#he’s crying and he doesn’t even realize it

[with-my-calamitous-love]

burnt toast, sunday / i wanna teach you how forever feels

katsuki bakugou x reader

the morning after a fight with katsuki. for the yail series ❄️

inspired by all of the girls you loved before

bakugou sat up, groaning a bit as his back ached. he looks around, hit with his surroundings. he slept on the couch, in the midst of the living room torn apart from arguing.

he knew you were probably still pissed at him. worst of all, he couldn't even fully recall why you two had been arguing the night before. he only remembered that it was really, really bad, and you had ended up locking him out of the bedroom. just the thought of not sleeping next to you hurt blonde’s chest.

he lets out a sigh as he got up from the couch and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. when he sits up, he sees you walk in.

he cringes slightly, seeing your puffy red eyes. you had been crying all night, probably.

“…hey.” you say, softly.

he grunts in response, his words unable to reach his throat.

its a sunday, a quiet morning to contrast a loud, abrasive saturday night. the two of you resolve to make coffee silently, only speaking when you need a spoon he’s standing next to or when he needs you to move so he can grab the sugar.

the silence felt incredibly awkward. the two of you just stood there, quietly making your own cups of coffee. the only noise in the room was the sound of the coffeemaker brewing. bakugou’s thoughts were a mess. he couldn’t believe the two of you had gotten in such a big fight, and he wasn't even entirely sure why it happened. but he knew he was probably at fault, he was the one with the explosive personality after all.

he curses at himself quietly when he realizes he grabbed two pieces of bread. he does that normally- one for you, and one for him. but right now, you’re pissed at each other. he’s a little worried that making two pieces of toast will be seen as a violent act of aggression.

he moves to grab plates, too absent minded to notice that the toast is now burning. you take it out for him. thats when he noticed you’re still wearing his shirt, even though you’re mad.

he picks up his phone and scrolls, trying to distract himself. thats when he remembers what the fight was about.

whoever it was that got ahold of katsuki bakugou’s dating history was really obsessed or really, really bored, maybe both. for whatever reason, his fans were now talking about all his previous partners, the good and the bad. and, because you’re dating a celebrity, they just have to question your worthiness to be dating the handsome and strong dynamight.

he feels his anger flare up as he doom-scrolls some more. it pisses him off, thinking about how people would so mindlessly say things. it pisses him off more that its getting to you. don’t you know that he loves you?

he has yet to do anything about it, to address his dating life and who he’s with now. truthfully, katsuki doesn’t feel like he should have to. his pr team already works overtime for his asshole-self, anyway.

he’s so distracted by his own thoughts, he fails to notice the way his elbow knocks over your mug, sending it shattering on the floor. maybe its the silence, but you honestly jump a little when it happens.

both you simply stand there at first, blinking. did he do that on purpose? no, he wouldn’t break his own mugs.

maybe he just wanted your attention.

nonetheless, you wave it off with a soft “its okay” before kneeling down and carefully cleaning up the shards. he’s silent as he gets down in front of you, helping you clean the mess he made.

he wants to tell you its okay, and that he’ll take care of it. he wants to tell you that he’s sorry and that he loves you. but this is the closest he’s physically been to you since the argument, and he wants to relish in it for a moment.

“are you still mad at me?”

he almost flinches when he hears your meek voice. why would he be mad at you?

“..what are you talking about, babe?” he sighs, his voice gruff.

he is mad, but not at you. mostly at himself for not seeing how the recent speculations about him had been bothering you.

“i don’t wanna repeat myself. i just… i don’t know. i know you don’t want me to care about what everyone else is saying, but, i do.” you admit, still on the floor in front of him. at this point, you’ve both forgotten about the coffee and the shards.

he can see how upset you are, and it makes his chest tighten. “yeah, well… i don’t want those shitty extras getting to you. even if what they’re saying is the farthest thing from the damn truth.”

he so desperately wants you to know that he loves you. that when he’s with you, he doesn’t think of all the times he woke up to someone else, feeling alone. he doesn’t think of late night arguments that left him feel empty. when he looks into your eyes, he’s reminded of everything he wants to protect.

but you don’t see that as clearly as he does. “i guess i just… wonder if you agree with them. you never say anything to address those rumours, about your exes. and its not your fault, i get you don’t want to get involved, but, still…”

bakugou’s heart twinges as you bring up those accusations. he hates that you wonder such things, that you wonder if he agrees with those rumours or not. he wants to reassure you that you are the one he loves, the only one he loves. but he knows you wouldn't believe him right now, especially since he's been acting so shitty towards you lately.

“damn it, dumbass, i just want you to know that i love you. not any of those other bitches.”

“i don’t like when you call them that, katsuki.” you correct him. he nods, though both of you should be used to his sailor tongue by now.

“they’re people you’ve loved before… and thats okay. sometimes i just wonder if you love me more. i know its stupid.” you sigh.

he finally gets the courage to hold your hand, his calluses gentle against your skin. “..i feel i shouldn’t have to say it, i guess. in my head, you’re the only damn person in the world who matters.”

“maybe i’m just insecure.” you chuckle, self deprecatingly. you’re both tired of the arguing, now. “you’re #1, you’re gorgeous… and i’m me.”

he looks at you like you’re a complete idiot for that.

he hated hearing you say those things about yourself like it was a bad thing, that you were just you.

“just you? you really think it’s a bad thing to be you, dumbass?”

he pulls you in tighter, wanting you to really hear what he says.

“you’re amazing, you're incredible. there’s no one else I want to be with. I don't want anyone else, just you. you’re way too good for me, [y/n], in more ways i can count.”

“…you really mean that?”

he scoffs, a beautiful smile on his face. “yeah, i mean it. i love you.”

you give him that smile he loves, the one that made him fall so deeply in love with you all those years ago. “thats all you had to say, kats.”

your past and his are parallel lines. he isn’t sure how he got so lucky. how, by some cosmic miracle, the starts aligned so he could intertwine with you. you’re all he needs.

he hugs you deep, burying his face into your neck. he loves how you smell, how smooth your skin is. theres bot much proof, but he sees enough in you. he feels enough when he holds you, his entire world in his arms.

“i’m sorry.” he says, quietly for only you to hear. “you’re everything to me. i’m in love with you.”

your heart swells, ignoring the burnt toast and spilled coffee. you’re wearing his shirt, and he’s keeping his word. thats enough to make you melt, hugging him back, arms thrown around his muscular back. “i’m sorry too. i shouldn’t have doubted you. i love you too.”

he pulls back slightly to kiss you, making sure you’re in front of him and that this is real. for once, he let’s go of all of his fears and his ghosts. you’re his best friend, the love of his life and every beautiful thing he loves. he hears it in the silence, on his way home, and in your voice.

“if anything, i think i’m grateful for everyone you’ve loved before.” you chuckle, face close to his. his blonde eyebrows knit in confusion. “what do you mean, babe?”

“because the people you love make who you are, even if you’ve only loved them for a moment.” you say, squeezing his hand. “all those dead-end streets led you to me.”

he pauses, strange look on his face when he realizes you’re right. all that fake love, the teenage heartbreak and pains he’s been through- it’s made him the man you love. all those breakups, those unsaid goodbyes, they’ve led him hear.

he huffs, and then smiles, pressing his forehead to yours.

“i wouldn’t change a damn thing, then.” he says. “it all led me to you, dumbass.”

you stroke his cheek affectionately, pressing a kiss to his temple. his eyes close when you do that, relaxing into your touch. everyone that he knew brought him hear. and now, he gets to know what forever feels like.

“and in the end, it doesn’t matter who loved you before.” you conclude. “cause i love you more.”

he almost laughs at how cliché it is, resigning to press kisses all over your face. “i love you more, i’m not arguing on that.” he says, holding you in his lap. he’s tough, and explosive, and “too good for all that clingy couple bullshit”. at least, thats what he lets the world believe.

you’re his, and he’s yours. he’s so god damn thankful for everyone you’ve loved before. ‘cause now he gets to love you 10x more.

[hotshotsxyz]

this town is only gonna eat you

(buddie) (s8 spec) (1.1k) already wrote some buck-gets-hit-by-a-car spec, so how about some buck-gets-shot? kept thinking about "take eddie [to the laker's game] and die" and uh... here we are. cw: mass shooting/ gun violence (described vaguely), somewhat graphic description of a bullet wound, blood edit: now featuring a companion piece

Buck is smiling when it happens. Grinning at Eddie like he hung the fucking moon as he points out what must be the hundredth interesting play he’s seen on the court tonight. Buck’s smiling.

Eddie registers the screams before the gunfire. He smells the metallic scent of spent shell casings before he sees the shooter. He tackles Buck to the ground before he realizes he’s already hurt.

Buck was smiling, but now his face is inches from Eddie’s and his eyes are wide with pain and panic.

“Eds,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper but it’s still too loud.

Eddie shakes his head, a tiny, sharp movement. Buck takes a shaky breath and presses his lips together. He understands. Eddie hates that he understands. Thank God he understands.

There’s something warm and wet slowly spreading between them, and it takes Eddie several wasted seconds to realize it’s blood. He’s almost completely certain it isn’t his, which��

God, that’s so much worse than if it was.

One of Eddie’s hands is still cradling Buck’s head, an instinctive act of protection before they hit the ground. With the other, Eddie slowly begins feeling his way around Buck’s abdomen. His fingers brush against torn fabric and he feels nauseous.

I’m sorry, he mouths before pressing down hard.

Buck gasps in pain. A muscle in his jaw ticks with the effort it must take him to keep from screaming.

“You’re doing so good,” Eddie breathes into Buck’s ear. “I’ve got you; I promise.”

The bullet caught him somewhere along the fifth intercostal space on the right side of his chest. Eddie doesn’t have a way to feel for an exit wound, not without letting up pressure on what he knows is there.

At best, the bullet glanced off a rib and tore through nothing but skin and muscle. At worst…

At worst, Buck is dying beneath him and there’s not a damn thing Eddie can do, not until the shooter is dead or gone. All Eddie can do is pray. Pray and hope like hell that God has forgiven him for his incomplete confession.

Another spray of gunfire echoes through the arena. It’s nearly impossible to identify where it’s coming from, but Eddie’s got a vague idea based on the direction people seem to be running in.

Buck takes a ragged, watery breath.

For the first time in his life, Eddie hopes he’s crying. He draws back, just far enough to look Buck in his eyes. His eyes, which are clouded over in pain but free from tears.

Fuck, fucking goddamn it.

Eddie presses his cheek against Buck’s.

“Slow, steady breaths, okay?” he whispers. “You have to breathe through it, even if it feels like you can’t.”

The tiniest whimper escapes Buck’s chest.

“You have to, Buck, I can’t—” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shuddering breath. “I just need you to hold on,” he begs.

A single shot rings out, and nearby, something falls to the ground with a dull thump.

“Suspect is down!” someone shouts. “We’re clear for EMS.”

Eddie carefully extricates his hand from behind Buck’s head. “Hear that? We’re so close, Buck.” He brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, then sits up and raises his hand in the air. “Over here!” he shouts. “I’ve got a penetrating chest wound that needs to be on the first ambo out of here!”

Buck’s eyelashes flutter as he fights to stay conscious.

“Come on, eyes on me,” Eddie says.

With his free hand and his teeth, he tears a strip of fabric from his shirt to wad up and press into Buck’s wound.  The skin there is ragged and torn, almost certainly an exit wound. Eddie curses.

“I need EMS now!” Eddie roars, not tearing his eyes away from Buck for even a second.

“I’m coming to you!” someone calls back.

Buck’s eyes slip shut.

“No!” Eddie commands, rubbing his knuckles across Buck’s sternum. “You’re staying right here with me, you got it?”

Buck groans weakly. His eyes flick back open.

“That’s perfect, you’re perfect,” Eddie babbles. “Just keep—c’mon, Buck, just keep fighting. I need—you have to be okay.”

Buck’s lips part. “Hurt,” he breathes.

“I know,” Eddie says desperately, “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

A pained sound falls from Buck’s lips. He lifts one of his hands just high enough to ghost his fingers along the ruined hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Behind him, Eddie hears a gurney roll to a stop.

“Here!”

Eddie turns and find a young woman, no more than twenty years old, wearing a polo that declares her part of a private ambulance service. He doubts she’d weigh even a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to Buck. “I’m going to get you onto that gurney. Let me do all the work, okay?”

Buck’s eyes widen. He makes a strangled sound. “Hurt,” he coughs out again, fingers scrambling uselessly against the concrete floor of the arena.

“They’re gonna give you the good stuff at the hospital,” Eddie reassures. He lets go of Buck’s wound and pulls him into a seated position, then rolls him awkwardly onto his back. “I got you,” he says as he stands.

Eddie staggers beneath Buck’s weight but manages to get him down three rows worth of steps and onto the gurney without the young EMT’s help.

“We’re staged just outside the north entrance,” she says as she begins to push Buck toward a set of doors.

Eddie nods sharply. “He’s got a perforating chest wound, probable pulmonary laceration, and a history of pulmonary embolism. Allergic to naproxen,” he rattles off as he pushes the gurney alongside her.

“Um, okay, that’s—are you a doctor or something?” she asks.

“Firefighter,” Eddie corrects. “We both are.”

The closer they get to the exit, the harder Eddie has to work to keep pace with the EMT. He must be coming down hard as the adrenaline fades. A few spots cloud the corners of his visions. He blinks them away.

The doors to the outside fling open, revealing two paramedics from the 136.

“Diaz, is that you?” one of them asks.

The best Eddie can do is nod.

“Shit, and that’s—”

Eddie’s ears start to ring.

“Diaz, were you shot?”

No, he tries to say. One of the paramedics grabs him under the shoulders, and the other pushes his t-shirt up until—

Oh.

Huh.

He has been shot.

The paramedic in front of him is saying something, but Eddie can’t quite understand it. Over his shoulder, the EMT looks blurry and horrified.

The spots in his vision return with a vengeance, and in his last few moments of lucidity, it occurs to Eddie that the bullet in his abdomen is probably the same one that ripped through Buck’s chest.

Then, the world fades to black, and Eddie thinks nothing at all.  

[moosesarecute]

Day 4: Paid Time Off

@azrielappreciationweek

“They’re incredible,” Feyre said in awe.

Her eyes glowed from the light of Starfall and also from the couple dancing in the middle of the ballroom.

Rhys felt his heart warm at the sight. Y/N and Azriel’s yearly dance. The first one in fifty years. It made him feel a comforting sensation that everything was as it should. Their dance truly ment a lot to everyone in their family.

“They truly are,” he answered her. “Surprised?”

“I never expected them to be such good dancers,” Feyre stated.

Rhys did agree with her. Their beautiful movements surprised him every year.

“Y/N would ask Azriel, Cassian and I to dance every year at Starfall. We always said no. We’re warriors. Warriors don’t dance ballroom dances. Then, suddenly a year, Azriel said yes. I think Y/N was just as surprised as the rest of us,” Rhys chuckled a little as the memory.

“What made him say yes?” Feyre seemed almost in trance looking at their careful and steady movements. The love that bloomed from their gazes could be seen through the entire room.

“It was their first Starfall as a couple. None of us knew, but we probably should have guessed it. Starfall has always been an important day for the two of them. And, of course, none of us know why.”

Y/N and Azriel ended the dance with a small kiss before they made their way back to Mor and Cassian. Azriel’s hand was carefully placed on Y/N’s back and his shadows still held her dress, making sure she didn’t trip on it.

“But that doesn’t explain why they’re so good at it. I never would have been such a good dancer if I only danced once a year.”

“Y/N loves dancing,” Rhys explained. “I still remember her coming crying to my room after she had started the “wife-training” as we called it. She hated the thought that she enjoyed a part of it. But she absolutely loved dancing. I have a theory that they dance all the time when nobody is around.”

“It should simmer for five minutes,” Azriel said before he moved over to you.

You sat at the table, trying to find the right place for the puzzle piece you held in your hand.

Azriel picked the piece from your hand and immediately put it in the right spot. He laughed as you let out an annoyed sigh.

“Come here, love,” he said as he pulled you up from your chair.

You couldn’t help but smile when you realized what it was he wanted.

Azriel’s strong hands held your waist as you moved through your kitchen. Your arms were wrapped around his neck. Your feet were moving together in carefully chosen patterns.

Your smiles and small laughs only grew as he lifted your hand from his shoulder and twirled you around.

The song you danced to was the song that played the first Starfall you were together. A memory you would pull forward and send into Azriel’s mind every time you danced.

His hazel eyes were looking deeply into yours and your violet ones looked back. Your smiles lightened up your entire face.

With a last twirl Azriel dipped you down and his lips met yours.

It was incredible how he still managed to give you butterflies even after centuries of being mates.

He pulled you up again and gave you another small kiss before he let go of you.

“The dinner should be done now,” he said and moved towards the stove.

And as you stood and admired your mate’s beauty you got reminded once more that it really was the little things that made life special.

Divider by @cafekitsune

[levisjinchuriki]

overwhelmed - kento nanami

summary - your husband, nanami, comforts you when you're having a bad mental health day

warning: mental health, crying, fluff, nanami being the perfect husband

the day had drained you more than you realized. it wasn’t just the mental weight, but the emotional exhaustion, the feeling that you were running on empty, that left you needing comfort more than anything. it felt like every part of you was stretched thin, fragile, and exposed, and all you wanted was something, someone, to help you hold it all together.

nanami knows you better than anyone, and even without you saying a word, he can tell that today’s been one of those days. the moment you step into the living room, he looks up from his spot on the couch, his gaze soft and understanding. no questions, no prodding—just the quiet, steady presence that you always find yourself needing.

“come here,” he says, his voice low and inviting.

you don’t have to ask him to repeat it. his arms are already open before you even step closer, and without thinking, you find yourself moving into them, instinctively seeking his warmth. nanami pulls you into his lap, his large hands gently cupping the back of your head, his fingers brushing through your hair with slow, deliberate strokes. 

as you settle deeper into nanami’s embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you grounding you, a soft sigh slips from your lips. it’s quiet at first, a delicate exhale of breath, but it carries with it the heaviness of everything you’ve been holding back. the kind of sigh that isn’t just a release of air but a release of all the things you’ve been too afraid to let go of.

for some reason, the small action pushes you over the edge. your chest tightens, and despite all the warmth, the comfort, and the security nanami is offering, tears begin to well up once more. it’s as if that sigh unlocked something that’s been buried too deep inside, and now it can’t be contained.

nanami feels it before you can even fully process it, his grip on you tightening just slightly, his fingers brushing softly through your hair to soothe you, to let you know it’s okay. he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to. his arms, strong and steady around you, are more than enough.

but it’s too much, too overwhelming. the tears begin to fall freely, silently, each one carrying the weight of a day, a month, maybe even years of unspoken pain. you don’t understand why, but the tears come anyway, spilling out in an uncontrollable flood. you try to hold it in, to keep your breathing steady, but nanami simply holds you tighter, not trying to stop the tears or quiet your sobs.

"let it out," he murmurs softly, his hand gently rubbing circles on your back. his touch is steady and constant, never forcing, always giving you the space you need. his calm presence is like a lifeline, even as you break down in his arms, feeling the tears come faster, each one stripping you of some of the weight you've carried for too long.

he doesn’t rush you. he allows you to feel, to break if you need to, and in the quiet moments, you realize that his presence isn’t about fixing things—it’s about letting you be, no matter how messy or broken it might feel. he’s here, not because he has the answers, but because he’s committed to standing by you, holding you, through all of it.

you bury your face deeper into his chest, your shoulders shaking, and nanami, with his endless patience and quiet strength, simply holds you. his hands move up and down your back in a gentle, soothing motion, his fingers threading through your hair as he continues to whisper soft, reassuring words.

when the sobs start to fade, when the weight of the day feels less pressing, nanami shifts just enough to grab the book he’d set on the coffee table. without a word, he opens it, settling back against the couch with you still in his arms. his hands are still stroking your hair, his thumb running along the back of your neck in soft, rhythmic circles, while his voice, low and soothing, fills the space between you.

the words from the book drift through the room, slow and deliberate, creating a sense of calm that settles over you like a blanket. nanami doesn’t rush through the passages—he reads each sentence with care, his voice rich and steady, bringing the words to life with a quiet tenderness. it’s not about the story itself, but the way his voice becomes the anchor for your thoughts, the way his presence makes everything feel safe, contained.

with each turn of the page, each steady stroke of his hand through your hair, you feel your body relax further. the tightness in your chest eases, and you find yourself getting lost in the sound of his voice, the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. he doesn’t need to say anything more. the simple act of being here, with you, is enough.

nanami finishes a chapter, but he doesn’t stop there. he pauses, his fingers gently brushing over your head once more, before leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “how are you feeling?” he asks quietly, but there’s no pressure to respond if you don’t want to. his tone is calm, considerate, and always patient.

you let out a slow breath, finally feeling some of the tension leave your body. “okay” you murmur, your voice a little hoarse from the tears. nanami tilts your chin up, his gaze soft, but unwavering. his eyes are filled with nothing but affection and care, and even without words, he tells you that it’s okay. you can fall apart in his arms, and he won’t ask you to be anything other than what you are in that moment.

he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing away the last of the tears with his thumb. 

“thank you”. nanami simply nods, his hand still gently cradling the back of your head. “no need to thank me,” he says with a quiet smile. you nestle into his chest again, feeling his arms wrap around you, holding you securely. there’s no expectation, no rush for you to feel better. nanami’s presence is enough—his soothing touch, his quiet strength, his unwavering support. and at this moment, that’s all you need.

---

thank you for reading! my inbox is always open for requests!

[eupheme]

you writing is so beautiful. the way that logan tries to stop her - how blunt and earnest he is and the worst person for the job (but also best, in his own way) but he's trying, gosh that got me. love the line about logan's tailights being a lighthouse, guiding her back out in all that dark, and then trying to make her promise she won't go back.

and how they bump into each other again, the way he takes time and listens to her each time had my heart aching. the way you write her grief felt so real (I really appreciate how you wrote this fic - my own mental health over the past few years has been rocky and this felt so - gosh, I don't know, relatable? hopeful? wonderful? to read), and the fact that he understands in a way that no one else she knows does - it such a rough connection but you have me feeling glad for each of their encounters.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

Wheezing omg - perfect Wade introduction. And then that she goes back, and I that she hates but I love that he is getting a handle at how she thinks, how he makes her be honest. And gosh when he opens up in return, that fondness he had for Wade, how he's still hurting from before, I was inhaling this.

Loving 'DVDJ' (and the F9/Wade & Logan references omfg) and I so feel for reader and how hard it is to put yourself out there, but what a great group of people for her to surround herself with. And the whiplash with her finding him like that, how it still comes back to him after all the healing he's been trying to do, all of this made my chest ache.

He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one. // “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Ahh this made me want to cry - I love how you dug into his grief in this. How she's able to help him this time, find the words he needs to hear. And ahh I love how you write everyone - Vanessa, Wade, Althea. Logan's chip! I am tearing up again, especially at this part:

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.”

oh!! 🥺💖 and then I love the reveal that the cliff was a space in his world, even with their shared history of it. like they were always meant to meet, the “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.” had me like !!!! - sad and lovely is so right.

“‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

this made me laugh (reference to Hugh's interview right??) omg. and the way you pace things, how they slowly get better and fall into place for her, it makes me so proud, even just as a reader.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.” // It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

Grinning, oh my god. And how sweet she is with the gift and how Wade wants to take a new photo of his new world - my heart. And then how seeing Vanessa and Wade makes her think about more, when at the beginning that was impossible - weeping.

Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

!!!!! god, what a realization. and how she can't handle it, so real. And how he comes through the rain to check on her, oh my god. That he checked, and how scared he must have been!

“I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” // His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you.

Oh. And oh my god that perfectly imperfect kiss, the fact he's been wanting to for ages!!!!! I am screaming. “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?” !!!! (the vein appreciation, loved that)

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

eep! 😳💖 the smut was so perfect, so good. I am obsessed with how soft he is for her -

“Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance.

LOGAN 😳 the desperation with how they’re still on her table, how sweet and pleased he is - the “then get it out”, omg he is so filthy. This was amazing (that stomach vein yesssss) just absolutely steamy as hell and so so well-written and I had to keep taking breaks to stare at the wall. Phew! Fucking her against the wall!!!! I love the use of the strength here and yessss a long night indeed!! 👀💖💖

And gosh, the last segment. No words, my heart is tied up in the sweetest of strings and knots. This was really something special. I already want to reread and pick each line apart. This was Logan and this is canon to me and wow I just loved this so much and I hope you are so proud of this fic because you really really should be. I am going to be thinking about this for a long time 💖 (and I would love to hear about the title, is Logan her cardinal?)(like a sign of hope and new beginnings?)

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I��� No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

[wonderjanga]

Code-Switching

Billy code-switches every now and then and doesn’t even realize it.

Marvel: *talking in his normal voice to Mary*

Reporter: *pops out of nowhere with a camera man behind her* “Captain Marvel we’d like to discuss with you today about the recent incident with Sivana.”

Marvel: *almost immediately switches to a transatlantic accent* “Of course!”

Reporter: *almost gets whiplash from how fast he switched* “Right, well could you fill us in on the details?”

Marvel: “Sure I can.” *starts talking with the accent and even using old-timey lingo*

Reporter: *walked away from the interview only knowing barely half of what happened cause she could barely understand half of the things he said*

Fawcitizens: “Ah yes. I see.” *understood perfectly*

The reporter wasn’t originally from Fawcett and came after to time bubble so she could get the latest scoops on Marvel.

or

Marvel: *comforting an abused kid with the absolute kindest and most compassionate look on his face*

Abused Kid: *crying*

Marvel: *picks kid up and gives them to their mom and heads over to the Abusive Dad*

Abusive Dad: “What’re you looking at, asshole?!”

Marvel: *kind ahh smile immediately fades and proceeds to promise to do the most torturous and gruesome things to the man*

Police: *look away like the aren’t hearing a thing*

Marvel: *looks back to the kid and is smiling again. Gives the kid a little wave*

or

He was under the effects of a magic spell that was supposed to mimic the effect of being drugged.

Marvel: *nearly passed out on the floor, family guy style*

Flash: “Oh my god!” *rushes over and leans down, shaking Marvel a lot* “Cap, are you okay?!”

Marvel: *thinks Wally is Freddy and frog blinks at him, annoyance crossing his face at being shaken* “Freddy, get the fuck offa me.” *literally puts his hand on Flash’s face and pushes it away*

Flash: *a little gobsmacked cause he’s never heard Marvel curse before* “Wha-”

Marvel: “Now, get outta here. Or I’ll beat you.” *shakes his fist at him before making a dismissive gesture with his hand* “Shoo shoo.” *promptly passes out*

Flash: *doesn't know how to feel about the friendliest guy he knows telling him he’ll beat him* “Alright buddy.” *helps him up and makes the long trek to a zeta tube so he can get Marvel to the medbay*

When Marvel woke up…

Flash: “Cap, you’re awake! Are you feeling better now?”

Marvel: *sits up in the cot he’s in* “Uh… yeah I’m fine.”

Flash: “You sure…? Cause, I mean, you were saying some pretty interesting stuff back there.”

Marvel: “What stuff? Did I say something weird?” *praying to the gods that he didn’t accidentally reveal his identity*

Flash: “Kinda?”

*silence*

Flash: “Yousaidyou’dbeatme.” *says super fast*

Marvel: “WHAT?” *sounds horrified* “Oh my Gods, I’m so sorry?!”

Flash: “It’s fine! It’s fine! It’s just who in the world is Freddy? And what did he do to warrant you telling him that you’d beat him for stopping you from trying to sleep??”

Marvel: “Uh…” *doesn’t really have much of an excuse other than that’s just how Freddy and him talk to each other*

Billy spent the rest of the day avoiding Flash’s questions.

[schrijverr]

For a moment, it looks like Eddie is going to cry, but the attention gets pulled away from him before he does by Bobby asking: “Did you get a tour of the trucks yet, kid?”

“No,” Chris answers, hopefully excited.

“Well then, what do you say about a tour?” Bobby asks him.

“Can I?” Chris asks immediately, looking absolutely thrilled at the idea. He hasn’t caught on that no one seems to realize Buck is also his dad, and while he directs the question at both of them, he looks over at Eddie first, since he’s standing next to Bobby.

“Course, we can look at the trucks,” Eddie smiles.

Before Chris can look to him for confirmation as well, Buck grabs Chris under his armpits and swings him over the back of the couch, putting him on his feet again with a, “Let’s go, Superman!” getting a delighted shriek from Chris as expected.

It’s probably a little too familiar for a kid that he supposedly doesn’t know, but Buck ignores whatever looks get send his way. He loves kids. And he loves this kid in particular. It already sucks enough that he can’t be as loudly proud as he wants to be. Let him have this.

Eddie steps up next to him soon enough, asking: “Wanna walk downstairs by yourself too, mijo?”

“No, carry me?” Chris asks and Buck is so proud of him. They’ve raised him well, asking for what he wants, what he needs when he has to, and doing it by himself when he can and wants to.

“Yeah, here.” Eddie sweeps Chris up in his arms, putting him on his hips and handing his crutches over to Buck with practiced ease.

It’s so natural that neither of them even realize they shouldn’t be doing that here, until Chimney claps Buck on the back and grins: “Always in sync, you two, huh?”

“Haha, I guess,” Buck blushes, hurrying down the stairs after Eddie and Chris before anyone can study his face too closely.

-check out the fic this is a snippet off-

[asvtrials]

Let me show you how sorry I am

Bjorn x Fem!Reader

minors dni!

summary: Bjorn made you cry and he's very sorry about it. So sorry that he buries his head between your legs... warnings: smut, oral (fem! receiving), toxic relationship, plot? what plot?, ooc maybe?, not proof-read a/n: Guess who's back?! I wrote this in like two hours so if it's shit yk why. Bjorn eating his gf out after he fucked up is very real to me this man will avoid the consequences of being a dick like it's the plague. ANYWAYS, something small for you! w/c: 819

Bjorn is always saying shit he doesn’t mean. It’s just how he is.

In the heat of the moment, he will say the most outrageous shit and cause you to storm out in tears.

At first, he thinks you’re being dramatic until he calms down and realizes what a dickhead he was. And that’s when the guilt comes and he’s calling you, texting you, begging you to hear him out.

When you ignore him, he goes to your trailer. When you open the door and send him a venomous look, he looks all desperate, like a kicked puppy.

He cups your face, keeps saying how sorry he is and how much of an asshole he is all the time and you let him, because you know what comes next.

You’re weak, so weak you hated it. Especially when he starts kissing your cheeks, testing the waters, seeing if you’ll push him away. You never do, always melting in his arms as he slowly kisses your jaw and neck.

His lips move with yours in a slow, deep rhythm, leading you to your bedroom.

You fall on the bed with a soft groan, pulling him on top of you.

You don’t stop him when he takes off your pants. Why would you? 

Oh right, you’re mad at him…

Then he starts whispering “You know I don’t mean all’at shit, right?” and “I love you, I dunno what I was sayin’, baby.” between kisses. 

You barely hear him, too drunk on the taste of his tongue yet you nodded, no longer caring about the fight. Hell, you barely remember it.

And he knows it.

A small smirk tugs at his lips when you chase his lips after he pulls away.

“My perfect girl deserves better.” He purrs against your neck whilst leaving a trail of red marks from your neck to your collarbone.

You reach for his soft hair when he reaches your panties, lips inches away from where you desperately need him.

His finger lightly grazes the wet spot on the fabric as he looks up at you through his lashes and asks you “Lemme show ya how sorry I am, yeah?”

It’s embarrassing how fast you nod.

He drags the underwear down your legs, torturously slow to the point where you whine for him to hurry up.

Bjorn is rarely patient. He usually fucks you fast and hard, like a starved man. But not tonight.

Tonight he wanted to show you how sorry he is. And why you always end up forgiving him.

Watching him position himself between your spread legs is enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

You watched the spit abandon his lips and fall on your core, mixing with your juices. 

His eyes meet yours once again as he flattens his tongue against your pussy, sending shivers down your spine.

His name falls from your lips in desperate, pathetic moans as he dives between your legs.

He sucked and slurped on your essence, spreading your folds with his fingers. He didn’t stop even when your thighs were squeezing his head, not even when he felt like his lungs were going to explode from the lack of oxygen.

How could he? When his girl was begging him to ‘not stop’ when she was so sweet to let him show her how remorseful he was.

Almost as sweet as her juices that drive him crazy with every lick. 

“Ah! Fuck!” You moan, thighs trembling with the sensation of your nearing release.

He threw your legs over his shoulders and lifted your hips to bring you closer, needing to be as close as possible, to lick every last drop you had to offer him.

His tongue feverishly lapped your soaked cunt, your loud moans only fueling him to go faster, to ruin you completely so that the only thing you can remember is the feeling of your tongue between your folds.

The last straw was Bjorn’s moan against your clit. You come with a scream, not caring about your neighbors.

You squeezed his head with your quivering thighs, the earthshattering orgasm you just experienced left you a shaking, breathless mess.

And you swear you almost came again when Bjorn finally pulled his head back, admiring his work before meeting your hazy gaze. His slick-coated lips moved but you didn’t hear him.

You nod regardless.

“You really forgive me, baby?” He asks again, his smile turning into a smirk when you weakly reply ‘yeah’.

You were sure you’d feel at least a little pathetic with how easy it was for him but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Especially with the way he looked right now. Chin glistening with your taste, a small victorious grin tugging at his bruised lips as he looked at you.

You knew this wouldn’t be your last orgasm, it never was. After all, Bjorn was very sorry and you were very weak.

[the-universal-sun]

little stan crying for his mom and ford/fidds having to try and comfort him 🤞🤞🤞🤞

Nonny, I had a hard time deciding on whether I wanted to do Ford or Fidds as Stan’s caregiver, but I decided there wasn’t enough Stan and Fidds! Forewarning, there is mention of death of a loved one and some minor cursing! So, please don’t read if this is sensitive, uncomfortable, or triggering for you!

Stanley’s had a rough day. No scratch that, he’s had a rough week. No, scratch that, he’s had a rough life. But he thinks today might just take the cake for how damn shitty his life is. He got a call from Shermie today, technically Ford did because he, Stanley, is literally dead to his family. And now normally he likes his calls with Shermie, the updates on his nephew and his eldest brother's life are a nice reprieve from the tourists and the portal work, but he wishes he never picked up the phone today. Shermie didn’t call to update him on his son's college life or how California is. He called to tell him that mom passed. Their mom. His mom. She’s gone, going into the ground and he’ll never see her again. Hug her again, never talk to her again. Or taste her Latkes, she’s never going to send him Sufganiyots every holiday season.  He’s never going to be around his Ma’ ever again. He hasn’t been around her since the fake funeral, and now he’ll never get the chance to again.

He slid down the wall he balanced himself on when he first heard the news, the telephone hanging by the cord, he didn’t even realize he dropped it, were his hands shaking? He’s on the floor, but his knees still feel so weak, why? He lifts his shaking hands up to his face, wiping off the tears that keep streaming down his face, his white shirt already darkening where the missed tears hit. His chest hurt and his head felt tight, or was that the other way around? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t want to think. He can’t think. He just wants his mama, to be held in her arms again like he used to, before he got too big and grown up to be held and rocked, with her stories and lullabies. He can’t even stifle his sobs, and he hates himself for it because he’s a man and men don’t cry. He didn’t cry when Flbrick passed. Hell, he didn’t even show up to the funeral, so why is he sobbing like a baby now?

“Stanford? Stanford are you there? I-I know this is a lot to process, but I need your help planning her funeral. Can you-” At Shermie’s mention of a funeral, Stan let out a wail before he clasped his hands over his mouth, not wanting to alert Fidds or Shermie to his aching chest and furthering fuzzy head. He’s so in his head that he doesn’t hear Fiddleford’s footsteps or register his voice.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

“Stanley, are you alright? I heard a noise an’ I-” Fiddleford stops short at the scene in the kitchen. He takes a moment to process what he’s seeing. Stanley’s sobbing on the floor with the phone off the hook. He can hear someone’s tinny voice coming through the hanging phone. He walks over to Stan, kneeling down and trying to see his face.

           “Stan? Hon, are you alright? What happened?” He asks quietly, voice panicked. Is Stan hurt? He doesn’t see anything indicating that, and Stan’s usually so strong against pain, he’s only seen him cry when regressed….Oh dear. Oh this isn’t good. Stan was having a good day, a really good one, until he briefly stepped away from dinner to take a phone call and now he’s on the floor sobbing and most likely regressed. Fiddleford pulls at his hair, not as hard as he used to before Stan but still hard enough to get him to focus. Focus and be calm is what he needs to do. He’s a Father, a Big Brother, and a Caregiver, he can deal with tears. He can do this. He takes a deep breath in, exhales it out, and stands up, grabbing the phone on his way. He’s going to see who and what just upset his baby.

“Stanford! C’mon man! I need you to talk to me here-” Fiddleford heard from the telephone receiver as he brought it up to his ear.

“Dr. McGucket, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” He asked coldly, not liking the angry tone of the man on the other end. This is the one who probably upset his Pumpkin, and he will not stand for that yelling or anything as such directed towards his family. It doesn’t matter who the man on the other end is, he will shut down any and all attempts to strong arm or deride Stanley.

“Dr. Mc-What it? Listen, I need to speak with Stanford right now, so just-put him back on the phone. It’s important family stuff, so, none-ya-business-” came the irritated reply from the man steadily making an enemy out of a one Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

“I’m Stan’s research partner, Dr. Fiddleford McGucket, and Stanford is currently-” he looks down at his boy, still sobbing, but now wrapped around his legs, and his eyes softened, “-indisposed at the moment. I assure you, Sir, that I’ll be sure to relay any messages back to him. Now, I ask again, who are you and what’s your business with Stan?”

“It’s Shermie, his big brother. Listen, I’ll call back whenever he’s not uh- “indisposed”-” Fiddleford can just hear the air quotes, “and all. Just let him know that I need help with Ma’s funeral, okay, Dr. Whatever? Bye.” Fiddleford hears that dial tone and his heart feels heavy in his chest. Oh no, oh his poor, poor baby. He loved his mama so much, always smiled for hours after talking to her, and now she’s-

Fiddleford lowers himself to kneel beside Stan, whose arms are still wrapped around his leg, and gently lifts his face to look at him. He sees Stan’s tear stained face, his lips in the biggest and wobbliest frown he’s ever seen on his boy's face and he finds himself at a loss for words.

“Oh Honey, I’m so sorry about your Ma’.” Is the only thing he can think to say at the moment.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Hearing those words, Stan feels the ache in his tummy get worse, his throat burns, and he can’t stop the new tears as they go down his face. He wasn’t dreaming it or thinking wrong, if Fidds’ is saying that, then Mama must really be gone, but he doesn't want her to be gone! He wants to hug his Mama now!

He buries his head in Fidds’ chest, sobbing so hard he finds it hard to breathe. He knows he’s gettin’ tears an’ snot on Fidds’ nice white shirt, but he doesn’t say anything. He just rocks them and rocks them, and pats his back and talks to him. Stan can’t hear what he’s saying, but he always likes to hear his voice, Stan’s always found it so nice to listen to his Fidd speak to him, even though he can’t understand what he says.

He feels Fidds chest rise and fall in a big way, and matches it because Fidds taught him that to calm him down when he’s feeling these big emotions, when he can’t swallow and his tummy hurts like it does now. He looks up at Fidds, and he can’t say what the look on his face is, but it makes Stan's tummy ache worse, so he just buries his face in the shirt again.

He feels himself being lifted up and walked somewhere. He doesn’t want to walk anywhere, but his knees were hurting sitting down, so he guesses this is fine. He blinks when a bright light turns on and he’s sat down. They’re in the bathroom? He sniffles, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes and looks around, he’s confused on why they’re here, he doesn’t want to take a bath. He doesn’t want to do anything but lay down with Poindexter and cry and miss Mama. Except he doesn’t want to do that either because it hurts to cry and miss her, it always does, but there’s no more calling her when he misses her any more because she’s gone! His lips wobble and he can feel the tears in his eyes again, but he doesn’t want to cry again, he’s a big boy and big boys don’t cry! Stan startles when he feels a warm and wet washcloth gently touch his face, wiping away his snot and tears. He looks at Fidds, who’s kneeling in front of him with a serious look on his face.

“Now, Stanley, I know what you’re going through is hard. It’s the toughest thing anyone can go through, so it’s alright to cry. Ah!” Fidds cuts off when Stan shakes his head, “None o’ that, Love Bug, crying is healthy and good for the soul. Lord knows I’ve done enough crying to know how it can feel like a release. So it’s okay to cry, you loved your Ma’, and it’s a painful feeling, that loss. I lost my momma when I was about to graduate high school, and it was the hardest thing I’ve been through. I cried like a baby every day for weeks. Does that make me less of a man?” Stan quickly shook his head, feeling dizzy from the force of it. Fidds was one of the manliest people he knows (excluding the entire Corduroy family), he’s super duper smart, and he can cook, and he can chop woods, and Stan saw him tackle a Deer once! Fidds is so cool, smart, and manly!

“Exactly, crying is nothing but a human emotion, and you’re a human, you can let yourself feel your emotions, Stanley. I promise you, I will not make fun of you, no teasing, no nothing of the sort, ya’hear?” Stan nods his head, “Good. It’s okay to grieve, I want you to grieve, I want you to remember your Ma’, all the good she’s brought in your life and how much love she filled it with, I want you to always remember her, okay?” Stan feels more tears fall down his face, his Fidds is so wise. He knows how to help Stanley, what to say and do, even when Stanley doesn’t know why he’s feeling a sort of way, or can’t find himself to speak or think. He loves his Fidds, he wishes he had him as a dad instead of him, then life would’ve been super better, probably great even!

“But, don’t get stuck in your feelings, you can remember and love your Ma’ all you want and need, but you need to remember there’s other people that care about you. I care about you so much, so many people in town care about you. So when you find yourself feeling too much about your Ma’ or your past, remember your present and the people here that love you. Remember me, Stanley, remember how I love you as much as I love to breathe. Remember that you’re my baby, that I love taking care of you, that I love being here, in the now, with you. Can you do that for me, Sweetpea?” Stan sniffles and throws his arms around Fidds’ neck sobbing into him. He also loves his Fidds! He loves how he cuts his sandwiches just right, how he does the voices when he reads to him, he loves how Fidds doesn’t call him stupid or girly. He loves how he can just be small around him, that he’s allowed to cry. Fidds would be such a good Pa’.

Stan feels Fidds softly pat his back as he cries again, for what feels like forever this time. When he feels his tears stop, he sniffles and leans back, wiping his nose on his hand. He giggles as he feels Fidds swipe at his face with the cloth again, covering his face from the ticklish feeling of the cold water. He softly pushes Fidds’ hands away with a soft spoken “stop”, breathy from his giggling. 

“There’s my boy! Now, I think we both need an early bedtime, hmm? What do ya’ about getting in your comfiest pajamas-I’m thinking your Whale long johns-and getting cozy in bed with Poindexter and “Goodnight Moon”? How ‘bout it?” Stan nods his head slower this time, crying always makes his head hurt. He doesn’t want to think anymore right now, he just wants to cuddle his Fidds, Poindexter too of course, he couldn’t leave out his bestest friend, and fall asleep under a warm blankie. Fidds helps him off the toilet seat and into their room, helping him step into his fuzzy whale pajamas and tucking him tight into bed. All the way up from his feet to his neck, just how he likes, and finishing with a forehead kiss that has scrunching his nose up into an adorable smile before settling under the covers with the book open. 

“In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon…” Fiddleford began reading.

And, as he drifts off to sleep surrounded by warmth and love, he lets out a whispered “G’night, papa”, which squeezes Fiddleford’s heart, which in turn means he squeezes his boy even tighter, resting his head on top of his Stanley’s. Promising, to both himself and the little nestled right here in his arms, that he’ll never waver in love and devotion to his little family.

[gojodickbig]

To Be Loved Is To Be Seen. | Gojo Satoru x f!Reader.

warnings: self-doubt, mutual pinning, mental health struggles, emotional hurt/comfort.

A/N: hehe i know i said that i don't write but this is a little thing i wrote yesterday, (first time posting something that’s not a smau, so bear with me!) this is for my avoidant attachment cuties who have so much love to offer but that are also always scared of ruining things with the person they love and think they’re not enough. i feel you—i struggle with this too. but remember, you’re always enough and deserve love so don't push it away. i wrote this while crying (lol) because i found myself in a similar situation with my actual boyfriend when we first started "dating". hope you enjoy reading, let me know what you think!

also likes and reblogs are appreciated! :)

word count: 2320.

“No,” you say, stepping back and resting your hands on the kitchen counter. “Stop that. You don’t mean what you’re saying right now.”

“You’re wrong,” Gojo says, stepping closer to you. “I mean every word.” He raises a hand, reaching out to touch you. “Please, look at me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, avoiding his touch. “You should go.”

“I love you.”

“You don’t.”

He falters, and for a moment, the silence between you and him feels like a heavy weight. His gaze never leaves yours, though you can’t bring yourself to meet it.

“I do,” he insists, his voice low but unwavering. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

“I’m a mess,” you choke out, your voice trembling as you turn away, desperate to hide the tears that threaten to fall. “I don’t deserve your love. I’m broken.”

“You deserve better.” Your voice cracks. “Someone who isn’t afraid of loving you.”

The silence stretches as Gojo watches you, the pain in his eyes mirroring yours. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, as if he’s struggling to hold himself together. He takes in the way your shoulders hunch, the way your hands grip the counter behind you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. The tension is palpable, each second stretching out, heavy with unspoken fears.

“Stop,” he interrupts, his voice hoarse, filled with raw emotion that makes your heart stutter. “You’re all I deserve—and more than I ever thought I could have. Don’t you see? It’s always been you.”

He steps forward, ignoring the space you tried to put between you and him, until there’s only a breath between you. “None of that matters to me. I see you, all of you. And I love you. Every part of you, even the parts you think are too much to bear.”

“You don’t understand.” Your voice cracks, a sob catching in your throat. “I can’t… I can’t let you in. You’ll get hurt, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Then let me decide,” he says softly, his voice full of tenderness. “Let me be the one to choose.”

You shake your head, wiping your eyes, not wanting him to see how vulnerable you feel. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I don’t know how to love anyone… I don’t even know how to love myself.”

He steps even closer, his voice a soft but firm whisper. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for you. All of you, as you are. Because you are enough for me.”

You back away, the ache in your chest intensifying, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are full of something you can’t name, something that pulls at the deepest parts of you, something that terrifies you. “I can’t… I can’t let you do this.”

“Why?” Gojo’s question is quiet, almost a plea. “Why can’t you believe me? Why can’t you see that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere?”

The words catch in your throat. The wall you’ve spent so long building starts to crack, but you can’t let it fall. Not now. Not like this.

“Because I’m afraid,” you finally whisper, your voice barely audible. “Afraid that if I let you in, you’ll leave when you realize how much of a disaster I really am.”

He takes another step forward, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer, some sign that you’ll let him in. “I’m not going anywhere,” Gojo says, his voice steady. “I’m staying.”

Your breath hitches, and for the first time, you let yourself meet his gaze, really meet it. His eyes are open, raw, like he’s offering you every part of himself. The tenderness in his expression is almost too much to bear.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” you say, shaking your head, but your voice is quieter now, softer.

“I know.” He murmurs, his hand hovering just inches from you, like he’s waiting for you to make the choice. “But I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of your pain. I’ll take all of it if it means I get to love you.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you try to wipe it away quickly, but he reaches out and gently catches your wrist. “Let me love you. Let me stay.”

The words hang in the air between you—heavy and final. For a moment, the room feels like it’s shrinking, the tension pulling at your chest, at your heart. You want to believe him, want to let yourself fall into the safety he’s offering. But the fear, the doubt—it feels like a weight too great to lift.

“I’m not… I’m not ready,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the truth. “I’m not ready to let anyone in. Not like this.” You look at him, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Gojo, you should go.”

He lowers his hand but doesn’t pull away. He steps closer, closing the distance until you’re standing so close you can feel the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath. “You don’t have to be ready,” he says softly, his voice low and insistent. “Not right now. Don’t send me away. Just let me stay.”

You don’t know how to respond, don’t know what to do with the storm of emotions crashing inside you. But in that moment, you feel something shift. Maybe you can’t let him in completely—not yet. But maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to push him away completely either.

“I’m too much for you,” you whisper, almost as if saying it out loud makes it more real. “I can’t fix myself. No one can… not even you.”

Gojo takes another step forward, gently cupping your face in his hands. His touch is warm, grounding. “You don’t need to fix yourself. You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to be anything but you. And I’m not going anywhere, no matter how many times you tell me to.”

A shudder runs through your body as the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over. You close your eyes, trying to hide the vulnerability from him, but he doesn’t let you. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you with a tenderness that feels like home.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice muffled against his chest. “I’m so scared that if I let you in, I’ll destroy everything.”

“You’re not going to destroy anything,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. “You’re not going to destroy me, and even if you do, I wouldn’t mind being hurt by you if that means I could actually be with you, to love you. I’m choosing to stay, even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

Gojo pulls back just slightly, his thumb gently wiping the tears from your face. His gaze softens, full of affection. “I wish you could have my eyes for just a moment, to see how perfect and incredible you are. You’re an amazing woman. Don’t you see that?” he says quietly, his voice filled with warmth.

"I’m not perfect,” you say, your voice cracking again as more tears fall.

He lifts your chin with his finger, making you meet his gaze. “I don’t want you to be perfect. I never did. I just want you—exactly as you are. All the imperfections and scars, they’re part of what makes you who you are. And that’s more than enough for me.”

You inhale shakily, the weight of his words settling into your chest. “But what if I can’t love you the way you deserve?”

Gojo’s hand cups your cheek now, his touch gentle and sure. “You don’t have to love me perfectly. You just have to try. We’ll figure it out together, one step at a time. But you don’t have to be afraid to love me, or to let me love you.”

You let out a broken laugh, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

“Then let me help you,” Gojo says, his voice soft, yet strong. “I’ll be right here, through the fear, the pain, and everything in between. Like i said, I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying. Always."

His words wrap around you like a blanket, offering warmth you didn’t think you could feel again. Maybe you’re not ready to let go of all your walls, but maybe, just maybe, you don’t need to be. Because with him here, you’re starting to think that it’s okay to take that first step toward trusting someone with your heart.

And as you stand in his arms, the fear doesn’t go away—but it starts to feel like something you can face, as long as he’s by your side.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe him. Hope stirs in your chest, fragile but present. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to do this alone.

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[lunalikestowriteanddraw]

I think I finally cracked the code on how I view Gricko’s relationship with Frost (and every member of the Krew, tbh). It’s almost, parental, I feel. Not in the sense of “I have adopted you in every way except in the eyes of the government” but more in the sense of “I will pick you up when you fall, and love you unconditionally all the while”

I mean, think about it. I’m assuming that, by the time the two met, Gricko already had Hootsie, so he was probably already in Dad Mode, mentally. And Frost was, assumedly, very lonely growing up, and had no actual parental figures past the age of 8 or so, when he was taken to the Psionic Order.

I imagine Frost probably saw Gricko tending to Hootsie one day (maybe she injured herself playing or something), and calming her down, and just started crying. Frost doesn’t realize he’s crying until Gricko points it out, and asks if he’s okay. Frost says he’s fine, and just notes that he hasn’t seen someone cared for that tenderly since he was a small child, after he scraped his knee when playing, and his mother cared for him the same way Gricko cares for Hootsie.

Gricko listens, and takes a mental note of this. The two travel, and Frost eventually learns that his parents had passed away sometime between his leaving and his return to his village. Frost is, understandably, distraught, starts crying again, and starts blabbering on about being left behind again. Being alone again. Always alone.

And Gricko doesn’t say anything. He just puts his hand on Frost’s shoulder, and provides moral support. Once Frost calms down, Gricko sits beside him, and rests his head on the tabaxi’s arm. “You’re not alone,” he says, “you gots me an’ Hootsie.”

Years go by, and sometimes Frost has a bad brain day, where he’s convinced that none of his friends care about him, and that they’ll eventually abandon him too, but Gricko is always there, by his side, listening. Frost is usually adverse to touch, but not with Gricko. I mean, Gricko still respects his friend’s boundaries and avoids touch as much as possible, but sometimes Frost just needs a gentle—yet grounding—hand in his.

After the Jabberwock, everyone is eerily quiet. And Frost is in a downward spiral of “I should’ve fought back. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve been there for them. They all died because of me. They’re all going to leave me. I’m going to be alone again.” before he feels a calloused yet gentle hand in his. It’s Gricko’s hand, Frost doesn’t even need to look at the goblin to know that, yet he does anyway. And Gricko just gives him a sad yet comforting smile, and Frost doesn’t have to read his mind to know that Gricko is mentally saying “you’re okay. We’re okay. You’re not going to be alone again. Not while I’m here.”

And Frost cries again, and nods at him. Nothing was said verbally. They never connected mentally. But that didn’t matter. The message was conveyed all the same.

[formulapookie]

🧡💚

See yourself through my eyes mignelli, 2.5k words

The call arrives at around 7 pm, while they’re at the Ranch, Mig luckily isn't racing at that moment. He’s talking with Bez, smiling and waving at the camera, unsure if it’s a pic or a video being taken, his phone left next to him because he had to read a few texts from his family, not actually expecting the call that eventually arrives.

 When the phone rings he expects the caller to be his mother, but as soon as he takes it in hand his face freezes. It’s Laura, the manager of Italtrans Racing, who told him he would get a call, either confirming or denying his attendance to the Barcelona GP as a replacement rider.

He’s nervous, he doesn’t want to pick up. He can’t bear another sport-related delusion, not now that he’s finally managing to almost accept that he’s not racing anymore. Migbabol is not bad. It’s not racing, nothing is, but it’s ok.

They chose someone else.You’re not going to race.Stop believing in fairytales.

He accepts the call, going far from everyone else, Bez saw the contact name, he knows who he’s answering to, but he doesn’t follow, just waits for Mig to come back there.

“Hello?” “Hi andrea it’s Laura, from Kalex” “Yes good morning, I was waiting for the call “We analyzed all the riders we took into consideration” “And you chose?” “Yes, you will be racing in Barcellona together with Stefano Manzi, you will be given leathers and all you need once arrived” “...” “Andrea you there?” “Yes yes I’m here thank you so much I’m preparing everything now, Tuesday I’ll be in Barcellona, thank you so much for the opportunity” “See you Andrea” “Thank you again, see you in Barcellona”

He hangs up, fingers trembling as he presses the red button, a few seconds pass where he stares into the distance, he doesn’t hear either Bez’s or Franky’s step behind him.

He just feels the tears accumulate in his eyes, threatening to fall out, he crouches down to the ground and begins crying, only at that point he realizes he’s not alone anymore, when a pair of hands he knows much too well surround his shoulders, he can feel the tension radiating from the palms.

Franky lifts his chin up to hug him better but when he does he finds the biggest smile he’s seen on Mig in a long while, his eyes widen, a smile starting to grow on his face as well.

“I’m racing. Franky I’m racing” “Oh my God”

Franky hugs him so tight the oxygen gets knocked out of his lungs, they’re both laughing like idiots, Franky actually makes them both fall to the ground, Mig doesn’t even actually understand anything about his surroundings, he just repeats in his mind over and over again he’s gonna race again.

Franky breaks away from the hug just to kiss him, many many times, an unholy amount of lips clashing against each other and Mig laughing at every single touch, tears falling once again from his eyes as his boyfriend keeps kissing his lips and telling him how happy he is they’re both gonna race on Sunday.

“I can’t believe it” “I can, I believed it before the call I can believe it now Andre, you deserve this so much, you deserve this seat more than many other people out there, I just am so fucking happy you’re back on track”

Mig starts crying from happiness again, it’s just to replace another rider, but he doesn’t care, it means being back on the grid, in Moto2, on a fucking bike, racing with other people, two of which he knows very well, Cele and Manzo, and oh god he’s gonna fucking faint.

Him and Franky are now covered in mud and grass, he’s ended up in Franky’s lap and the older is keeping him close, hugging him and unable to let go, Bez is watching them smiling. Cele came over when he saw the scene, happy for Mig as well, and Bez loops a hand around his waist pulling him close, leaving a kiss on his head, before whispering in his ear they should both go back and let the two enjoy a moment alone.

“I’m so happy Andre oh God, when I saw you crying I thought they didn’t sign you for the race and I was about to fucking kill them but then - you were smiling and I just can’t be happier for you” “I’m still not believing this, they chose me” “Because you deserve it Andre, because you’re talented and worth so much more than what you think”

Mig goes back to crying, face buried in Franky’s chest, and he strokes his back gently, continuously telling him he deserves it, that he knew it would come. Mig stays there for minutes, Franky’s progressively calmer heartbeat helping him to calm down his own, tears now drying on his cheeks and Franky’s chest, neither cares, they’re just them right now, he knows the boys will congratulate him , but that will be later on, he’s starting to feel the grass and mud on him.

“Shower? we’re completely stained by everything on the ground” “Yeah definitely”

Mig gets up, pulling his boyfriend up by the hand, walking to the common showers, where the others are washing themselves as well. They cheer for Mig once he gets in, he almost cries again, but tries to keep a certain facade, maybe just because Casey Stoner is in the room as well.

Once they’re all cleaned up he tells everyone he forgot something in his room upstairs, giving an extra glance at Franky, which immediately springs up from the bench he’s sitting on in the changing room and running behind him.

“Come on before they begin serving dinner” “Franky I honestly don’t give a fuck about dinner I just want you” “I love you” “I love you too but please now let’s go I want to get to my room” “Yeah yeah”

They basically stumble in the room, clothes falling to the ground as soon as the door is closed behind them, jackets and shirts hitting the floor at lightspeed, trousers disappearing at the same rhythm, they remain in boxers as Franky cups Mig’s face with his hands and pulls him in for a proper kiss, this time pushing his tongue past his lips, basically devouring him, as Mig works to get off both their underwear as well.

In a matter of seconds they’re both completely naked, Mig’s legs hitting the bed first, Franky laying him down on the mattress and climbing up on it, caging the younger between him and the bed, not wasting any time and immediately beginning to kiss at his neck and jaw, leaving small bruises all over them, planning on going back there later and give him proper hickeys.

“Franky hurry up please” “I’m gonna make you understand how much you deserve that seat Andre” “Fuck please yes”

It’s all very rushed, it’s all heat and heavy breathing and need, but there’s so much more buried under the surface. Franky gets the lube from the nightstand, but eventually leaves it on the side as he tells Mig to move to the center of the bed and open his legs, then he starts stroking his dick, just to tease, and in two split seconds his mouth is on him, at first teasing just the head of Mig’s dick, then swallowing him almost whole.

Mig arches his back, not expecting Franky to go down on him so suddenly, his brain is already overheating, his boyfriend’s lips are just so fucking perfect, they’re soft and big and plump and they feel so good around him. He can’t even suppress his moans, not that he cares, not when Franky looks so fucking hot and he’s on a high for getting the news he’s gonna race once again.

Each sensation is multiplied by a hundred times, each centimeter of skin feels ten times more receptive, each movement Franky makes feels so perfect.

Mig has one hand buried in his boyfriend’s hair, the other gripping at the sheets to keep him attached to the moment, Franky picks up his pace and Mig feels blessed, like everything good ever happened in his life happened in the span of that past half hour he spent accepting reality.

He feels progressively closer to the edge, the heat in his lower stomach pooling there, Franky’s hands holding him down by the hips feel burning now, like they’re leaving marks just by being there, and God does Mig wish to have marks after this.

He opens his mouth to warn Franky he’s close but as soon as he does he’s already there, filling up Franky’s mouth, who doesn’t complain in the slightest, just swallows everything and licks him clean.

“That was - fuck that was the best blowjob you gave me in a while” “Mh are you saying I’m not good usually?” “No no but this- yeah this was by far something else” “Pass me the lube yeah?”

Mig nods and hands him the little bottle, Franky pours some on his fingers, coating them as best as he can before moving back up to kiss him, simultaneously pushing two fingers in, not bothering with starting with just one given they had sex at lunch break because they both needed to release some stress.

Mig is moaning in his mouth, one hand still in his hair and one tight around his bicep, feeling the muscle twitch under his fingertips.

“You’re so beautiful Andre, so beautiful and you’ll look even better on friday on that bike” “I'm gonna come again right now if you keep telling me this”

The two of them laugh in the kiss, Franky keeps his promise to leave hickeys on Mig’s neck, starting to suck blue and purplish bruises all over the sensitive skin there, while adding a third finger, thrusting in and out, scissoring them to get Mig to do his pretty whimpers, which morph into loud moans once he finds his prostate and hits it repetitively.

“Please I’m ready I’m ready”

And normally Franky would go on teasing him for a while more, just because he can, and because it gets Mig stupid, but right now he wants to make him feel so good he can’t think anymore.

He takes out his fingers and immediately pushes his dick in, despite going a few hours prior and opening him up he always feels big inside Mig, and they both love that, especially Mig, and right now, with his sensitivity being much more than normal, he feels the stretch even more, and it makes him go crazy. They both moan once Franky goes all the way in, then stops for a second and just when he’s about to start moving Mig stops him.

“wait wait wait” “Am I hurting you? Do you want to stop?” “No no, it’s all good just- I want to ride you please” “Ok fuck yeah do it please”

Franky slips out and sits on the bed, Mig climbs in his lap and wastes no time in sinking down on his cock, moaning once again at the intrusion as he rests his forehead on Franky’s shoulder.

He bites at the meat there making Franky whine and then he starts moving, letting out little moans every time he sinks back down, ad he leaves a trail of wet kisses all over the older’s neck just to reach his lips once again, and bite them lightly, Franky gladly accepting, then taking back control and guiding his movement with a hand on Mig’s hips and one on the back of his neck, which he uses to pull him closer and once he’s there make out properly with him, swallowing every little sound coming from the younger.

The hand on Mig’s hip leaves his place to go squeeze his ass, Franky goes mad for it, Mig is just perfect, there’s a reason why Franky’s favorite position is doggystyle, he can see that ass jiggle every time he thrusts in, and he can get his hands on it, leaving marks which usually last for days even.

So it’s no surprise when he gives him a light slap there, making Mig bite his lip to contain a moan, because now Franky is kissing at his chest, so there’s no lips quieting down his sounds. The older starts sucking on his pecs, marking him up, dark red hickeys begin to form on his skin, one just under the tattoo Mig has on his left pec, and Mig is just moaning louder and louder, picking up his pace, even if his thighs are trembling already.

He just keeps going, moaning louder and louder as he gets close to his release, Franky starts meeting him halfway, thrusting up his hips and getting deeper inside of Mig, who throws his head back and moans Franky’s name again. At this point the older wraps a hand around his neck, forcing him to look up, the hand on his ass keeping him stable enough to keep riding him.

“I’m close Franky - close very close” “Yeah I feel it, fuck you get so tight when you’re on edge” “Come inside me please” “I love you Andre” “Kiss me”

Their lips are clashing again in one split second, and Franky immediately moves the hand wrapped around Mig’s neck to his dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts, making him come hard all over their abs, and he’s quick to follow, coming inside him, white liquid filling Mig up, and then they’re both collapsing on the bed, a smile painted on their faces as Mig rests his head on Franky’s chest.

“Can’t wait to see you get podium so I can cover you in champagne” “You’re disgusting” “Mh yeah tell me you wouldn’t like it come on” “Would prefer it if we were both on the podium and you soaked me with it” “Fuck amore I’m gonna dream about that now” “I always dream about that”

They kiss again, way less charged, Mig smiling at the contact of lips, Franky stroking his back gently.

“Do you want to go have dinner?” “Nah I don’t care, I want to sleep” “I’ll go downstairs and steal something from the fridge later then ok?” “Sounds nice”

They fall asleep quickly, the sex and the training getting to them, Franky holds him closer than ever before, and Mig couldn’t be happier than he is right now.

[morriganofcrowsandwar]

Aaaaaaah! Okay so I’m now on episode 144 of the Magnus Archives here are my thoughts:

1) Mkay Martin is just deliberately pushing people away now, which he has been doing for a while now but he snapped at Daisy and told her to leave him alone “for good” when they had literally had a pretty decent conversation last episode. Like come Oooonn Martin. And then of course Peter FUCKING Lukas appeared to congratulate him afterwards, that fucking ass. I genuinely hate this man so much I want him dead now. And Jonathan hasn’t made any more attempts to contact Martin because he trusts him and ugh I want to sob. Anyways Jon said “I NEED Martin to be okay” and it made me want to cry because it is in DIRECT parallel to when Martin said he needed Jon to be okay before they left to stop the Unknowing. They need to stop this insanity oh my god. Why do gay people always have to be dramatic? Anyways I hope Martin’s plan does work out but like joining the Lonely????? No baby no do not do that. He’s undecided as of now. Gosh Peter wanting him to be alone and stuff makes sense I’m just saying it’s an absolutely DIABOLICAL plot device. Absolutely genius mwah lovely but GOD it hurts.

2) Basira is both my favorite and kind of a dick right now. She’s very complex and I love her. Her relationship with Jon is so very important to both of their development and I eat it up. She keeps him more human but she’s losing some of her humanity too it’s really interesting. The situation has made her become more like Gertrude as she thought that was most productive but she isn’t exactly comfortable with the lack of empathy that Jon shows until he points out the fact that she wouldn’t show any empathy there either. She’s becoming someone else and doesn’t realize it til he points it out. It’s really interesting. Also Daisy is kinda my favorite too because she’s literally just hanging out trying not to go back to the hunt. Also Melanie is going to therapy and that’s good I mean I hope she’s okay in the end but right now I’m not interested in her movements as much as the others

Final notes) Not as silly this time apologies but oof it’s rough out here and I didn’t even mention Jonathan CONSUMING THE FUCKING DARK SUN??!! LIKE BITCH WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?! AND THE EXTINCTION AND ALL THAT JUNK EUGH

This is insane I love it

[drakewyne]

nancy got a massive star anise in that turkish coffee blend an iraqi man had brought her from a trip abroad — that’s fine, she doesn’t mind strong flavors and she likes the shape. ba’athist baghdad in the ‘70s would still be their meeting spot.

“would you believe christmas is one of my favorite holidays?”

she takes a sip. it tastes sharp ended like stars.

“actually the way i’ve been acting, i wouldn’t believe it either.”

and this is a godless season.

( cw: sad )

tim recompenses by making a gingerbread man walk over her hand. he has dark chocolate buttons and a royal icing smile. he looks a little stupid, but pleased. nancy squishes a cheek in her hand and wonders what the little cookie’s secret is.

“you have the opposite of seasonal affective disorder,” she comments while tim whistles the vince guaraldi trio, “you have seasonal disaffective disorder.”

“‘please eat me, it’s all i live for. it’s all i fucking live for.’” tim moves the cookie around.

she clicks her tongue: “at least he says it out loud.”

“i always actually felt like christmas kinda made up for the bleak 0 for 8 nature of chanukah,” tim answers, “so this part of the season’s like a reward in and of itself.”

nancy thinks and then snaps off the gingerbread man’s stupid head.

“sorry for shitting all over your pageantry then.”

“i’ve seen bigger shits.”

she separates the eyes and the smile between perfected teeth.

“it’s not your fault,” he mumbles, “everyone gets that this is kinda a bullshit time for you.”

“well,” she frowns, “i’m not really so sentimental.”

“annie.”

she swallows and turns her head to watch the plush snow falling outside. the cottony sound of the fat drops hitting the window fills her mouth with cold sponge cake. her brow pulls, as she’s tried to swallow that too.

“okay,” she begrudgingly admits, “so i’m a little sentimental.”

“and you’re taking this feeling out of place thing a little personally.”

“that’s the most personal feeling you could’ve described.”

“trust me,” tim pops both arms in his mouth, “i know.”

the gingerbread man’s down to a torso and legs, his chocolate buttoned suit delineated with icing.

nancy sips her espresso and lays both hands flat on the table, dark button eyes boring into the wood. when the sheer force of her gaze leaves no exit wounds, she softens up and feels embarrasingly weepy in the throat.

“i can’t really blame anyone,” she admits quietly, “it’s totally all my fault. that’s neutral, i think, it is what it is . . . ”

tim hands her the left leg. she thanks him and takes it in her slim hand.

“everything kinda slows down in winter anyway,” tim explains, “it’s just too quiet a season for you.”

“and for you?”

“are you kidding? i get free reign when it’s quiet like this- i go ice skating and everything.”

nancy huffs, humored. then she looks at him, and something in his eyes is sheer crystal truth. she angles her head.

“no way.”

“i actually do.”

“are you good?”

“i’m alright.”

“shut the hell up,” she shakes her head, “i hate when you do that. it means you’re actually dead good.”

“you know everyone was happy that you showed. don’t feel bad about psyching them out a little.”

there’s a star on top of the christmas tree. she thinks about the angel that used to top hers.

“if we had a pool for every time we weren’t sure if someone was showing,” tim leans back, “dick’d make the top spot every year.”

they got a fresh tree every year. and there’s a new family in that house. the angel topper?

“you can take your time. wouldn’t even matter if we split- you’d still get an invite for next year.”

she’s not totally sure where it went off to.

“hey, don’t cry-”

“i’m not,” she blinked, surprised by the accusation, “i’m not.”

then she touched beneath her eyes and realized she was.

she explained briefly that she got her dad a safe, soft balsa wood model plane and the truth was simply that he actually liked it, he was slightly excited, he loves planes. did she ever tell him that? no? oh, well, he loves planes and understands them in a way that feels bigger than what they are.

and the truth was simply that she loved him and understood him in a way that was bigger than his six feet and five inches.

both of them would prefer that the thing they love not hold them to it.

nancy and tim in his old room. she pushes the clutch ( removes her makeup ) and he pulls the choke ( unwinds her scarf from her neck ). she hates being weepy like this. she thinks it’s disgustingly indelicate and slightly rude of her considering the fanfare. she looks around at his walls and feels so much of him in the dark paint and the boyish bedspread. quintessential adolescent. blue and grey checkered and everything. he had a sony stereo right above it with headphones waiting for him to come back.

“what were you last listening to in here?” she asks.

tim presses the disc eject and scrutinizes the cd. “slowdive. souvlaki. banger album.”

“when was that?”

“don’t remember putting a cd in here recently,” he shrugs, “so i guess five years ago or so.”

she sits on the bedspread and the mattress catches her weight. from below, there’s a muffled degree of cheerful noise. his curtains are open, and the white flurries around outside.

“i don’t think i can get you out of here,” he wincingly admits, “storm’s getting too gnarly to drive in.”

“do you know where alfred would’ve taken my bags?”

“probably just by the coats.”

“can you bring them? i just want my sweater.”

he does. he watches her pull her clothes off and finds it slightly even more intimate to watch nancy put a sweater on.

“i turn into this big baby when i’m the littlest bit jetlagged,” she brushes it off, putting lotion on her peachy face after taking out her contacts, “i just get super ridiculous.”

“have you tried puking? i just puke.”

“i like the efficiency in that. get it all out.”

“i move fast.”

“i actually really like your room,” nancy looks up at the ceiling, “it’s cute you put stars up there.”

he lay beside her, squinting: “forgot i did that. anyway you’re wrong and it’s actually metal. these are the constellations you see from apokolips — where darkseid lives. it’s in this dimension that you need a boom tube to get to.”

“oh my god,” nancy sighs, shutting her eyes, “you had such a fucked up childhood.”

“my bad.”

she touches his hand and he turns his palm up to make it easier. she was just curious, just wondering, but did he ever hold hands in this room like this? no. too many people and too little respect for closed doors and too much urgency. he was making moves without a home field advantage. a panicky adolescent bravery.

“not to mention, my room wasn’t ever really suitable for visitors.”

“it still isn’t back at yours.”

“then i guess there is no stopping sister nancy after all. i’m glad they made that song real.”

she laughs lightly, low and slow and dizzy. then she apologizes quietly for being a pain about everything. then she asks him to tell everyone that she really appreciates the invitation, but she can’t hang. he will.

he says, “hey, before you go to sleep.”

tim has likely been eating his body weight in gingerbread all night, but she likes strong flavors and it feels sharp ended like stars. his hair crushed against her head and this was an unfamiliar, surprising custom that she blinked over. this closeness. this buoy knocking of skulls.

“nobody thinks there’s a way you’re supposed to feel about anything, but i’ll still leave out the part where you started crying.”

kissing would be easier. would at least give her something to do with her hands.

“the patience’s actually kinda annoying,” he admits, “give it a few hours over breakfast and you’ll be begging to get called out.”

yet as is historically true for her, the long way out is objectively the best way.

“you think it’s a little stupid, right?” she asks hesitantly.

tim doesn’t give her what she wants. he keeps his face the same.

“how you feel doesn’t have anything to do with what’s stupid or not.”

“i know better.”

“how you feel doesn’t have anything to do with knowing shit either.”

“tim,” she shuts her bird egg eyes, “do you remember what happened?”

“i remember what i think happened.”

“well, i remember everything. i remember it all super clearly.”

“ . . . i believe you.”

she opens her eyes.

[specific-dreamer]

claiming this as my free space on outsiders bingo

titles from reunion square - warriors the musical

i’ll be putting it on ao3 in a little while as well but as of rn here you go :)

when you woke up today you didn’t think you could die, neither did i (but you don’t decide)

Johnny was never that big on helping people. He wouldn’t say he goes out of his way to torment people, but, well sometimes Dally’s schemes are really funny. That being said, Johnny Cade was not planning on saving those kids. After Dally’s lecture, he was ready to get in the passenger seat and commandeer the radio with a nice cigarette.

He should’ve known that if any of them would have gone back for those kids it’d be Ponyboy. So, Johnny followed. Not to save the kids, but to save Ponyboy. But then Pony handed him that first kid and, well, Johnny’s always wanted to be a hero, okay. When he started saving those kids it was like something ignited inside of him. He suddenly saw himself as the kind of hero that only appears in comics and story books.

When he takes a second to catch his breath after getting all the kids out, he smiles at Pony. The church is a thousand degrees, he’s hot as all get out, but this is the most Johnny’s ever felt alive. When he gets older, he’s going to be a firefighter. There’s not many fires in Tulsa, at least not on his side of the tracks, but Johnny’s fairly sure they do other things than just fighting fires. They save people too and, not to toot his own horn, but Johnny thinks he’s pretty good at this saving people business.

He turns to Ponyboy with a grin on his face to tell him his new career path when he hears a faint voice. It’s in that split second when he turns his head, that something knocks the wind out of him. It’s heavy enough that Johnny waits a second for it to remove itself, thinking it must be a kid they missed. Four seconds pass before he realizes it can’t possibly be a kid. That’s when he feels the burning.

Johnny knows he’s on fire. He must be because it’s hot and his back is killing him. He’s always had bad back pain, courtesy of sleeping in the lot or on Two-Bit’s old couch, but this pain is something he’s never felt before. It feels like when Two-Bit’s younger sister jumps on him in the mornings to wake him up but this time she refuses to get off. If he could focus better, he might even say that he could feel the fabric of his t-shirt and the denim of his jacket fusing into his skin.

Focus, Johnny, you can’t die here. When you’re on fire you’re meant to stop, drop and roll, right? He can’t really do that though can he; he can barely move as it is. Johnny takes a shallow breath and attempts to crawl from whatever’s pinned him down, but as soon as does he collapses in sheer agony.

He can wait here, he thinks to himself, closing his eyes. His chest aches and he can’t catch his breath and suddenly Johnny’s taken back to a few weeks ago when Bob and his friends jumped him. Everything hurts just like then and at this moment there’s nothing Johnny wants more than to go home.

His eyes start to water and Johnny’s honestly not sure if it’s from the smoke and the heat or if he’s crying, but in one last effort for help he screams. He screams for everybody, Dally, Ponyboy, Steve, Two-Bit, Ace, Sodapop, and Darry too. He’s not too sure any of them actually heard him, he doesn’t have the energy let alone the air to scream too loudly.

For one blissful moment, he feels a chill and then his breath evens out.

[grunklefordpines]

Dr. Stanford F. Pines, here.

I’ve just regained consciousness on the shore of Lake Gravity Falls—My lips have the faintest fish taste on them, and every bone and joint in my body feels like they’ve been ripped apart and put back in-place.

There is an aching in my chest, a tangle of knots in my stomach—Something is caught in my throat. I can barely speak.

Mabel.

Mabel?

Where is Mabel. I need to find Mabel.