The man cuts through before you can finish.

“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”

The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”

A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.

“You still got my number?”

You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”

“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”

Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.

Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”

It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.

“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”

There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin. 

“Should shoot your dick off for that.” 

“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” It’s softer now, soothing, “Baby, let’s go.”

His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.

This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway. 

Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end. 

The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.

You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.

None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.

“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”

His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded. 

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”

“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”

The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation. 

“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”

“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out. 

His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”

You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar. 

“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh. 

“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”

“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”

Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”

Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes. 

“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”

A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.

“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”

A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”

Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.

It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.

“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.” 

You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”

He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn. 

“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”

Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed. 

“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”

The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting. 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”

Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”

He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.

“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”

“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.

“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”

The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest. 

As if he wants to believe you.

Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.

The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.

“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”

“Bathroom.” You breathe.

“Can’t wait that long.”

He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.

There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.

A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.

Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter. 

Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs. 

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”

It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer. 

“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim. 

His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.

“This okay?” Logan rasps, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty fuckin’ filthy, sweetheart.”

It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.

“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”

It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss. 

“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.

He groans, “You have me.”

The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side. 

Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.

“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”

“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”

His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.

Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him. 

You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow. 

A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement. 

“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.

“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. 

His teeth flash white, in the dim room.

“That’s my girl.”

The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.

He hums, “You like that?”

“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.

Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head. 

Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.

“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”

Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat. 

Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”

“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”

The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms. 

“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”

Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen. 

You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes. 

Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.

“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”

It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -

“Oh my god, Logan-“

You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.

“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.

“Come on, that’s my girl.”

It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.

“Yours.”

Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again. 

You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.

How he holds you. Looks at you -  so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted. 

Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you. 

“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”

You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow. 

A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”

“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod. 

“Fuck.”

It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout. 

Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”

He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.

Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.

Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.

It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.

You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”

“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing. 

This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring. 

Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.

“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.

He shushes you, his words a low growl.

“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”

There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.

Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl. 

All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.

“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing. 

Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”

Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles. 

“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch. 

"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"

“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”

Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.

“Thor’s phone number.”

“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”

He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”

"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”

You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.

The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.  

Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder. 

Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”

“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message. 

“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”

It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job. 

Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.

“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”

Logan huffs, lips twitching.  

“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”

A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”

It’s not the way he imagined this night going.

Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.

Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.

But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-

That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is. 

He smiles back. 

The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.

A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.  

But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months. 

Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.

Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.

He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.

The thought is one that he'll cling to.

“Alright. Enough bullshit.”  

It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way. 

“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”

A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."

A derisive snort from Al. 

Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”

“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”

Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way. 

Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.

Falling in love, huh?

Yeah. He might just be. 

a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)