#its me and many other people at the summer camp i work at

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Guess who might have 🎶whooping cough🎶

[not-neverland06]

the newlyweds

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Logan Howlett x fem!reader (Flux)

a/n: I wrote this at 3 AM and I'm also pretty sure I'm sick, so bare with me. Based on this: ask

You know Logan can't stand you, but it doesn't stop the way you feel about him. Your mind recognizes the hate in his eyes whenever you're in the same room, but your heart can't. Finally, you come to terms with the truth: it's never gonna happen. However, your newfound resolve is flipped on its head when you're forced to go undercover with him as newlyweds. Your new wedding ring is a noose and you don't know how you'll survive it or him.

You stumble forward as someone knocks into you from behind. Their shoulder jams painfully into your ribcage and you trip into the wall in front of you. “Shit,” you hiss, rubbing your back and turning around to glare at whoever it was. You figure it's a kid skipping class, imagine your surprise when it’s a fully grown man practically growling at you. 

“Where the hell am I?” He darts forward, grabbing you by the arms and jerking you towards him. “Who are you people?” You’re stunned into silence, eyes wide with shock as he pushes your spine into the wall behind you. 

You recognize him now. This is the man who was with Rogue in the truck you, Ororo, and Summers rescued. The only reason you don’t toss him across the room and rip his spine out through his throat is because you know how disoriented he is. Though, with the way his claws threaten to pierce your skin, you are tempted to. 

“Ah,” a familiar and welcomed voice sounds out from beside you both. “I see you’ve met Flux.” Charles rarely ever uses your actual name, mainly introducing you through your X-Men persona. It’s a preference of yours. 

The man’s eyes dart between you and Charles, and your own turn into slits the longer he keeps his tight grip on you. “Wanna let me go now?” You demand voice practically a growl. Your patience has never been wonderful, but he’s really working on your last nerve. 

He blinks, seemingly coming back to himself. With an almost regretful look, he lets you go. You sigh in irritation, straightening your shirt out and shoving past the corner he’s pushed you into. “Who the hell is this?” You snap, moving to stand behind Charles. 

He gives you an apologetic look, “I’m not sure. He hasn’t introduced himself yet.” He gives the man an expectant look. Instead of answering he glances around, and scoffs. 

“What is this, summer camp? You people don’t need to know me, I don’t need to know you. Just show me how to get the fuck out, alright?” Finding Charles’ school had been heaven on earth. He’d provided you with a home and a haven you never thought you would have the privilege of. You’d never shown anger in the face of his guidance or generosity. But many have. 

You can tell, as much as the man in front of you might believe otherwise, he’s going to be enjoying the comfort of Charles’ protection soon. You move to the side, leaving them to their conversation. Instead, you focus on keeping the kids away from the newest form of entertainment. You usher them towards their classes, despite their reluctance. 

The other members of the team soon join you all, introducing themselves. “Storm, Cyclops,” he scoffs a little at Scott’s name and you feel a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. He turns towards you, brows furrowed inquisitively, “Flux?”

“Matter manipulation,” you explain bluntly. He shrugs his shoulders giving you a blank look. Sighing you hold out your hand and gesture to Charles’ desk. With a flick of your wrist, it melts into an unnatural form of liquid wood. Logan’s eyes widen and you can’t help but finally let the full smile form on your lips. “Flux was just what fourteen-year-old me thought fit best.”

He nods, turning back towards Charles with a smarmy grin. “And what do they call you, wheels?” Your eyes widen with shock and an unbidden laugh surges forth. Charles sends you a playful glare and you have to turn around to keep from laughing more. 

You’d thought you wouldn’t like this one. It’s always bad when there’s a member on the team you don’t get along with. It’s not common, but it has happened. They simply keep you separated if they can. The school is wonderful, but it’s not perfect. Not everyone will like each other. You think you and Logan will get along just fine, though.

It started slow, barely noticeable at first. You didn’t know him well enough to understand that the way he treats you is completely different from how he treats everyone else. Where your greetings are brushed off with cold shoulders or the occasional glare, others at the very least get a brief mumble of hello. When you speak, you can practically feel the irritation wafting off of him in waves. You taste his hatred in every interaction. 

There’s no exact moment you can pinpoint where you went wrong. Sure, your introduction to one another was rocky at best. But he’d nearly thrown Jean across the room when they first met and they got along just fine. 

You’ve thought about it, for far too long, about what makes you different than the others. Is it your smile? The pitch of your voice? Of course, you understand that sometimes there are just people that you meet and something inside you hates them. There’s never a true explanation behind the feeling, just instinct. 

But you can’t place what about you would make someone so guarded, so mean. It feels like such a childish word, like too simple of a way to explain Logan. The very least you know about him is that he can never be summed up with the word simple. There are secrets buried deep within him, some he knows, others he doesn’t. You can’t just slap a label on him and walk away. 

More often than not, though, you feel like you’re talking to one of your childhood bullies and not a team member. Because, despite your own feelings towards him, at the end of the day you are team members. There’s no getting around it. From that connection comes, what should be, a base level of respect. 

You’re both in charge of protecting one another and looking out for each other on the field. That means when you put on the suit, you’re putting aside petty grievances. But he seems incapable of that as well. 

You’ve spent mornings practicing your greetings, trying to tone down your cheeriness or inflect your voice with a more welcoming timbre. You’ve changed how you dress, how you do your hair, even your makeup. And at the end of it all, you still got the same miserable look and distinct feeling of worthlessness. All of the change has been temporary, you are a creature of habit. Inevitably, you slide back into the same habits and styles that make you, you. 

You feel stupid, trying to change yourself to better fit someone else's tastes. Especially when it’s someone who so clearly despises you. It’s not how you carry yourself, how you look, it’s the mere fact you exist that bothers him. At least, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to in all your months of experimenting. 

It truly shouldn’t bother you so much. There’s always going to be people who don’t like you. There’s nothing you can do about it. And you’ve never had that desire to change other's opinions on you. But something about Logan has dug its claws under your skin and has refused to let go. You can’t get him out of your head, even when you feel like you hate him, he’s all you think about. You’ve considered asking Jean to use her abilities to somehow dig him out of your brain and keep him out. But you don’t think that would work either. 

You step into the kitchen and nearly freeze in the doorway. Logan sits at the island, back to you as he reads the newspaper. You find yourself lightening your steps, quieting your breath. You make yourself as inconspicuous and convenient as possible. Every time you catch yourself doing something like this, you hate yourself just a little bit more. 

You shouldn’t have to alter parts of yourself to better fit someone else’s needs. You slip along the tiles, your socked feet slamming into the corner of the counter as you pass it. “Shit!” You shout, doubling over as you clutch your throbbing toes. 

So much for being inconspicuous. 

Logan’s head shoots up in shock as he glares over his paper at you. You let out a strained whimper, reluctantly releasing your foot and hobbling towards the coffee pot. You’ve taken more bullets than you count, and somehow that still hurt worse. 

You can’t just ignore him, you feel his stare burning into your back, and it feels too dickish-too much like him, to not say anything. “Morning,” you mutter over your shoulder, barely looking at him. You pour your coffee, trying to ignore how daunting the silence seems. You might as well be alone in the room for all the attention he’ll grant you. 

You feel like a beggar, on hands and knees just for a simple hello. Ever since his first night here, he’s been so aloof with you. It’s only devolved since then. You sigh, slamming the mug onto the counter. Something in you has snapped this morning and it’s not just the bones in your foot. You’re sick of this. 

You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around him. He’s not a toddler, he doesn’t deserve to be coddled and catered to. He’s a grown man, an X-Men for fuck’s sake. What he needs, is to learn a little emotional regulation. 

You turn, mouth open and sucking in a deep breath as you prepare your speech. The island is empty as you face it, his stool in the same place it had been while he was on it. The paper lies abandoned, even his nearly full mug is still on the granite. 

You scoff, snapping your jaw shut and rolling your eyes. “Jesus,” you mutter to yourself. Wonderful, even the same room is too much for him now. Something bitter has been forming in your mind. A rage building from weeks of unprompted cruel behavior. 

Yet, somehow, the thing that pushes you over the edge from interest to resentment is the fact that he didn’t say good morning back. 

You teach history at the school, but the majority of your role at the mansion is to train children with powers similar to yours. You’ve never met a mutant who had such a broad scope with their abilities as you do. Some can turn water to ice, control the blood running through someone’s veins, or make the air around them a solid block. But you’ve yet to meet one who manipulates anything with matter the way you do. 

Still, for training, you deal with the unreliable, untameable, and generally more dangerous abilities. And sometimes for training, you work with other teachers and let your kids practice on each other. It’s a rotating schedule, and unfortunately, the week you’ve decided you hate him, you’re partnered with Logan for training. 

You’ve got the entirety of Charles’ backyard, which is essentially the size of a football field. It’s a lot of room for accidents and accidental misfires. You stand in front of the pond, admittedly a risky choice with these kids, and direct them all to their partners. 

“Remember, the goal of this isn’t to maim each other,” you give a particularly pointed glare towards Billy. He’s caused a lot of problems lately with his fires. “It’s just to learn how to wield your abilities to your advantage, to protect yourself and your team.”

You look to Logan, seeing if he wants to add anything or contribute to the class in some way. He just keeps his arms crossed, glowering at all the children like he’s imagining skewering them on his claws. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the kids. “Let's start with the hand-to-hand maneuvers we went over yesterday before we practice with our abilities.”

“Why don’t you show us?” Your head whips towards Billy and you can’t help the sneer on your lips. He’s sat on the ground, legs crossed leisurely over each other. He doesn’t have a care in the world as he taunts you. 

“What?” You grit out, glaring at him.

“Show us what a balanced fight should look like between mutants. You and Logan,” he nods to the aforementioned man. Logan just quirks a brow, glancing at you before turning back to Billy. 

“I don’t think-”

“Fine.” You gape at Logan as he tugs his jacket off. He shrugs as he looks at you, moving towards the middle of the field. Of course, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to try and pummel you. You’re sure that he’s just been waiting for an excuse to fight you. 

“If that’s what you want,” you mutter bitterly. You pull off your sweatshirt and start walking towards him. 

“Your cuffs,” Billy calls out from behind you. The other students all watch the interaction with rapt attention. They’re practically salivating at the chance to see you two fight each other. Meanwhile, Billy just seems like he wants to see someone bleed. 

The metal cuffs around your wrists are the only thing that stops you from leveling the entire school. Your abilities are so tightly entwined with your emotions that one unlucky bout of anger can lead you to vaporizing everyone around you. They dull your abilities just enough to still be useful but not deadly. You haven’t taken them off in years. And perhaps it’s wrong to lean so heavily on them for protection, but you have. That’s your cross to bear. You don’t even want to picture what will happen if you open that dam. 

“What?” Billy shrugs, sending you a sharp smirk. “How are we supposed to trust you, if you can’t even use your own damn abilities?” He snorts and narrows his eyes at you, “How the hell did you even become an X-Men, Flux?” His name rolls off your tongue with a sharpened venom. 

He oozes hatred and a burning resentment that catches you off guard. It’s too much to process the insults he’s hurling at you and the sudden one-eighty in his personality. You don’t even hear Logan coming until his fist is wrapped in Billy’s collar and he’s yanking him off his feet. 

He dangles him, just a couple of inches, off the ground, teeth practically bared at the kid. “Wanna keep talking, mouth?” 

“Log-” You’re cut off as a fireball shoots out of Billy’s palm and explodes against Logan’s gut. You gasp, throwing up a wall in front of the other kids so it can’t hurt them. “All right,” you call out sternly. “Everyone inside,” you demand, pointing the other kids back towards the manor. 

You linger with Logan, who still has Billy dangling from his fist, only he looks even more pissed off now. Anyone else, and they’d be dust at Billy’s feet. But Logan isn’t anyone else and the only collateral seems to be his shirt. 

Not that you mind the view. 

Billy hasn’t been here long enough to know what Logan’s abilities are, though. You don’t think he actually knew he could heal. The thought alone is worrying enough that you don’t force Logan to let him go. “We need to get him to Charles,” when Logan doesn’t move you put more force behind your voice, “now.”

Logan lets out a low huff before placing Billy back on his own two feet. He doesn’t let him go far, though, keeping his hand around the back of his neck and dragging him forward. You follow behind them, making sure he doesn’t rip him to pieces before Charles can speak with him. 

You sit outside Charles’ office, fingers tapping restlessly against your thigh as you stare at the mahogany walls in front of you. The red velvet of the seat is too soft and you find yourself slipping to the edge every few seconds. It’s too soft, too luxurious, your back aches the longer you wait. 

Charles had instructed both you and Logan to wait for him to finish up with Billy. It’s been nearly an hour, though, and you’re growing restless. You can tell Logan feels the same way. He’s pacing the hall like a caged lion about to rip the arm off its keeper. 

“How are you?” You blurt out, desperate for something to fill the silence. He stops abruptly, whipping around to face you. You flinch back slightly at the intense glare he’s sporting. “Your stomach, I mean,” you gesture towards the scorch marks on his shirt, the soot on his abs. 

It’s been a practice in self-control to not just be staring at his wonderfully sculpted muscles flexing this whole time. You’re pleasantly surprised with how well you’ve been doing so far. Though, now with him facing you, you’re finding it incredibly hard to meet his eye. He’s such an imposing figure, especially when he’s standing over you like this. 

“Fine,” he barks out, turning back around and effectively ending the conversation. Your eyes narrow and you scoff, god, why do you try?

The door swings open and you expect Billy to come running out crying with his tail tucked between his legs. Instead, you hear the familiar whirl of Charles wheels as he rolls into the hall. He faces you and Logan, a strained smile on his face. 

“Where’s Billy?” You slowly get to your feet, peering into his office. Your confusion only grows when you find it empty. 

“He’s away from the other children for now. He’ll need private lessons before we allow him near them again. And if that doesn’t work, we have no choice but to expel him.” You can tell it hurts Charles to say that. 

He does genuinely want the best for these kids. He wants mutants to have a home, a place where they can be themselves without fear of retaliation. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t work out. There’s nothing wrong with that, you all try your best to help the kids. But some of them have been so twisted by the world around them that there’s no undoing the damage. When they pose a risk the way Billy does, the other kids come first. 

Logan scoffs with distaste, stalking closer to Charles. “He tried to kill me, fucking tried to get Flux to take her cuffs off.” He gestures towards you, for once, though, you don’t feel like you’re being attacked. Even he can understand the dangers of that demand is idiotic. It’s clear Billy only wanted to watch everyone around him get hurt, he didn’t care about the consequences. 

Charles holds up a pacifying hand, nodding his head and dismissing Logan’s concerns. “I’m quite aware of what happened, Logan. But Billy is my responsibility and he’s not the reason I needed to talk to you both.”

He rolls back into his office, expecting you both to follow him. You fall in line behind him, taking a seat at his desk. Logan takes another minute to join you both, a reluctant scowl on his face as he sits beside you. Charles waves his hand, the door closing and providing you all with a little bit more privacy. 

He reaches into a drawer on his desk, pulling out a thin manilla folder. He pushes it towards both you and Logan. You share a confused look with Logan before flipping the file open. There are a few pictures of a stereotypical suburban neighborhood. Bright green laws, uniform driveways, each house looks the same as the last. 

There are a few more pictures, all of them taken from an awkward distance that makes it hard to determine what you’re looking at. You pass the pictures to Logan and shake your head at Charles. “I don’t understand, what is all this?”

“Your next mission,” he informs you both with a strained smile. 

Logan’s head shoots up, eyes narrowing in on Charles. “Excuse me?” He demands, his voice a growl more than anything. 

“There have been some disturbing rumors about this neighborhood. Mentions of a possible mutant trafficking ring being conducted behind closed doors. Normally, I would dismiss such claims. Oftentimes these are just ways to bait and snatch mutants. However, my own attempts at telepathic investigation have been thwarted. Even with Cerebro, I can’t seem to breach the neighborhood.”

“Something’s blocking you?” You ask, snatching the pictures back from Logan to get a better look. He tosses the folder back on the desk, muttering something you can’t hear. 

“Or someone. I’m worried there might be some truth to these rumors. And since I can’t find a safe way in, I need your help. You only need to do some reconnaissance. The only problem is how gated the community is. They’re not going to let anyone in unless they live there.”

Charles gives you both a cheekily expectant look. The truth is so hard to swallow that you almost can’t process it. “No,” you mutter, shaking your head and smiling, waiting for the punchline. When one doesn’t come you get up from your seat and give him a disbelieving look. “You want us undercover?”

Charles pulls out a key and smiles widely, “Congratulations on your new home, newlyweds.”

Logan shoots up from his seat, it wobbles precariously, nearly toppling to the ground.  “You want me to move into a house with her?” He spits out the sentence like it pains him to even have it in his mouth. A disbelieving smile spread across your cheeks, sardonic laughter slipping through parted lips. “Why can’t I do it with Jean? Or better yet you just get some other asshole to play her husband?”

Your heart stutters to a stop and you quickly rip your eyes off the pair. The stung worse than you think it should. Your heart aches, each beat painful. You feel like someone’s punched through your chest and ripped at all the tender bits. 

“I have chosen you,” Charles loses all humor from his voice. He is stern, like a father scolding his child, as he speaks to Logan. “And that’s the end of it. Besides, I don’t suppose that Jean’s fiance would appreciate her playing house with another man.” He places heavy emphasis on fiance, enough to get Logan to purse his lips and look away from him.

You speak up, your voice a surprise to them both. You claw through the lump in your throat, ignoring the hot burn behind your eyes. “I’m not doing this. Especially not with him,” you force the words out, wiping roughly at your cheeks. “Shit,” you hiss, looking down and trying to hide the tears that have slowly trickled down. 

You don’t allow either of them to argue, running out of the door and ignoring the calls of your name behind you. You can’t do this. Can’t pretend to be in love with Logan, not when he hates you. Not when it’s so close to the truth. 

Evidently, Charles didn't feel like giving either of you a choice.

You drum your fingers along the door handle. The cab of the truck rattles as the trailer drags along behind you. The trees have begun to thin out on the road, and more shopping centers pop up than you’ve seen this whole trip. It’s the how you know you’re getting closer, that and the map on Logan’s thigh. You steal glances at it because he refused to let you help him navigate. 

Besides the occasional ask for a bathroom break and refuted offer of switching drivers, the four-hour road trip has been quiet. You tried to turn the radio on earlier but he’d shut it off nearly immediately. He claimed that the pop shit they play makes his ears ring. 

You were almost tempted to turn it up to full volume if only to torture him a little bit. 

Logan’s rough voice jars you out of your head, “I’m going to need to know your real name.”

You frown, brows furrowed in confusion. Had you still not given him your actual name? He’s always referred to you as Flux, but you just assumed that’s because he didn’t want you to be an actual person in his eyes. It’s easier to hate someone if you can distance yourself from the idea of them having actual feelings. Still, you can’t believe he never asked someone for it. 

It just shows you how little he cares for you. Reluctantly, you give it to him. He hums, something pensive pinching at his face. “What?” You snap, waiting for him to insult you. 

He just shrugs, “It’s pretty,” he mutters, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. You don’t even know how to respond to that, so caught off guard by a genuine compliment that you just choose to ignore it. You doubt he meant it, anyway. He might think the name is pretty, but he doesn’t hold the same opinion of the person connected to it. 

You sink back into the silence, finding it more comforting than jarring now. You’d prefer the familiar feeling of him ignoring you than the abrupt turn in character. He glances over at you, something like regret on his face as he sighs. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, in what feels like an extension of an olive branch, he turns the radio back on. He keeps the volume low, so it doesn’t bother him so much. But at least there’s something to listen to besides your breathing. 

You turn back towards the window, a white sign surrounded by daises coming up as Logan slows the truck down. He flicks on his turn signal, pulling up to Storybrook Walk. He stops in front of a large wrought iron gate and jumps out of the truck. He runs up to a black metal box, flipping the lid open and typing in the code Charles gave you both. As he gets back in the truck, the gate swings open widely. 

You pull your rings out of your pocket and slip yours on. “Here,” you urge, holding Logan’s ring out to him. He huffs, glaring down at it before snatching it out of your hand. He balances his hands atop the wheel, slipping the ring on his left hand. 

The neighborhood is picture-perfect suburbia. The lawns are bright green and manicured to perfection. You can hear children laughing as they play in their backyards and draw out a hopscotch grid on the sidewalk. Women and men who look like they’re straight from the fifties stop on the sidewalk and wave as you drive through the gated community. 

You mouth the numbers on the mailboxes to yourself, sitting up straighter when you’re one house away from your new home for the next few weeks. “Hey,” you frown, noticing a large congregation of people in the driveway of 1220. “This is our house isn’t it?”

Logan frowns, stopping the truck just before pulling in so he doesn’t hit anyway. “Supposed to be.” He glares at the people suspiciously, “Stay here, alright?”

You nod, watching him as he jumps out and rounds the front of the truck. You roll your window down, fingers dancing along the metal of your cuffs. There’s no way you’ve been found out before you’ve even gotten a chance to investigate. 

“Hey!” Logan’s voice is scary on a good day, but when he feels threatened, it’s enough to frighten a grown man. You can see the people flinch slightly away from him. That’s when you spot the wrapped cookies in a blonde woman’s hand and see children hiding with balloons on the porch. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. You throw the door open, racing after Logan before he does something stupid. “Howdy neighbors!” You shout, speaking over him before he gets a chance to say anything else. You rush up to Logan’s side, nearly out of breath in your haste to get to him. “Is this our welcoming committee?”

You glare up at him and his eyes narrow as he sees the same thing you did. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Smile and wave,” you whisper through gritted teeth. His lips peel up into something terrifying and it takes everything in you not to flinch back. “What the fuck is that?” You mutter.

“A smile,” he hisses, glaring down at you in irritation. 

A blonde woman steps forward before you can continue your hushed argument. “Welcome!” She calls out in a heavy southern accent, throwing her arms open with a bright smile. She walks as fast as she can in her tight skirt and kitten heels, coming over to embrace you, the casserole in her hand balancing precariously behind you. 

She tugs Logan down into a hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek and staining the skin red. “Surprise!” The kids on the porch jump out with balloons and flowers and she winces. 

“A bit late on the delivery,” she waves it off with a faux chuckle. “But we don’t mind ‘cause they’re so darn cute.” She is very… loud. There’s something about her that is meant to be charming but puts you on edge. She’s got all the familiar characteristics of a woman you’d love to be around, but she’s executing it like someone playing a character. “Shiela,” she holds out her hand, perfectly manicured nails shining bright red. 

You take her hand introducing yourself, “And this is my husband, Logan. Forgive him for his tone, we had an accident on the highway earlier. We’re still a little on edge.”

“Oh no,” she gasps, pressing her nails to her chest and even that seems plastic. “What happened?”

Years of bullshitting your way through school presentations are finally coming in handy.  You think quickly on your feet, something these people would despise. You need something that endears you to them, “Tire blew out and someone tried to raid the trailer while we were fixing it.”

She lets out a disapproving hum and the throng of people behind her echoes it with disturbing harmony.  You find yourself leaning closer towards Logan, feeling like you need to defend yourself against them. You know they’re only an overzealous HOA committee, but there is something uncanny about them. 

Sensing your discomfort, Logan wraps his arm around your shoulder, tugging you into his side. You have to school your features into one of neutrality. You’re supposed to be newlyweds, this is normal behavior for you. His touch feels like ice water being tossed over you, though. His willing embrace makes your head swim with distaste and skepticism. 

“Well,” a man steps forward. He’s conventionally handsome, with brown hair cropped short, slight stubble on his cheeks, slacks, and a button-up that he fills out nicely. His smile, however, stretches too wide and shows too many teeth. A shiver crawls up your spine as he places his hand on Shiela’s shoulder. “You won’t have to worry about people like that here, that’s for sure. John,” he offers his hand to Logan, bypassing you completely. “Head of the HOA here at Storybrook.”

“Nice to meet you, John” Logan falls just short of sincere. He towers slightly over John and you can see that he’s squeezing his hand just a bit too tight by the wince of Jouhn’s face. You dig your elbow into his side and he drops his hand immediately. 

Your gaze drifts over their shoulders and your stomach drops. The people behind them all hold dishes full of food and gift baskets. Their smiles are pinned to their faces, never once flinching out of place. There’s no joy in their eyes, though. They’re glazed over like they’re a million miles away. You would think they were mannequins before you even considered them human. 

“Long drive?” Shiela asks, your eyes dart back to hers only to find her intense stare already wholly focused on you. 

“Yeah,” you answer, clearing your throat of the panic rising in it. “We’re gonna have a fun time unloading this,” you laugh humorlessly, motioning towards the trailer.

She waves her hands in dismissal. “Don’t you worry about that, hun. That’s what neighbors are for after all.” She looks behind her, snapping her fingers a few times. The other’s start going towards the trailer and you feel Logan tense under your touch. 

A kid reaches it first, they manage to unlock it before you shout, “No!” It’s too loud, echoing through the street and making you clench your eyes shut in embarrassment. You turn back towards Shiela and John, both of them wearing shocked expressions. You chuckle awkwardly, “There’s just a lot of family heirlooms. I don’t want to risk them being damaged.” There are no heirlooms, just empty boxes and surveillance equipment that you'll have no chance of explaining away.

Shiela purses her lips into a tight smile, eyes turned to slits as she nods. “Of course,” you know she doesn’t believe you for a second. “Well then, we’ll just take all this inside.” She snaps and the others take their casseroles and gifts and begin flooding towards your front door. Shiela and John walk behind them, herding them all into a straight line. 

You let go of Logan immediately, glaring at the door of your home. Shiela holds a key in her hand, unlocking it and letting everyone inside. You scoff and shake your head in disbelief. “What the actual fuck?” You hiss. 

Logan just shakes his head. “Fucking bizarre, what the hell is wrong with these people?” He starts back towards the truck and you follow him. “I almost prefer the welcoming committee at the manor.”

You roll your eyes, “I was your welcoming committee,” you grouse. 

He shrugs, “I know.” You swat lightly at his shoulder and relatch the trailer’s lock. You linger by the mailbox as Logan pulls the truck into the driveway. He’s getting out just as the others finally leave your house. 

Shiela walks back towards you and you gesture towards the keyring in her hand. “Got a key to my house?” You play it off as a joke but it’s incredibly disturbing to know she could walk in at any minute. 

“Of course,” she smiles and shrugs it off like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “For the safety of everyone here.” Her smile drops and she takes an imposing step towards you, “Inspections are every Wednesday at noon.” Your jaw drops in astonishment and you choke on your words. She cackles loudly, face breaking out into a smile once more. “I’m just kidding, honey! God, your face, you’re too gullible, sweetheart.”

You force out a chuckle, smiling as much as you can force. “Of course, silly me,” you barely make it sound believable. This is going to be much harder than you thought. 

“Well,” John comes up behind her, guiding her away from you. “We’ll get out of your hair now. Welcome, neighbors!” The others around them all call out a Welcome as they drift across your lawn and head back to their own homes. 

Logan walks up to your side, the both of you keeping stilted smiles on your faces, waiting for them to just go away. But they pause at their doors, in almost perfect synchronization they turn and wave at you both. You back further into Logan’s chest and his grip on you tightens. 

“What. The. Fuck.” They step through their homes at the same moment and you feel sick to your stomach. There is something seriously wrong here, you’re not sure you want to find out the truth of it. 

You leave Logan to unload the trailer while you unpack the boxes. You’re forced to do it all by hand while the front door is open. You can’t risk someone stopping by for a visit and seeing you float the couch through the middle of the living room. You’re stumped on how to set up the surveillance equipment. Shiela doesn’t seem like the type to understand boundaries when it comes to popping by for a visit. 

You’re just going to have to keep most of it upstairs and set up some cameras on the porch. You don’t doubt that she’ll abuse that key of hers as she sees fit. You can’t imagine how anyone could stand living in this neighborhood. Having no privacy seems like a nightmare. Especially when the commander of the HOA is John and Shiela. They seem like the type to fine you over a rosebush. 

Logan grunts, dragging in the couch. He pushes it through the doorway and kicks the door closed behind him. The second it’s closed he drops the act and picks the couch up with one hand. “Where do you want it?” 

You point towards the back wall of the living room and he drops it with a small groan. “We’re going to need to put cameras out on the porch,” you inform him, still digging through the box. He walks behind you, heading for the fridge and digging around in it. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You look up, watching as he tosses aside casserole after casserole. “They didn’t bring any beer?”

You laugh a little and get up, heading towards the cooler you’d packed. “They don’t seem the type.” You lean over, digging around through the melted ice until your fingers brush against cool glass. You straighten up, sending him a coquettish smile. “Want a beer after all that hard work, darling?” You taunt, playing the perfect housewife. 

He scoffs and holds his hand out, snatching it from the air as you toss it at him. He pulls the cap off with his teeth, spitting it out into the sink. “And a sandwich while you’re at it,” he demands roughly. 

If you weren’t a connoisseur of dry humor, you wouldn’t have recognized the joke for what it was. Still, you’re almost too shocked he even bothered to play along with you to laugh. Almost, you can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out.  

He throws himself on the couch, taking a deep swig from the bottle, and the moment feels remarkably domestic. You suppose that it should. That is the whole reason you’re here after all. But you hadn’t expected even a singular pleasant moment with Logan. 

This, playful banter and a shared joke, that’s all you could ever want from him. You would settle for this if it was all he was willing to give you. But he can’t even grant you that. This is one outlier in a long list of rude remarks and dismissive behavior. You can’t let yourself be so easily swayed. 

“I might try and get some cameras on the other houses,” Logan remarks from the couch. He kicks his feet on the coffee table and you click your tongue at him, motioning towards his shoes. With an aggrieved sigh, he undoes the laces of his boots and kicks them off. You glare at the dirt that flings across the carpet but a quick wave of your hand makes it disappear. 

“Don’t bother with the cameras. They’ve all got security.” You turn away from the box you’re unpacking with a pensive frown. “They’re all covered by the same company, too. All of them. Isn’t that weird?”

He scoffs and shrugs. “Anywhere else, yeah. But I’m pretty sure they piss at the same time here.” Your nose wrinkles at his crude words and you roll your eyes. 

“Take this seriously.”

He huffs out a laugh, “I am. Didn’t you see them earlier? They only breathe because Shiela lets them.” You take a seat at the kitchen table, uncomfortable attempting to take a spot on the couch. He sighs when he sees the expression on your face, finally dropping the dismissive attitude. “I’ll just be smart about how I set up our cameras, alright?”

You just nod, reaching for the box of your essentials on the table. It’s strange to be sitting beside him, talking to him. You’ve never gotten more than two words out of him. This is so far out of your normal comfort zone that you feel like you’re crawling out of your skin trying to escape. 

“I’m going to go to bed,” you announce awkwardly, shooting up from your seat at the table. 

The beer pauses halfway to his lips and he gives you an odd look. “Okay?” He responds slowly, not sure why you’re telling him this. You open your mouth, and almost tell him to have a good night, but change your mind at the last second. 

You move towards the bedroom near the front door, “Flux,” you turn slightly and he shakes his head. “Take the one upstairs.”

Your brows furrow, “Why?” You demand, an attitude edging its way into your voice. 

“So if Shiela busts down our door I can protect us,” you know he’s teasing, but the sentiment is nice. “And so I don’t have to set up the surveillance shit upstairs,” your face drops and you roll your eyes. There it is. 

“Dick,” you mutter, storming towards the stairs, your boxes hovering along behind you. His laughter follows you up the stairs, even when you slam the door shut. Although, when you take in the room, you can’t find it in yourself to complain for a second about it. 

While Logan is screwed with the teeny guest room downstairs, you get the largest bedroom you’ve ever been in all to yourself. The closet could practically be another bedroom. The bath is more like a jacuzzi than it is a tub.

A four-poster bed sits against the wall, the fluffiest comforter ever becoming you forth like a siren. There’s even a table in the middle of the room, with a chair, perfect for setting up as your desk. 

You scoff in astonishment, “Oh, I could get used to this.” You place your boxes on the table and start pulling out your clothes. You toss yourself on the bed, bouncing against the sheets, and throw pillows go flying everywhere. You flick your wrist, all your essentials flying out of the boxes and sorting themselves out. 

After a luxurious soak in the tub, you’re spread out along the bed, the limited information from Charles's file spread out before you. There are only a few blurry pictures of the neighborhood and a typed-up page of everything he’s heard about Sotrybrook. There’s nothing even remotely useful here. 

You sigh, tossing the file to the floor and looking out the large window of your room. You’ve got a camera placed on the sill, programmed to take a picture anytime there’s movement. You doubt you’re going to get much from that. The secrets of this place seem to be buried deep. You’re gonna have to get real friendly with your neighbors if you want to get out of here fast. 

Logan is on the computer, trying to sync all of the cameras up. You clean up the dishes from breakfast and tidy up the kitchen. You’re trying to decide how you should start investigating when there’s a dainty knock on the door. 

Your brows furrow and you peer around the cupboards to look at the door. Logan’s head lifts and he shares an odd look with you. He gets up from the couch and glances through the peephole. 

You drop the towel on the counter and frown as his shoulders slump forward. Something pinched appears on his face and he sighs. “What?” You hiss at him.

He turns and glares at you, “You’ll see.” You shake your head in confusion as he throws the door open. 

His attitude makes a lot more sense when you hear a very happy, “Howdy!” Shiela stands in your doorframe, three women hovering behind her. At least they look awake, unlike the people from last night. A redhead with the most gorgeous waves you’ve ever seen holds beach towels in her arms. A brunette with flawless brown skin carries a jug of lemonade. And a woman with black hair and a perfect figure is carrying a plate of cookies. 

All of these women are wearing bathing suits that look like they’ve been snatched out of a fashion magazine from the sixties. Each of them is gorgeous, alarmingly so. They’re beautiful to the point of being flawless. As you walk out of the kitchen and take a step closer, Shiela welcomes herself into your home. 

You don’t even think you see pores on their faces. Each of them offers you the same practiced smile that you force yourself to return. “How are you settling in?” Shiela demands, not asks. 

“Um,” you look to Logan for help but he’s just as perplexed as you are. “Just fine, Shiela, thanks. What are you all doing?”

The redhead rolls her eyes playfully, “Tanning, sweetheart.” She glances at Logan expectantly and he grabs his duffel from by the couch. 

“I think that’s my cue,” he falls easily into the role of a playful husband. But you don’t need him to play along right now. You need him to stay where the fuck he is so you’re not alone with the barbies. 

“Ha ha, don’t go,” you whisper, trying to grab at his sleeve. “Logan,” you hiss, making sure the others can’t hear you as they look around your home. “Don’t do this.”

He dips his head down, and for one stupid moment, you think he might kiss you. “Good luck,” he whispers in your ear, backing off with a smug smirk and letting himself out of the house. 

Oh, you’re going to fucking kill him. 

“Finally,” the brunette breathes out a relieved breath, “I thought he’d never leave.”

Shiela chuckles, “You’re lucky honey. It took us a long while to have ours so well trained.” She motions to the other girls, “This is Madge,” the redhead smiles and gives a cute wave. She introduces the rest quickly and you file the information away for later when you’re writing your report. 

Madge- husband is the vendor consultant for the HOA. 

Sierra - brunette - husband is secretary of the HOA. 

Kimiko - black hair - no husband. 

Your brows furrow in confusion as Kimiko nods in greeting. You return it, suspicions running thick in your blood. It’s odd, that their husbands are in charge of the HOA, you figured they would be. Beyond that, the emphasis they put on it is astonishing. You really didn’t think the HOA was so important but it’s practically the government here. And the women only seem to hold importance if their husbands do. Shiela is essentially their leader, she’s the one you need to impress.

This whole thing seems incredibly backward and like a blast from the past. The way they style their hair, do their makeup, dress- it's all fashioned after the fifties and sixties. You feel incredibly out of place in your worn-down pajamas and frizzy braids. 

“We’re not really tanning,” Madge tells you. “This is just a way for us ladies to get to know the new kid in the neighborhood and tell you everything you need to know,” she leans in, smiling like she’s sharing a conspiratorial secret with you. 

“Don’t let Madge scare you,” Sierra shoots her a glare. “It’s not that big of a deal, it’s just a way for us to escape our husbands for an hour.”

“Well,” you chuckle awkwardly, crossing your arms over your chest as you grow uncomfortable under their tense stares. It feels like their eyes are peeling back your skin, exposing everything underneath as they judge every nook and cranny of your soul. “I haven’t reached that stage yet.”

Shiela’s smile loses some of its humor and she scoffs. “You will,” she assures you, acrid bitterness coating her words. “Give it a few years,” she gives you a bitchy and all-knowing smirk. Your hackles raise, the urge to defend your sham of a marriage rising quickly in you. You bite your tongue, swallowing down your smart retort before you say something you regret. 

You’re not even married to Logan, but you don’t like her butting her nose so far into your business. “Sadly, I don’t have a bathing suit.”

“Oh,” Kimiko gives you a blank smile, “We brought you one.” Madge moves the towels aside to reveal a two-piece that matches their own. In your size. 

Your cheeks ache with a forced smile as you take the bathing suit from them. “We’ll just set up out back,” Shiela lets you know. She turns to the others with a beaming smile, “Come on ladies.” They follow after her like ducklings, and when you look down you see each of their steps are in sync. 

You wait until the back door closes to rush to the front. You throw the door open and Logan jumps from where he’s drilling the camera into the side of the house. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” you warn.

He chuckles and smirks, “Don’t keep ‘em waiting too long, sweetheart,” he mocks and you slam the door closed with a loud scoff. He was enjoying your suffering far too much, but you shouldn’t be surprised. You’re sure he’s just been waiting for a moment like this. 

You change into the bathing suit and take a deep calming breath. You can do this. You can play pretend for a few hours. 

You wished you’d known being an actor was a part of the job description before you joined the X-Men.

You lay on your stomach along the soft beach towel that Madge brought. The sun isn’t too hot on you, but you also bent the tree behind you to provide a bit more shade when the others weren’t looking. So far, you’ve collected nothing but mindless gossip. 

Sam never takes in his trash cans on time. Alicia has been getting a little too cozy with the gardener. Some couple you didn’t pay attention to is expecting a kid. You’re struggling to pay attention to all the mindless drivel. 

Usually, you wouldn’t mind a little gossip, but none of this feels real. Their words are hollow, smiles empty. Everything they say sounds like they’re reading it from a script. The only person you actually believe cares about any of this bullshit is Shiela. The rest of them seem to just play along, not meaning a word they say. 

You’re gaining nothing useful from this. There’s no information you’ve gotten during this conversation that could remotely help you. All you want to do is go out front and strangle Logan for abandoning you. 

The only good thing about all this is the lemonade and cookies. Which, you admit, you may have indulged yourself a little too much. But at this point, you’re just eating to stay awake. You reach for another cookie and Shiela lets out a dainty huff. 

“I wish I could eat like you,” she laughs and you prepare yourself for the most backhanded insult you’ve ever heard. “But I have to be so careful about watching my figure. Wouldn’t want to lose my waist,” she titters and the other women giggle. 

You toss the cookie back on the plate, rolling your eyes. It feels like you’re right back in high school. You love this, this is great. At this point, you’re just trying to stop yourself from tossing them all out. 

The backdoor slides open and Logan peeks his head out. The women wave and Shiela calls out a sultry, “Hey, Lo.”

Your jaw drops and you can’t help but scoff as you tilt your head to give her an astonished stare. This woman has absolutely zero shame. She’s not even hiding the way she’s ogling him. She’s literally biting her lip. 

You clench your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. There it is, the end of your rope. “Sweetheart, you gonna be done soon?” Logan calls out and you can’t help but smile at the immense satisfaction you feel when Shiela’s face falls. You shouldn’t take so much joy in Logan ignoring her, you know that’s just how he is. But she doesn’t. 

“I think so, hon.” You sit up on your knees, clapping your hands and pretending to be upset. “Sorry, girls, I think I’m needed back in the house.” You get to your feet and pick your towel up. As you do, you flick your fingers, and the lemonade tumbles over, spilling all over Shiela’s pristine white bathing suit. 

She jumps up with a shrill scream, shaking her arms off at the ice-cold liquid and desperately trying to wipe off her bathing suit. Madge and Sierra flock to her and you roll your eyes at how dramatic she’s being. 

Out of the side of your eye, you see someone watching you. You turn slightly, startling when you see the intense glare Kimiko’s sporting. It’s the first genuine emotion you’ve seen from her, but even this seems cold. Her dark eyes are bottomless pits of frigid rage. You find that you can’t look away from her, swaying slightly as her eyes beckon you forward. 

You need to go to her, speak with her, be with her. You need-

Your mind falls short of what you need. But you know Kimko will give it to you. Sierra and Madge both straighten up, both blank-faced as you take a step forward. 

Logan hollers your name again and you jump, shaking your head and breaking whatever trance you’d fallen in. When you look back, all three of them are still fussing over Shiela. You glance to Logan, to see if he saw what had happened. 

His brows are furrowed, face pinched in concern as he looks at you. You think you might have just found Charles’ interference. 

“I think we should look into Kimiko,” you scroll through the list of residents you’d managed to hack into. You’ve been on the computer for hours, trying to find any information bout her at all. Even when you ran a background check, nothing came up. If that doesn’t scream mutant, you don’t know what does. 

Logan walks over to the table with a steaming pan in his hand. You tug your computer glasses off and slide the laptop to the side. He pours some pasta onto your plate and hands you a glass of water. “Thank you,” he gives you a tense almost-smile and nods. 

“Figure out where she lives?” He asks, bringing his own plate to the table. You shake your head and rub your temples, trying to fend off the headache you can already feel forming. You should have taken a break from the research. You can’t stand staring at screens for as long as you did. 

“She’s not even a registered resident.”

“Well,” he sighs and shrugs, “at least we know this wasn’t a waste of time.” You nod in acquiesce and take a bite of your food. Your eyes widen in shock and he laughs at the look on your face. “Didn’t think I could cook?”

You shake your head and smile. “I took you as the type to pour beer in your cereal. But this is,” you stumble over your word. You’re afraid of being too nice to him. You’ve reached a sort of impasse, where you’re not openly hostile, but you’re not exactly friendly. You feel like if you do too much, too fast, he’s gonna be closed off again. “It’s really good.”

He purses his lips and nods, dragging his fork along the porcelain plate. The noise grates on you and only further aggravates the growing headache but you don’t snap at him. You swallow down the frustration and just shovel more pasta into your mouth. 

“This, uh,” Logan takes in a deep breath and lets all out in one gravely exhale. You give him an expectant look and he shrugs. “It hasn’t been as bad as I thought.” He tells you flippantly. 

You narrow your eyes at him, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You demand with a firm tone, placing your fork down and leaning back in your chair. 

He lets out an annoyed sigh, “It was just an observation.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. He’s fucking ridiculous. “You know, maybe if you ever tried to get to know me, you wouldn’t have had such a horrible opinion about me.” You try and eat more but the food just tastes like ash in your mouth. You grow antsy, not wanting to sit near him anymore. 

You’re surprised that he’s the one who fucked up the peace. You really thought it would be you. But something about what he said is rubbing you the wrong way. Of course, it hasn’t been bad, you’re not a bad person. He just decided he hated you one day and he’s so goddamned stubborn he never considered anything else being the truth. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he defends, watching with a confused expression as you get up and drop your plate loudly in the sink. 

“You know,” you ignore his weak defense, leaning on the sink. You grip the rim of it tightly, sucking in a deep breath to try and keep yourself calm. “You didn’t even know my fucking name,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head to yourself. Why are you even bothering with him? You’ll never win and you don’t even know if you want him to change his opinion about you. 

He’s been a dick for so long that you’re not sure you’re even interested in being friends, let alone anything beyond that. 

“Well,” he takes an angered tone as you continue to deflect his attempts at restoring the peace. “It’s not like you told me. You just go by your X-Men name, how was I supposed to know better?”

“By fucking asking!” You shout, whirling around on him, nearly ramming into his chest. You hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten while you’d had your back to him. “If you had, ever, at any fucking point tried to get to know me, you wouldn’t be so surprised that I’m nice. I’m a nice person to be around, Logan. And for some reason I tried to change myself, to make you happy. And it never even worked!” You scoff, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat that you quickly swallow down. You shove past him, escaping the corner he’s backed you into. “Your head is so far up your ass that you didn’t even try to know me before you decided you hated me.”

“What?” He scoffs and glares at you. “I don’t fucking hate you. When have I ever said that? And I never wanted you to change.” He keeps focusing on the wrong things. How he feels about you doesn’t matter, it’s how he treated you. 

“Never, you’ve never said that because you’ve never said more than two words to me. This,” you motion between the two of you, “is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.” A sudden exhaustion settles over you, it weighs heavy on your bones and drapes across you like a blanket. 

You don’t have the energy for this. For him. You don’t want to keep defending yourself to someone who couldn’t care less. There’s no winning with him. He will never listen to you, he’ll just offer half-assed excuses that he thinks absolve him of how horribly he’s treated you. 

He calls your name as you slump into the dining room chair. Your real name, not your X-Men name. “I never hated you,” he tells you, voice soft, but the conviction is strong. 

You stand up, unable to make eye contact with him. “Goodnight, Logan.” You walk up the stairs quietly, never once looking at him. You can’t stand to face him. As much as you’ve tried to bury how you feel about him, it’s still there. 

Being with him like this, having his ring on your finger, it’s a stab in the gut over and over and over. Someone’s taken your most ridiculous and romantic fantasies and turned them into a waking nightmare. You wake up to him every day, eat at the same table, share the same house, and you two couldn’t be further apart. 

You have to keep up appearances, Logan is sure that’s the only reason you’ve joined him this morning. He’s working on the truck while you kneel on a foam pad, planting a rose bush by the mailbox. But the way you’re stabbing the shovel into the ground it looks more like murder than it does gardening. You slam the little trowel into the dirt, lips pulled back like a wild animal as dirt flies up around your hair. 

Logan turns back to the truck, letting out a low whistle under his breath. Besides the insane display of shrubbery abuse, you blend into the neighborhood better than he ever could. You fit that perfect suburban aesthetic, sun hat, cat-eye sunglasses, and a pretty dress. 

You’re good at blending in, better than he ever was. He’s heard you joking about it before. Telling Jean your hidden mutant ability is learning to be a chameleon, fitting yourself wherever you are. He thinks it’s a cute idea, and not too far from the truth. 

He only wishes he were a little more like that. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his wifebeater, fraying jeans, and general countenance of misery. He can’t force a smile when John walks by with a shitty joke. He’s not like you. You stomach all of the women’s vapid nonsense with a smile and manage to seem so unaffected by it all. 

The only time he’s seen you break was last night. And that, of course, had been his fault. He wishes he was better with his words. He’s always been an action man, but clearly, he’s fucked that up with you too. He really did mean it as a compliment. 

He’s just incapable of talking without his foot in his mouth when it comes to you. It’s why he tends to just avoid you and stay quiet. He knows he’ll mess up with you eventually. In the rare chance you ever actually give him a second look, he’d be a shitty boyfriend. And even if you were just friends, he’d still fuck up somehow. He always does. 

He’s learned it’s better to just keep a distance between himself and others. Especially you. He’s always just wanted to keep you away from his bullshit. The haunted past he still knows so little about, all the mental baggage he carries, he never wanted to burden you with it. Even though it seems like he still managed to screw up somehow. 

Even when he’s trying to be good he’s still the bad guy. 

You let out a heavy sigh and his gaze drifts back towards you. The way it always seems to do. You’re his sun, bright, beaming, a golden beacon of hope. But he’s always just too far, eclipsing the light you might bring him with his own stupidity. 

You toss the trowel to the ground and stand up. You frown, brushing off all the dirt you’re absolutely caked in. When he peers around you and glances at the spot where the rose bush is supposed to be all he sees is a crater of earth and ripped up grass. He figures it's better not to mention it. 

You walk over to him, the same scowl you’ve had for the past few days ever-present on your face. “I’m going to take a shower,” you look at him expectantly and he shrugs. You let out a loud sigh and he can’t possibly imagine how he’s messed up now. “You need one too, the barbecues in an hour.”

He’d forgotten about the fucking barbecue. Some annual thing Shiela and John threw that the whole neighborhood went to. “It doesn’t take me an hour to get ready,” he tells you, intending a little bit of playfulness. 

Instead, you just let out an exasperated breath and storm back into the house. How did he keep fucking up with you so badly?

He’s gotten a taste of your personality, your company. He’s tried for so long to avoid getting to know you. He knows that if he truly did, he’d never get over you. He was right. Just one taste of you and he wants more, he wants to consume everything about you that he can. He’s screwed up in so many ways but he can’t just go back to normal after this and act like strangers. 

You smooth the wrinkles out of your cotton dress and let out a low breath. “You need another minute?” Logan grumps from beside you, his stare boring into the door. He didn’t want to come to this. Frankly, neither did you, but he needs to suck it up and be a big boy. You two are here for a purpose greater than yourselves. 

Maybe if you repeat that enough times you’ll start to believe it. 

Kimiko was everywhere that Shiela was. She was her shadow, her loyalist servant. And the only person in this neighborhood who’s shown a sliver of consciousness. You don’t know where she lives, or if she even owns a house here. But you do know she’ll be at this barbecue tonight. 

The only reason you’re bothering to bring Logan along is because you need him to distract Shiela. She drools every time she sees him, practically licking her maw at the sight of him in a tight t-shirt. You can’t really blame her, but she’s a married woman and he’s technically a married man. The lack of shame and compassion is genuinely astonishing to you. 

“No. Let’s just get this over with.” He needs no further prompting as he knocks heavily on the door. Each pound of his fist sounds like a bell tolling your doom. The intense feeling of nausea and eyes on the back of your head has developed and grown increasingly worse the longer you’re here. 

You feel like someone’s pressing against your mind, wiggling their fingers in and squeezing until mush slips through their knuckles. You keep a tight grip on Logan so you don’t tip over. Playing it off as the love-sick newlyweds you’re meant to be. 

Even though the feeling of his skin against yours makes you angrier than you can even begin to fathom. You’ve held onto built-up resentment and anger ever since your little tiff. You’ve heard that tumultuous times are common in the beginnings of marriages. Luckily, you’re getting a divorce the second this fucking mission is over. 

You resent Charles for ever sending you here. Any minuscule hopes you’ve had of finally building a relationship with Logan have been dashed across your front yard. There’s no hope for him. He’ll never change, and how he treats you will never change. 

The door swings open and the music from the backyard drifts through to the front. Shiela smiles widely, greeting you both with a drawn-out Hi! She reaches forward and grabs Logan, tugging him away from you and dragging him into a hug. 

You stumble forward as your support is ripped out from under you. She briefly glances over his shoulder at you and you offer her a sardonic smile. Every bit of you wants to dig your nails into her and rip until chunks of her start flying off. The post beside you warps slightly, bending like it’s melting. 

You dig your nails into your palm, swallowing down your anger, and force the post upright once more. Logan grabs Shiela by the waist, practically yanking her off of him. He steps back towards you, wrapping his arm around your waist. 

You can’t help the smug smile that lifts your lips as you face her. You almost want to rub her face in it. He chose you and he can’t stand you, that says a lot about how he feels about her. You stop yourself, though, it’d be beyond idiotic to let that be the reason your cover is blown. 

“Thanks for inviting us,” you tell Shiela, playing oblivious instead of walking into her trap. You pass her the casserole you half-assed and baked in her dish. “We’re so excited to finally have a home to call our own, and with such wonderful neighbors,” you gasp dreamily. “Oh, it’s just a dream come true.”

Shiela runs a manicured nail along the side of her lip, looking wholly unimpressed. “Mhm,” she hums, “I’m sure.” You share a look with Logan, both of you caught off guard by her sudden dip in personality. Her face is blank, devoid of the usual overwrought happiness and charm. It’s like something’s taken control and drained the life from her. 

Either Kimiko’s here and you’re right about her, or, Shiela is just a depressed housewife who can’t always control when she smiles. You’re hoping it’s Kimiko and you can just end this once and for all. 

“Alright,” she’s back in a second like nothing ever happened. The boom of her voice echoing through the foyer makes you jump. “Let’s get you two outside. And thank you so much for this,” she gestures to the casserole. “You’re just such a sweet little thing aren’t you?”

Everything she says to you feels just a tad patronizing. She’s incapable of complimenting you without minimizing you in some way. You dismiss it, shaking off the funk she always seems to put you in. 

Shiela leads you to the backdoor of her porch where the rest of the neighborhood is. She certainly got the best square footage, that’s for sure. She doesn’t just have the biggest house, she’s also got the biggest yard you’ve ever stepped foot on. 

People are milling about, John’s flipping hamburgers on the grill, and children are playing happily with one another. It feels like an advert for the Fourth of July.

You scan the yard for the only person you’re looking for. You spot her, pushed back towards the shadow of Shiela’s oak tree. Shiela follows your gaze with a frown and scoffs. “I know, hideous isn’t it?”

You jump, startled out of your stupor. “Sorry?”

She points towards the tree. “I wanted to get rid of it, but apparently it’s historic,” she throws up air quotes, inflecting her voice lazily, “or something stupid.”

“Oh, right,” you nod dismissively and she shrugs, hands slapping against her thighs as she nods to her yard. 

“Well, go on, socialize, make yourself at home y’all.” She walks back into the house and you glance back at the yard. 

“Shit,” you hiss, “Kimiko’s gone.” You move away from Logan and take a step down the stairs, he begins to follow you but you stop him with a firm hand to his chest. He frowns down at you and you nod towards Shiela. “I need you playing interception. Those two are attached at the hip. The only thing that’s going to distract her is the hunk of meat she’s been drooling over.” 

Logan frowns and takes a step back. He sets his face and crosses his arms and you sigh, knowing exactly what he’s about to say. “No.” He tells you firmly, not even bothering to hear you out. 

“Well,” you shrug. “Too bad, I need you to do this or we’re never getting out of here.”

He mocks your shrug and nods, “Alright. Fine.” He leans into your space and you feel like you’re being scolded, “I’m not leaving you on your own, okay? And I’m not letting you go after Kimiko alone.”

“I’m not going after her,” you glance around, making sure no one is listening to you talk about their neighbor like she’s on a hit list. “I just need one interrupted conversation with her. Just one,” you’re practically pleading with him at this point. 

You feel pathetic. You’re a grown woman and an X-Men. You shouldn’t have to be bartering with Logan. He should just have some faith in your abilities to not only protect yourself but conduct yourself appropriately on a mission. 

His face screws up in irritation and you know he’s about to really cause a scene. He’ll start arguing with you, and blow your spot up just to get you out of here. You give him a placating smile, a real one because he’s somehow learned to tell the difference. “Logan, it’s only for an hour. I’m sure you can fend Shiela off,” you joke to try and lighten the mood.

He sucks in a deep breath and you know you’ve got him when his shoulders sink in defeat. “Fine. I’m only agreeing to this because you’re practically a chameleon with this shit,” he gestures vaguely to the barbecue and your face pinches with confusion. 

“What?” 

“I heard you talking about it with Jean one day. How you’re a chameleon when it comes to blending in with people.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly a brag. It’s a method of survival, a way to make people like me. It gives me a fighting chance when they find out I’m a mutant.” God, why are you even talking about this? Why had he even been listening to your conversation with Jean?

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but you don’t have time for that. “Look, Logan, just go find Shiela.” You walk away from him before he can drudge up more uncomfortable memories of high school. 

You manage to slip through the party relatively unnoticed. You didn’t see where Kimiko had disappeared to. You’re hoping there might be some sort of hint left where she had been. You rush towards the oak tree, using it as a way to scan the party for her again. From here you can’t see anything except the kitchen.  

You’ve got a perfect view of Logan trudging towards Shiela. You can’t help but laugh when she wraps her hand around his bicep, eagerly telling him something. You smile and shake your head, the audacity of this woman is amazing. 

Something catches your eye, right by your foot. Glancing down you see something silver glinting through the grass. Frowning, you kneel and scoop it up. It’s an oblong device, small, and fits in the palm of your hand. It’s curved oddly, and the lights on it start flashing bright red as you hold it.

“What the hell?” You flip it over, a warped mirrored reflection on the back of it. You just barely spot Kimiko’s twisted face in the reflection before the world goes black. 

You groan, slowly blinking the fog of a forced sleep out of your eyes. You reach to swipe at your face, but something is holding your wrists down. You jerk your arms a few times, struggling against whatever restraints are wrapped around you. When nothing happens, you instead focus on the feeling of it against your wrist, trying to get it to dissolve. 

“Don’t bother,” a cool voice calls out from the shadows. There’s one bright light shining down on you, like the type you might see above an operating table. The entire room feels sterile. And it’s cold, you can barely feel the tips of your toes or fingers. 

“What’d you do?” You demand, trying to sound intimidating but your words come out as a slur. The back of your head radiates pain and it takes everything in you just to keep your eyes open. 

“I developed a gas,” the voice circles the room, echoing across the curved walls. You hear footsteps but you can’t tell where they’re coming from. “It halts the neurons in a mutant’s brain that fire when they use their abilities. Temporary, but quite handy when I’m dealing with a mentalist like you.”

Kimiko steps out of the shadows like a bad comic book villain. Her face is blank, no expression on it, somehow, it’s the realest she’s ever looked before. Here, you can see her humanity. Pores across her nose, frizz and oil along her hair, her nose just a little bit crooked. Whatever she’d been doing to herself has been wiped away. And the human woman lurking beneath is finally revealed. 

“There you are,” you mutter, your speech slowly coming back to you. “I knew that plastic face wasn’t real.”

“Everything was going just fine until you and Wolverine got here,” she gives you a sharp look, “Flux.”

You sarcastically gasp, “Wow, you know my X-Men name. It’s not like I haven’t been interviewed before. What’s the plan here, Kimiko? Where are the others?”

Her brows pinch, “Others?”

“The mutants you’re trafficking.”

“Oh,” she laughs and it’s so jarring you nearly jump. “Is that what people think?” Hesitantly, you nod, but you’re beginning to feel like you might have gotten something very wrong. “No, that’s not what we’re doing here.”

“We?”

“Shiela and I. We have much simpler plans, much more peaceful. You see, Shiela’s the only person to ever stand beside me after she found out I was a mutant. She gave me a home, a friend, and a sense of belonging.” There’s something devout in her words, like a humble follower kneeling at the feet of their god. “Everything I have, everything I am, I owe to her.”

You’ve seen Shiela’s manipulation firsthand. You have no doubt that she’s never actually done anything for Kimiko. She’s just made her think she had and instilled in her this sense of owing her something. 

Then again, Kimiko’s getting this look on her face. She’s like a rabid dog staring down the barrel of their owner’s shotgun. Perhaps she hadn’t needed much prompting to develop such an unhealthy attachment. “Shiela’s parents never loved her the way they should have. They never gave her the perfect life she deserved. So I created one for her.”

She rolls a tray of surgical tools over and a sense of panic finally starts to rouse within you. Yet, for the first time in years, your powers aren’t here to help you. You have nothing to rely on but yourself. But you’ve been trained so intensively in using your abilities as a protector rather than an inhibitor that you’re practically useless without them. 

“All these people,” you rush the words out as she picks up a syringe. You don’t know what the yellow liquid inside is, but from the look on her face, you don’t want to. “You’re controlling them?”

Kimiko nods and you’d be staggering if you weren’t strapped down. Not even Charles could control this many people at once. Not without Cerebro. “Kimiko, that’s,” you gasp, flinching away as she brings the needle towards your arms. “It’s incredible!” Your quick rise in volume makes her jolt and the syringe tumbles out of her hands. 

She grumbles to herself, leaning over to pick it up. “Does Shiela know?” She pauses at the mention of Shiela’s name, brushing her hair over her shoulder and glaring at you. 

“Yes. Of course she does, this is my greatest gift to her.”

“Really?” Your voice drips with contrived empathy. “Then I’m sure she’s done something incredible for you back.” You were hoping a simple manipulation tactic might work, that you could turn Kimiko against an ungrateful Shiela. But this type of obsession isn’t one that can’t be destabilized with a few jumbled words. 

No, you only make her angrier. “Back? Back?” she practically screams, her voice raw and feral as she leaps into your face. You flinch as far back as you can as her face hovers over yours, screaming right at you. “I owe her everything! I should thank her for letting me breathe the same air as hers!”

Your jaw drops, a silent scream tripping out of your mouth as you gasp for air. Something squeezes against your brain, the pulsing from before returns with a vengeance. You can feel your mind pulsing and swelling, pushing against your skull. 

“Don’t fucking say her name again,” Kimiko glares down at you, her eyes devoid of any remorse or compassion as she makes your brain swell until blood leaks down your ears. Whatever plan she had before has been abandoned, she’s going to just kill you now. 

You’re going to die in her basement, no one will ever see you again. Your eyes throb and you feel your brain push to its fullest limits. The pressure builds, builds, and builds until it explodes. 

“Then you just pour a little sugar in.” Logan watches as Shiela tips nearly an entire bag of cane sugar into her jug of sweet tea. His stomach shrivels at the sight and he fights down bile. A little bit of sugar drops over the edge. She catches it on her finger and looks over her shoulder, licking the sugar off and practically deepthroating her own finger. All while maintaining a disturbing amount of eye contact with Logan. 

“Well,” he knows that he promised you a while with Kimiko, but he can’t handle much more of this. “Thank you so much for this,” he struggles with the word, landing weakly on, “lesson.” He’s not even sure what the point of watching her prepare all this food was. 

He’s pretty sure she just wanted him to see her leave a rim of red lipstick at the bottom of her finger as many times as possible. The entire time he’s just wanted to go back to you. There’s a nasty feeling gnawing at him and he knows he needs to get back to you soon. 

“Oh,” she seems genuinely disappointed and Logan sighs awkwardly. “Leaving already, huh?”

He points to his ring pointedly reminding her of the reality of their situation. “Gotta get back to the wife.”

She doesn’t even try to hide her sneer as he mentions you. “Of course, just the perfect husband aren’t you?”

Logan doesn’t dignify that with a response, too distracted by what’s happening outside the window. People have begun to wander around aimlessly, some of them stumbling into the fencing. They just keep walking forward, knocking into the wood repeatedly, not once stopping. John’s got a stuck smile on his face as he leans against the grill, Logan can see smoke rising from where the flesh of his palm is melting onto the metal. A few people all run into each other, collapsing on the ground and just lying there. 

They’re like robots, suddenly without command and unsure what to do. They’re following their programming without anyone putting a stop to it. Shiela follows his gaze and gasps. “Excuse me,” she mutters, practically running out of the room. 

Logan tries to find you amongst all the mess but you’re nowhere to be seen. “Fuck,” he growls out, looking back to where Shiela had run. He should have fucking known not to leave you on your own. 

He stalks after Shiela, listening to her racing heart and the slam of a downstairs door. He follows her down the steps leading to her basement. It looks the same as every other one he’s ever been in. Except, for the metal door hidden behind a few shelving units. The only reason he spots it is because Shiela knocked over a can of paint in her rush toward it. 

Anger brews hot and putrid in his gut. The claws come out unbidden, and the thought of you being locked away in that room pushes him forward. If you’re not in there, he’ll get an answer from Shiela one way or another. But he’s not going to let you get hurt because he didn’t have your back. 

“What the hell are you doing?” A shrill voice interrupts. Your head sinks back against the cool material of the table, brain surging back into place. Your teeth ache, white-hot pain rushing through your bones as Kimiko finally releases her grasp on you. 

Kimiko gives Shiela the look of a dog who just got in trouble. “She found my amplifying device. I have to get rid of her.” She holds the device you found earlier out to Shiela. 

So, she wasn’t as powerful as she pretended. She did need help. It explains why the entire neighborhood is always in the same area, she needs them close to keep control. “Whatever you’re doing is making my toys malfunction.”

Shiela hisses at Kimiko, she darts forward and slaps her hard across the back of the head. If you weren’t in excruciating and paralyzing pain, you’d flinch at the sound. Being as if your brain was just about to explode, though, you could give less of a shit if she beats her rabid dog up. 

These two crazy bitches deserve each other. You just want a Tylenol and a nap at this point. “Well, aren’t you two twisted sisters?” Logan slips through the door, his claws glinting under the light of the room. “Toys?” He demands, eyes roaming the room desperately. 

The second he sees you, strapped down and with blood pouring from your orifices, something slips over his face. It’s like a mask being ripped off. The man he pretends to be is ripped apart by the animal truly lurking within him. Neither women have time to even defend themselves. He goes for Kimiko first and all you see his claws plunging down before arterial blood sprays across your face. 

You groan, tilting your chin the other way and spitting the metallic liquid out of your mouth. There are a long few minutes of screaming, clothes shredding, and blood splashing against every surface of the room. By the time he’s completely calmed down, you’re drenched in it. 

You suck on your teeth, rolling your head limply and finally getting a good look at him. He’s panting, standing over their mutilated corpses with blood dripping down his claws. There’s a wrath on his face you’re happy to have never been on the other end of. But the second he looks at you, you see nothing but stark relief. 

He breathes out your name, your real one, and surges towards you. “Claws!” You shout, hurting your head again. But he was a second away from accidentally skewering you. They’re put away in an instant as he undoes the straps holding you down. 

You groan in relief as the pressure around your head and limbs is released. He perches himself on the edge of the table and scoops you into his chest.

You’re still loopy from Kimiko messing around in the grooves of your brain. The best you can manage is weakly draping your arms along his sides. He pulls you back and brushes the hair out of your face, laughing a little at the blood covering you. “They do anything to you?”

You shrug, “Besides turn my brain into a pressure cooker? No.”

The smile drops from his face and he glares down at the remains of the women. If you weren’t so tired, you’d think he wants to kill them again. “I should have been here.”

“Logan-” You want to tell him not to be ridiculous. You had insisted you could take care of yourself. Told him it would only be a conversation when you knew that was never going to be true. You’d gotten yourself into this, you were lucky he was there to get you out. But you don’t say anything because he interrupts you as he so often does. 

“I can’t keep acting like this is all okay. Like I’m happy with how we treat each other. I thought I was going to lose you, I’m not going to keep pretending I don’t care about you.”

Your face screws up in confusion and you’re not sure you want to hear where he’s going with this. You’ve been used to this dynamic between the two of you for so long. You’re used to him treating you like he can't stand to breathe the same air as you. If this is going where you think it is, you’re not sure you can handle it. 

“Logan,” you’re regaining some feeling in your limbs now. You use the returning strength to push away from him, shaking your head in disbelief. “No, you can’t do this. You can’t just change your-”

He’s incapable of letting you finish a single sentence. His hands wrap around your cheeks tugging you forward until your lips are brushing together. It’s enough of a shock to get you to stop talking. You don’t reciprocate, too stunned to even think about moving. 

He brushes his lips against yours again, firmer this time. Under the layers of blood coating you both, you’re wholly enveloped by him. His scent, his arms, everything about him drapes over you like a warm blanket. Against your better judgment, you find yourself returning the kiss. 

You move further into his lap, one hand holding his face and the other clutching at his hair, needing something to hold to keep you steady in this moment. Logan smiles against your lips, deepening the kiss without wasting another beat. His tongue moves gently across yours at first. A curious caress to see how well you two fit together. He groans when he gets a taste of you, pushing further in and kissing you like he wants to devour you.  

There’s warmth blooming in your stomach and spreading all along your body. You’re buzzing with adrenaline and pain and this unidentifiable feeling that Logan is evoking from you. It’s not the sweet mushy, romantic kiss you always imagined with him. 

This is desperate. Like a dying man’s last attempt at redemption. He’s tasting you like you’re rare, something to be savored. You feel like you’re the only thing left in existence. The only person left for him to admire. You forget the gore behind you, the tumultuous experiences you’ve had with him. 

You let yourself fall into the moment, a blind leap of faith into a pool of all your hopes and desires. He’s better than you ever could have imagined. More desperate than your wildest fantasies. He makes no move to stop, even as the air becomes scarce and you both have to part longer. He just grips you tighter, hands wrapped around you like he’s worried if he lets go he’ll lose you. 

He could, he could lose you. This kiss of his is putting you into a trance, distracting you from all he’s trying to make up for. Perhaps if he stops kissing you, you’ll remember it all and want nothing to do with him. But you don’t see that happening, you just see yourself craving more and more for him., You feel the addiction forming already. A deep-seated need in your bones is finally being sated, it will always need more from him. 

When you can no longer survive on the shared oxygen between you both, you’re forced to part. Your cheeks tingle from the stubble of his beard and you know your lips are pink and swollen because his are too. You’re both still coated in blood and you share a familiar glean in your eyes. 

“I never hated you,” he sounds breathless and you love that you’re the cause of it. “I just didn’t want to lose you.”

You scoff, but there are no cruel intentions behind it. “So you push me away before you ever get a chance to have me?”

He gives you a crooked smile, “I never said I was smart.” You can’t help but laugh at that. Slowly, he helps you to your feet, ignoring the puddles of blood and bits. “We'll have to call Charles. He needs to help the people out there.”

“We also need to let him know there’s no trafficking ring. Just one fucked psyche.” You shoot another glare at the pile that was Kimiko, still bitter about her experiment with your brain. As Logan helps you up the stairs of the basement, you stop him just before you reach the door. 

He gives you a concerned look, like he thinks you’ve hurt something somehow. “I want to talk to you. Really talk to you about everything.” Concern gives way to dread and you can’t help but smile at the regretful look on his face. “But first,” his head perks in interest at your tone, “maybe we can finally enjoy that master bed together?”

“You know,” he leans down, swiping his arms under your knees and lifting you. You gasp, through your arms around his neck and squeezing until you worry you might suffocate him. “You really are the smart one of us, aren’t you?”

“Clearly.”

You’re not sure how well this transition to married couple to tentatively something else is going to go. But you have hope and it's kept you going for all these years. What's wrong with letting it linger a little longer?

a/n: Guess who's back, back again? Hint, it's Flux. I missed writing for them, so I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. Although, I worry the ending was too cheesy.

Reblogs, comments, likes, and requests are always appreciated !!

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

General Taglist: @evasmlp ♡ 

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

@mrs-ephemeral  @wolviesgirl @insomniachox @izbelross @spktrlvr ♡

[sxytwker]

Keep That Brain Empty

Summary: You and Lu met at a summer camp last summer, exchanged numbers, and have been talking ever since. You haven’t pushed anything too far, yet. Until today.

POV: 3rd person. She/Her pronouns.

*Luigi is attending UPenn, she’s attending Harvard.*

Smut • MDNI

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

They met last summer at a joint Ivy League research camp in Massachusetts—two people who were supposed to focus on career-boosting workshops and academic presentations but ended up paired for a software-biology integration project that neither of them fully understood at first.

Luigi Mangione: 5’11”, hazel-eyed, cocky as hell with a quiet depth behind the muscle and bravado. On the PhD track in computer science at UPenn, already doing postgrad-level work before finishing undergrad. He showed up to camp wearing basketball shorts, a white tee, and an attitude like he already ran the place. When he smiled, it looked like he was up to something. When he was quiet, it meant he was thinking ten steps ahead of everyone.

She was the opposite kind of sharp—sweet voice, always smelled like something cozy, like vanilla, almond, maybe warm citrus in summer. Natural sciences major at Harvard, two years in and already walking through labs like she owned them. Always had her brown wavy hair down, never a strand out of place. Her style was soft, mostly pastel tones, gold jewelry catching the light when she scribbled notes, or pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She always knew what to say. Always.

They’d sit side by side during lectures, elbow to elbow. She’d be in baby blue linen pants and a camisole, pen tapping against her lip. He’d be in a hoodie and gym shorts, leaning in too close when he whispered some smartass remark that made her smile despite herself.

By the time the program ended, neither of them said anything about what was brewing between them. But the tension had its own rhythm. They exchanged numbers, and that was it—every day since then: texts, calls, late night rants, inside jokes. Good mornings. Good nights. Too many flirtatious moments to count. Still, nothing real. Nothing said.

Until today.

It’s 4:23 p.m., and she’s walking back to her apartment from lab. The Boston sky is gray and humid, and she’s got her cardigan in one hand, bag slung over one shoulder. Her phone buzzes.

Luigi Mangione: Calling…

She smiles before she picks up. “Shouldn’t you be doing something productive?”

His voice crackles with playful energy. “I am being productive. I’m talkin’ to my favorite Harvard nerd.”

“You have ten minutes before I hang up,” she teases.

“Ten minutes? Damn. No time for foreplay.”

She rolls her eyes, shifting the phone to her other ear. “What do you want, Mangione?”

“I’m going to a party tonight.”

“Oh, so you are planning to lose brain cells.”

“Maybe,” he drawls. “Maybe I get blackout, maybe I wake up on someone’s kitchen floor. Who’s to say?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says, unlocking the door to her apartment. “You don’t even like drinking.”

“I like drinking when I think about you.”

She freezes halfway inside. “What?”

He’s grinning—she can hear it. “I’m just saying. You in your little spaghetti straps, all pastel and sweet like a macaron—shit like that drives me insane.”

“Luigi.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop being disgusting.”

He laughs, voice low. “You love it.”

She sets her bag down, cheeks warming. “Go enjoy your party, sweetheart.”

He gets quiet. Then: “Say that again.”

She knows exactly what she said. “What?”

“‘Sweetheart,’” he repeats. “Say it again.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “Bye, Luigi.”

He exhales, a breathy, amused sigh. “You’re such a tease.”

She’s already hanging up, but not before she hears him murmur, barely audible, “Wish you were here.”

It’s past midnight now. Her room is dark except for the lamp on her nightstand. Her slow playlist hums quietly, mixing into the sound of pencil scratching on notebook paper. She’s tucked in bed, hoodie oversized on her frame, legs under the covers, textbook open beside her, sticky notes everywhere. Her brown wavy hair is in a loose braid, a few strands falling over her cheek. She’s got on her gold hoops, because even when she’s at home, she’s her.

Her phone buzzes again.

FaceTime: Luigi Mangione

She sighs. Heart skips. She answers.

The screen lights up with his face—Luigi’s in someone’s kitchen, probably off-campus housing. His curls are messier than usual, flopping onto his forehead. His shirt is halfway unbuttoned, collar loose, showing the sharp line of his collarbone. He’s got that red flush in his cheeks, eyes a little glassy, lips parted.

“Ohhh, there she is,” he says, grinning wide, voice raspy. “My fuckin’ girl.”

She adjusts the phone in her lap, barely glancing up from her notes. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little,” he giggles, clearly more than a little. “Why do you look so cute right now? What the fuck.”

“You FaceTimed me, dumbass,” she mumbles, scribbling something down.

He leans closer to the screen like he’s trying to see her better. “You braided your hair. That’s not fair. You got that sleepy, smart-girl thing going on. I’m obsessed.”

She doesn’t respond.

“I’d kill to be in your bed right now,” he mutters.

She smirks, still not looking at him. “You’d fall asleep in five seconds.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” His tone darkens slightly, more real. “I’d make you put the textbook down. Make you look at me. Make you forget all that biology shit for a night.”

“Luigi,” she warns.

“I’d take that hoodie off so slow, you’d hate me for it.”

She closes her textbook slowly, jaw tight. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I’m so serious.” He runs a hand through his curls, pushing them back as he leans one hip against the kitchen counter. “I’ve been thinking about you all night. Thought about dragging you into the bathroom if you were here. Hand on your mouth ‘cause you’d be too loud.”

“Jesus Christ.” Her face flushes, and she grabs her pen again, fidgeting.

“You’d let me,” he says, a little softer now, almost smug. “You’d act like you wouldn’t. But you’d let me.”

“Shut up.”

He just smiles, drunk and thrilled. “I swear to God, if you were here right now, I’d have you against the sink. Just like this,” he motions behind him. “Skirt up, your perfume all over me, biting my neck like you mean it.”

“You’re filthy.”

“You love that I’m filthy.”

She shakes her head, trying not to grin. “Aren’t you worried someone’s gonna walk in on your dirty little monologue?”

He shrugs. “Let ‘em. I’d tell ‘em to leave. I’d say, ‘I’m busy talkin’ to the only girl that matters.’”

There’s a beat of silence. She doesn’t reply.

He watches her from the screen. His expression shifts—just slightly. The edges soften.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. “Even now. Hair half out. Hoodie on. Still the prettiest thing I’ve seen in months.”

Her pencil stops moving.

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” he asks, suddenly.

She looks up, caught off guard.

“What?”

“You heard me.” His voice dips lower, quieter. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“We haven’t seen each other since July.”

“I’d kiss the hell out of you if I was there,” he mutters, eyes locked on the screen. “Not even like, quick and sweet. I’d pin you down and make you beg for breath.”

“Luigi.”

“I’d make you say my name like you mean it.”

She bites her lip, hard. “You need to sleep.”

“I need you,” he says. “I need you in this hoodie, on my couch. I need to wake up next to you. I need you rolling your eyes and calling me dramatic when I bring you coffee. I need—fuck, I don’t know. I need something real. And you’re the only real thing I’ve got right now.”

She swallows hard. Her voice is quiet. “You don’t mean that. You’re drunk.”

“I do,” he says without missing a beat.

And he looks at her, through that little screen, like she’s the answer to something he’s been trying to solve for years.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Eventually she breaks the silence. “Finish your water. Get in bed. I’ll stay on call.”

He gives a lazy smile, eyes soft, body slouched now against the counter. “Can you tell me goodnight?”

“Goodnight, Luigi.”

“Say it like you��re mine.”

She closes her eyes. Breathes deep.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He grins, satisfied. “Mmm. Yeah. That’s it.”

The screen stays on as he stumbles back toward whatever couch or mattress is his for the night.

And she—still flushed, still buzzing—goes back to her notes.

But she doesn’t hang up.

The screen is still on.

She forgets, honestly. She’s too deep into her notes, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, hair a loose braid slipping over her shoulder. The only light in her room is the warm lamp on her nightstand, the rest of the apartment quiet.

She’s tucked into bed, bent over a diagram on protein structures, chewing the inside of her cheek when—

“YO, HE’S STILL ON FACE—TIME WITH THAT HARVARD GIRL?”

A cheer erupts from the screen, loud and sudden.

Her head jerks up.

Luigi’s phone is propped haphazardly against a bottle of tequila on the kitchen counter now. The camera angle is crooked, but she sees him, shirt still half-unbuttoned, curls even messier, grinning with that reckless, half-drunk gleam in his eyes. His friend is next to him, equally wasted, waving at the camera like it’s a livestream.

“Luigi,” she says, voice sharp, “What are you doing?”

He turns to the screen, blinking like he forgot she was there. Then he smiles—slow, crooked, drunk. “Ohhh. Look who’s back. Thought you were asleep, pretty girl.”

“I was studying,” she says flatly, folding her arms. “And you were supposed to be sleeping.”

“Yeah, well. Change of plans.”

“You’re drinking again?”

He shrugs, playful, eyes bright. “Don’t yell at me. You look hot when you’re mad, it’s not helping.”

She exhales, trying not to smile. “You’re an idiot.”

“You love it,” he fires back. Tongue pressed in his cheek, brows raised like he’s daring her to argue.

She opens her mouth to snap back, but his friend cuts in, holding up a terrifying concoction of mixed alcohols in a single red cup.

“We made something sick,” the guy says proudly.

Luigi leans into the frame. “Deadly,” he confirms.

“Absolutely not,” she mutters. “Luigi, don’t drink that.”

He glances at the screen, dramatic, smug. “Don’t tell me what to do, Harvard.”

“Luigi.”

“I’ll be fine. I promise. It’s the last one. Right, bro?”

“Last one,” the friend agrees, already holding up his cup.

Luigi raises his drink toward the screen like a toast. “For science. For long distance. For the baddest girl in Boston.”

She groans. “I hate you.”

He winks. “Three—” She watches, helpless. “Two—” “Luigi, I swear to God—” “ONE!”

They down the drinks. The friend finishes first and slams the cup on the counter. Luigi winces but manages to kill the whole thing, then lets out a deep, satisfied breath.

“Done,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was it. No more. I’m officially done. Are you happy?”

She shakes her head slowly, lips twitching. “You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning.”

He points at her through the screen. “That’s tomorrow Luigi’s problem.”

She smiles despite herself. He sees it, and it makes him light up.

“Alright,” she says, stifling a yawn. “I need my sleep.”

He pouts. “Noooo.”

“Yes. You’ve got your chaos. I’ve got a lecture at nine.”

“Stay on call?”

“I’ll plug my phone in. But I’m not talking.”

He leans closer to the camera again. The kitchen lights are dim behind him, the party seems to be dying down, but he’s still looking at her like she’s the only thing worth keeping awake for.

“Goodnight,” she says softly.

His voice is gentle now, lower, warmer.

“Goodnight, baby.”

She blinks. Caught.

“You never call me that.”

He shrugs, a sleepy smile playing at his lips. “Felt right.”

She stares at him for a moment, then pulls her blanket up and lays her head on the pillow. “Night, Mangione.”

He watches her until she drifts off.

Luigi does not send a good morning text.

Which is rare. Alarming, even.

Most mornings by 8:00 a.m., she already has a message from him—sometimes it’s just a simple “morning sweetheart,” other times it’s a photo of his bedhead and some dramatic complaint like “why does the sun hate me.” But today? Nothing.

She checks her phone again at 9:12 a.m. Still no text.

She smirks. Good. He’s probably suffering. As he should.

Last night’s FaceTime plays in her head like a rerun. The things he said. The way he looked. The slur in his voice, half-dressed and wild-eyed. The way he called her baby and said it like he meant it.

She warned him. Told him to go to sleep. But Luigi never listens.

So she opens her voice notes.

She taps record, smiling into the mic.

“Morning, hungover genius. I assume you’re dead. If you’re not, congrats. But just in case you forgot—and I know you forgot—last night you said you wanted to fuck me in a bathroom. You also said I smell like a bakery you wanna ruin. Which. Weird metaphor, but points for creativity.”

“Anyway… I just wanted you to know that I don’t mind any of it. Actually,” pause, tone softens slightly, “I kind of liked it.”

“But you didn’t hear that from me.”

She grins, then adds one more thing.

“Oh, also. Since you were such a good boy last night…”

She flips the camera on, angles it down, snaps a photo.

Her linen pants sit low on her hips, white and drawstring-tied. Her top is baby yellow, spaghetti strapped and snug, the kind that shows just enough cleavage to toe the line. Over it, she’s wearing a soft cream cardigan that falls off one shoulder—just enough coverage to make it worse. Her gold necklace catches the light. Her skin glows. The braid from last night is undone, waves spilling down her back.

She attaches the photo under the voice note and sends them both.

Delivered.

Then she tucks her phone into her tote bag, slips on her slides, and heads to class like she didn’t just drop a bomb on him.

Luigi wakes up at 10:42 a.m. to the sound of his phone vibrating on the hardwood floor beside the couch.

He groans, throat dry, head heavy, shirt still halfway open. There’s a sticky red Solo cup near his foot and a mystery bruise on his knee.

He reaches blindly for his phone and sees it.

1 voice message. 1 photo. From: Harvard Girl 💛

He taps the voice note, half-awake, eyes squinting at the brightness. Her voice fills the speaker—soft, smug, deadly.

By the time she says “I kind of liked it,” he’s sitting all the way up.

And then the picture loads.

Luigi blinks. Stares. His brain short-circuits.

“Holy. Fuck.”

She’s never sent anything like that. Not once. Not even close. He swears under his breath, running a hand down his face, eyes wide. This is dangerous. Illegal, probably. She’s playing with fire and she knows it.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, brow furrowed, and stares at the photo again.

“Mama’s gonna get herself in trouble,” he mutters.

And then he texts back, fingers flying:

Luigi: i blacked out ONE time and ur sending me thirst traps. ur gonna make me book a train ticket and commit crimes in boston

Luigi: u wanna ruin me

Luigi: don’t think i forgot u said u liked it

And then, after a pause:

Luigi: good morning, baby

The hot water pounds down on Luigi’s shoulders, steam curling around his head like a halo he doesn’t deserve.

He leans his forehead against the cool tile, eyes shut, jaw tight.

His head still aches. His stomach is in negotiation mode. But it’s not the hangover that’s got him feeling unstable—it’s her.

That voice note? Murder.

That photo? War crime.

He can’t stop thinking about it. The low-rise linen pants clinging to her hips, that little sliver of skin above the waistband, the yellow camisole barely holding on. And her soft voice, all smug and sweet, “I kind of liked it.”

She knew what she was doing.

He exhales hard through his nose. It’s embarrassing, how feral he feels. Like some teenage boy trying not to lose his mind over a girl who probably smells like honey and cashmere and knows exactly how to mess him up.

He wipes his hand down his face, then grabs his phone from the dry ledge just outside the shower door. One picture. Just chest up.

His curls are soaked, plastered to his forehead, water trickling down his neck and collarbones. His skin glows, all bronze and muscle under the water. The lighting’s foggy, warm. Shoulders broad, chest rising with a sigh as he lifts the phone. No smirk. No flex. Just a raw, tired, unfairly attractive man in a moment of weakness.

He takes the picture. Then taps out the text.

Luigi: u really woke up and chose violence huh

Luigi: now i’m in the shower hard as fuck thinking about how ur tits were tryna escape that top

Luigi: i hate u

Luigi: but also have the best day ever sweetheart :)

He sends the message. No regrets. Well. Some regrets. He stares at the “Delivered” notification and rubs the back of his neck, exhaling. He throws on a soft grey t-shirt and navy shorts, towel-drying his curls into something semi-passable, then grabs his bag and keys.

The text was filthy, sure. But he meant the last part. Have the best day ever. He always means it when it’s about her. Because no matter how dirty his mouth gets, no matter how cocky he is—under all that?

He’s just a boy in Philly, madly into a girl in Boston. And he’s counting the days.

She sees his texts during a quick break between lectures, her phone lighting up with:

u really woke up and chose violence huh

now i’m in the shower hard as fuck thinking about how ur tits were tryna escape that top

i hate u

but also have the best day ever sweetheart :)

She’s sitting at a cafe near campus, cardigan draped over her chair, sipping an iced matcha like she didn’t just ruin a man this morning. The corner of her mouth lifts as she reads, and she types back:

Her: aww 🥺 ur so sweet. saying horrible things and then wishing me a good day. my mom would love you 🩷

Then she scrolls to her camera roll. A photo she took three nights ago, late after a shower, lighting soft and low, covers rumpled. She’s in bed, head resting on her pillow, gold jewelry still on, eyes heavy. Just a tiny tank top—barely there. No bra. Nipples peaking out. Linen sheets pushed just low enough to show smooth skin, soft curves. The picture is warm, casual, but so obviously designed to make someone weak.

She attaches it. No caption. Sends.

Then she turns her phone off and gets up to head to her next class, humming to herself.

Luigi sees it at 2:14 p.m. He’s in the back of a seminar on computational theory, pretending to listen while a whiteboard full of symbols blurs in front of him.

His phone buzzes.

He glances at it. Lockscreen preview shows her name and the image thumbnail. His breath catches. He lowers the brightness. Unlocks. And then—

“Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

His eyes widen. He shifts in his seat, immediately looking down at his lap like the world is ending. No one notices. No one even turns.

But his heart is racing. His dick is hard. He’s sweating and trying to breathe evenly while the professor drones on about recursive systems.

That picture—Jesus. Her soft skin, her bare chest under that barely-there top, the sheets hugging her hips. Her sleepy, smug eyes. No words. Just a trap.

He covers his mouth with his hand, exhaling sharply. Then he turns the phone off completely and shoves it into his backpack like it just detonated.

His jaw clenches. Tongue in his cheek. Leg bouncing under the table.

She’s not even here, and she’s got him ruined.

He’ll get her back. Not now. But soon.

First, he’s gotta make it through this lecture without embarrassing himself.

Then, he’s booking a ticket to Boston.

It’s just after 11 p.m.

His room is dark except for the glow from his phone. Luigi’s freshly showered again, hair damp and curls pushed back. He’s lying in bed in a hoodie and sweats, hoodie strings pulled tight because he’s barely hanging on and trying to act normal. He’s been thinking about her photo all day.

So of course he calls her.

Facetime: Ringing…

She answers almost instantly. Her room’s warm, low-lit, quiet except for a soft playlist in the background. She’s curled up in bed, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, face glowing in the screen light.

“Hi,” she says, innocent like she didn’t just ruin his entire afternoon. “How was your day? Anything stupid happen?”

Luigi stares at her, his expression unimpressed.

“You really wanna start with small talk right now?”

She blinks sweetly. “Why not?”

He exhales, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Day was fine. Lecture was boring. Got lunch with my TA group. Survived my hangover, thanks for asking.”

“Good,” she says, like she’s genuinely proud. “You’re healing. That’s growth.”

He narrows his eyes. “Yeah. Except for one part of the day that wasn’t so easy.”

She tilts her head. “Oh?”

He leans on one elbow, holding the phone low enough for her to see the way his jaw flexes.

“Yeah. This girl I know sent me a photo while I was sitting in the middle of a lecture. Just bein’ a menace.”

She starts smiling.

“Did she?” she says, all mock-shock.

He nods slowly. “Mhm. Real evil shit. Top barely on. Smiling like she knew what she did. I had to sit there for twenty goddamn minutes with a fuckin’ hard-on in a silent room.”

She covers her mouth, giggling into her palm. “Luigi.”

“I almost walked out,” he says, grinning now, rolling his eyes. “You should be arrested.”

She tries to keep it together, but her cheeks are red. “I didn’t think it’d be that serious.”

He scoffs. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

“A little?” He groans. “You’re so—ugh. It was hot. It was insanely hot. You looked…” He trails off, eyes scanning the ceiling. “You looked so good I almost lost my fuckin’ mind.”

She’s quiet for a second, lips parted. Her voice comes out soft. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He looks back at the screen, lower voice now. “You got more?”

She bites her lip. “Maybe.”

“Don’t tease me, sweetheart.”

She smiles. Then pauses.

“…I have something better.”

His brows lift. “Oh yeah?”

She nods. “Hold on.”

She slips off her bed, phone still in hand, camera bouncing slightly as she walks through her room. The light in her closet clicks on, soft and golden. She sets the phone down on a nearby shelf, just out of sight—he can only see the edge of her dresser now.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up. “What are you doing?”

“Be patient.”

She disappears behind the closet door.

He runs both hands through his hair, muttering, “I’m gonna fucking die.”

And then the screen stays on, quiet. The soft thud of hangers. A rustle of fabric. His breath slows. His eyes don’t leave the screen. Waiting. Luigi stares at the phone, still waiting, barely breathing.

He hears her closet door creak open. She walks back into frame like nothing’s happened—cool, sweet, softly smug. The camera shakes slightly as she props it back against her nightstand.

She’s back in bed now, legs tucked under her, braid loose and falling over one shoulder, cheeks a little pink.

She holds something behind the screen.

“Okay,” she says, like she’s asking him what he wants for lunch. “I need you to pick your favorite.”

He frowns, leaning in. “Pick what?”

She holds up her hand. A whole bundle of thongs. Lacy, sheer, tiny. Baby blue, black, soft yellow, lilac, white—some with bows, others with strings so thin it’s basically a whisper of fabric.

Luigi just blinks.

Then he lets out a stunned laugh and immediately shoves his face into his pillow.

“Are you trying to kill me?” His voice is muffled, desperate.

She giggles like a damn angel. “You wanted more. So I’m letting you choose.”

He groans into the pillow again. “You’re a menace.”

She lifts one up casually. “Okay. This one’s baby blue, super soft mesh. Barely covers anything.”

He peeks out from the pillow, still dazed. “Show me the back.”

She flips it around, holding it by the tiny strings. “All string. Nothing in the middle.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She sets it down. Picks another. “This one’s white lace. My ‘innocent’ pair.”

Luigi snorts. “That’s false advertising.”

She grins. “Exactly.”

Next is a light yellow pair, soft cotton. “Comfy. I like these on Sundays.”

Then the black one. Satin. Cut deep. Thin sides. She doesn’t even say anything—just holds it up.

Luigi mutters, “That one’s not legal.”

Finally, she grabs the last.

A soft pink thong. She’s gentler with this one. Holds it up so he can see the little satin bow on the front.

“This is my favorite,” she says.

He swallows.

It’s sweet. Girly. Ridiculously sexy. The color’s soft against her skin, and the bow is dangerously cute. The kind of thing you think about for weeks. He’s quiet.

She smiles, watching his face. “So? What’s yours?”

He points instantly to the most revealing black one. “You already know.”

“Of course,” she says, teasing. “Should’ve guessed. You pick the one that’s basically a shoelace.”

He shrugs. “You shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want the truth.”

Then he presses the volume button and screenshot clicks. Loud and obvious.

She hears it.

Her eyes go wide. “Did you just—”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even pretend to feel bad. “Had to memorialize my favorite.”

She laughs, flushed. “You’re the worst.”

“And you’re insane for doing this,” he says, smile curling. “You’re gonna make me buy a ticket tonight.”

“Maybe that’s the goal.”

He exhales hard. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

She just lays back on the pillows, satisfied.

“Good,” she whispers.

They’re still on call, both sprawled out in their beds, the chaos of earlier fading into cozy, low laughter and late-night nothing talk.

She’s curled up on her side now, her hoodie pulled over her knees. He’s lying flat, phone propped against his pillow, curls still damp and eyes sleep-heavy.

They’re talking shit about one of her lab partners—a guy who somehow set a beaker on fire during a lecture.

“How do you cause open flame with distilled water?” Luigi asks, genuinely offended. “That’s not science, that’s black magic.”

“He also asked if plants had muscles,” she says, deadpan.

Luigi just stares at her.

“You’re lying.”

“I swear on the pink thong.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “That guy should be banned from all green spaces.”

They’re giggling again, the conversation flowing easy now—nonsense and flirting, sprinkled with his cocky little comments and her too-sweet comebacks. The kind of rhythm you only get with someone who’s lived in your messages and FaceTime screens for months.

She’s mid-rant about a girl in her class who wears perfume so strong it clears her sinuses when Luigi opens his laptop. Quietly.

She doesn’t notice.

He’s not smiling now. He’s serious. Focused. Amtrak. Philadelphia to Boston. Friday departures. He scrolls. Click.

Friday, 3:00 p.m. → Arrives 7:28 p.m.

One-way. Coach. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch.

He glances up at the screen—she’s ranting with her hands now, animated, adorable. He books it. Paid. Confirmed. He doesn’t tell her. Just leans back and closes the laptop quietly, like it never happened.

“So,” he says casually, stretching. “You got plans this weekend?”

She yawns. “Weirdly… no. I actually have zero deadlines. Nothing due. Why?”

He nods slowly. Shrugs. “Just wondering.”

“Why, you finally taking me on a virtual date?”

“Something like that,” he murmurs.

She doesn’t catch the shift in his voice. She’s too tired. Too wrapped up in the haze of almost-sleep and the soft crackle of her music playlist behind her. They stay quiet for a moment. Not awkward—just content. And then he looks at her one last time, half-lidded, voice low and warm.

“See you soon, baby.”

She blinks. “What?”

He’s already reaching for the phone. “Goodnight.”

“Wait, what do you mean—”

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

Click. Call ended. She stares at the screen. Brows furrowed. Heart racing.

The next day, Luigi’s quiet. Not gone, just dry.

His texts are short, spaced out. No good morning. No little quip. No flirt.

Just:

Luigi: in class

Luigi: long day

Luigi: talk later

She notices. Of course she does.

Luigi Mangione is never quiet. He’s never boring. He always finds time to call her between classes, even if it’s just to complain about a group project or tell her what some dumb freshman said in a lecture. He always has something stupid and endearing to say. He always calls her sweetheart.

So now she’s got this weird ache in her chest.

Is he sick? Hungover still? Maybe stressed?

…Or is he pulling back?

She doesn’t want to admit the thought hits her. That maybe—and it makes her feel stupid—maybe he’s talking to someone else. Someone closer. Someone real.

But she pushes it aside. Luigi’s never been like that.

Still, the silence hums in her chest like static all day. Like unfinished business.

By the time 7:40 p.m. hits, the sun’s long gone and the Boston air’s turned sharp. She’s walking down the sidewalk with her AirPods in, hoodie zipped, backpack over one shoulder, head tilted toward the grey sky. It’s been a day—long, boring, cold. One of those days where everything feels too slow and heavy.

She’s half a block from her apartment, thumb hovering over Luigi’s name to call him, when—

Hands.

On her waist.

Firm. Warm.

She gasps, flinches hard, instinct kicking in as she twists around fast, ready to shove whoever’s behind her—

And stops cold. It’s him. Luigi Mangione.

Standing there in a grey hoodie and black joggers, backpack slung over one shoulder, curls tousled from wind and travel, a soft smirk tugging at his lips like he’s been waiting years to see her face like this—half in shock, half in awe.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice low and warm like a secret.

She doesn’t speak.

She just launches herself into his chest.

His arms are already open.

She wraps her arms tight around his waist, and his chin dips into the crook of her neck like he’s finally home. Her backpack slides halfway off her shoulder, but she doesn’t care. She presses her cheek against the hoodie. He smells like something crisp and masculine and clean—cedar, maybe, or sage, with a little leftover heat from the train. He smells like him.

“Are you real?” she mumbles into his chest.

He laughs, low and breathy. “Depends. You gonna kiss me or hit me?”

She pulls back just enough to look up at him, her face lit with this quiet, stunned smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You said you were free this weekend,” he says simply, like that answers everything.

And somehow—it does.

She grabs his hand without another word, lacing her fingers through his like it’s second nature. Like they’ve been doing it for years.

“You hungry?” she asks, already tugging him toward her apartment.

“Starving.”

“Good. I have leftover Thai and something stupid on Netflix.”

He squeezes her hand once. “Sounds like heaven.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence.

Not because there’s nothing to say—but because everything that needed to be said just did.

In a hug. A smirk. A “hi, baby.” A hand in hers.

The apartment door clicks shut behind them.

She drops her backpack by the wall and kicks her slides off without a second thought, walking barefoot into the kitchen, her sweater sleeves pushed up. She’s talking about leftovers, opening the fridge, filling the space with that same warm energy she always has—gold hoops, tousled waves, the sweet smell of vanilla and citrus trailing behind her.

Luigi doesn’t move.

He’s standing by the door still, backpack on one shoulder, hoodie slouching off one side, eyes on her like he just walked into a dream. A real one.

“Come on,” she says over her shoulder. “There’s—”

“Wait.”

She turns.

He’s already closing the space between them, slow but certain, hand reaching for her waist. He slides it around her like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. She stills when he does, eyes wide, breath catching just slightly.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice lower now, rasped from the cold and the nerves and everything he’s trying to keep together.

She blushes. Eyes drop to his lips for a second.

She nods. “Yeah. You can.”

He smiles—half relief, half desire—and leans in. But he doesn’t go for her lips. He starts at her neck. Soft. Warm.

His lips brush just under her jaw, then down to the space behind her ear. She tilts her head instinctively, letting him in. Letting him learn her skin.

“God,” he whispers against her, “You smell the same.”

She giggles, breath shaky. “What does that even mean?”

“Like home,” he mutters.

His hands grip her waist tighter as he kisses lower, then back up again, tracing the line of her jaw with his mouth.

She leans into him, laughing quietly, nervous and lit up all at once.

He kisses her cheek. Then her mouth.

The first kiss is slow. Intentional. A long exhale into something they’ve been circling around for over a year.

Her hands slide up into his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric near his chest.

His lips move against hers, soft but hungry.

And then—he deepens it.

One hand cups the back of her neck, thumb brushing just behind her ear. The other stays tight at her hip. The kiss turns messier, fuller—tongue sliding, breaths mingling, her back gently arching as she chases his mouth.

She gasps when he lifts her—just like that. Like she weighs nothing.

He walks her back a few steps, then sets her right onto the kitchen counter. Her thighs part instinctively, making space for him to stand between them.

He steps in close, one hand on her bare waist under her cardigan, the other holding the back of her thigh. His eyes flick down, then up—taking in the sight of her on the counter, hair messy, lips swollen, hoodie slipping down one shoulder.

“You’re perfect,” he says, like it’s not even up for debate.

She opens her mouth to tease him, but he’s already kissing her again—this time slow, lips dragging, tongue warm and sweet. His fingers trace the inside of her thigh, then he leans down, planting soft kisses against it.

She watches, breath caught in her throat. He kisses once. Twice.

Then grins, eyes still on her.

“Been wanting to do this since that damn photo,” he murmurs, kissing higher, “And the one before that—” higher, “And the one before that.”

She laughs, pulling him back up by the front of his hoodie until they’re chest to chest again, breathing each other in.

“You’re such a freak.”

He nuzzles his nose against hers, smiling like a boy who’s waited long enough.

“Yeah,” he says, kissing her again, slower this time. “But I’m your freak now.”

She’s still on the counter, legs draped around his waist, hair slipping over one shoulder, lips bitten pink from all that kissing. Her hoodie’s riding up a little now, exposing her stomach, her favorite linen pants low on her hips. And Luigi—he’s standing between her thighs like a man possessed.

His lips are back on her skin. Not rushed. Not teasing.

Just… adoring.

He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, hands resting on her hips like he needs the grounding. His eyes flick up between kisses, and each time, her breath catches a little more.

“Luigi,” she murmurs, fingers in his curls now, voice airy with laughter, “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

He hums against her skin, doesn’t stop kissing her.

“You taste better.”

“Luigi.”

He smirks, lips brushing higher. “No, really. I’m full, baby. Just off you.”

She squirms, giggling, thighs twitching slightly as she grips his curls a little tighter.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re delicious,” he mutters, dropping another kiss an inch higher.

She sighs, fighting a laugh. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.” He finally looks up, that cocky little grin spread across his flushed face. “Yeah,” he says, standing and wrapping his arms around her again. “That’s kinda the plan.”

She lets her arms fall around his shoulders, resting her cheek against his. He smells like her now—warm and faintly sweet, mixed with his own musky cologne. His hoodie’s soft against her skin, and for a moment, they just breathe together like that. Quiet. Full.

Then she whispers in his ear, “If you don’t get me off this counter in the next ten seconds, you’re eating dinner alone.” Luigi rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fine.”

He hoists her off the counter with no effort at all, placing her on the ground like she’s breakable.

But before he lets her go, he leans in again—mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “I’m still having my dessert later.”

She pauses, eyes wide, heartbeat loud in her chest.

He grins like the devil and strolls toward the fridge.

“Which container’s the Thai?” he calls, opening the door like he didn’t just threaten her sanity. She stands there for a second, flustered, caught between giggling and combusting.

Then she grabs two forks, walks over to him, and nudges his hip with hers. He passes her a container. They sit on the couch together, legs tangled, food in their laps.

And even though the room smells like basil and chili and takeout boxes… Luigi can’t stop looking at her like she’s the only thing he wants to taste again.

It’s late.

The movie’s long over, the dishes are rinsed, and the playlist’s switched to something low and slow—soft synths and piano humming from her speaker. Her apartment smells like her—vanilla and rosewater and whatever warm sweetness clings to her sweaters and sheets.

Luigi’s already in her bed.

He’s in grey shorts and his hoodie, the same one she kept tugging at during the movie. His curls are damp again from a quick rinse, flattened slightly against his forehead. He’s propped against the pillows, one arm behind his head, phone face-down on the nightstand. Warm. Comfortable. Waiting.

She walks in from the bathroom, face freshly washed, gold hoops still in, hair braided loosely down her back. Her cardigan is off now—just a soft camisole and her favorite linen pants hanging low on her hips. The light above the bed glows golden against her skin.

He glances up. His lips curve into a lazy smile.

“There she is.”

She rolls her eyes, amused, but when he pats the spot beside him, she walks straight over and climbs into bed without a word.

He doesn’t waste time. His hand finds her thigh almost immediately under the blanket, warm and slow and casual like its muscle memory.

“You tired yet?” he asks, voice low.

She shrugs, nestling into the comforter. “A little. But not really.”

He hums, thumb brushing over the soft fabric at her hip. “Good.”

She glances over, catching the smirk starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“I brought some stuff.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What kind of stuff?”

He shrugs. Innocent. Fake. “Go check my bag.”

She gives him a look.

“Luigi.”

“Go,” he grins. “It’s the front pocket.”

She rolls out of bed with a groan, dragging the blanket with her, and grabs his backpack from the chair near the desk. She unzips the front pouch.

She stares inside.

Turns around slowly, holding the contents in one hand: a box of condoms, a small bottle of lube, a packet of wipes, and—because of course—a travel-sized body wash that smells suspiciously like cedarwood and ambition.

She lifts her eyes, expression unreadable.

“You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs from the bed, totally unbothered. “I like to be prepared.”

“You planned this.”

“I planned nothing. I just didn’t wanna be the idiot that flew five hours and had to run to CVS with a boner.”

She smirks, tossing the items back in the bag. “You’re nasty.”

“And yet,” he says, pulling the blanket back for her with one hand, “here you are.”

She crawls back into bed, sliding beside him under the covers. He pulls her in like it’s second nature, her back tucked against his chest, his arm thrown over her waist.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbles, already smiling.

His lips brush the back of her neck. “And you love it.”

She does.

She really, really does.

She’s straddling his lap, hands on his chest, camisole straps slipping off her shoulders. Her braid’s undone again, waves spilling down her back. Her lips are already pink, already swollen, already kissed over and over.

Luigi’s hoodie is halfway off, pushed up around his elbows, the sleeves tangled in the blanket. His hands are locked around her waist like he’s afraid she might float off if he lets go. His eyes are locked on hers like he’s seeing her for the first time—and he kind of is.

They’re kissing again.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just more. French kisses, slow and deep. Tongues sliding. Breath catching. Her fingers twist into the soft fabric of his hoodie, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her hip, just under the band of her pants.

She presses closer. Moans softly into his mouth.

He exhales like she knocked the wind out of him.

And then he pulls back just a little, resting his forehead against hers.

“Wanna try something new?” he asks, voice hoarse.

She blinks, flustered and glowing. “What kind of new?”

He grins, brushing his nose against hers. “Good kind. You trust me?”

She nods without hesitation.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“I trust you.”

He kisses her like he feels that—like it means something. Because it does.

He leans in again, lips brushing her jaw, then trailing down the column of her throat. She tilts her head back instinctively, letting him in. Letting him learn her even more.

Then his mouth lingers there.

Open. Warm.

He sucks softly, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

He smiles against her skin. “That’s it, baby.”

He does it again. Lower. Slower. Leaving a mark this time—just one. Then another, tucked behind her collarbone where only he will see it.

She shudders in his lap, nails digging gently into his shoulder.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he murmurs against her chest.

She can barely speak. “Luigi…”

He looks up at her, eyes darker now, full of everything he can’t say all at once. His hands slide up her back, fingers under the thin straps of her camisole, and he just holds her there for a second.

“I’m so in love with you,” he says softly. Like it’s obvious. Like he’s been carrying it for a year.

She freezes. And then—smiles. Big, radiant, real.

“I love you too.” And she means it. She always has.

The room’s quiet now.

Just their breathing, the soft hum of the TV still playing forgotten in the background, and the slight rustle of blankets as they shift under the covers.

Her legs are still on either side of his lap, lips kiss-bitten, skin flushed. Luigi’s hoodie is halfway off, hair a little messy from where she’s had her hands in it.

He leans in again, presses a kiss to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. His hands settle at her waist, holding her steady like he’s grounding them both.

Then he stills. Looks at her.

“You okay with this?” he murmurs. “With… us? Being real?”

She nods once. Firm. Certain.

Then leans in and kisses his jaw, slow and open-mouthed.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I want you.”

That does something to him.

He exhales through his nose, pulls back just enough to really look at her.

Then he sits up, shifts them both toward the edge of the bed. He plants his feet on the floor, legs slightly spread, and keeps one hand on her thigh—warm, heavy, possessive in the gentlest way.

She sits beside him, breath steady, her shoulder brushing his.

Then he speaks again, low and soft but firm:

“Go get your favorite thong.”

Her heart skips.

She glances over, lips parting in surprise—but the look in his eyes? It’s serious. Focused. Sure.

“And,” he adds, thumb tracing a slow arc on her thigh, “put on one of your short skirts.”

She raises an eyebrow, already smiling. “How short?”

He smirks. That slow, signature Luigi smirk.

“The shortest you’ve got.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, giddy and a little breathless. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” he says, leaning in to kiss behind her ear, “are gonna be the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

She slides off the bed, grabbing her cardigan to wrap around her shoulders as she walks toward her dresser. Luigi watches her go, biting his lip, eyes tracking the soft sway of her hips.

She opens the top drawer, fingers slipping through lace and cotton, already knowing exactly what she’s looking for.

The pink thong.

The one with the little satin bow.

Then she walks to her closet.

She pulls out a skirt—cream-colored, soft pleats, ridiculously short.

She hesitates for a half-second, looking down at the outfit in her hands.

And then she smiles.

She wants this.

She wants him.

Luigi’s still sitting at the edge of the bed.

Back straight, hands loose on his thighs, heart thudding behind his ribs. He keeps licking his bottom lip, just once, trying not to let anticipation get the best of him. He’s buzzing.

Then the door opens.

And his world stops.

She steps in with zero warning—like it’s nothing, like she’s not the most dangerous thing to ever walk into a room.

Pink satin thong.

Matching bra—soft, pastel, sheer in the places that count, delicate in the places that don’t. The lace hugs her in all the right ways. Her skirt? Barely there. Cream-colored and pleated, it flutters over the top of her thighs and immediately gives away that there’s nothing but that tiny little thong underneath.

His mouth parts, breath catching.

“Oh… fuck me.”

Her cheeks are warm, a quiet flush spreading down her chest, but she doesn’t break eye contact. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Luigi lets out a breath that sounds more like a prayer.

“Come here.” He pats his lap.

She walks over slowly, feet bare, skirt swaying. When she steps between his knees, he looks up at her like he’s starving.

“Spin.”

She turns slowly, giving him the full view.

The way the skirt barely covers anything. The bow on the thong, sweet and shameless. The curve of her thighs.

He exhales through his nose, hands coming up to settle on her hips.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re perfect.”

He kisses her low on the belly, just above the waistband of the skirt, then tugs her closer.

“Sit,” he says softly, tapping his lap again.

She lowers herself, straddling him gently. His hands go back to her waist, sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing under the line of her bra. He kisses her.

Slow. Then not so slow.

Tongue against hers, lips hot and firm, hands not staying still for long. His hoodie is still halfway on, bunched around his elbows as he holds her to him like he never wants to let go.

When he finally pulls back, her lips are wet, chest rising and falling.

“Lay down,” he murmurs.

She blinks. “Where?”

He taps his thighs. “Right here.”

She blushes deeper, but moves without hesitation, shifting off his lap and lying belly-down across his legs, her arms tucked under her head, skirt riding way too high now. Her thighs curve perfectly over the edge of his, and he gently lifts her legs up a bit—supporting her, keeping her close.

One hand grips the back of her thigh, the other rubs slow, lazy circles along her lower back.

“This okay?” he asks, voice softer now.

She nods against the sheets. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Then he leans down, mouth near her ear.

“Because I’m gonna take my time with you.”

She squirms, breath shaky already, fingers curling into the blanket. He starts slow.

Just his fingertips brushing the back of her thighs. Then his palm, warm and heavy, gliding up over the curve of her ass, across the thin strip of lace.

She makes the softest sound when he does it—barely audible, but enough to light him up.

“God,” he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ cute when you do that.”

He does it again. Another soft touch. Another squirm. Another noise.

He leans in, lips brushing the curve of her spine.

“You’re my favorite thing in the world right now,” he murmurs. “And I haven’t even unwrapped you yet.”

She’s still across his lap. Skirt hiked up. Thong on full display. Legs bare and soft over his thighs, chest rising and falling with every teasing stroke of his hands.

Luigi’s touch is slow, focused. One hand holding her steady, the other tracing the slope of her back, the curve of her waist, the crease behind her knee.

But she’s squirming now. Restless. Impatient.

And then—her voice, just above a whisper, slips out:

“Luigi… can you just start already?”

Her tone has bite to it. Just a little. Like she knows what she’s doing.

He freezes for half a second, then lets out a quiet breath—half-smirk, half you really wanna play this game right now?

He leans down, voice brushing warm and low against her ear.

“Aww. What was that, sweetheart?”

She wiggles a little, cheeks flushed, still half-hidden in the blankets.

“I said—can you just—”

He cuts her off with a soft click of his tongue.

“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not how good girls talk.”

She stills. Breath catches.

He leans closer, hand trailing over her bare thigh.

“Good girls listen,” he murmurs. “Good girls behave. Good girls don’t get bossy.”

There’s silence for a second—just the hum of the TV and her shallow breathing. Then she lets out a quiet whine. Not words. Just sound.

Oh, he lives for that.

His hand drifts lower.

Then—slap.

A light one. Controlled. More sound than sting.

Her breath stutters. Back arches just slightly. She makes that sound again.

And Luigi smiles—slow and wicked.

“See?” he says. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He rubs over the same spot, soothing it, and she squirms under his hand—trying to press her thighs together, trying to grind against the soft fabric of his shorts, trying anything to find some kind of relief.

So he does it again.

Another soft slap. This one firmer. More deliberate.

She lets out a sharp little gasp, halfway between a moan and a whimper.

He groans under his breath. She’s perfect.

“You like that?” he murmurs, one brow raised.

She nods into the blanket, hips twitching.

He presses his large hand flat between her shoulder blades, holding her still.

“That’s what I thought.”

She whines again, sweet and desperate, and Luigi’s head is spinning now. Everything’s heat and softness and her, and he’s obsessed. Her sounds. Her squirming. The way she gives him just enough resistance to make the control worth it.

He leans down, kisses the small of her back, tongue flicking just above the waistband of her thong.

“You keep making those noises, baby,” he murmurs. “And I’m not gonna stop.”

His hands shift—one on her thigh, one braced on her lower back—firm, steady, reverent.

She’s melting under him now. Exactly where she wants to be. Exactly where he wants her. She’s a mess in his lap now.

Face tucked into the blanket, thighs slightly parted over his legs, that tiny pleated skirt pushed up to her lower back. Her thong barely covers anything now, and Luigi’s large palm is splayed across one of her thighs like it was made to hold her there.

He watches her squirm beneath his touch, so soft and helpless, little whimpers caught in her throat. And he’s smiling. But not sweetly.

Smiling like he’s enjoying her unraveling. Because he is.

“You really thought you could talk back to me and get away with it?” he asks softly, dragging his fingertips up the back of her thigh.

She doesn’t answer.

So he lands another light slap across her ass.

She jerks, lets out a soft yelp.

Still doesn’t speak.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, grinning now. “We’re shy now?”

He laughs under his breath, warm and low, then brushes the lace at the base of her spine with his knuckles.

“You’re so pretty like this.”

He shifts her a little, and her skirt rides up more. The marks are faint now—handprints blooming pink across soft skin. Some spots warmer than others, glowing under the room’s low light.

He runs a hand gently over the area he just spanked, rubbing slow circles. Soothing. Possessive.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “Handprints.”

She whimpers.

“Wanna take a picture,” he teases, leaning down, kissing the side of her hip. “Frame it. Hang it over my bed.”

“You’re so annoying,” she mumbles into the blanket, voice breathy and shaking.

He grins, kissing her again. “And you’re perfect.”

Then—another slap. Sharper this time. She gasps.

He rubs it out gently, then lands two more—alternating soft and stinging. Controlled. Measured. Never too much.

Her breathing’s gone ragged now, every muscle in her back tight, legs trembling just a little over his thighs.

“You’re takin’ it so well,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

She lets out a broken sound—half a moan, half a whine—and that’s when he knows she’s right there, completely gone for him.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the small of her back.

“You still with me?”

She nods against the pillow. “Yes.”

“You want me to keep going?”

Another nod. “Yes. Please.”

Luigi exhales through his nose, grinning, completely gone for her too.

“Atta girl.”

She’s breathless now.

Folded across his lap, thighs twitching, skin flushed, hair messy and falling into her face. Her skirt’s rucked up around her waist, barely clinging to her hips. Her thong—once a sweet, soft pink—is soaked through now, fabric dark with it.

Luigi stares down at her, one hand smoothing up the back of her thigh.

She’s quiet.

Not squirming. Not talking back. Finally.

He leans down, lips brushing her ear.

“You done with the attitude now?”

She nods faintly, voice a whisper. “Yeah…”

His hand strokes up, slow and firm. “Didn’t hear you.”

“Yes.”

“That’s cute.” His tone shifts—mocking, teasing, laced with syrup and venom. “Took me what, ten minutes to knock that little tone out of you?”

She lets out a shaky breath. Doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens, one large palm splaying across the curve of her ass.

“Oh no,” he coos, voice dropping lower. “Not done until I say you’re done.”

She whimpers.

“Let’s check,” he says, dragging two fingers up the center of her soaked thong. Barely any pressure—just enough to feel.

He pauses.

Then laughs under his breath.

“Oh, baby,” he says, full of mock sympathy. “You’re soaked.”

She buries her face into the blanket again.

“Dumb little thing,” he murmurs, voice all teeth now. “Said you had somethin’ to say, now look at you. All wet. All quiet.”

His fingers tease at the fabric again, dragging the pink lace to the side just enough to see her glistening skin underneath.

He exhales hard, like he’s overwhelmed by the sight.

“Still think you can talk back to me?” he asks, tapping her gently once, twice.

“N-No.”

“No?” he echoes, teasing, slow. “No what?”

“No, Luigi.”

He grins.

“That’s better.”

He dips his fingers just slightly, barely teasing her entrance, just enough to make her hips twitch.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what happens to brats when they get put in their place.”

She whines again, breathless, needy, desperate.

And Luigi’s never loved a sound more in his life.

He kisses her lower back, one hand still holding her in place, the other teasing slow circles against her wet heat, lazy and cruel.

“All this for me, baby?” he whispers. “You get stupid just from my voice?”

She nods into the blanket again.

He groans under his breath.

“Good.”

“Because you’re not gettin’ any relief,” he mutters, pressing a kiss between her shoulder blades, “until I decide this pretty little brain of yours is too dumb to remember how to talk.”

She’s still across his lap.

Skirt pushed up, thong soaked and barely holding its shape now. Her thighs glisten in the warm light of the room, legs slightly spread, her chest pressed into the soft blankets, arms curled beneath her.

Luigi hasn’t moved much—because he doesn’t need to.

He has her where he wants her. Obedient. Whimpering. Perfect.

“You’re gonna stay just like this,” he murmurs, dragging the damp fabric of her thong to the side, revealing everything. “No moving. No talking unless I ask. Got it?”

She nods, voice barely audible. “Y-Yes…”

He grins.

“Good girl.”

Then he starts to touch her—really touch her.

Not hard. Not fast. Just slow strokes—two fingers, lazy, up and down through her soaked folds, barely dipping in, just enough to make her feel it. Her hips twitch, and she lets out a broken whimper, high-pitched and helpless.

But Luigi doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t pick up the pace.

Doesn’t give her what she wants.

Instead, he watches her legs kick a little, heels softly pressing into the bed, thighs tensing as she squirms in place.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, tone mocking. “Can’t even sit still.”

She whines, writhing just enough to make her skirt ride higher.

“You’re such a mess,” he says, leaning forward, kissing the base of her spine. “So needy.”

She lets out a soft sob of frustration, pressing her thighs together.

Luigi tuts. “Ah-ah. Open.”

She obeys immediately. He chuckles, dragging his fingers down again, slow and indulgent.

“I bet you’re not even thinking anymore, are you?” he says softly. “Just dumb little noises and wet panties. That’s all you got left up there, huh?”

She nods into the sheets, thighs trembling. He pushes two fingers inside her—slow, deep.

She gasps, arches, and kicks her feet again, like she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, kissing her again. “Soaked. Tight. Can’t even take two fingers without squirming.”

She moans, her body completely melting under him.

His free hand braces across her lower back, holding her down, while he starts to thrust his fingers in slow, curling strokes. Her hips jerk forward, and she lets out a high, needy sound—barely a word.

“Keep making those noises, baby,” he whispers. “I wanna hear how stupid I’m making you.”

She nods again, her hands gripping the blanket, feet twitching with every slow thrust.

“You like this?” he asks. “Being used like this?���

“Y-Yes, Luigi…”

He groans low in his chest.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. “So fucking pretty. So fuckin’ dumb.”

And he keeps going.

Dragging her out with every curl of his fingers, every stroke designed to make her lose herself just a little more. Watching her legs shake, her back arch, her breath fall apart.

Because tonight? She’s his. And he’s not stopping until she forgets how to speak.

Luigi watches her from above, hand still working between her thighs—fingers buried deep, palm soaked, wrist flexing with every curl and pump.

She’s panting now.

Arched over his lap, back tense, thighs trembling. Her skirt’s all bunched around her waist, her thong shoved so far to the side it might as well be gone. Her legs twitch with every thrust, heels dragging against the bed, kicking up and down like she’s trying to stay grounded.

She’s not even trying to talk anymore.

Just soft gasps and choked little whimpers. Head turned into the sheets. Gripping the blanket like it might save her.

Luigi leans forward, mouth close to her ear, breath hot and steady.

“Feelin’ dumb yet, baby?”

She doesn’t answer—can’t.

He grins.

“Yeah, I think you are.”

He curls his fingers deep, twisting inside her, and she jerks, a moan ripping from her throat like she can’t hold it in anymore.

The slick sounds are obscene now—wet, messy, lewd as hell.

It’s dripping down his fingers, sliding between her thighs. Every stroke louder than the last. The whole room smells like heat and skin and her.

“Listen to that,” he says, almost in awe. “You hear that, baby?”

She nods weakly, hips twitching.

“You makin’ all that noise?” he teases, dragging his fingers out slow, then thrusting back in deep. “So loud. So wet. You gonna cum just like this?”

She whimpers, hips bucking forward, and he speeds up.

Faster. Rougher. Not cruel. Just relentless.

Her mouth falls open, and she lets out a sob of pleasure, thighs clenching tight—but before she can get too close—

He stops.

Fingers slow. Barely moving now. Just the lightest drag of his knuckles against her soaked entrance.

She whines. Loud. Helpless.

“Uh uh,” he says, mocking. “What did I say?”

She kicks her feet, just a little, her heels bouncing softly against the mattress like she can’t hold still anymore.

“You don’t get to complain,” he says firmly, hand resting against her lower back, keeping her still. “You said you were gonna be good. You said you’d listen.”

She nods quickly, still gasping.

“Then shut that pretty little mouth,” he mutters, voice dark but sweet, “and take what I give you.”

She does.

No more words.

Just a soft, trembling breath. The tiniest movement of her hips.

Luigi leans in again, presses a kiss to her spine. His hand strokes slow against her inner thigh now, not pushing her closer—just reminding her he could.

And she stays there for him—knees bent, feet kicking, pussy pulsing, mind empty.

Exactly how he wants her. Exactly how she wants to be.

She’s trembling in his lap—soaked, pliant, thighs twitching. Her body’s already been wrecked from edging, and her mind’s hovering somewhere soft and dumb and sweet. She doesn’t even realize how far gone she is until Luigi starts again.

No warning. Just pressure. Deep.

His fingers push back inside, but this time there’s no slow build. It’s rough. Deliberate.

His forearm flexes, muscles tensed and cut, veins bulging all the way to his wrist. The sound is immediate—slick, loud, obscene. Wetness dripping down his knuckles, coating his hand as he drives into her with practiced precision.

She gasps—sharp and high-pitched—eyes fluttering closed as her thighs kick against the bed again.

“Thought you could play with me,” Luigi mutters under his breath, pace already brutal. “Still got attitude?”

She shakes her head, barely able to think.

But he isn’t done.

He leans over her, mouth by her ear, breath hot. “You gonna cum, baby?”

She hesitates.

And then—in the tiniest, brattiest whisper:

“…No.”

Luigi goes feral. “Oh, you little—”

His hand moves faster. Harder.

Slick sounds fill the room—pure filth echoing off the walls. The slap of his palm against her soaked skin, the high whimper of her voice catching on every thrust, the thud of the bed under his rhythm.

She starts sobbing—not sad, but overwhelmed. Staggered.

Her hips jerk forward with every thrust, her whole body tensing around him.

“You wanna act like that?” he growls. “Now you’re gonna take it.”

She’s a mess. Moaning. Squirming. Eyes rolled back.

He pushes deeper. Crooks his fingers just right.

And then—she breaks.

The noise she makes is unreal—high, sweet, wrecked. Her thighs shake around his arm, body locking tight for a second before crashing into release. Her hips stutter, breath gone, lips parted in a silent cry.

He watches her unravel like it’s a masterpiece.

“Fuck,” he groans, slowing down just barely to ride her through it. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl.”

Her legs kick again, weak and frantic, like she doesn’t know what to do with the intensity tearing through her.

And Luigi? He’s smiling. Completely obsessed. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Her body trembling, mind blank, cheeks flushed, lips parted, thighs glistening and spread over his lap—ruined.

All because of him.

He presses a kiss to her back.

Then another. Softer this time.

“You wanna do that again?” he whispers, still inside her, still hard, still ready.

Because he absolutely would.

Again. And again. And again. The room is quiet now. Almost.

The sheets are messy, the air still heavy and warm, and Luigi’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand slick, chest rising slow as he watches her try to catch her breath.

She’s glowing. Wrecked. Glowing.

But then—she turns her head, face half-hidden in her arms, voice soft and sweet:

“…Luigi?”

He hums without looking away from her, gently brushing his fingers down her back. “Yeah, baby?”

She lets out a tiny, whiny breath. “Would you be up for another round?”

He freezes—just for a second—then slowly turns his head to look at her fully.

His brow lifts, a smirk already forming.

“Another?”

She nods. “Mmhm.”

He leans closer, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “What kind of ‘another’ are we talking about?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she moves. She positions herself.

Face buried in the sheets, back arched, thighs parted just enough, her skirt bunched up again and that little pink thong now fully out of the way. She’s still flushed from the last round, hips trembling slightly, but the way she moves is confident.

And damn.

Luigi groans softly, running a hand down his face.

“Jesus Christ.”

She glances back at him, eyes big and glassy. “Please?”

He’s already hard again just from the view.

“You want it rough?” he asks, voice thick. “After all that?”

She nods. Innocent. Dangerous. “I like when you’re rough.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe her. “You’re really not gonna listen, huh?”

“Nope.”

He reaches over, pulling open his bag on the floor.

“Okay, but you don’t get to complain tomorrow,” he mutters, grabbing what he needs. Condoms. Lube. He’s quick with it—because yeah, he’s cocky, but he’s also careful. He cares.

He tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolls it on, slicks himself, and moves to kneel behind her—hands warm on her thighs as he looks down at her completely spread out.

Arch perfect.

Waist narrow.

Back curve like it’s drawn just for him.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “This view…”

Then, lower, softer: “You sure about this, baby?”

She nods again, voice muffled in the sheets. “Yes, Luigi.”

He leans forward, kisses the small of her back, breath steady as he guides himself to her entrance.

“All right then,” he whispers, hands gripping her hips firm and steady.

“Hold on tight.”

Her face is buried in the pillows.

Back arched. Hips pushed back just for him. That tiny skirt’s still hiked up, barely even clinging to her waist anymore. The pink thong’s off completely now—flung somewhere behind them—and Luigi’s kneeling behind her, one hand braced on the small of her back, the other wrapped around his length, guiding it to her soaked entrance.

But before he can push in, her voice cuts through the silence.

Muffled. Sweet. Defiant.

“You’re probably not even that big.”

He stops. He blinks.

Then lets out a low, dangerous laugh that practically vibrates down her spine. “Really?” he says, voice dipped in cocky disbelief. “You wanna play that game now?”

She shrugs into the pillow. “I’m just saying.”

He lines himself up again, thumb brushing the dip of her spine. “All right then, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Keep that same energy.”

And then—he pushes in. Slow at first. But deep.

Thick stretch, inch by inch, filling her more than she’s ever felt. And when he bottoms out, when he’s fully seated inside her, his grip tightens on her hips—and her mouth drops open.

Her breath leaves her in a hard, stuttering gasp.

“F—uck.”

She shoves her face down into the pillow, the sound caught somewhere between a moan and a curse. Her thighs tremble. Her hands claw at the sheets.

Luigi smirks behind her.

“Ohhh, what was that, baby?” he coos, already rolling his hips slow. “Didn’t expect that?”

She shakes her head frantically, unable to speak.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in—deep.

She cries out again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice mocking but warm, “that’s what I thought.”

The rhythm starts hard.

He grips her hips, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, each one rougher, deeper, louder. The sound of skin against skin, the squelch of how soaked she is—it’s filthy. Unreal.

And Luigi?

He’s talking the whole time.

“You still think I’m not that big?” he growls. “Can barely take me, baby. You’re stretched so fuckin’ tight around me.”

She moans, high and helpless, shaking under him.

He leans forward slightly, chest grazing her back, one hand wrapping around to press just below her belly button.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. Deep as I can go.”

She nods, still crying out, overwhelmed in the best way.

“That’s right,” he says, pace relentless. “Take it, dumb girl. Just take it.”

She whimpers.

“You love this shit, huh?” he goes on, breath ragged, “Gettin’ ruined, being talked down to, getting praised while I fuck you stupid.”

“Yes,” she chokes out, voice breaking.

“Oh, I know,” he growls. “I know you love being told you’re a pretty little thing who can’t think straight when I’m inside you.”

And then—

She starts trembling again. Moaning louder. Whining. Legs twitching.

“Luigi—Luigi—please—”

He knows that sound now. He knows what’s coming. And he’s not stopping until she completely falls apart again— for him.

Luigi’s buried in her to the hilt—deep, thick, every inch dragging with perfect precision.

Her back is arched, face pressed into the sheets, skirt bunched high around her waist, her legs trembling from how long he’s kept her like this. She’s slick everywhere—her thighs, his hips, the sheets beneath her. The squelch of every thrust is shameless. Her moans? Wrecked.

But just when she starts to hit that rhythm again—hips twitching, noises catching in her throat—

He slows down.

She whines immediately, breath stuttering.

“No— please, don’t—Luigi—please—”

But he doesn’t speed back up. He grinds into her slow. Deep. Purposeful. And then stills inside her completely. Her hands clutch the sheets tighter. Her thighs shake. He leans over, lips by her ear.

“Aww,” he breathes, voice mocking, “what happened, baby?”

She whines again.

“You were real close, huh?” he murmurs. “Thought you were gonna finish without asking?”

She pants into the pillow. “Luigi… please…”

He chuckles, slow and cruel. His hand slides down her back, fingertips dancing over the sweat-slick dip of her spine.

“You wanna cum?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

She nods hard. “Yes. Please. I want to.”

“Beg better.”

She moans, shivering. “Luigi, please. Please let me. I need you to—”

“That’s more like it.”

And just like that, he slams into her again.

Rough. Fast. Merciless.

Her cry punches into the pillow as his hand comes down between her shoulder blades—pushing her face into the sheets, holding her there while he pounds into her.

“Stay down,” he growls. “Take it.”

And she does.

She stays there—hips back, legs spread, cheek to the mattress—taking every fucking inch. He watches the way her ass bounces with every thrust. The way her thighs start to tremble again. How the sounds falling out of her aren’t even words anymore.

Then he pulls her up. Suddenly.

One strong arm wraps around her waist, dragging her back against his chest. She’s barely holding herself up, arms shaking, skin flushed and damp.

But he’s still fucking into her—deep now, controlled, rhythm sharp. And when he wraps his hand lightly around her throat, tilting her head back against his shoulder?

She lets out the softest, breathiest moan. His lips brush her ear.

“You’re my perfect little toy right now,” he whispers. “Isn’t that right?”

She nods, eyes rolling back. “Yes—Luigi—yes—”

“Gonna let me keep using you like this?” he murmurs, hand tightening slightly. “Gonna stay dumb and pretty for me all night?”

“Yes.”

But he still doesn’t let her fall apart. Not yet.

Because this—this—the control, the begging, the tension coiled so tight it could snap at any second—

This is what he lives for. She’s still upright, chest heaving, back arched into him.

Luigi’s breath is ragged behind her ear, one arm locked tight around her waist, the other at her throat—controlling, cradling, holding her exactly where he wants her. He’s deep inside her, hitting that spot that makes her legs shake and her eyes roll. And she’s close—so close she’s falling apart without even meaning to.

But just when she feels like she’s about to give in—

He shoves her forward again. Face into the sheets.

Chest pressed flat to the mattress.

Her hips still in the air.

He slams into her again, pace rough, loud and filthy, and she cries out, clawing at the sheets.

But then—

Her hand reaches back. Finds him. Finds the condom. And pulls it off. Luigi stutters mid-thrust, choking on a breathless laugh.

“Ohhh, fuck me,” he groans. “You serious, baby?”

She just nods, breath broken, mouth open. “I want all of you.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs her hips harder, and keeps going—bare now, hot, the slick sound of him inside her somehow louder, nastier, more intimate than before.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “You want it all, huh?”

“Yes,” she moans, completely gone.

“You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes—”

He loses it.

They both do.

His hips snap harder, faster. The wet slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, her gasps turning into sobs.

And he feels it—

That moment.

Her walls clenching tight.

Her voice cracking.

That final, perfect gasp.

“Luigi—I’m—”

“I got you, baby—cum for me. Right now.”

She falls apart—completely—a scream caught in her throat, thighs shaking, body locking down around him so hard it nearly takes him with her.

And he goes with her.

With a growl, a stuttering gasp, a desperate “fuck—” he buries himself as deep as he can and lets go.

Hot. Thick. Everything.

Spilling inside her, hands gripping her hips tight, holding her there, making sure she takes every drop.

Her body jerks against his as he pulses deep inside her, her fingers clawing at the sheets, his name falling from her lips again and again.

And then—

Stillness.

Collapse.

He falls forward, body flush against her back, his face burying in her neck. Breathing hard. Forehead damp. Arms still shaking.

She turns her head to the side, eyes fluttering, reaching back with one hand to curl into his damp curls.

Neither of them speaks for a long time.

Just heavy breathing.

A shared heartbeat.

And the weight of finally getting everything they’ve been holding back.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice shot. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiles, slow and soft, already half-asleep.

“Worth it.”

He presses a kiss to her shoulder.

Then another.

And then?

He wraps himself around her completely.

And they fall asleep like that.

Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

Finally—together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

I really hope you guys liked this one, it’s probably my favorite one yet. Please lmk if you want me to make a certain type of fic or smth. PLEASE flood my inbox, I literally need ideas. 🫶🏼

[starscelly]

hi there. i like miro and want to write him but i dont know his personality. can you rec me some content showcasing his personality? thank you and i love your blog btw ^^

anon i literally like. squealed upon receiving this ask... you have unlocked a joy in me like none other. let's get into the Contradicting Personality of miro heiskanen!!!!

disclaimer i'm gonna ramble a lot + provide a bunch of mostly articles i'm quoting throughout, but at the end i throw together a collection of Purely Videos recs as well!

1. off the bat the FIRST thing that is very consistent and true across every article u will read about Miro the Guy is that he's so calm. like Too calm.

like how his mother talks about in this article "Nothing really fazes him, going back to when he was a small child. His mother Mia Mattinen remembers times where the family would joke that young Miro was too calm; all he wanted to do was put on skates and wait for his dad to get home from work."

or her recalling a different example of Young Miro Calmness here: "His calm demeanor was also ingrained at a young age. Mia remembers moments from Heiskanen’s youth career, big goals or wins, when Miro would simply smile and nod rather than celebrate like the other kids on his team."

in this article Also about young miro, it talks abt how everyone is very hyped up for him and he's just like. okay. and he even acknowledges how kinda Weird that is: "With all the hype around Heiskanen and the lofty comparisons circulating around his game, it feels like the only person not getting caught up in the excitement is the 19-year-old himself. “I try to just stay calm and not think about too much,” Heiskanen said. “I guess I’m a little strange.” “He was always like this,” Mia added. “Always so easy going.”

him not reacting at all to ben bishop coming at him in a trex costume also. i guess

so basically. He's a big chiller! He is Not easily stressed he's not too frantic he's pretty laidback and calm, especially in high pressure situations ...... there will be some contradiction with this later. but we move.

2. he has a Healthy ego. a Good confidence. i can't find the article that mentions what im specifically thinking of ): but trust there Was one that talked abt how his north american counterparts (harls, iirc, specifically) got clowned a bit for being too cocky despite miro exhibiting the Same Behavior but hes European so he Gets Away With It. here's some specific relevant quotes from him and others abt it :3

From the same article as before talking abt 19yo Miro:

"There’s a healthy ego in Heiskanen’s game.

He’s not cocky, but he knows that he’s able to do things with the puck that very few people on the planet are capable of.

'The funny thing with Miro is the unbelievable plays he makes, the ones that everybody notices,' Montgomery said. 'It’s when you notice genius in his play and when you talk to him about it, he’s like, ‘Oh, you are recognizing my genius.''"

This article from before his draft where he just outright says he thinks he's the best dman in the entire draft. icon.

and this was on a broadcast a couple years ago so no archive of it but razor was talking to miro a bit about how like, he did x, y, and z amazing thing on the ice and did he realize what he was doing etc etc and miro. just responded. "i know when i play well" . like a total brush off like fdsjkfks i have to laugh. my beautiful cocky girl

3. a little sweetheart!

many many articles discuss how miro is very introverted and shy and humble! most, even. it's the consistent thing brought up when he's being talked abt as a person probably

this article is very sweet and i recommend reading the whole thing but he basically still goes to the arena he grew up playing in, stays down to earth, is very selfless and giving, etc

he does a camp every summer with little kids and its very sweet and fun .. here's a short video the stars uploaded about it!

here's a timestamped link to a video where miro and roope talking abt the best/worst chirps in the league and miro says he Sucks at chirping and roope agrees because "he is probably too nice, miro" :3

4. also a little bitch! sometimes!

okay this is more anecdotal or whatever i guesssss but ... he gets away with being bitchy bc of how often he is caught being quiet and sweet. but hes a big eye roller and complainer Secretly. also works with his big unbridled confidence lmfao

him laughing at kivi for having to pay so often on the road for the finns dinners + immediately throwing suter under the bus for being cheap

him making fun of otter

"who has the worse jokes, esa or miro?" "it's okay, you can be honest, it's esa" okay lol

honestly lets just. a series of gifs i've made of him being an ass lol

him calling a player a fucking bitch

him delighting in beefing with an opposing player

him trying to kill someone (on jake's behalf!)

"what the fuck is that?"

"what the fuck!"

game misconduct generational crashout...

launching stützle. of all people. into the boards for no reason

he loves to yell at refs idk

and again

he like grabs/hits one here idk!!

5. but above all. he has no personality. do not forget this.

his phone background is grey. is just grey.

his only hockey decor in his home (as of 2019) was a stars schedule (this whole article is a personality goldmine i highly rec it!)

in many ways he is a deeply complex and interesting person. in many ways it also seems like he just sits in his room blankfaced until he has to go onto the ice. i think his life is a little bit of both.

6. misc personality-ish showcasing stuff that i cant recommend watching enough!!!

whole open ice video dedicated to him (that my currently blog name came from! not starscelly the other one)

this entire thread of his nhlwam interview (these r always good theres a couple of these lol)

and this is one of the other ones!

and the last one of them probably? this is my fav one tbh

the stars did a diff feature on him when he was going to the asg 2019... hes a little awkward on account of being 19 years old but hey! its cute its fun

also the whole feature they did when they went to finland! not Too much of him but . he's there ! you see incomparable joy at being home etc etc

him trying to joke around with roope. idk. theyre silly

girl who does not handle frustration well

miro and roope are sometimes made to do these videos... theyre very stilted and awkward

but starsmin is insistent that that is just how they talk LOL so do with that what you will

MIRO GIGGLE COMP to end this current Slew of Links

I HOPE THAT WAS AT ALL HELPFUL.... i def rec reading through all the articles i linked as well, they're not too long and theyre good resources on All Things Miro... i'm also happy to answer any followup questions to the best of my ability :3 i pray i did not forget anything major :3 i love my little sweetie who is also the world's most massive bitch <3 <3

[ms-m-astrologer]

Transiting Mercury enters retrograde zone

Timeline (current events in bold)

Monday, June 30, 2025, 05:46 UTC - transiting Mercury enters pre-retrograde shadow, 4°15’ Leo

Friday, July 4, 08:33 UTC - transiting Mercury’s greatest eastern elongation, 8°34’ Leo

Thursday, July 10 - transiting Mercury enters Storm

Friday, July 18, 04:45 UTC - transiting Mercury stations retrograde, 15°35’ Leo

Thursday, July 31, 23:41 UTC - Sun-Mercury inferior conjunction, 9°01’ Leo

Monday, August 11, 07:30 UTC - transiting Mercury stations direct, 4°15’ Leo

Monday, August 18 - transiting Mercury exits Storm

Tuesday, August 19, 13:48 UTC - transiting Mercury’s greatest western elongation, 8°16’ Leo

Monday, August 25, 08:36 UTC - transiting Mercury exits post-retrograde shadow, 15°35’ Leo

+=*=+=*=+=*=+

Much of the lesson plan for Mercury in Leo is centered around learning to speak up for ourselves, and to speak our truths. After looking at how the aspects play out, though, I think there’s a good possibility that many of us are going to pick up a “summertime obsession” (or “wintertime” if you’re south of the Equator).

Why? Reasons vary. Maybe we’re just bored. Maybe the new interest is a problem in disguise, hoping that the masquerade will enable us to address the issue. Or maybe The Cosmos thinks it’s a good idea for us to investigate the topic. Check out the house(s) in your birth chart which hold the little swath of 4°15’-15°35’ Leo, for clues as to which particular rabbit hole might seem attractive.

Across Mercury’s areas:

Learning - Leo has a bent for science. We could find ourselves suddenly interested in physics or geology or biology. Others may take a deep dive into some form of creative self-expression , or into athletics. The main thing is to have fun with the subject, to take pleasure and joy in learning all about it. Kind of like a specialty summer camp you want to go to.

Thinking and reasoning - all the Fixed signs (Taurus, Leo, Scorpio, and Aquarius) tend to be a little, well, fixed in their thought processes. In Leo Mercury can make us a little pompous about how right we always are, along with some patronizing “explain things to the less enlightened ones” snobbery. Very ineffective approaches if we’re trying to persuade people!

Communication - s/he who roars the loudest doesn’t necessarily win the argument. S/He who can speak with passion and eloquence and authority, without exaggeration and without “talking down” to people, is a much better bet to “win.” Does your communication style need some polishing? Mercury in a fire sign makes me think of the pejorative “hot air” - and some people need to work on that. (Like politicians, preachers, TV salespeople….)

To kick things off, here are the first aspects Mercury will make.

Monday, June 30 - Wednesday, July 1:

Mercury/Leo semi-sextile Jupiter/Cancer, 4°45’

Mercury/Leo square Vesta/Scorpio, 6°35’

Mercury/Leo (6°50’) sesquiquad North Node/Pisces (21°50’), semi-square South Node/Virgo (21°50’)

All of these aspects are the first of three - making them a big theme of this particular retrograde. We get some idea, or the germ of an idea, which rapidly develops into an obsession. Some random thing gets stuck in our heads, we obsess, and when it’s all over and the dust has settled we wonder “What was I thinking?”

We aren’t seeing it clearly, and possibly we just can’t see it clearly right now. We’re over-dramatizing the thing - over-idealizing it - and over-confident about our ability to deal with it. “Hold your horses” is a good mantra for the next several weeks.

Interestingly enough, the third and final iteration of the aspects to Jupiter and Vesta happen after Mercury exits its post-retrograde shadow in late August. Don’t be surprised if any final resolution takes that long to occur.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

n addition to not being that much more impressive than many in 1A, I never understood why “Explosion��� was thought to be “perfect for heroics” in the first place. First of all, it’s a destructive quirk, and despite the prevalence of fire-quirked heroes, I’d expect the first reaction of most adults to a destructive quirk is to think “future-villain” - especially when wielded by a kid with no respect for property damage. Secondly, a lot of what makes it “good for heroics” is down to Bk’s intensive training - using it fly, etc - not things that would have been immediately obvious in elementary school.

Separately, I agree with what a few others have said that what makes Bk’s quirk seem so strong is his intensive training of it and his endless aggression. (Honestly, half of the kids should have found it psychologically hard to to actually attack someone with their quirk in their first class.) When other kids are actually worried about maiming someone, they’re not going to be using the constant 150% aggression like Bk.

Explosion is a 1 trick pony quirk at the end of the day. Or at least it should be but Hori gives Katsuki insane plot armor. Seriously, his stun grenade, ability to attack from a range, and his smokescreen clearing strike are BS.

This is why I always say there are two school of thoughts on Explosion Quirks: villain or hero.

For me, I think people praising him really focused on the combat aspect of his Quirk because heroism had become about fighting rather then saving people. I think a bright kid, with rich parents because they're a model and fashion designer the guy has money, Bakugou was placated by others even more. His willingness to train and work with his Quirk led to him being praised more.

Its a headcanon kids like Bakugou get specialized training for his Quirk because of how dangerous it can be. I imagine the trainer was shocked by how dedicated Bakugou was and praised him. It got around and everyone knew this kid was strong, wanted to be a hero, and had a combative Quirk.

So that can be why its him being praised so much, by a bunch of people focusing on combat not anything else.

Not sure about ‘kids finding it hard to attack others’ cause kids are nasty. I remember being like six and punching another kid in the face. Plus I had a brother two years older then me, and a cousin a week younger.

The three of us were nightmares and I ain't gonna lie if I was Bakugou I’d be using it on them one time. Of course I'd be horrified by them being hurt and would have been grounded so hard.

Little kids dont really have the ability to know right from wrong and empathy is very low but Bakugou… I've pointed out how malicious the Deku name is (and I will yell it still it occurred before Izuku was diagnosis and it was never a kind nickname) for a freaking toddler and while yeah Hori did it, whole thing is still disturbing.

His attacks are a bit BS and I think Hori was having to come up with a reason he's around because he is just that guy with an explosion Quirk. Mind I personally think Hori didn't like Bakugou but when he got super popular had to keep him around.

Everyone knows my thoughts on how Bakugou's arch should have gone. He's honestly such a boring character now to me, because I had that upswing of anger at him and now it's 'and here is Bakugou with a loud Quirk who somehow despite the logical assumptions is the best above everyone'. He's so boring.

The more I really think about it, the more I wanna really have Bakugou just be there. Have Izuku move past him without realizing it, and have Todoroki take the place as rival. I am not going to lie: the idea of Todoroki staying a rival for longer then canon (and actually presenting himself as a rival early on) is attractive as hell. He's RIGHT THERE. The son of the number two hero raised to surpass All Might constantly fighting against the protoge of All Might! The drama, the action.

I'd honestly only have the reveal of Todoroki's past be when the summer camp happens, and that's when Todoroki turns from rival to friend. Not the weird ass thing Hori did with Bakugou.

But yeah, you're not wrong.

[dayntee]

Latest Fanfics

Rules: Post the beginning lines of your most recent 10 published fanfics, then attempt to tag 10 people!

Oh my god I was tagged by so many talented people including @opal-apparition, @gefionne, @cursedhaglette, and @tulipathy and I'm mildly freaking out about it what is life.

This might actually end up being very interesting for folks who only know me from the Dragon Age/Solavellan community, because I really only have the one fic - it's just close to breaching 150k in length. In fact, I only have 13 works in total on Ao3, so, uh, buckle up I guess! (I did skip entries that were exercises like profiles/non-prose prompts, in case you notice something missing.)

That Year at Arlathan University (Dragon Age, Solavellan; E) - The vestiges of summer always lingered on just long enough to bleed into the new year at Arlathan University. There was humidity in the air that hadn’t quite cleared and although students were arriving to settle in for their fall semester, classes had not yet begun.

Worst Kept Secrets (Pillars of Eternity, Aloth/F!Watcher; E) - Since the group had returned to The Defiant, Aloth kept replaying the scene repeatedly in his mind. Edér’s panicked face as he realized he may be too late to save Bearn, the resolve and concern on Idralia’s as she reassured they’d chase after the lad, and the relief and genuine gratitude that warmed even the wizard’s oft self-concerned heart.

For the Best (Pillars of Eternity, Aloth/F!Watcher; T) - I've seen the distance in your eyes over these past few days. I know someday soon, you'll find this note on your journeys, long after you've departed, and understand why I never asked you to stay. Truth be told, I knew it was futile. You'll say goodbye in your own way. Consider this mine.

Consequences (Pillars of Eternity, Aloth/F!Watcher; T) - If there was one thing Idralia was fully incapable of doing, it was keeping her big mouth shut. Right now, as she expelled the contents of her stomach over the side of The Defiant a few miles off the coast of Neketaka, sailing as fast as they could to get away from the city, it was a sardonically beneficial trait.

Finding Claudia (Pathfinder RPG, non-romantic OCs; T) - It had been a grueling journey through the hills bordering the Hold of Belkzen and Ustalav. Winston hadn’t been able to shake the half-orc child (for she couldn’t have been older than thirteen, maybe fourteen, years of age) that followed him. After several days of allowing the girl to watch his camp from a distance, he had eventually allowed her to sit at the fire for warmth.

The Kylind Campaign - Epilogue (Original Work, non-romantic OCs; G) - "STOP. NO MORE. THIS ENDS," the violet scaled dragon roared, bleeding a purple-black goo from its eyes. It began to claw viciously at its face, slinging the viscous fluid from its maw. The ooze burned the ground, dissipating, and finally the dragon breathed... a sigh of relief. It sat calmly, taking no further action, hostile or otherwise.

Firsts (Naruto, SasuSaku; T) - The first time they held hands... well, neither could really recall. It happened a lot as genin, but it was nearly always her who initiated the contact. That would come to be common, but holding hands had always been in desperation. In the need to know the other was safe, would be well, and would stay by their side. 

Frigid Nightmares (Pillars of Eternity, Aloth/F!Watcher; T) - A curled, familiar piece of tanned leather suddenly appeared before Idralia’s face. As she gently pushed it aside, the stern glare of Ydwin appeared from behind it, decisively reaching up with her spare hand to adjust her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Watcher. You’ve had this invitation for weeks. Do you have any intention of investigating its source?”

What Might Have Been (Pillars of Eternity, Aloth!F!Watcher; G) - It hadn't taken Idralia long to recognize how often her eyes would linger on her travel companion. He had been the first to join her on her journey and, although the whole "awakened soul" situation had been unnerving at first, Aloth had become someone to whom she could naturally confide. Iselmyr was still the occasional surprise in her own right, but no one understood the echoing chaos in her head better than Aloth could.

Sarada Week (9/11) - Modern AU Prompt (Boruto, No Pairing; G) - Sarada raised her hand to her face, gently cupping her forehead with her thumb and index finger outstretched.  “Okay. We’ll go over it again, seeing as I don’t get to leave until you get it. Let’s use more round numbers, maybe it’ll be easier that way,” she began jotting down a few more examples before sliding the paper over to the clearly frustrated blonde boy across from her. His blue eyes skimmed over the sheet briefly before he crinkled his nose in distaste.

Kinda wild this almost covers my entire library stretching back to 2018. Clearly I need to write more. Oh no.

Ten to tag (and some of ya'll are gonna be repeats but like 10 is hard ya'll) - @psykergirl, @crittadownunder, @luzial, @chronicsolasapologist, @christinabindon, @postboxrose, @elfbotanist, @ghostfire, @theriothag, @liberaquantobasta-catossa

obviously please ignore if I've somehow confused a fanartist for a writer because I keep confusing people's tumblr and discord names on a daily basis 🥲

[yourclumsyguardianangel]

the seven + a few others future headcanons

percy:

becomes a high school teacher

teaches high school marine biology (idk how it is in other schools but when we hit sophomore year we got to choose different bio classes ie: marine bio, ag bio, med bio + regular bio)

also teaches the mythology elective and is the swim team coach

annabeth:

we already know this queen is an architect with obvious inspiration from greek architecture

learns how to make blue food for percy and their kids from sally

has traveled all over the world looking at different architecture

learns the basics of many languages so shes able to communicate with the locals

her and leo team up to build a small school near camp half-blood for year rounders so everyone can learn consistently but dw they get summers off

piper:

love her but shes a nepo baby

she doesnt act like it tho

”are you tristan mcleans daughter?” “who?”

loves her dad to bits but does not like being seen out in public by the paparazzi

marries shel, they dont have kids tho, neither of them want to bring any into the world especially with america’s downfall and the government erasing women and poc rights

is basically leos big sister atp

leo:

him and calypso dont last, maybe a year and a half in they split bc calypso wants to explore the world and leo is very emotionally unstable and calypso has a hard time understanding

they end on good terms but dont ever talk unless its with a group of friends

he goes into a trade to become a mechanic and owns his own shop

starts smoking cigarettes/vaping

his friends dont really approve but they understand he cant quit just yet as hes not in a mental space to do so

goes to therapy with a psychologist whos a demigod that specializes in grieving and war trauma

they all go to therapy but hes the last one to do it

he’s still the ‘happy go lucky’ guy hes always been but as he gets closer w the others they start to see the true sadness in him

piper and him grow a lot closer after jason died and have a big sister little brother relationship

hazel:

my girl stays at camp jupiter

takes nicos place at camp

horse trainer

her and frank also dont work out as a romantic relationship, they felt that the age gap was too much after frank turned 18 and hazel was 15 theyre still friends tho

hazel often visits leo in his shop

as much as leo reminds her of sammy, through therapy she has recognized that theyre separate people and to not push all her past feelings for sammy onto leo

not only does she train horses but she also teaches little kids basic math, science, and history to the younger kids

they all call her ms. hazel

she prefers to teach the really young kids (age 4-7)

wears her hair in different braid styles after BOO

frank:

my friggin HOMIE

i relate to frank a lot personality wise

therefore i think hed be a 4/20 fanatic after BOO

hes not stoned during training or during important camp duties

but otherwise you try talkin to him and you dont really notice until you look and see the far off look and red eyes and he just goes “huh?”

other than that hes a great leader

after he gets his cool new look from mars he takes really good care of his body including consistent exercise and eating really healthily (maybe he has a soft spot for fast food when hes hi)

him joining the military does not make sense to me

he lost his mom to war, and he was in one himself, idk about you but i would not wanna join the military after being the main character in a war

he studies to be a veterinarian for exotic animals

when no one is around he shifts into the animal to find out whats wrong

”dr. zhang prefers to work by himself” “why” “idk but hes always right, if it aint broke dont fix it”

jason:

rip home-slice

nico:

my other homie

my guy does not get taller than 5’8

stays at camp during the summer to train the new and old kids

him and will get a house together

teaches history at the camp school

cat dad (5 cats and counting)

will:

takes nicos last name when they marry bc its cooler

him being a doctor doesnt click w me i more picture him being an EMT

EMTs are hotter anyways

does med training with new apollo kids whenever he gets time

if he’s not busy during working hours he drops by nicos classroom w his fav drink from dutch bros (starbucks is MID) and hangs out with him and his students

[superior-head-archivist]

[Statement of Mary Francis, regarding the alleged demonic possession of her daughter, Angela Francis, and the disappearance of her husband, Matthew Francis]

i dont know if you’re going to believe this, but my child is a monster. A Demon, sent up from the pits of hell to torment us for our sins. We have strayed too far from gods holy light, and all that is left now is the ever-crushing dark of the devil, the very devil that has taken my daughter from me and [unintelligible, smudged with tears] my husband.

Let me start over. I have been going to church all my life, i am a devout catholic, i hardly ever miss mass, i go confess my sins regularly, and i waited until i was married to have a child. I was married at 22 years old, and we waited until i was 26 to have our first child. My husband is not a good man. I know that now just as i knew that then. He seemed a kind soul when we first met, but by the time my daughter was born, he was a drunkard, angry and bitter and violent. 

Our daughter, our sweet little Angela, was like a breath of fresh air, she had gorgeous dark curls, and the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen, dark brown, so dark they seemed black. I do believe my husband intended to get better for her, or at least try, but her diagnosis made it difficult. Angelas sickness weighed on both of us, my emotional state was horrible, as i feared for my child's life while trying to keep our life together, and i know the medical bills weighed on him, as the sole breadwinner for our home. 

I know, its my fault. I should have been tested for any possible genetic diseases before having a child, but i just thought it’d be okay, i never would have expected anything like this. Other than her sensitivity to the light however, she seemed strong and healthy, and i thought she would have lived a normal life. Maybe she could have. 

My husbands mental state only deteriorated, growing more violent with each passing year. Im sure you noticed the scars. But i believed we would get better, i prayed as much as possible and kept my child as safe as i could, and it worked, for a while. She was only four years old when he hit her for the first time. He said that she was the reason that our relationship was falling apart and he hit her. 

What struck me as odd, though, was that she didnt cry. I dont know if i can remember a single time she did cry, really. She was always a perfectly well behaved child, quiet and humble, and she never cried, she just hid. Under a bed or a blanket, in a closet, or on the rare occasions we wnet outside, a bush. She always seemed to gravitate to those dark quiet places 

I do think it all started when we sent her to that summer camp, when she was 7. I found a pamphlet in the mail one day for a summer camp, hosted by the “Peoples church of the divine host” specifically for immunocompromised children. Apparently, oneof their priests had a similarly light-sensitive condition, and wanted to make a safe space for the kids who couldn’t go out and play with others their age over the summer. 

Looking back, the red flags were there. I couldn’t find any evidence of it being a specifically christian community, and i know there couldn’t have been that many children with a condition similar to my childs, its not a common condition, but i was so desperate to get her out of the house, i think Matthew was too, and have her do something with children like herself, that i sent her off. 

I cant say what happened at that summer camp, but they must have done something to my dear sweet girl. She came back so different, i believe it must have been something demonic. She came back bolder, more confident, and yet somehow more of a recluse than ever before. I would find her in her room, singing hymms in the dark to herself for hours at a time. 

But i didnt notice anything was amiss. I simply thought she had finally found herself, discovered a hobby that made her feel empowered. I knew her condition had made it hard for her to make friends, and the way that she talked about the camp made me so happy that she had finally found a place where she belonged. 

Its been like that the last five years. She went every summer, every spring break, but Christmas and thanksgiving were obviously off limits. And when she comes home, she hides from her father, and i can't honestly fault her for that. 

It was about a month ago i noticed it start getting worse. She barely talked to us anymore, locking herself in her room to sing, closing the blinds and turning off the lights any chance she got. I was getting worried, and her father was getting angry. 

It came to a head last week. Matthew came home, drunk, while she was in her room singing. All the lights were off and he flew into a rage, pounding on the door, telling her to shut up, but she just kept singing. 

I wanted to stop him, i really did, but he was drunk and angry, and it was all so loud and- ill admit it, i was scared. 

He was still screaming at her to open up when the power cut out. I'm not sure if a transformer had blown or what, but suddenly everything was pitch black. 

Matthew was silent. I dont even know if he was still there at that time, but i rushed off to go get a match, from the kitchen. It was so dark- i dont know if you could ever understand it. It was darker than just all the lights being off, it was dark like there had never been light, and never would be again. 

I fumbled around for several minutes, my heart pounding and my ears ringing. I wonder if there had been a struggle and i just hadn't heard it. But I finally found the matches, and rushed off back to Angelas bedroom. 

I'm not sure how to explain the sight I saw when I lit the match. It was still dark, but suddenly I could hear singing, like someone had taken cotton out of my ears. Matthew was lying on the floor, and out of his mouth and nose, and pouring from his eyes was some horrible dark liquid. 

And standing over him was my daughter, my beautiful Angela, whites of her eyes blacked out as she sung, one hand over his body as though pulling the liquid out. I think he was trying to scream. 

She looked at me, and I knew that it wasn’t my daughter any more. It was a demon, come to torture me with her visage. I stared at the thing in horror,she smiled, and my match blew out. 

By the time I lit my match again, they were both gone, and none of the dark liquid remained on the floor. 

I called the police immediately afterwards. They didn't help, they said there was no evidence for what I had said, and that while they could file a missing persons report, the fact that her father had disappeared with her meant I should probably prepare divorce papers for when they are found. 

 so that's why I'm here. They don't believe me, and i think that you people are the best chance I've got for finding my husband and getting my daughter back. I still pray, of course, but in the light of what I've seen, I'm starting to wonder if there's really any god at all..

I am terribly sorry to hear about the disappearance of your daughter and husband, Mrs. Francis. I’m sure that cannot be easy on you. We will do our best to investigate and find your family once again for you.

In the meantime, we do have complimentary tea and coffee in our break room; you can ask our front desk receptionist for it and she’ll fetch you some. Take care of yourself, and keep your faith.

Archivist’s notes;

This is.. quite a statement. Darkness, light sensitivities, connections to Christianity… The People’s Church of the Divine Host are quite the group. It seems they’re recruiting young now. I’ll have to update our ongoing file on them, but there isn’t much I can do. I can corroborate the statement with local law enforcement, and Mrs. Francis’ story lines up with what she originally told the police with minimal changes. As far as I can tell, the statement does seem to hold its weight. Perhaps not a demon, but this is something to worry about.

While I do plan to have some of my archival assistants look into this, it is an investigation with the police involved. We try not to step on any toes when it comes to law enforcement, unless we plan to lose our own from an accident with the officer’s trigger finger…

— E. Honeysett, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Washington, D.C.

[OOC- this was a really well-written statement, i genuinely enjoyed reading this!! keep up your writing, seriously, i loved this submission!!! —Operator]

[thousandyearphantombunker]

Camilla and Vee make Luz a worse character

Luz being inconsistently written ruined the show

The flashback nightmare Camilla has makes her a worse mom than her sending Luz to summer camp

Vee makes Luz look really ungrateful and idiotic for leaving

Camilla never disciplined Luz.

Luz brings lunch meat to a school play to make her death scene more convincing? Getting grease everywhere which would feel gross make things slippery and ruin the costumes everyone was wearing and the poor janitor probably had to clean it up- and anyone with sensory issues who might be sensitive to smell (people with spd or pregnant people in the audience) have to suck it up- it looked like she used sausage which is pork- what if one of Luz's fellow actors was Muslim and didn't want to even be near that stuff- most Muslims I've meat said they'd never just touch ham unless it was fully in its packaging- guess they gotta deal with it too. The grossed out reactions were totally valid- she was disruptive and again anyone who was grossed out had the right to be- that smell isn't pleasant to many people and would be overwhelming and again she got meat juices everywhere

Luz's taxidermy hobby is fine (my sister loves taxidermy and it looks cool imo even if the process of making these projects smells bad to me she never works around other people while doing it) but Luz did her project in an art class- nevermind that some people hate thinking about animal corpses and that alone freaks people out a bit- the idea of Frankensteining animals bodies together- that's enough to make your classmates regard you negatively- unless they themselves already like that kind of stuff then you probably shouldn't trigger people's fears- but clearly no one was freaking out then and also her classmates seemed chill- until Luz takes it a step further by bringing in spiders that spew out of its mouth- I might be impressed with Luz's skills but I can't get over how she thought this would end well- the teacher was fine authorizing her to do taxidermy for her project (which that's a cool teacher and probably chill classmates considering) but then she brought in the spiders- and yeah I agree that fear is so common what was she thinking? Did she run this by anyone or think it through in the slightest?

Her playing with snake skin is fine but her bringing live snakes to school to use as props (when her mom is a vet who has taught her to respect animals) and fireworks to school (in the age of bomb threats school shooting post 9/11 world) is so reckless and cruel

You can't ignore episode one or what these flashbacks tell us about Luz her principal was a saint! I would have pressed for charges or for in school suspension and an apology

Camilla never disciplined Luz. Her mistake wasn't sending her to summer camp- her mistake was not taking Luz's behavior seriously and attempting to throw out her good witch azura book- her comfort item that her dead dad gave her- who she's still grieving over- her years long special interest/hyperfixation -something so important to her that as soon as Camilla forced Luz to threw it away and left Luz desperately grabbed it back- like she was afraid of openly doing so. Yeah Camilla is a bad mom

When I first saw her in episode one i couldn't understand why people hated her- she was punishing Luz sure, but it was a fair punishment and Vee confirms the camp wasn't ABA or conversion therapy or neglectful- at most it was boring but she made friends with other odd children- the other kids weren't bullies or criminals- they were mostly just other kids. It wouldn't have been an ideal summer vacation- summer vacay is for following your own schedule and having fun-but it also wasn't abusive and again Luz was dodging a well deserved punishment which she would've reaped benefits from! They were trying to teach life skills and since Luz is neurodivergent she might need help learning that stuff- honestly as an autistic person I would've preferred this treatment to the useless nonsensical speech/group counseling I got! And again you do a crime you serve the reasonable time! Most summer camps aren't even super long!

Camilla's flashback doesn't show the sheer amount of bullshit neurodivergent kids and their parents are put through- the actual micro aggressions, the parent shaming (because those parents deserved to question what the hell Luz was doing) the insults and whispers about Luz's disability her teachers openly saying/doing ableist things and Camilla not learning about it until way later, the way Luz's symptoms would be described to her and how she would talked about in front of herself (knowingly or not) the people judging them both when Luz forgets stuff or misreads some interaction or misunderstands a direction getting her in trouble and just so much shame and struggle to address Luz's needs without having both of their self confidence get shattered

They could've shown that while Camilla was neurodivergent herself she heavily masks her issues and Manny was always better at accommodating her and Luz and was better at handling Luz's issues- her advice to Luz would be well meaning but ultimately amount to 'just sto being weird' whereas Manny would be better at helping Luz deal with emotional dysregulation and RSD etc and now that Manny is gone she has no idea how to handle Luz cause she never handled her own issues with neurodivergence- she just beat her behaviors down with shame- she's giving advice to Luz that only applies when your neurotypical but it's failing her so hard- they are spending time together and loving it but Camilla has no clue how to navigate this problem- it's pretty common for neurodivergent parents who never got a diagnosis to have issues raising a child thats similar to them- they deal with a lot of confusion and secondhand embarrassment- her flashback could have had her have moments where she made legitimate mistakes but is worried she messed up Luz's self worth or that Luz is failing and that Manny was a better parent than her- her anxiety about Luz could be showing how other parents talk about Luz's ability to be independent and all the insults and actual parent shaming she would be put through and all the fears for Luz's potential future-

Camilla in the show isn't a good mom who made a mistake then made up for it. Camilla is a mom who continuously fucked up finally made a good decision then got guilt tripped into making the same mistakes as before.

Vee wasn't being a dick. She wasn't downplaying how Luz was bullied. Because while you can claim you can infer luz was bullied the show fucked that up- like what if after Vee left Masha and whatever Luz goes 'i cant believe you made friends with her she's so mean!' and vees like 'no she isn't-' then Luz cuts her off 'the reason she's nice to you is cause she likes you! Not me! Masha calls me a loser baby and windowlicker! She's nice to you cause you don't like what I like you like what she likes! She's mean to other kids too!' but no it's shown everything is fine-

while I can say as a weird kid surrounded by other weird kids I didn't make friends with them- so yeah despite the fact that other weird kids went Luz's school it's possible that she never made real friendships with them- but you have to give a reason as to why- camilla isn't controlling of who Luz hangs out with/doesn't seem to have strict rules for when friends come over. Luz hasn't been bullied- so it's clear that also isn't the source of her issues. Luz has experienced prolonged grief but that never prevented her from being outgoing. Possible internalized issues with her own disability seem out of the question as well- we don't know if Luz has ever had a friend that betrayed or embarrassed her? Is it hard for her to maintain friendships because of some symptom of her adhd or grief-What's the explanation for her lack of friends outside of her fans claiming that everyone who doesn't understand why clearly is media illiterate/isn't autistic or ADHD or some other bullcrap like we aren't POC- but a lot of us who make this complaint are neurodivergent and or POC. I'm autistic and I'm latina I've dealt with a lot of similar stuff to Luz (minus the magic and dead parent) she despite my complaints isn't mean or anything and her extremely idiotic behavior that I pointed out feels out of character- while if I squint I can see some anxiety it again clashes with how outgoing and whacky she is in spite of it! At the start of the show when she's still in school she's talkative and friendly- it wasn't like the boiling isles helped her get over her anxiety because she seemed to have whatever anxiety she did have under control and she easily assimilated into the isles- her first reaction to everything was friendship and fun! She did dumb stuff but it was just mildly impulsive teen with ADHD bad decisions she was easily forgiven for! So it's not like she ruined her relationships with her behavior!

Why does Luz have no friends? Everyone is nice about her problems? She's not ashamed of them either or embarrassed by hanging out with people similar to her? What is the reason!

This all makes Luz look like a Mary Sue even before the finale which I swear to God went out of its way to make her unlikable!

was Luz waiting for a fantasy friendship rather than finding a real one? Is that why she's got no friends? Is it because she wears a purple hoodie? Why does she have no friends?

*edit* i misremembered Camilla watched Luz throw the book away. She didn't make her do it. I'm still side eying her as a mother for everything else.

[melonsharks]

Tell us everything about the parent trap au immediately please please please

to give u an insanely quick rundown with a wip art i have:

aziraphale as elizabeth. wedding dress designer under his pen name A.Z. Fell. (hes an artist as confirmed in s2 and the whole "drawing on napkins" thing elizabeth would do appeals to me immensely)

crowley as nick. owns a vineyard. I NEED HIM TO OWN A VINEYARD SO BAD. shoutout to Old Vines on ao3 for changing me in a fundamental way. he makes wines and he tends to the vines and he is so passionate about it to an abusurdist degree. he yells at his vines when they arent growing right. you already knowwww.

when they meet for the first time, they don’t meet on a boat like in the movie, they actually meet at a wedding party :J crowley was a wine collector, just starting out. he loved offering aziraphale samplings of his most vintage collection out of impulse. (he likes seeing the way aziraphale savors them) (he’s besotted) Wants to own his own vineyard one day. aziraphale, on the other hand, has dreams of becoming a fashion designer of sorts, always drawing ideas on any scraps of paper he can find. his designs are very old fashioned, but thats like… part of the appeal. his work very much reflects who he is, and the people who flock to it understand that.

they enter this kind of… whirlwind relationship, they get married, and then eventually adopt two golden haired blue eyed baby boys. twins. :J warlock and adam.

they break things off because aziraphale leaves... alluding to their recent breakup in season two, the reason he left was because "we both clearly had very different ideas on where our lives were going. so. i packed up and left." (parallel s2 divorce 😋 they don’t know how to talk to each other) (aziraphale throws a book at his head after this argument, like the hairdryer in the movie LOL. it was pride and prejudice. crowley still has it.)

aziraphale leaves with adam. warlock is left with crowley. crowley eventually leaves London because he finds he cant stand being anywhere near Aziraphale (hes just irresistible in that way), and he goes to California where he finally fulfills his dream of owning a vineyard. a nice one on Napa, Northern California.

Aziraphale’s wedding dresses become more and more well known, Adam grows well-adjusted. Same kid you know from the show and book, natural born leader, a good head on his shoulders. (Aziraphale has no idea why Adam is like that, but he is so proud)

Crowley’s vineyard (The Garden Of Eden) grows and grows… Warlock is spoiled rotten, but he does love actually working at the vineyard with Crowley to and he and Crowley have a really good relationship…

Eventually the kids go to a summer camp together in London (i dont know if they . do this in the UK, but suspend your disbelief if you will) Adam meets The Them there, then meets Warlock after a nutty fencing thing, they kind of hate each other at first and the rest is history :J

side characters UM. LOL. idk……. i mean i kind of know but not really? theres just so many possibilities that make the rounds in my head. chessy could be anathema OR nina (ive had people suggest eric too?) and martin could be newt OR maggie (ive also had people suggest muriel????) gestures vaguely.

as for meredith…….erm…………🤷‍♂️ ive had everything under the sun suggested to me and i still……have no idea. LOL. gabriel, lucifer, shaX, FURFUR, THE WIFE FROM THE NON-SPOILER SPOILERS. I DONT KNOW. IT ALL FEELS WRONG. its hard to come up with this role in particular when these gay bitches literally only have eyes for each other. always. forever. u know. i think lucy is like. the classic answer. but idfk.

ask me about . more things if u want. this is consuming my every thought.

anyways the cover im working on for. for something:

[fatehbaz]

In May 2023, the city of Phoenix began its project to clear and eliminate its largest homeless camp, known as The Zone, a refuge for hundreds of people. During the record-breaking heat of the summer of 2023, Phoenix cleared the camp, block by block. By the beginning of September 2023, just as the city was experiencing over 50 consecutive days of temperatures of 110 degrees Fahrenheit, the city cleared the block of the camp where most seniors and the elderly lived.

The trend of unhoused people moving from [the neighboring city of] Tempe into Phoenix has implications for Phoenix, which is under intense scrutiny for how it has handled its own growing homelessness crisis. Phoenix has been battling [...] lawsuits since 2022. [...] [One] was brought be the American Civil Liberties Union of Arizona, which alleges the city unlawfully cited people and threw away their belongings during encampment sweeps. The U.S. Department of Justice has also been investigating the Phoenix Police Department since 2021 over several issues, including its treatment of people experiencing homelessness. [...] “They say it’s not illegal to be homeless. But it totally is. There’s nowhere you can be homeless,” said [AD], a community organizer who hosts weekly picnics in Tempe for unhoused people. Others agreed. “It’s become kind of a police state for the homeless within the city,” said [KE], founder [...] of [a] homelessness nonprofit [...]. Both the River Bottom in Tempe and The Zone in Phoenix, two of the largest encampments in the region, have been or are currently being cleared out. Smaller encampments are also frequently broken up by police or private security [...].

Text excerpt from: Juliette Rihl. "Tempe's clearing of homeless camps has ripple effects for Phoenix, aid workers". The Arizona Republic. 11 July 2023.

---

The city continued clearing Phoenix's largest homeless encampment known as "The Zone" on Friday morning [1 September 2023], in the aftermath of a severe storm that raged the night before. [...] This was the eighth block cleared [since May 2023] [...]. The block cleared was [...] where many elderly people lived. [...] [A] nonprofit organization providing supportive resources for seniors experiencing homelessness, is located along the same street. 'The Zone' was hit hard by Thursday night's monsoon storm. [...] [H]igh winds scattered some people's possessions. [...] At the start of August, around 700 people lived in and around The Zone [...].

Text excerpt from: Helen Rummel. "Eighth block of 'The Zone' homeless encampment in Phoenix cleared out after storm". The Arizona Republic. 1 September 2023. [Bold emphasis added by me.]

---

As the city cleared another block late last week [September 2023], local activists gathered outside the barriers set up around it. [...] A man who goes by [Q] has been unhoused for roughly four years. [...] “It is kind of heartbreaking to see,” he said, watching city staffers pick through piles of belongings left behind. [...] Neighbors from different mutual aid groups set up folding tables just outside barriers on either side of the block. [NA] was among them. [...] He said they form relationships with the people living here. Most are elders, many people with disabilities that prevent them from working. “They’re dejected, they’re demoralized, they’re upset,” [NA] said. “These are homes that they’ve built for themselves that have taken some time, and resources that they’ve just had to come by because nobody’s providing them.” [...] [JS] said when people are moved, they often don’t stay sheltered. [...] “But a lot of people go into these [shelters] and then they’re hit with restrictions when they get there. They’re told one thing, and then they arrive, there’s a curfew, [...] they can’t have whatever. And then it’s: You either follow our rules right now, or you’re going out into the heat.” [...] [AM] watched the street sweep from behind the yellow tape. “Well, I think that this is a human rights violation,” [AM] said. “What I’m seeing is just a bunch of people being paid to dislocate people.” [AM] is a legal observer, volunteering with the National Lawyers Guild. [...] “They're being moved out of one street,” said [AM]. “But the reality is, they have nowhere to go."

Text by: Kirsten Dorman and Tori Gantz. "Another block in 'The Zone' is cleared, but the path forward for those living there is unclear'. Fronteras Desk. 7 September 2023. [Bold emphasis added by me.]

[destinygoldenstar]

It’s honestly very crazy that a garbage Hollywood trailer makes so many people apologize to Minecraft Story Mode.

My experience with MCSM was that I was gifted the show by my dad as a teenager the same year the news came that Telltale went bankrupt. (It was the summer, so a couple of months before that)

I got a lot more into it than I was expecting. It had its problems, sure, but I was incredibly immersed with its story and atmosphere. Later on it became one of my obsessions once I finished the two games. It was the first fandom on the internet I ever became a part of. It was also the first time I ever outright became a shipper over a ship that wasn’t canon. (Jetra is my OTP to this day)

But in terms of real life, I never really felt confident talking to people about it. That’s because this was around the same time the hate train for MCSM started to arise. Then it became “Pure Fact” quote on quote that the games were these terrible things.

Now in my opinion and from my experience this started when some popular Let’s Players bashed the games. And even then I can’t blame them for simply having an opinion. But it’s because of their influence that their audiences take their opinions as gospel. (That should not be how that works)

From there every time I brought it up I would get cyberbullied for liking the games. And this was true for a lot of people who did like the games as well. We were all getting cyberbullied into joining the popular crowd and that we were wrong.

“Everyone else is saying it’s bad, therefore it must be true”

And then every time MCSM popped up in my feeds, my heart would sink and I would feel sick. Weird part was, while I did become far more critical of the games as a result of the trend… I NEVER found it in myself to outright hate it.

Like I said, the games have problems. They are by no means perfect games, and some of my critiques of it still hold up. (Not all of them though, ones I do wish I could take back) it was talking about THESE games that even spawned my hobby of writing essays of stuff I like.

So… that’s a sad origin story for how AnalyzGolden came to be. Now you know.

I’ve since drifted away from MCSM, simply because I was older and getting into new stuff. I talk about other stuff on this blog, like The Amazing Digital Circus, Ninjago, Total Drama, and quite recently Disventure Camp. And more. I also try to advertise my own stories to failing results cause no one cares.

So to see, after all these years, people like me finally being VALIDATED for our soured opinion on something… it just warms my heart so much.

I became more critical because of the trend of “MCSM sucks”. And now that that’s growing to not be the case, and I became more exposed to some crazy and wild fandom takes on other media that boggle my mind, that I’ve stepped more away from being negative and made choices to be in my corner and simply “Enjoy Something. Because I enjoy it.”

Oh I’m still a critical cynical bitch. And I do talk about my own critiques and problems if I personally have a problem with it and how the writing or whatever was handled. But I guess I’m more willing to hear the story itself out and what it’s trying to do before I jump to conclusions.

I cringe at my old emotionally impulsive self. And I hate having regression episodes of reverting back to my awful teenager self. But I can say that through experiences, I have to thank that for the person I am now, even if it sucked.

So… thank you MCSM. And thank you Hollywood for making a trailer/movie so awful that it made people such as myself finally feel heard and validated.

(Oh and btw, you guys don’t need to follow the trend of loving MCSM either. This doesn’t need to turn into the complete opposite thing. The lesson here is that you are allowed to like and dislike MCSM, and anything really, and trends should not sour your take on it. You can still not like the games if that’s your honest opinion.)

[thearcanecat]

🌻

As a kid, and up until this past year, really, I always laid my blankets out in a specific way. It changed and jostled as I was gifted new blankets, but for many years, many stretches of time, it stayed the same. First would be a green blanket, because it was the softest and I wanted it against my skin. I think my parents got it for me on a shopping trip, where I was mesmerized with the texture and lingered in the aisle. Second was a purple one, with some bright cat made out of different shapes and patterns. A gift from a friend or grandparent, maybe. I don’t remember anymore. Third was a pink quilt, made by one of my grandmas. She loved the art, and the walls of their house were always covered in one of her pieces. It wasn’t as soft as the first two, but it let the air flow and was much appreciated in the hotter months. Fourth was another quilt, who made it I’m not entirely sure, but they were from my mom’s side of the family, and there were three pictures of people I didn’t know seen on the back. Relatives I might’ve met but never recognized, or perhaps a generation to far for me to reach. Having exhausted the biggest blankets, I had two smaller ones in the same layer. Another, brighter pink this time, quilt from my grandma, with little letters that spelled out my name engraved in the front. And a pastel one with little hearts in it. I don’t know where that one came from, but judging from its size I must’ve had it since I was small. Finally, the newest piece, a gift from my other grandma, through some company online that will take a photo and turn it into a blanket, one of my dog. A simple profile of her, made of thousands of multicolored threads. I always liked looking at it up close, and watching how each single color merged with its neighbor to create the whole thing. I wanted to look at my dog, so she got to be the blanket on the very top.

Of course there were times I didn’t have all my blankets. Various vacations, or summer camp. But until this past year they had always been waiting for me. Last summer, I was finally old enough to work at the camp I’ve gone to all these years. A chance to peak behind the scenes, to create the magic I’d always felt there. I brought a sleeping bag, because it was camp after all. Even if one week had now stretched into eight. I didn’t miss my blankets then, because it still felt temporary. I’d be back soon.

Then college came, a whole year away from home. I’d decided not to bring all of them, just the green and the purple cat and the large pink quilt. Plus one with many pictures of cats a friend had recently bought for my birthday. And a plain gray one. Not much to look at, but it was the softest thing I’d ever felt. Technically a Christmas gift to my parents, but they easily surrendered it without a fuss. And that was it. Only three of my usual blankets and two new ones. A change of pace as befitting such a change in life.

And it was fine. Until I came home for winter break. When I returned there were no blankets waiting for me. No bedsheets either. My cat had taken over my room and my parents had felt the need to wash his fur away. When night came and things were back in order, I dug through my closet, to find the few leftovers. Tony scraps, not enough to fit together. In the order I had always laid them, the two small blankets should be first. But that did not sound like it would make for a pleasant sleep. So my dog blanket covered my body, with two small bits of fabric covering her face. And it was cold.

[generic-sonic-fan]

Happy pride! Here's some headcanons.

In-depth explanations beneath the cut (please keep in mind that these are personal and that I actually don't really stand by any that strongly! This is just for fun.)

Sonic: okay do I really need to explain this one?

Knuckles: What can I say, his gender contains multitudes. He's definitely a member of the "I don't care" camp for both gender and sexuality. He is what he is, loves who he loves, and doesn't give two rips about what other people might say. I like to imagine he plays around with both genders of clothing from echidna culture.

Amy: oh Amy, my sweet summer child. It's so autistic and queer of you to relentlessly declare your love for someone of the opposite sex because it's what is expected of you. I did the same in third grade before I realized that the other girls meant what they were saying about their target boy. Heteronormativity is a bitch, get well soon <3

Rouge: I think she fucked around with being she/they for a while before settling back on she/her. And bi icon, of course.

Blaze: okay do I really need to explain this one?

Silver: That is one nonbinary hedgehog if I ever saw one! He's a he/him by convenience alone. He hasn't had the chance to explore his sexuality yet unfortunately.

Big: He's good with he/him and that's all he cares about. Not a super strong connection to his assigned gender at birth but he likes being a boy well enough. As for his sexuality, he never figured out what everyone was going on about when it came to sex, and only recently figured out it was because he was literally missing that 'sexual attraction' thing.

Shadow: is nonbinary as fuck and has no idea. Honey, seeing masculinity as a burden you have to bear is not normal!!! He's also demi-ace. It takes a very close relationship with someone to even consider sexual attraction.

Cream: happy being a girl! Hasn't really thought about crushing on anyone yet.

Tails: Internalized homophobia + transphobia from being bullied go brrrrrr. Besides, Sonic doesn't spend much time thinking about these things, so why should he? (Tails. Tails listen to me. Sonic's aro and knew he was trans at an unusually young age. he's a statistical outlier with how early he figured it out PLEASE consider that and don't base your self-discovery journey on him. . .)

Metal: You all know my headcanons for this one. Metal was assigned male by Eggman from its earliest iterations and gender dysphoria is literally 98% of all of its problems. Please get this robot some estrogen. As for sexuality, full romantic attraction is definitely on the table but jesus christ this robot needs to do some work on itself before that. Please read Complex Inquiries if you want me to elaborate that's like my master's thesis on this subject

Vector: Gave his gender a really good thinking before shrugging and sticking with his assigned gender at birth. Also pan as hell, definitely dated some femboys in high school I think.

Espio: Currently in the process of speculating if he's nonbinary. Keeps very quiet about it though. But he knows he likes dudes, so there's that.

Charmy: He's bit-sexual. Whatever he needs to be for the punchline of the joke to land, frankly.

Omega: For narrative parallel reasons to Metal Sonic, I love to headcanon that Omega wasn't programmed with a gender, but then discovered that masculinity is traditionally associated with aggression and violence and went ham. Doesn't mind getting she/her'd, doesn't exactly like they/them, but it/its is of the highest offense. He will kill you for that. As for his sexuality, (I know he's a robot but PLEASE hear me out) he's demi-aro! He'd have no idea that any sort of feelings on his part are happening until it was too late. He'd hate himself for it and promptly bury said feelings beneath so many layers.

[foster-the-world]

Great Gatsby

My Mom, Aunt and I saw the Great Gatsby last night. Great show. Amazing costumes and scenes as you would expect. We got $24 tickets we get through Bee's ice skating program. My husband and I will go see Water for Elephants next month. The Classical theater of Harlem is also having free nightly outdoor performance of a midsummers night dream - which looks like a fun adaption. Thinking of taking the girls next week. I think it has lots of glitzy costumes and dancing. It doesn't start until 8:30 but I think we can go for the first half. As a kid my mom had weekly tickets to the Muny - a huge outdoor theater. All of the kids went to the kids show once a summer. Fond memories.

The girls start science camp next week. They love Camp Half blood/sword camp so much. So much imagination. They are bummed its over but they did science camp and liked it last summer.

We are scheduled to go to Banff and Jasper National Parks the end of August. We always do our summer vacation then because camps end but school doesn't start. Turns out two other people at work also want that week off. They may tell me no. Which is fine. So far I've only booked cancelable lodging. We will figure out childcare and go the week before. We may end up switching destinations because we will no longer have the extra labor day Monday off. Its a pretty pricey flight so I don't want to go if we don't have enough time. Maybe Columbia? We will make it to Banff someday.

Talked with baby boy's new school OT and PT. They said he's doing great. He's so used to doing therapies that he has no problems going with new people. PT mentioned the inability to slow down is his problem. Not news to us. Let's hope they can help.

Was reading the NYT's article about the study that says children's moving anytime between the age of 10 and 16 has really detrimental long term effects. For obvious reasons loosing your close knit community during that age is difficult. Here in NYC because of school choice kids can go across town for Junior high and then to a totally different location with no one they know for High School. In addition to the (unhealthy, I think) stress of applications, etc I do wonder if it would have the same negative outcomes. Maybe that's just common practice everywhere now? Where I grew up Jr High was everyone you went to Elementary school with and then three other elementary schools. High school was everyone from your Jr High. I def went from Kindergarten through Graduation with many of the same people.

In my circles everyone believes social media is the cause of teenagers mental health problems - which I believe. But I also think kids having so much less freedom contributes. Its tricky in NYC - as I can't send my kids out to their neighbors backyard - but I try to give the girls freedom as much as possible. Baby boys only four but unless his personality changes I think it will be even more difficult to give him freedom.

Here's to hoping Biden drops out in the next few days. Let's all buy the man a drink, give him a big thank you and let him live out his days in peace. Job well done. Lots of room for improvement but overall A+ in my book.