#day one hundred thirty

[187days]

Day One Hundred Thirty

Tis the season when folks without tenure find out if their contracts haven't been renewed. Usually, it's Mr. B who talks to them about deadlines to submit resignation letters instead, etc, etc... but this year I had to do it. And, wow, I am bad at it. I guess there's really no way to be good at it, but note to self: be less excruciatingly awkward in the future.

At least it's done.

And the rest of the day wasn't bad. I mean, track practice was vaguely tragic because of all the snow (over two feet) we got on Saturday, but we made the best of it. We always do. Most of the team went outside in spite of the snow- it was sunny and not terribly cold- but the sprinters stayed inside for some timed 40s and block starts indoors. It was a bit crowded in the halls since other teams can't get on their fields anymore either, but we made it work.

Teaching went well today, too. I did reading conferences with students during Global Studies, and was able to help a few who were falling behind get back on track. In APGOV, we chatted about the recent budget deal to start (there will be mini-cupcakes tomorrow since it didn't happen until after the deadline). Then I introduced the new unit on civil liberties and civil rights. I had students read some slides about the Bill of Rights, which were full of supplemental links they could check out as needed (stuff like CrashCourse, Hip Hughes, Kahn Academy). Tomorrow they'll be trying to apply what they've learned to some specific scenarios, which will tell me how well they understand everything.

What else?

I walked out with The Principal, who was on his way to back-to-back meetings, and we chatted about how much I never want his job. Heh. We also talked about my department, and the track team, and some other stuff. I appreciated the check-in.

[clockwork-carstairs]

when you show up to the match each other’s yearning competition but jem “forty-nine thousand, two hundred and seventy five days since i last kissed you” carstairs and tessa “i thought it would remind you. of us, of what i wanted to be for you, when i thought we would be together” gray are already there

[mumblelard]

the neodymium microcosmos or the anticipation of received forms

last week was the seventeenth anniversary of my first post in this place and after three thousand one hundred thirty-seven posts, i am pretty sure i'm still not doing it right

my kids and my girlfriend came over friday night and we drank pink lemonade tequila spritzers and ate pizza and shared this week's stories. it was a really nice night

yesterday, a cover of thirteen by big star came on the radio, and i was barely able to explain to cassidy how that song always makes me cry just before i lost my voice

last night i dreamt of quitting, i dreamt of a magazine cover with red stars on a blue field and no words, and i dreamt again of walls filled with pastel fauna absent menace or comfort

today, i am spending the day with finn and fall and they have surprises in store!

this week spans bloomsday, the solstice, the full moon, and midsummer

i'm spending next weekend in the mountains up near the gorge and my anticipation grows

[dykealloy]

This guy's L to W ratio is a solid 5:1 rn

[xdemonicheartx]

Drive all over the state for a living

Have a week long vacation

First day back

Flat tire

[tranquilitybasehotelcasino]

the first bass line i ever tried to learn was the one from planetary go but it took me actually being able to play many other bass lines to realize how difficult that one actually is

[neptunevasilias]

I have to once and for all go through my archive and delete old posts that I don't agree with anymore

[oakstar519]

this is by far the coolest screenshot i have ever taken

[gradstudentdrone]

Grieving during the Holiday Season

I didn't realize the holiday season would hit this hard.

For the entire time I have been alive, Decembers were special for my family: my brother, dad and I celebrate our birthdays this month, my parents got married in December and of course, there are festivities that come with celebrating Christmas. We usually had five major dinners: my dad, my brother, and my birthday dinner, my parents' anniversary dinner, and then the midnight meal on the 24th.

In previous years, my family prepared for celebration season starting in November: my mom and I would start plotting our meals, brainstorming on the sequencing of dinners to make sure that there was enough variety in the food that we were eating so we wouldn't be having, like, roasted ham for all five of our dinners. It was exciting (though slightly stressful) trying to figure out what to eat when: did we truly want to order a lechon when it's a. unhealthy and b. it's so big? Did we want to try our luck with all you can eat sushi? How about fried lobster?

Then there came the question of presents.

My dad had a weird hang-up about presents, seeing these as evidence of how much we loved him. This weirdness stems from the fact that growing up, he felt that his birthday was...well, something his family just forgot. As the third son in a family of five, my dad always felt that he was in the background, with major milestones such as his birthday not even meriting much celebration. In fact, my mom would call my dad's family while my dad was still asleep to remind them to call him, and to wish him happy birthday, something that my uncle still "forgot" to do despite my mom's reminders.

There was a lot of trauma there, which I understand as explaining why my dad was so exacting about the gifts we gave, trying to see whether our gifts were given out of true love for him or whether we were doing so in a rote manner. Although I was frustrated because this meant it was so hard to get my dad a good gift - Beatles paraphernalia and biographies were inevitably deemed to be written by hacks, fancy shirts from fancy stores were a waste of money, books by authors that I thought my dad would like were not as good as writers who my dad considdered the masters - I realized, in my thirties and after my own stint in therapy, that my dad's tendency to criticize gifts were his trauma response.

Yet, later in life, he stopped being critical and grew to appreciate all of the gifts that his grandchildren gave, which he saw as being given out of genuine love. I remember a previous birthday when my then 4 year old showed the dance that she had prepared for her beloved nono. The dance went on...and on...and on...and on. I swear, it was a 15 minute dance recital, with SP clad in a pale green tinker bell costume and while I was getting antsy and started looking at the clock, my dad sat riveted, clapping his hands and saying that this was the best birthday gift EVER. So December became easier and less fraught when his grandchildren came.

(Pictured: here are my parents in December 2020, celebrating their anniversary with take-out from a now closed Chinese restaurant that served lobster)

I miss it all: the excitement about our December celebrations, the anticipation of buying presents for everyone, and yes, even my dad's grouchiness. Although we are doing something different this holiday season because it's just too hard to do what we always do, I know that we will feel my dad's loss as my parents' anniversary, Christmas Eve, and Christmas comes. It's important for me to give my kids reason to celebrate so we will proceed with festivities but truth be told, I'd rather just sleep through the holidays and just wake up in 2025. I also, however, want to honour our loss, so I will be talking about my dad to my daughters, reminding them of him. And, in honour of my dad, on his birthday, we released an episode of Academic Aunties where my kids were my special guests and they talked about their memories of my dad.

[187days]

Day One Hundred Thirty

Today I had a word about time management with my Block 2 class because a few of them have been struggling lately. We’re starting an essay- the last major grade on the quarter- so it’s important that they minimize their distractions and use their class time well. The essay is about religion/philosophy; students have to choose something about one of the belief systems we’ve studies to research more deeply, or, if they;’re taking the course for honors credit, compare/contrast a belief system we’ve studied with one we haven’t. So there are guidelines, but there are also choices, and that’s exactly how I like my assessments. 

I went over the essay instructions, and had students read a couple finished examples (so they could see that it can be done in multiple ways, it doesn’t have to be the same amount of words or paragraphs, etc...) Then, using those example essays as our guide, we built an outline together. Since time management is crucial, I took the outline and sectioned it out so they had minimum goals to reach for the next three days (today’s was to get an introduction written). I still had to redirect a couple of students, but progress was made. 

I saw some really neat essays beginning to take shape in both sections of the course, and I loved that students would stop me ask I walked around to as questions, but also to tell me what they were learning or share the topics they planned to write about. That enthusiasm is great.

Also, I spent about ten minutes showing a student how to do in-texts properly because he’s made the same mistake on a couple of assignments in a row, and I didn’t want him to do it again on this essay. I'd been meaning to work with him sooner, but he’s been absent or tardy a lot, so I couldn’t manage it until today. I showed him what needed to be done, he corrected his past assignments, thanked me for helping him, and got on with essay drafting. That’s a win.

Not a win: another student skipped my class, and not for the first time. I write him up every time, he gets assigned detentions and whatnot. But, clearly, that’s not changing his behavior. 

But I don’t know what to do, and I don’t think anyone else does. It’s frustrating. 

Anyways.

During Block 4, I got to teach a terrific APGOV lesson about the efforts to desegregate Birmingham in 1963, which included having students read “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” That’s a beautiful, striking piece of writing, so they had a lot to say about it afterwards. I really enjoyed that conversation. 

And then I went to track practice, put the sprinters through timed 40s, and called it a day! I’ll be on my own for most of tomorrow’s practice because The Head Coach has a meeting, so we’ll see how that goes!

[kentucky-daisey]

Stayed out until 2am last night, got to work for 9am, finished at 7pm.

I'm so tired.

[sayruq]

In the one hundred fifty days after October 7, Israel killed thirty-one thousand Palestinians, injured seventy-two thousand, displaced 1.7 million, and razed or damaged more than half of Gaza’s buildings. Joe Biden sent over one hundred weapons shipments to Israel during the same stretch. In a recent classified briefing, US officials told members of Congress that the Biden administration approved and delivered more than one hundred separate weapons sales to Israel in the one hundred fifty days after October 7, “amounting to thousands of precision-guided munitions, small diameter bombs, bunker busters, small arms and other lethal aid,” the Washington Post reported on Wednesday. That works out to one new arms deal every thirty-six hours, on average.

[ceilidho]

prompt: construction worker ghost and his elementary school teacher neighbour who made the poor decision to start feeding him (nsfw, 2k) [based on this old ask] [on ao3 here]

-

They say not to feed wild animals. 

It makes them grow soft, lazy. Alters their behaviour. Takes an animal previously capable of finding its own food dependent on humans for sustenance. Makes them lose their natural fear of humans and nearly always results in an increase in human-wildlife conflicts as they start to seek out people. It’s a known fact. You can’t go to a park without seeing it plastered on posters in the bathroom and on the sides of the vending machines under the gazebos where you purchase your post-hike iced tea and veggie roll to eat on a nearby bench. 

You know this. So you really don’t know what possessed you to leave a cooler full of sandwiches on your neighbour’s doormat before turning in for the night. 

He wakes up preternaturally early and leaves every morning around four-thirty or five o’clock on the dot. Sometimes in the fog of sleep, you wake to hear the door to the apartment beside yours crack open and slam shut, and then the sound of lumbering footsteps down the hall towards the staircase before that door opens and slams shut too. 

He never comes home before four o’clock at the earliest. That’s around when you come home from work as well, meaning that you sometimes catch him at the door, him covered in grime and reeking of old sweat while you come flouncing down the hall in whatever colourful dress you’d donned that morning, inevitably paint-splattered by the end of the day. Always something appropriate to wear at an elementary school but colourful enough to keep the kids’ eyes and attention on you. 

You’ve caught his name in half-whispered conversations with the property manager, but aside from that, all you know about Simon Riley is that he works in construction. He certainly looks the part: big, calloused hands with blunt, dirt-caked nails and cut up fingers, knuckles always swollen and thick. Body all strength and brawn. Hard hat tucked under his armpit and decorated with countless stickers from old job sites, the same way his forearm is covered in tattoos. 

You’ve even passed by his current job site once or twice—some new condo complex going up by the canal that’s forced you and hundreds of other commuters to leave an extra thirty minutes early to account for the road closures. You pointedly don’t bring that up in conversation though. That would just be rude. 

At least it would be something to talk about though.

It’s not like the two of you talk. You’re not close by any means. Though you moved in a few months ago, you haven’t had much luck mustering up the confidence to squeak out more than a hi to him in passing. When he grunts back something approximating a hello, it’s all you can do not to break your key in the lock when you hurry into your apartment and slam the door shut behind you, heart beating frantically in your chest. 

It’s humiliating. You’re a grown woman and you’ve talked to plenty of men before. You’ve dated plenty of men before. Just because this one speaks in monosyllables and stares at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and your palms grow sweaty doesn’t change anything. Just because this one is built like a redwood with wrists thick enough that you’d need both hands to wrap around doesn’t make him any different than any other person.

And yet, when Simon asks you for your name on a rainy June afternoon after you’ve come in after him for a change only to find him sifting through letters at the mailbox, you garble out something that sounds nothing like your name before scurrying up the stairs to your flat.

It’s humiliating. It’s humid outside and your dress is sticking to all the wrong places (namely, your nipples and the inside of your thighs when the skirt swishes between your legs with each stride) and now you’ve made an ass of yourself in front of the only hot guy in your building. There are serial arsonists with more charm than you. 

So maybe the sandwiches are an apology letter or an olive branch. Or maybe it just makes your heart race to think of Simon opening up the cooler and finding four wax paper-wrapped sandwiches tucked neatly over ice packs. 

All you know is that when you step out of your apartment the next morning, the cooler is empty on your doormat, the lid propped open. He must have taken them with him. 

You smile. A job well done. Apology served fresh, with cucumber slices in the middle. 

The problem starts when you don’t leave him another cooler full of sandwiches on his doormat the next day. 

You didn’t consider that he might think you’d make it a habit. Perhaps that’s partially on you for not leaving a note on the cooler the first time to explain that it was just a one-off; just a way to apologize for being less than chipper around him. But instead of shrugging it off, you come home after a long day to find him standing right outside your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, thick biceps straining against his sweat-stained shirt. 

“Open the door,” Simon commands, nostrils flaring as he glares down at you. He jerks his head towards your door when you just frown, not following. “Been starving here waiting for you to show up.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You’re at a loss for words, never mind that your whole job involves talking. He leaves you speechless though. 

Simon doesn’t move when you step close enough to unlock the door. You try to keep your body angled away so as not to brush up against him, but it’s inevitable. He doesn’t move when the door opens either, forcing you to squeeze by him. 

He goes straight to the kitchen and drags a chair out, letting it scrape across the floor like men always do before taking a seat. You follow after him nervously, apprehensive at having a man in your space. Not just a man, but Simon Riley. It feels sacrilege—not like he has no right being in your space, but you can’t imagine him here, sitting at your tiny dining room table like he comes over for dinner every Sunday. 

When he catches you standing under the archway to the kitchen just staring at him, he barks, “Well?”

That has you scurrying over to the fridge to pull out the cold cuts and pickled red onions. There’s a loaf of bread already on the counter, the bag twisted and tucked underneath because you had to leave in a rush this morning. You don’t know half of what you pile on the sandwiches, but whatever you serve him must satisfy him because Simon digs in with gusto, finishing the plate off in only a few bites while you wash the cutlery in the sink. You watch him out of the corner of your eye the whole while.

He leaves not too long after that, only a light warning for you to not miss tomorrow’s lunch before heading back over to his own apartment. You don’t even get a word in edgewise. 

It becomes something of a routine after that and not one you have any control over. Every night before bed, you leave him a cooler full of sandwiches and other things like cut up fruit or slices of cheese on his doormat, and every afternoon you rock up to him waiting on your doorstep, demanding to be let in. 

He takes to giving you a wet kiss before he leaves, all tongue and his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. When you try to cover his mouth with your hand, he nips at your fingers until you move them and let him slip you some tongue. 

The day you make him a casserole for supper, he bends you over the back of your couch and eats you out. Simon eats like a man starving, glutting himself on the wetness between your legs, licking even over the furl of your asshole and chuckling under his breath when you squeal and flail, your toes just brushing against the floor. 

In the aftermath, you sit panting in his lap while he eats. He gets up only briefly to get the bowl of strawberries and cream you left chilling in the fridge before lifting you up and putting you right back in his lap. You stare bleary-eyed when he holds a finger covered in cream up to your lips.

“Clean me up, pet,” he says, then watches you with half-lidded eyes while you lick his finger clean. 

He makes you suck his fingers too, to keep things even. He does it when you’re angled half off the bed, thick digits stuffed down your throat until your eyes leak big, fat tears that he licks away, hungry for those too. The man is always hungry, always keen to fill his belly. 

The arrangement continues on long enough to become normal, even routine. Simon shows up at your door every day after work waiting to be fed, and then makes you come a couple times before he leaves, a little thank you to repay you for the food. He never really says all that much when he comes around, not a conversationalist of a man. His preference is to eat, fuck, and leave, which you’re happy to accommodate, still too tongue-tied yourself to broach a real conversation. 

That’s all before he starts helping himself to your bed for a quick nap after a big supper. Then for naps that turn into a full night’s sleep, snoring like a chainsaw under the covers with you tucked under his arm, naked breasts pressed against his side, keeping you awake most of the night until you pass out somewhere around one A.M. 

Just as you suspected, Simon gets up at around four or five to be at the jobsite on time, but at your place, he gets up a bit earlier to help himself to breakfast. He doesn't even bother waking you up, just turns you over onto your tummy and spreads your legs before sinking his dick into where you're still stretched out from the night before. If you wake up or squirm, he just leans down and murmurs, “S'alright, pet…just need a pick me up before work. Go back to sleep, you’re okay,” and ruts between your thighs until he comes inside you and leaves you all wet in bed with one last messy kiss to your temple. 

The door slams shut on his way out. 

Because you feed him, he keeps coming back. The workday passes in a blur: attendance, a spelling test, recess, maths in the afternoon, and then you’re driving home in the same daze that has you slamming on the brakes before rear ending an old woman who stopped two cars behind the truck at the redlight ahead. 

You’re home earlier than him for a change, so you unlock the door quickly while there’s still a chance to avoid him. No such luck. When Simon turns up, he pounds on the door until you let him in. And you do. 

It’s a wonder you haven’t come apart at the seams, horny and pent up after this morning. You were too sleepy to come after all, rode hard and put away wet. Still, you flit nervously around the apartment, looking everywhere but at him. 

He always smells rich after working all day in the sun, like sweat and dirt. It's not a particularly nice smell, but it still kind of gets you going. He goes for a shower and then collapses on the couch after, beckoning you over to you crawl into his lap and grind yourself on his thigh because he knows of course. Simon can probably smell it on you, the ache. He shushes you when you whine about it, big hands fitting around your hips and pressing you down until your clit rubs deliciously against the muscle of his thigh and your head goes cloudy, cheek mushed against the pillow of his chest. 

When you come, Simon tips your chin up with his knuckle and murmurs, “Knickers off, love. Haven’t got my fill.”

He feeds you your own slick from his fingers when he kneels on the floor in front of the couch, your legs draped over his shoulders. Your fingers scratch helplessly over shorn blond hair, buzzed almost to the scalp. It’s prickly under your fingertips. 

Simon’s a messy eater. Your slick dribbles down his lips and glistens on his chin. It makes the blood roar under your skin, feverishly hot. 

“Please, Simon,” you whine, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It hurts.”

You feel his lips quirk up against the folds of your pussy, the flat of his tongue running up the seam and flicking over your clit. He chuckles when your hips jerk. “Greedy aren’t you, pet? Didn’t even say thank you for getting on my knees.”

“You didn’t make me come!”

His voice borders on mocking when he coos, “Poor little thing. It’s gonna be a lot longer ‘til she gets to come if you don’t say thank you.”

Your brain goes staticy, fingers twitching on his scalp. His words echo back in your head. It’s rubbish, is what it is. All this time and he’s never said thank you once for the countless meals you’ve fed him. Indignation bubbles up in you, rising to the surface like fat on the cream, and you raise a hand to rub the tears from your eyes, a harsh rebuke on the tip of your tongue.

The protest dies on your lips when he meets your gaze. It’s hungrier than anything you’ve ever seen. Whatever animal lives under his skin stares back at you with black eyes, drool leaking from its jowls. It’s mindless, intent only on slaking its hunger. Filling its empty belly. And it is not afraid of you anymore. It knows you’ll feed it until it’s full. It knows you won’t let it go hungry anymore. 

So, always leery of the bigger animal in the room, you mumble out a chest-thick, “Thank you,” and shiver when he grins. 

There’s a reason they tell you not to feed strays. They often come back for more.

[sacredsorceress]

Scars / Logan Howlett

pairing: dofp!logan howlett x mutant!reader summary: every person has a soulmate. after settling in the future that he saved, logan starts to consider his next mission when a suspicious mark appears on him. word count: 3.2k a/n: good ol'fashioned soulmate AU. this is the first actual fic i've written in a long time so please have some grace. reblogs and replies are super appreciated! warnings: general mentions of logan's past, scars, self-doubt, alcoholism, reader smokes a cigar, mentions of razors, scars, wounds, two uses of y/n

logan masterlist | inbox | full masterlist

It had been a week since Logan woke up in his healed timeline.

For most people, the change would have been dramatic. But Logan was far unlike most people. The initial dreamlike state he was in when he first walked through the mansion- seeing the ghosts he had once known returned to the flesh, unscathed- quickly subsided. Logan had always been a man thrown onto a new path- how he lived life constantly changing to best fit his interests. Now, with his newfound peace he found the most complicated mission of all: what to do with the life he was now free to live?

Even before the sentinels, the battles, the wars- he had always been a man on the run. He was solo, strategic, concise. For a man who was gifted with infinite regeneration, he had solely concerned himself with staying alive. He ate for sustenance, sought shelter for safety, and nursed a bottle to find enough peace of mind to sleep at night.

The professor had once told him that for a person to reach self-actualization they first had to have all of their needs met. Logan had scoffed at the time, assuring the professor that he knew himself just fine. But now, with his problems so solved that they had ceased to ever exist, he wondered if maybe the professor was right.

Who was he? Where did he go from here?

The answer was found in the form of a scar on his hand.

"Well, everything seems to be just fine."

Logan scoffed at the blue man in front of him

"Well it's not." Logan said. "Check again."

Two days after he had come back, a large, circular scar had appeared on the palms of each of his hands. When they hadn't disappeared after two minutes, he rushed to the bathroom and nicked himself with his razor, watching as the wound healed with only blood dripping down his scruff as a remanent of it. Thirty minutes after that he found himself in the lab with Hank, Jean, and the Professor hypothesizing his miraculous marks.

"Logan, the tests came back clear." Jean assured him, leaning against the wall. "Maybe it's time to consider that it's something else."

Logan quirked his head towards her.

"I haven't had a scar in over two hundred years," he reminded her, his voice laced with irony. "I get not one, but two and you... what? Think it's a coincidence?"

Before Jean had a chance at rebuttal, the professor moved to face Logan.

"That's not what Jean's inferring, Logan." Charles reminded him. "We're simply asking that you consider other options. Less... dire options. It could, after all, be a good thing."

"Yeah?" Logan scoffed. "Like what?"

A silence hung in the air.

When Logan had first come to them with news of his scar, the thought had been on all three of their minds. Still, there were a plethora of things that could have caused that. Though, when the tests came back clear and his skin continued to heal from all sorts of abrasions, it felt as if there was only one answer for his seemingly magical scars.

However, none of them were keen on sharing this diagnosis with Logan. One wondered whether he'd handle the idea of his body failing him over fated love.

Hank was the first to speak up.

"Like a soulmate."

Oh that was rich, Logan thought.

Logan wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of soulmates.

Around the time that two fated lovers were destined to meet, there would be a sign for each of them. In some cases they were eyes changing colors, feeling the other's pain, finding their names everywhere they looked. In other cases they were new birthmarks, tattoos, scars.

In some way, the two were inextricably connected.

In his long life he had seen others experience it dozens if not hundreds of times. When the first thirty years of his life rolled around with no one, Logan accepted that he was one of the outliers. He considered it for the best and by now, with everything that he had gone through, the concept of soulmates almost seemed like an old wives' tale.

Logan glanced at their faces. When he realized they were serious, a deep laugh escaped from his gut. There was a lack of light in his eyes that admitted his insincerity.

"So I disappear for a few decades and you all start believing in fairytales?" Logan pulled the needles from his arm, the heart rate monitor going flat as he did. "What a bunch of bullshit."

Jean laid her hand against his chest, urging him back into the seat.

"Logan." She soothed him. "This is a good thing. Scott and I-"

Oh this was real rich.

"Scott and you are... what, huh?" Logan urged. "Soulmates?"

Logan scoffed, swiping Jean's hand from his chest.

"Bet you're so happy with your 'soulmate' and that's why you lead me on, huh? That it? You're happy?" He taunted, a dark laugh escaping him once more. "Spare me-"

"Logan, that's enough!"

The professor's voice echoed against the linoleum walls of the lab, reverberating off of the medical equipment throughout.

"If you want to wallow in your own self-deprivation, be my guest, but spare the rest of us your grief." Charles continued. "I think it would be best if you go back to your quarters and consider the future the universe has offered you."

The energy in the air was thick.

Jean and Hank avoided Logan’s eye contact while the professor’s nearly burned a whole through him.

Accepting defeat, Logan threw his hands up in the air and pushed himself out of his metal chair.

“Fine.”

Soulmates. Logan thought. Who would believe in a thing like that?

-

"It's a pleasure to see you again."

The atmosphere in the mansion was a stark contrast to the lab Charles had been in days before.

Now the school day had commenced: children skipping from class to class, students chatting with their friends in the hallway, teachers grabbing coffee between lessons. Amidst the organized chaos, Charles had arranged to meet you in the foyer: the replacement history teacher for Logan's class.

"You too, professor." You smiled, reaching out your hand. "I was so glad to hear from you."

Your hand hung in the air briefly, awaiting his return. Charles examined it for a moment- a twinkle in his eye- before taking it. His thumbs brushed against the newfound scars between your knuckles as he did.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you didn't always have these scars, did you, Y/n?" Charles asked.

You had not.

You had woken with them a few days before. Despite your powers rooted in chaos magic, it wasn't uncommon for blemishes or wounds to etch themselves into your skin. However, you often knew why. These marks, scars, were not faint, but instead quite profound. Three thick, healed over wounds patched together like a stitch on the back of each of your hands.

"No professor."

He closed his eyes, a soft smile gracing his lips. Though you knew he wished to ask more questions, the moment was broken by Logan.

"Ah, the man himself." Charles beamed. "Logan, I'd like you to meet Y/n. She'll be covering your class."

You had seen your fair share of news stories about the Wolverine. Who hadn't? Though the television had never prepared you for just how tall, or broad he was.

"It's nice to meet you, Logan."

"You too." He nodded, taking your hand.

His hand lingered in yours for a moment. Charles cleared his throat.

"We were just discussing the most peculiar scar on Y/n's hand." Charles said. "Appeared just a few days ago out of nowhere."

Charles nodded his head in the direction of your hand, leading Logan to squint. As if a light bulb had gone off over his head, Logan glanced between Charles and yourself and with your hand still in his, he turned it examine the back.

Three scars between your knuckles. Right where his own claws would be.

Though he liked to imagine himself as the patron of remaining suave, Logan's eyebrows shot up at the recognition. He traced his view from your hands, up your torso, to your face where you eyed him questioningly.

He thought back to the way that he woke up in the seventies, wrapped in the arms of another woman. If times had been different and Logan hadn't undergone all the so-called character development in the last forty years, he was sure that a face like yours would have gotten him in a lot of trouble. You were beautiful, and your demeanor highlighted your strength.

Your face radiated kindness, warmth and most of all, sincerity- a trait that was difficult to come by in a trade such as his.

But then Logan recalled that this wasn't the seventies and you weren't at some bar leading him on the entire night: your hand was in his and, according to everyone else, he was yours.

The idea almost couldn't register in Logan's brain.

"Interesting, isn't it, Logan?" Charles asked, breaking the silence. "Almost identical to where your claws are, hmm?"

Oh the professor thought he was quite funny.

Logan pulled his hand back from your grasp and shook his head.

"Not that easy, Charles." Logan commented before turning to you, a spiteful tone in his voice. "See you around, bub."

Before you had the chance to open your mouth, you watched as Logan stomped down the nearest hallway, his boots squeaking against the floorboards as he did. His fists clenched and released at his sides as he disappeared from view.

His reaction had come so far from left field that if it hadn't given you whiplash, it would have hurt your ego. Instead you turned back to the professor.

"Was it something I said?" You asked.

The professor shook his head, patting your hand gently.

"Logan's quite a complicated man." He assured you. "I'm sure you'll come to know that more than the rest of us. Now, to your classroom..."

Glancing over your shoulder to the void-like hallway that Logan went down, you considered the professor's words.

-

A storm had taken over the mansion by nightfall.

As you padded down the wood panelled hallways, the lightbulbs shook in their glass with each thunder clap- wind swatting at the window panes every few seconds. The pitter patter of the raindrops, although harsh, was comforting. It was almost as if the mansion had been engulfed by the storm, trapping everyone inside, while consequently making the outside world feel a thousand miles away.

When you found Logan's door, tucked in at the end of the hallway, you knocked.

"Yep."

The weight of the door fell against the palm of your hands as you pushed it open.

Logan's room was dark. The only light in the space had been from the embers of the cigar that hung in his mouth, cradled between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the darkness, you could make out his figure sitting at his desk chair by the window, feet kicked up on the sill.

Logan only gave you a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to the view.

"What d'you want?"

His voice was thick and rough around the edges.

"I came for your textbooks." You replied, tiptoeing against his floorboards. "The professor said you'd have them."

The hand of his that held the cigar waved around. Minuscule ashes fell to the floor as your eyes remained trained on the light and the faint glow of the moon that illuminated the side of his face.

"Be my guest," he said. "Don’t have a clue where they are."

The professor had given you the lowdown when he saw your scars.

Charles told you that despite everything that you had learned- the history that you had known- the Wolverine you'd meet was not the same person. He was a man from a different time with far different, darker memories and enough baggage to weigh down dozens.

Amidst the silence, you cleared your throat.

"Must be hard to wake up in someone else's life."

By now you had reached his desk, your fingertips tracing the lines in the dark, lacquered wood.

You could smell him and the cigar from this distance- aftershave mixed with smoke.

"The professor tell you that?"

"Mhm."

The chair creaked as Logan flicked his hand towards the window, ushering you to come closer.

Watching your step in the dark, you maneuvered around the furniture and sat beside Logan on his desk- pushing loose papers to the side.

"He give you his whole spiel on soulmates too?" He asked, eyes trained on the rain outside.

Soulmates.

Now that was the last thing you expected to come from the Wolverine's mouth.

You'd heard of them more times than you could count. You once wondered whether every repetitive coincidence was a sign that your person was coming. But, when that never happened, you lost hope.

Who got to tell you who you belonged to anyway?

Leaning over, you gingerly took the cigar from his grasp and replaced it with your own fingers. Sitting back into the desk as lightening struck a tree in the distance, you took a puff.

"So that's what the scars on my hands were all about," You thought aloud.

The window fogged as you let the smoke leave from your mouth in a breathy sigh.

Logan tapped his fingers on his thighs, counting the seconds between a lightening strike and its consecutive rumble of thunder.

"Listen, I'm no prince charming if that's what you came here looking for."

Logan's chair creaked again as he leaned back in his seat. His arm draped against the desk as he met your gaze.

You chuckled and held out his cigar, offering it back to him.

"I came here looking for textbooks." You laughed. "You're the one who keeps talking about soulmates. I think you're more of a romantic than you let on.”

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cigar back into his own hand. Another lightning strike met the ground in the distance, a clap of thunder following moments afterwards.

"You don't buy it?" Logan quirked his eyebrow. It was a teasing question, one he was curious to hear your answer to.

You shrugged.

"I don't think the universe gets to tell me who to love," you said. "If I fall in love with you it's because I love you, Logan. Not because some mark told me to. I just think of it as... a little shove in the right direction.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile for the first time.

"A shove?"

"Like a... blind date." You finished. "Ever been on one of those?"

A congested laugh escaped him.

"Sweetheart, do I look like the type of guy to go on a blind date?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at the name.

Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his arm. You wouldn't admit how much it hurt your knuckles to do so. You'd have to make a mental note to remember his adamantium skeleton.

"Gosh, you're cocky!"

Logan shrugged, "You're the one who likes it apparently."

You felt yourself grow hot at his accusation.

Even though he had a mark signalling his future affection for you, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed by Logan's knowledge of yours. You felt like a child who's crush had just been exposed to the whole class. Was he noting ever glance that you gave him? The way you didn't move when his arm brushed against yours?

A brief pause hung in the air until another thunder clap reverberated against the walls.

"So what's your mark?" You asked.

Logan shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth. The biting motion forced him to flex his jaw in a way that you would refuse to admit made you start to realize that maybe the universe was right.

And that maybe his cockiness was justified.

He laid out his hands for you. The room was still dark, making the ability to discern the details of his scar impossible. Taking Logan's hands in yours, you summoned your magic into your hands, watching as they glowed gold.

Logan had two large, circular scars imprinted into his palms. It was a clear indicator of your own magical power that surged from your hands.

It left a feeling you couldn't describe in your chest to know that someone else was marked for you. They were destined for you. To be with you. You had a future written together before the two of you had met. Even if he rejected you, there was a sign etched into his skin that bound the two of you together in some fateful way.

Gently, you traced your fingertips against the mark, feeling the warmth that radiated from his palms.

When your eyes flicked upwards, you noticed how close the two of you were now sitting. You could feel his warm breath against your lips as the lingering smell of the cigar drifted up your nose.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, Logan was enchanted by the energy radiating from you. Whether people hated or loved him, his ability got a lot of talk. In his mind though, he would never be a hero. He was just some guy who got lucky.

You, though? He didn’t need you to tell him that you were an Omega level mutant. Logan had heard about you from the professor: you could cast spells, read minds, reconfigure reality- to name a few. You didn't need a reason to fight for what's right, you just did. Again, and again, and again. Even here, now, you were picking up Logan's history class when he knew very well you could be on the other side of the world sipping pina coladas if you wanted.

What the hell was the universe thinking putting you with him?

Logan admired the reflection of the magic on your cheeks and the way your eyes stayed trained on his palms. Your touch was so gentle he could have sworn he was in a distant dream until your eyes met his.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, gaze locked.

Then another clap of thunder shook the mansion.

You quickly leaned back, pulling your hands from Logan's touch.

"I should... I should go." You said, pushing yourself off of Logan's desk. "It's getting late and I have my first class in the morning."

Logan leaned back in his seat. He said nothing but eyes remained fixed on your form as you made your way towards the door.

Looking back at him with your hand on the knob you made a mental note to remember the image of him with his feet kicked back on the window as he smoked his cigar.

A soft smile remained.

"Good night, Logan."

When you didn't leave immediately, he nodded.

"Night, sweetheart."

Mustering up the courage to shoot him one last smile, you pulled open the door and stepped outside.

Now, Logan didn't know how much he believed in soulmates, but he could be inclined to consider that it was one good wingman.

Leaning back in his seat, Logan sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself drown out his worries with the sound of the rain.

a/n: my inbox is open for more requests! thank you for the request @welcometochilis585

[luveline]

hey lovely!! can we maybe get some more pregnant bombshell and spencer??

“What I’ve decided,” you say, reclining back against Spencer’s lap with all the air of a resting empress, “is that I don’t actually like being pregnant.” 

Spencer startles, as does Hotch. JJ doesn’t flinch. “It’s awful,” she says. 

You’re too pregnant to terminate the pregnancy, now. Thirty weeks, your stomach a bump you pretend doesn’t exist when you aren’t holding a hand to it. “I love my baby,” you say, letting Spencer relax again underneath you, “but this is inhumane.” 

“It’s one of the most human experiences you could ever live through,” Spencer says. People have been having babies since the beginning of time. 

“I wonder if you’d feel that way if you were the pregnant one.” You slip further down into his lap, shuffling across the jet’s couch to let your head rest on his thigh. Your chin tips up, your lips curling into a painted smile. He could kiss every bit of lipstick off of your mouth if you didn’t have an audience. 

“I just mean, it’s intrinsically human to reproduce. Not that your feelings aren’t real. Sorry.” 

“Ooh, sorry,” you mumble, giving him a playful, almost daring smirk. “Doghouse for you, handsome. You know you’re supposed to agree to everything I say.” 

“I know.” 

“Is it hard?” Hotch asks. Not unaware that it is, in fact, very hard, but probing you to open up further should you want to. Spencer probably should’ve asked you first, he thinks. He holds your face in apology. 

“Hotch, it’s like… It’s hard because it doesn’t stop. Sometimes I don’t notice, I don’t feel any different, but when I’m nauseous or when it’s barely five and my back aches like I’ve been carrying a dumbbell all day… I don’t know.” 

“It’s alright to not enjoy it,” Spencer says. “You don’t have to think it’s fun. You can hate every second of it, if you want.” 

“I don’t. Really, I don’t. Just tired.” 

“You could be in the field less,” Hotch suggests. 

You cover your eyes with your hand. “Don’t suggest big things to me.” 

“It’s up to you when you want to stop. But don’t think you can’t take a break. Even if next week you want to come back.” Hotch smiles. “After all, you’re the brains of the operation. You can consult through video, like Penelope.” 

You laugh at being called the brains, stretching your legs out, stockings shining down the lengths of you like they’ve suffered a sudden rain. “It’s not about being tired. I’m exhausted, but it’s just strange sometimes, that’s all. I don’t always feel like me.” 

Spencer lets his hand fall to your chest, rubbing a short line under your collar he hopes is soothing.

“It’s the emotional aspect too,” JJ says. “All the hormones.” 

“Yeah, it is,” you say. 

Spencer hears the unhappiness threaded in your tone, but he’s not sure what to do. Hotch and JJ realise you’re done talking for now and return to their own devices, a new quiet descending over the jet, the only sound the rush and hum of air. Spencer keeps on rubbing that same spot over your chest. Your eyes close. He knows you too well to think you’re sleeping. 

“Are you really unhappy?” he asks quietly. 

“No, Spence. Didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know. It’s alright if you aren’t happy.” 

“I’m mostly happy.” 

“I want you to be a hundred percent happy.”

“I don’t think I can be right now.” 

He lets his pinky dip under the neckline of your shirt. Your skin is soft. “Okay. Don’t be happy if you can’t be. I’m here no matter what.” 

You sigh softly and twist on your side, your nose pressing into his stomach, the heat of your breath slowly transferring through his shirt to his skin. Spencer brings his hand around with you, holding the back of your neck as you make yourself comfortable. 

“I love you, I swear,” you whisper. “And her.” 

“I know it’s not about love. Pregnancy can be an evil, heavy, horrible thing to go through. Don’t feel like you have to pretend it’s not. There’s gestational diabetes, morning sickness, high blood pressure, night sweats, depression…” Spencer ducks down to press his cheek briefly to your temple. “If you liked all that, there’d be something wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with how you feel, okay?” 

“Okay.” You kiss his shirt. 

“Massage?” he offers. 

“Yes!” You wriggle closer to him and shiver happily as his hand finds the knot between your shoulders. “That’s a pro for this whole ordeal. You could open a massage parlour with hands like that. They’d call it Reid’s Reflexology.” 

“Yeah? Is that a hint for a foot massage?” 

You giggle like you’ve been tickled. JJ groans in her seat with reluctant fondness, while Hotch murmurs, “Let’s keep it PG-13, please.” 

[phantom-of-the-memes]

Since I’ve been making posts about American/ British entitlement towards Ireland, I thought I’d talk about this video here.

I am a student at this college. It’s a big tourist attraction for many reasons, but the main one being that the book of Kells is kept here. I am also from Kells itself, but Dublin having the book and not Kells is a whole other issue.

So this protest that’s been happening over the the past few weeks is in response to the college once again raising rents for student accommodation to astronomical rates. That being when rent in Dublin (and Ireland as a whole) is already unliveable. You’d find cheaper rent off student accommodation, but it’s hardly easy to find places like this. As well as this, the majority of the student accommodation isn’t even on campus to begin with. Most are about a 45 minute luas journey away. So what the fuck are you paying for?

This protest is necessary. It’s been a long time coming. Time and time again they prioritise tourists over us. Buildings are old and falling apart, equipment isn’t functional, accessibility is god awful. I know this because I am disabled and use a rollator, but I can’t even use it on campus most days because there’s simply no ramps/ elevators in some buildings.

In one of my lectures last week we were in one of the old buildings. We had a lot of content to cover, but of course the projector wasn’t working. The professor spent fourty minutes trying to get the computer/ projector to work, but to no avail. So we have a whole lecture to catch up on! All of this while I was looking out the window at this atrocity:

A new building for tourists! Yay!

They’ve been building new school buildings for years, but of course instead of finishing them, they’ll spend their time and money on the tourists. I’m not even having an exam in one of my modules because they told the professor that there simply isn’t enough room to host our class for the exam. And it would be “too expensive” to book a venue… it’s only a class of about thirty. He had written a whole exam and we were under the impression we’d have one, but now it’s just continuous assessment I guess!

So you have to understand why we’re not exactly jumping for joy for the tourists. There are hundreds on campus everyday, just generally being annoying and entitled. And yes DISCLAIMER; not all tourists, not all Americans/ British people, blah, blah. But from my experience, you do encounter some obnoxious people everyday.

So that’s why they blocked entrance to the book of Kells. That’s why it’s disgusting for the tourists to be arguing with them and demanding entrance. For once we just want our college to prioritise us! So yeah we will revoke your entitlement, because we are the ones who study here, we are the ones who have to LIVE here.