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cityofmeliora · 1 day ago

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What does terzology know about the overthrow of Papa III? Do we have a hypothesis about the reasons for it?

very topical question. i was just thinking about this, actually.

as we know, Terzo was dragged off the stage while singing 'Monstrance Clock' at his final concert on September 30, 2017 in Gothenburg, Sweden.

youtube

it's tempting to think Sister Imperator simply hated Terzo and couldn't wait to get rid of him so she could put Cardi in charge, which i think is at least a tiny bit true, but not entirely true.

i watched the Era 3 lore video series 'The Summoning' with some friends the a while ago, and it was the first time they'd watched it. one of them remarked they were surprised that Sister Imperator seemed to be genuinely hyping up Terzo.

this is true! Sister Imperator did actually hype up Terzo during his first year as Papa. at the beginning of Era 3, she was deeply disappointed with the Nameless Ghouls and The Ghost Project's failure to make significant progress in their mission to convert the world to their cult. she was initially very excited for Terzo's reign and believed that he would be extremely successful.

SISTER IMPERATOR: Brothers and Sisters, you know why you are here tonight. This Ministry is now seven years into The Ghost Project. Seven long years of work. Two Papas, two albums, one gold. These are indeed some respectable numbers, but let me give you some others. Churches opened: zero. Governments toppled: zero. World leaders converted to the cause: zero. You call yourselves salesmen? Masterminds? You have done shit! And don't blame the music. The music is the very manifestation of His Dark Majesty. And don't blame this fine merchandise! It's a disgrace! Papa 2 has been let go. He is a miserable, wounded, and bitter old man, and he is washed up! But let's look forward now. This is a new piece of music. And these are your new masks. And this is Papa 2's brother. He is a full 3 months younger. This man will take the band further than any of us could ever have imagined. I present to you now… Papa Emeritus III! The Summoning (part 1) (May 20, 2015)

Terzo did end up being very successful, even before Meliora released.

SISTER IMPERATOR: It has arrived! Some of you did not believe the new Papa would be able to cast a shadow as wide and as far as his great predecessor. Your faithlessness is now dust in my mouth. You should be on your knees humbling yourselves before what has been accomplished here! All you need to do is look outside. Look at the graffiti on the walls, look at the lights illuminated at night, where once there was only darkness. The Summoning IV: The Arrival || Unholy / Unplugged - Los Angeles, California, USA (August 21, 2015)

Sister Imperator felt she was right to have faith in Terzo. she continued to preach about Terzo's power and demanded that others respect him.

SISTER IMPERATOR: Welcome! Welcome, my faithful brothers and sisters! Your presence here is proof of your commitment. If you are unsure, cast off your doubts now. There is no turning back. The rite you're about to witness is but one small but essential movement in our spiritual revolution. We prayed, and he has arrived! But! But! He will demand more of you! He will need to hear from the abyss of your hearts that you are ready. His is a voice of the pit and the pinnacle! His Nameless Ghouls are the music of the [UNINTELLIGIBLE], but your holy noise is the key! You must cry out his name! Say it with me now: Papa Emeritus! Again! Again! Again! Very good. Shh! Shh! Shhhhhh! Listen. Do you hear it? Do you? It's the terrible sound of the ignorant– the mistrust and anger of the masses. The world is unstable and they have lost their balance. But we, here together, are the new foundation. We are the shape of things to come! There's not much time. We won't be able to do the required incantation. We must let the music do the summoning. My brethren, my brethren, bow your heads and raise your horns to pierce the veil of heaven, so the skies will be torn asunder! And Papa may fall into our midst! Now is the moment. Now, there is no other. Papa Emeritus III! Ghost! Ghost is here! Los Angeles, CA, USA (October 26, 2015)

so what was the turning point? the 2016 Grammy win.

listen. Sister Imperator hated that Grammy so fucking much. this seems weird because she wanted the band to be successful, but here's the thing: Sister Imperator is a zealot. a real religious freak. as shown by her words in The Summoning part 1, she fully believes that the true mission and purpose of The Ghost Project is to serve satan and convert the world to his church. she was happy that Ghost's success meant more people were hearing their message, but she was very, very mad that Terzo and the Nameless Ghouls seemed to be enjoying their success a little too much. she felt like they had lost focus, forgetting their mission for satan and instead focusing on their commercial success. and to her, the Grammy was representative of the establishment / mainstream society, something they should avoid as the leaders of satan's flock of black sheep.

SISTER IMPERATOR: The industry has noted our good works with their trinket. And as a result, our message is carried further and wider. But do we take such trinkets as sacrament and the measure of true accomplishment? No! We don't need their approval. The truth of our work is not measured by awards and nods from the establishment. [...] I have here letters from your followers, demanding that we explain why nothing has changed. They have made their own sacrifices. But what have you done? How will you answer them? By holding up your golden gramophone? Is this the change you promised? Is this the sign of a new age? It is nothing! It is another false idol. The Summoning V: The Square And Hammer (September 13, 2016)

notably, she never said anything negative about Terzo while verbally abusing the Ghouls. she still demanded respect for him and his position.

SISTER IMPERATOR: You are supposed to lead. It is your task. Your task! To lead! I think you're afraid of real change. Let's take a breath. I think I understand the problem. You think Papa's words should be enough. But then you misunderstand the nature of true power. Papa is not a mouthpiece for the Dark Divinity. He is not a pawn. He is a mediator. He is the path. His way is the truth and the darkness! And you– you are his apostles. And yet, you deny, you deny! The Summoning VI: The Proceedings Intensify (Oct 17, 2016)

... but that doesn't mean she wasn't also mad at him, too. we just didn't see it.

Terzo was very proud of his Grammy, and he did like to brag about it a little bit. Sister Imperator would have definitely been mad about that.

PAPA EMERITUS III: Alright! How are you feeling now? Quite good, right? Yeah! Alright, I know you like your hard-rocking shit here in Skåne, right? Enough of those ballads– award-winning ballad, actually. AUDIENCE: [APPLAUSE] PAPA EMERITUS III: Oh, thank you. Malmö, Sweden (February 25, 2016)

PAPA EMERITUS III: Yes! A Grammy award winning song! Right here, right now! That doesn't happen every day. Acoustic performance at 93X Radio - Minneapolis, Minnesota (July 28, 2016)

Sister Imperator had respect for Terzo's position as Papa, but she didn't respect him.

it's not like Terzo didn't care! Terzo is actually described as "less rebellious". and we know from the words of Bishop Necropolitus Cracoviensis II that Terzo had always been very dedicated to his church and the people in it. Terzo was a believer in the dark lord, and he was a very hard worker. the problem is that Terzo genuinely wanted a better and brighter future for the world, while Sister hoped to hasten its demise. (don't forget the original explicitly stated mission statement of Ghost was to promote the apocalypse + human extinction). i think they both knew his vision for the future of the church / the world was not in alignment with hers. i think Sister Imperator turned on Terzo when he started acting too confident in himself.

Sister Imperator started making plans to replace Terzo as early as November 2016, almost an entire year before he was dragged off the stage at his last concert. while i do think Sister Imperator disliked Terzo and was happy to get rid of him, i don't think she felt her decision had anything to do with her personal feelings. Sister Imperator talks directly to satan (as shown in Chapter 5) and receives visions (as stated in The Summoning part 5 and part 7). she had a vision that indicated it would soon be time to replace Papa 3 with Papa 4. she started making arrangements accordingly, and Nihil went along with it.

SISTER IMPERATOR: Despite your weakness, and your cowardliness, your failures, I still believe in you. And I believe in you because I have seen the future! I have already been witness to three transfigurations, and each time I can see that we are closer to the final glory, and I have seen you rise to the occasion each time. So can you do it again? [...] After all we have been through in these past few days, all the shames laid bare, are you ready to start anew? The new coming is about to begin. Will you take up your instruments? Will you be able to commit to the utter annihilation of all this is false? All that is greed? All that is staid and conformist and empty? Hm? Then rise. RISE!!!! Now! I give you another chance at transformation. But you must beg. You must demand to be sacrificed! You must prostrate your hearts while you stand tall in the dark, for the fourth incarnation of Papa will guide us. The Summoning VII: Believe This (Nov 14, 2016)

i don't know why Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil decided Terzo's reign would end on September 30th, 2017. and i can't fully explain why they chose to humiliate him by having him dragged off the stage. (even Secondo, who they thought was terrible at his job, was allowed a dignified ending.) and i can't explain why they desecrated his body by using his severed head as a prop for a photoshoot. but idk, it kinda seems like maybe they just hated him.

TLDR: Sister Imperator genuinely believed in Terzo, but she turned on him when he started acting in a way she didn't like. Terzo died as he lived– being used and betrayed by the people he dedicated his life to.

#papa emeritus iii #terzo #sister imperator #nameless ghoul #papa nihil #nihil #radley post #the band ghost lore #analysis #headcanon #asks #quotes

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procyonloser · 2 days ago

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(serial killer au pt 2. Warning for serial killer things and dubcon)

Adam rolled over on the floor he'd found himself on, still drugged and tired from the last few days. He wasn't actually certain how long he'd been... wherever he was. He was just in pain, tired, and unable to think clearly anymore; in part, likely do to the IV coming out of his arm. The room itself was large, tiled floors with a few drains in the floor - to Adam, it reminded him of locker room showers, and he wondered if it was in some sort of broken down school. No one had come to help him that first night after he screamed and screamed, until his throat was bloody.

After the first night, Lucifer had decided on keeping him around, at least temporarily. But, Adam was a flight risk, according to him, and his size meant he could likely fight off Lucifer if he were to somehow get free.

So Lucifer had cut his Achilles tendons, after doping him up on something. He'd had a set of medical supplies, scrubs, and his ability to put in the IV made Adam wonder if he was in the medical field. Or, at least, he wondered it briefly, before screaming in agony as Lucifer sliced through flesh.

He tried to push up on an arm, still cuffed to a bolt coming out of the wall, except the connection found itself around his throat, a collar on him to keep him from fleeing. Not like he could go far in this state anyway, he could only crawl on his knees, ankles wrapped in bandages but only enough to keep them clean, not to keep him upright.

Adam was met with a shock of blood across the room, and a distorted mess of human remains that made his stomach begin to turn. The only thing that kept him from vomiting was the fact he could barely tell what was what, it looked fake enough that his eyes lied to his other senses that could smell the metallic tang of blood and cleaners.

A hand ran through his hair, and Adam jolted, some part of him hoping against hope he'd see someone there to save him, but it was only Lucifer. He was perfectly clean, somehow.

"You don't really know anything about me, do you?" Lucifer asked, fingers catching under Adam's chin, caressing his lip with his thumb. Adam almost bit it, wanting to take something from Lucifer, like Lucifer had taken from him. "You don't seem like the type that watches the news...or reads."

Adam's eyes moved back to the mess of red and white and flesh. His body began to shake, against his will.

"I've actually been killing for a long time now, across the country, but I've wanted to... test my craft, I wanted to tell a story, to put on a performance. I used to be well regarded, you know. But, I had a... fall from grace, people called it." Lucifer explained, using pressure to open Adam's mouth up, and he did so willingly. Fingers pushing into his mouth, rubbing against his tongue. "So, I wanted to tell that story. I wanted to punish them, to make them hurt too."

Lucifer paused, looking down at him with a half smile. "You're supposed to be sucking, Adam."

Adam panicked, trying to push up more so he would be able to suck on his fingers easier. He ran his tongue over and around them, bobbing his head, trying to copy any of the girls that had given him head, but it felt sloppy even to him, and it was weird to do on fingers.

"Good boy," Lucifer hummed, before continuing. "I take them apart, my models. I move them around, until I can make something new. My first creation was a fallen angel, and I hung her in a park, it was the holidays and there was a beautiful old wooden cross there. She looked amazing there, but no one understood I'd given her more purpose than she'd had. They didn't understand that she was art."

Adam realized he had heard mentions of this, some grim murders that had people paranoid, but he'd always been a big guy. He'd get into bar fights, he'd passed out drunk in the street before and nothing had ever happened to him. He was supposed to be safe.

"But, that's how I got the name Lucifer. The fallen angel. I am fond of it, truth be told."

Adam said nothing, trying not to cry as he licked the pads of his fingers, until they were pulled from his mouth, and saliva felt wet dripping down his chin. Lucifer just smiled at him, before reaching down to unzip his pants, pulling himself free in front of Adam. He was stupidly huge, and half hard.

"You don't have to, of course. I'm not a monster." Lucifer said in such a sweet voice that Adam nearly forgot the bloodied remains of a victim not but ten feet away,.

"I want to," Adam said, voice hoarse.

He wanted to live.

#adamsapple #serial killer au #dubious consent

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truelove-cafe · 1 day ago

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STALKING 101: yanblr edition

our topic today is being an anon. before you're an anon, there should be a bit of thought — "am i going to stay long term or short term? will i hide my identity or not?" and in each of these situations there's a different outcome

we lead with short term anonymity. when you're short term, you might not care to hide your identity (in my personal experience). you likely aren't looking to pursue the person romantically, rather it's stalking born out of curiosity or boredom. or perhaps you'd like to reveal yourself as soon as possible in the case of pursuit. you could have been lurking for months at this point, and now you're experiencing a desire to get closer to the object of your affections as soon as possible. in the case of love, especially in this community, you might hate to wait. that leads to impulsive decision making. that isn't at all bad, so don't worry

now we move to long term anonymity. whether that looks like two weeks to several months (the latter being less common, from my understanding), you'd like to stick around. this usually comes from a romantic interest, but it doesn't have to all the time. maybe you're curious, maybe you think you'd be good friends. a lot of times this leads to a lot of "getting to know each other" questions, and long asks each time. a lot of back and forth. depending on your motive, you could feel more compelled towards true anonymity, and pulling all the stops. theres a fair amount of yans who enjoy being stalked, as well as stalking others. there can be a thrill of "who is this person? how much do they know?" if you're on the receiving side, while the other is feeling somewhat elated — and perhaps relieved to express these tendencies safely — to be mysterious

my tips:

- when it comes to being forward, not hiding your identity, there's not much to say. be truthful, don't lead anybody on because it won't be hard to find out who you are. ive seen it happen a multitude of times, and i dont want anybody else hurt because of it

- to hide from your object of affections is something of a game. id suggest changing up your typing, your persona, your alias. the typing is a big part of it, as ive discovered many different people just by how they speak, sometimes even by a specific way they spell a word or two

- if you want to, make a sideblog specifically for them to find. let them come to you. it does vary with what they want, but oftentimes they'll enjoy having somebody to discover, someone who will leave little clues, but will ultimately have the upper hand. just remember not to interact with their blog, or make a little white lie about whether you follow them or not! it wont hurt them to not know such a miniscule detail

- for endgame, there are two ways to go about this in my experience. one, you slowly integrate you into your persona. you dont let them know its happening, so soon enough you and who you made yourself look like are now one. they wont know the difference, and even if they did i bet they wont comment on it

- the second option is to reveal who you were this whole time in one fell swoop. if theyre hooked (or even if not), it could be shocking to discover. perhaps even a bit thrilling to the both of you, knowing that they're now seeing everything in a new light as they sift through your blog, your previous asks, everything. make it surprising

we need more anons out there, so if you're compelled to, but shy or worried you wont be liked, take a tentative step! we all love to receive anonymous stalkers, especially those who've been the anon a time or two!

remember to make sure its what they want, as well. consent is key in all things. its easy to check; look through their intros or their reblogs — most likely they'll have good information just in those places

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diangelodork · 2 days ago

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DBDA nightly analysis #22!

tonight’s topic: charles’ death/abuse MASSIVE TWs guys!!

(this one’s gonna be p short bc i need to find more things to analyze in advance LMAO apologies!! ((also, this is going to be written sort of halfway in charles’ pov to help illustrate what i’m imagining this is like for him. obviously i dont think he’s weak or pathetic for not being able to survive the insane assault and abuse he faced.(((also also, this is my least favorite analysis ive written yet, im so sorry if this is your first impression of me i promise im usually better at this-))))))

a theory that has been plaguing my mind is that charles feels inadequate about his death. his death was a tragedy, of course, but so was his life. his father abused him for who knows how long, but certainly for a long time considering how used to it he seemed.

he was physically abused for years and here he was, not escaped yet, but not far from it. sixteen years old with about two years to go and at st. hilarion’s for the time being. he even had a few people he considered friends.

but then he watches as they do this wretched thing and hurt somebody innocent on account of a thing like their race. they were hurting someone who had done nothing wrong, just like his father did to him. and what’s worse, he was south asian too. this could be him in a second if they chose for it to be.

he couldn’t ever step up and protect himself, so here he was stepping in to protect someone else. someone he could see being him. he was the saviour he needed.

the boy got away.

he didn’t.

he took his place and that was fine. he could handle abuse. he could manage it. he dealt with it for so long that nothing they could do would affect him that much, right? and of course, the betrayal hurt, but hell, it hurt more when it was his dad who abused him. he could deal with this.

but the pain started getting worse, and the cold was sharper than he’d ever felt it. he had to run. he had to escape. he never had the chance to escape or run away or hide from his dad, he just had to take it. why was he so weak that he couldn’t handle it now?

he ran. he ran and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t even focus on that because he was so cold. he was so bloody cold. he had never been this cold before. and it hurt like hell where they had thrown stones at him. the cold buried itself into where the bruises were probably forming and he was just shivering. it was all he could do.

and then charles died.

he died because of physical injuries. internal bleeding. what a fucking joke. he had sustained injuries that hurt way more than anything those bullies could’ve done but it was that fucking chill in the air- he had spent all his life in pain. he had spent all of his life with injuries and that’s what ended up killing him? he knew what pain was. he knew it well.

he thought it may be the end of him, but not like this. he though maybe his father would take it too far one day and- but it wasn’t even that. it was some boys trying to make fun of him and he wasn’t good enough to take it.

that’s why he swore to be that protector for edwin. edwin had saved him and now he wouldn’t ever have to worry about physical harm. charles would be able to endure that for him now. he couldn’t die from it anymore, could he? what did it matter.

#i don’t like this one #this is my least favorite analysis i’ve done #sorry folks i’ll do better next time #erebus psychoanalyzes things nightly!#i love psychoanalyzing everything <3 #dbda #dead boy detectives #save dead boy detectives #renew dead boy detectives #revive dead boy detectives #charles rowland #save dbda #we will save this show #tw abuse

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thepointofme · 1 day ago

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fake dating is definitely one of my favorite tropes eveeeeeeer and ive been thinking for a while about a cherik fake dating au with a twist where raven and the kids become really invested in charles' romantic life and his capacity (or lack of) to get someone into his bed, to a point where sometimes raven will try to be charles' wingwoman (even tho he definitely didn't ask for this). charles used to indulge her a little in the beginning but then he started to be very adamant in his refusing, and angel is the one to nonchalantly let out a comment about how she bets the reason charles isn't dating anyone else is bc he's dating erik in secret "who goes to a strip club and keeps ogling your friend instead of naked women?" and its like opening a pandora box. now the kids can't help by analyzing every move charles and erik do around each other, they fully believe they're dating in secret "there's only so much chess one can play" "the way erik looks at the professor like he wants to take a bite" "i knew there was something off about them, like there's a tension there i could never put my finger on" and they think charles is keeping it a secret bc he's worried the kids might not support them (not bc erik is a man but bc erik is... well, erik) so they keep making ominous comments about how they want charles to be happy and etc until one day charles can't take it anymore and read sean's mind. he's half amused half horrified and tells erik who's only amused (and secretly smug) about it. it finally makes sense why the arranged dates have stopped, and after a conversation with erik about it over whiskey and chess (and bc charles really wants his students and his sister out of his business, thank you very much) he just. let them think they're right. they even act their part. instead of acting like a couple to convince the kids they're together they do the opposite and try to act like they're NOT together to keep up with the act. rather than an explicit pda, they're performing with those longing glances and feather touches, always trying to act like they're hiding something when someone walks into the room (sean looks at them with wide eyes before trying to compose himself, or raven with that dangerous and delighted glint in her eyes, hank always looks a little constipated) but it definitely comes back to bite them in the ass bc now charles has to acknowledge the tension he also knows its there, and it gets harder and harder to pretend he doesn't feel anything when now it seems that erik has a even stronger magnetic pull (ha ha) and he cant keep his eyes off of him or cant keep himself out of erik's space. not that erik is any different, every time he's in the room charles feels the back of his neck burning with the weight of those eyes on him (plus the kids' eyes looking at them). it goes like that until erik loses his patience and kisses charles (in a very non-friendly-non-pg13 way) against the library's wall, holding him with firm hands around the waist. charles can't help the tiny wet moans that keep leaving his mouth without permission, and they're so lost in each other that they fail to notice alex opening the door until its too late.

#i want the kids tormenting them and then cherik tormenting them right back #sean thinks very loudly for charles to hear 'please please please we know yall are together i cant stand those heated looks anymore'#erik is having the time of his life #charles is mortified #cherik #x men #charles xavier #x men movies #erik lehnsherr #professor x #x men first class #magneto #x men days of future past #cherik au #cherik fic

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marifilue · 2 days ago

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Part 5: Losing Ground

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence, Blood

WC: 7,2k

<- Part 4

A piercing, sterile light blurred above as you slowly blinked your eyes open, the muffled sound of voices filtering through the haze of your mind. Groggily, you raised a hand to shield yourself from the brightness, every muscle heavy and weak. Your throat was parched, lips dry and chapped, you swallow your saliva, wincing at the faint soreness that pulsed through your body.

Jean’s face soon appeared above you, her gaze gentle but assessing. "How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone soft yet concerned.

“Thirsty, actually,” you murmured, voice raspy. Feeling the dehydration, when is the last time you drink water, you pushed yourself and tried to sit since the headache from laying too long start taking it's toll. You noticed the IV in your hand. The sight of needle strapped trough your skin made your stomach twist uncomfortably, and you instinctively tried to tug your arm away.

“You’ve been out for about nine hours,” Jean explained, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to steady you. “It’s seven in the morning now.”

Before you could respond, Hank’s voice caught your attention from across the room. “The collar,” he said with a slight frown, eyeing it with a mixture of fascination and concern. “It has a far more advanced protection mechanism than the ones I’ve dealt with before.”

He approached, adjusting his glasses as he examined it carefully. “I’ll need more time to determine how to disable it safely, without risking harm to you… or anyone nearby. Be careful not to accidently made skin contact with it, for now.”

A small grumble from your stomach made Jean chuckle softly, her gaze shifting back to you. You looked up at her, gesturing toward the IV with a faint grimace. “Can you take this out? I think I could really use a real food.”

Just then, the medbay door swung open, and Logan strode in, wearing a brown flannel tugged into his jeans with huge belt clasping around. You wonder how long did he spent Infront of the mirror with that hairstyle every morning, his usual gruff expression softening slightly as he took in the sight of you awake. Jean smiled, nodding at him. “Logan, could you bring her some breakfast?”

Before he could reply, you interjected quickly, “Can I eat in the kitchen instead? I…uh I don’t really want to eat in here.” Your gaze fell to the sterile surfaces, the clinical smell thick in the air, a sharp reminder of past memories you'd rather forget.

Jean glanced at Hank, who gave a brief nod of approval. “Alright,” he said, understanding in his gaze. “But take it slow.” With that reassurance, Jean turned back to you, gently taking hold of your arm.

“Let me take the IV out before you go,” she said, her tone calm and steady. You watched as she reached for a small gauze pad, her movements precise and careful. She placed it gently against your skin, then pulled the IV needle out in one smooth motion, pressing the gauze over the tiny puncture to stop any bleeding. “There we go,” she murmured, applying a bit of tape to hold the gauze in place. “All set.” You exhaled, feeling a small wave of relief as the IV was finally out.

Logan moved to help you, extending an arm, but you waved him off, determined to make it on your own. Despite the slight limp, you pushed yourself forward, refusing his support even as he trailed close behind, his expression a mix of amusement and mild exasperation. As always, you couldn’t help but meet his silent offer of help with a stubborn sense of independence.

“Good morning to you too, varmint,” Logan greeted with his gruff voice, the new nickname slipping off his tongue with a smirk. You shot him a look, eyebrows furrowed. “What did you just call me?”

“Varmint,” he replied with a casual shrug. You narrowed your eyes, clearly puzzled. “What the hell is that?” You said, clearly having a hard time taking a step by step, but refuse to visibly show the struggle.

Logan chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t know what a varmint is? You sure you’re a marksman?” You rolled your eyes, correcting him with a quick retort. “Markswoman, this is the twentieth century.”

The teasing banter, even first thing in the morning, was so typical of you two, and Logan couldn’t help but enjoy it. But beneath the back-and-forth, he noticed every wince and shift of discomfort in your steps. Watching you push forward despite the obvious pain stirred a mix of pride and concern in him. He knew better than to offer again, yet every step you took, each moment you hid a grimace, tugged at him, wishing he could do more if only you’d let him.

All he could do now was stay close, ready in case you faltered, even as he watched you struggle with that damn stubborn streak he’d come to admire, and maybe even care for, a little too much.

Despite the high walls you kept around yourself, you couldn’t help but think about last night, the way Logan had stayed by your side, squeezing your arm gently as Jean stitched you up, how comforting and reassuring it was from him. You still hadn’t properly thanked him, but you’d get to that later. A flicker of appreciation settled deep down, where you rarely let anything get through. His story lingered, too, a shadow of a memory you couldn’t quite shake, making you wonder just how many other stories he had tucked away, left untold from fragments of a life lived through wars and loss.

Trying to shake off the thought, you refocused and glanced over at him. “What is a varmint, anyway?” you asked, as you stepped into the kitchen. You opened the fridge, feeling his presence behind you as he leaned against the counter. Logan’s eyes glinted with that trademark mischievous look. “I’ll let you figure it out. Where’s the fun in just tellin’ you?”

You gave him an unamused look, already making a mental note to Google it later. Turning back to the fridge, you grabbed a potato and a carton of eggs, shoving them directly into Logan’s hands. “Chop chop, mutton chops, you’re cooking. Mashed potatoes and scrambled egg.” you said, closing the fridge door with a smirk and easing into a chair, chugging a glass of water to freshen up your throat, relieved to take some of the weight off as the pain from walking flared again.

Logan chuckled, eyeing the ingredients in his hands. He shook his head, but there was a faint smile playing on his face. The comfort of the moment settled around you, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to relax, even if just a little.

Logan set the eggs and potatoes on the counter, rolling up his sleeves with the look of someone gearing up for a challenge. He glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “So…mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs, huh? Easy enough.”

You leaned back. “Just make sure to wash the potato first before you start peeling.” He paused, giving you a look as if to say Really? but followed through, rinsing the potato under the tap before he started peeling it with a bit more force than necessary. The way he handled it was almost comically rough, chunks of potato skin flying in every direction. You held back a laugh, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“What?” he muttered, glancing over. “Nothin,” you said, still holding back a smile. “Just…careful not to take off half the potato with the skin.”

He grunted, focusing intently on the task, but when it came time to mash the potato, he just dumped the chunks into a bowl and started mashing with a fork. Before he could pour in a carton of milk into the pan which he almost do, you warned him, quickly gesturing toward the pan. “Wait! Butter first. You don’t want to dry out the potato.”

Logan shot you an exasperated look but stopped, grabbing the butter and slapping a hunk of it into the pan a bit clumsily. He went to pour in the milk, but you cleared your throat again, eyes widening as he looked over. “What now?”

“Butter…then the milk. It mixes smoother that way,” you explained, the amusement in your voice barely contained. Logan gave a small, amused shake of his head, muttering something under his breath. “I knew you’d be a backseat chef.”

“Only because I’d like to avoid a disaster,” you replied, raising an eyebrow as he half-glared at you with a smirk. He continued to stumble his way through the basics, cracking eggs with more shell fragments than you’d ever seen and stirring the scrambled eggs a little too vigorously, sending bits of yolk flying. All the while, you couldn’t stop yourself from correcting him, feeling oddly comfortable as you did. Logan was an absolute disaster in the kitchen, and seeing him out of his element like this was almost endearing.

Eventually, he managed to get the eggs and potatoes onto plates, and he set one down in front of you, leaning against the counter with a triumphant grin. “Not bad, huh?” he said, crossing his arms.

You eyed the slightly burnt edges of the eggs and lumpy potatoes, your amusement evident. “Not bad, exactly,” you teased, taking a bite and managing to hide a grimace. “It's closer to inedible than it is to edible, kinda.” Logan chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, you think you could do better?”

“Definitely,” you replied, a spark of challenge in your gaze. The banter, the little corrections, his quiet grumbling, it all felt natural, easy. And as you ate, you caught him watching you, a warmth in his gaze that softened his rough edges. It was a strange moment, one you hadn’t expected, but the quiet rhythm of it felt like something you could get used to, even if you’d never admit it.

After a few bites you decided to fill your glass with some orange juice from the fridge. Pushing yourself out of the chair a bit too quickly, a sudden, sharp pain shot through your side, freezing you in place. You tried to brush it off, but Logan was already watching, his eyes narrowing as he took in your discomfort.

“Just sit down,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Whaddya want to drink?" You sighed in frustration, muttering a few choice words under your breath as you lowered yourself back into the chair. “Orange juice,” you grumbled, arm clutching your side.

Logan poured the juice for you, setting the glass down beside your plate with a smug smirk. “Happy?” You gave him a reluctant nod, still annoyed but appreciating his help, even if you wouldn’t admit it.

As you both back to sit quietly eating, a thought lingered at the back of your mind. Eventually, you cleared your throat, looking down at your plate. “Thank you…for last night,” you said, hoping to keep the gratitude brief and to the point.

But Logan wouldn’t let it slide that easily. He let out a low chuckle, and you glanced up, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “What?” you asked, not sure what he found so funny. He grinned, his tone teasing. “You almost sound like every woman in a bar after spendin' a night with me.”

You rolled your eyes, regretting the thank you instantly. “Ew, gross. You know what? I take it back. I forgive you.” Logan looked genuinely amused and a little puzzled. “Forgive me? For what?”

“For crossing my personal space and boundaries,” you replied with mock indignation. “You carried me without my consent.” Logan chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, you sure you don't want to sue me as well while you're in it?”

You gave him a wicked smile. “I’m considering it.” He shook his head, laughing, but beneath the banter, there was a hint of something softer, a rare moment of mutual understanding that neither of you needed to put into words. For now, the teasing would do just fine.

As you took another sip of juice, Hank and Professor Xavier entered the kitchen, their faces set with a hint of urgency. Hank’s eyes settled on you, then shifted to the collar around your neck. “I’ll need to run some additional tests on that collar of yours,” he explained. “It’s… more complex than I’d hoped. I want to apply a temporary layer that could block any accidental shocks, but for safety… well, I could use some assistance.”

His gaze landed on Logan, who arched an eyebrow, clearly not thrilled but not surprised either. “What?, you need me to play your guinea pig?” Logan drawled, voice a low rumble.

“Something like that,” Hank replied, a faint smile betraying his own unease. “Your healing factor can handle the worst of the shocks if the layer doesn’t hold up as expected."

With that, the four of you made your way to the medbay, footsteps echoing through the quiet hallways. Each step weighed heavily on you, soreness from the last night beginning to catch up. But as you glanced at Logan walking beside you, you felt a small surge of determination to keep up.

Once in the medbay, the sterile room filled with the faint hum of medical equipment, he could sense the quiet tension emanating from you. A subtle pulse beat in your throat, the sound of your heart quickening with each step though he knew you had no idea he could hear it.

Standing beside where you were sitting, he noticed how your breathing grew shallower. Despite the casual front you put on, Logan could tell his proximity unsettled you. When Hank gestured him forward, Logan drew closer, reaching out to help him adjust the protective device. His fingers brushed your shoulder as he steadied it, and your pulse sped up a quick staccato beat that only he could hear.

Logan couldn’t help but smirk slightly, feeling an odd amusement. He’d never been one for delicate feelings, but this was different. There was something about the vulnerability hidden behind your resolve that tugged at him.

“Relax,” he muttered under his breath, catching your gaze as his hand lingered on your shoulder. “This’ll be over before you know it.”

When Hank initiated the first low-voltage test, a shock traveled through the collar, and Logan took the brunt of it with a grimace, his skin tingling painfully. He heard you murmur an apology, voice slightly shaky, your expression a blend of guilt and concern. “Don’t worry, varmint,” he reassured, his tone gruff but soft. “Ya ain’t gon’ kill me.”

You bit your lip, and he caught the faintest quiver in your heartbeat again as he held your gaze, refusing to let you look away. Something raw lingered in the air between you both, neither of you could fully name. But he didn’t move back, didn’t break eye contact, letting you see that he was there, steady, no matter what.

The final layer was applied, and Hank sighed in relief. “All done. It’s stable now, and we shouldn’t have to worry about accidental contact.”

Logan's fingers brushed the collar one last time as he stepped back, catching one more pulse of your heartbeat a little steadier this time. He’d heard enough to know he affected you, even if you’d never admit it.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, though exhaustion settled into your limbs as the relief took its toll. The professor must have noticed, because he gave a slight nod. “You’re free to go,” he said gently. “Hank will monitor the collar’s function from here. Take some time for yourself.”

You nodded, already feeling the pull of sleep as you rose. Logan gave you a brief nod, his gaze lingering, but you brushed it off, determined to handle this last stretch alone. The stairs were a different story. Every step seemed to taunt you, the soreness sharpening with each push. By the second flight, your leg trembled slightly, but you gritted your teeth and continued, refusing to let the pain win. Finally, you reached the top, pausing to catch your breath.

As you approached your room, a faint shadow fell across the hallway, and you knew he’d followed. Logan lingered at the corner, watching with his arms crossed, that usual mix of exasperation and silent pride in his eyes. You almost said something, but he turned away before you could muster the words, leaving you with just enough strength to stumble into your room.

As you stepped into your room, the familiar, untouched stillness washed over you. The place was just as you’d left it before the mission, a strange reminder of all the events since. On your bed lay your cracked rifle, a heavy, silent witness to your day. You sighed, moving it carefully, feeling the weight irritate the still-tender stitches on your side. Gently, you slid it back into its case, then pushed the rifle bag under your bed, its worn fabric catching faintly on the frame.

The bathroom offered a quiet reprieve as you cleaned yourself up, the cool water refreshing against your skin. You changed into a comfortable T-shirt and shorts, savoring the soft, loose fabric after the tension of the day. With a sigh, you sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over to pull your laptop closer. Curiosity had been tugging at you since Logan tossed that new nickname at you: “Varmint.” The way he’d said it, half-smirked as he helped you, made it clear there was more behind it.

You typed in the word and read the definition that popped up:

Varmint:

noun, informal, dialect

• a troublesome wild animal.

• a troublesome and mischievous person, especially a child.

The words sank in, and you muttered a soft curse under your breath, though a smile pulled at the corners of your mouth. That asshole. You couldn’t help but picture the look in his eyes when he’d said it, that mix of teasing and something almost affectionate. He probably thought it was a perfect fit.

Still smiling, you closed the laptop and lay back on the bed, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight. The stitches, the collar, and the strain of the day blurred into one heavy ache, and as your head hit the pillow, the last thought in your mind was of Logan’s voice and that infuriating nickname. The quiet drifted around you as sleep pulled you down, the sky still bright outside as afternoon slowly faded into evening.

•••••••

Dust rises around you, stinging your eyes, blurring the world into a smudged haze of gunfire and shadows. The heat is unrelenting, baking down on your skin as the weight of the rifle digs into your hands. The sound of boots pounding against cracked ground, the shouts of soldiers, and the relentless thud of explosions make everything feel surreal. It's a landscape of Iran-Iraq chaos battlefield in the 80s.

Ivan's voice cuts through, clear and steady with his Russian accent. "Right flank, cover me!" His words are as familiar as your own heartbeat, grounding you in the nightmare. You turn, catching a glimpse of him. Young, so damn young, but his eyes have that determined look, that same fire he's always had since you met him at twenty one. He'd idolized you, looked up to you with a quiet, steadfast admiration. You'd taught him everything, every trick and tactic you knew. He had become your closest friend, almost something more.

But suddenly, that determination in his eyes falters. You see his lips form words, calling your name, right before a shot rings out. The echo of it slices through the noise, louder than anything else. In slow motion, you watch him stumble, that flash of surprise on his face as his body collapses, his rifle slipping from his fingers. There's blood on his temple, spreading, blooming against his pale skin like ink soaking into paper.

"No...no, no, Ivan!" you scream, scrambling forward, your hands shaking as you reach him, ignoring the chaos around you. You press your hands to his wound, feeling the warm, sticky blood seep through your fingers, knowing it's useless. "Stay with me, please," you beg, feeling your voice break, but his eyes have already gone blank, staring past you.

"I'm so sorry," you mutter, your voice strangled. You'd promised him- promised that when you both made it back, you'd show him New York. He'd laugh, light-heartedly mocking the idea of skyscrapers and traffic, but you knew he'd been looking forward to it. And now he'll never see it. You'll never see him again.

The scene shifts violently, flickering to his childhood stories of Montana, a place he once said was like no other. He'd wanted you to see it, too, promising you a tour of his small town, the mountains, the rivers. Now, it all fades, slipping from your grasp as you scream his name again and again, but it's just you alone in the dust, Ivan's blood staining your hands.

The scream still echoes as you jolt awake, drenched in cold sweat, Ivan's name a raw ache in your throat. After the long hours you drifted into a fitful sleep, only to wake up around two in the morning, feeling groggy and disoriented. The collar pressed against your neck, an uncomfortable reminder that even in your own body, you weren’t free. Frustrated, you shifted, trying to find a position where the collar wouldn’t dig into your skin. It was no use. Resigned, you pushed yourself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.

The mirror reflected a pale, worn face back at you. You traced your fingers over the bandages where bullet wounds were still healing, noticing the edges of the injuries, raw and irritated. Changing into a warmer sweater to stave off the night's chill, you thought about grabbing a snack.

But as you made your way toward the stairs, a muffled noise caught your attention. You paused, listening. It was coming from Logan’s room. The sounds were low and garbled, but you could tell he was muttering, though the words were too distorted to make out. You hesitated, then shook your head. Probably none of my business, you thought, forcing yourself down the stairs.

After finding a bowl of blueberries and drink a glass of water, you turned to climb the stairs, heading back to your room, only to hear the sounds from Logan’s room again, louder this time. You stopped, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your chest. His voice sounded tortured, as though he were reliving something terrible. Without really thinking, you moved toward his door. You stood there, unsure, your hand hovering over the handle. Finally, you pressed down. The door clicked open.

In the darkness, you could make out Logan, tangled in his sheets, eyes shut tight but muttering as if in pain. You placed the blueberries on his nightstand and flicked on the light, he's wearing a white tank top with jeans, what kind of psychopath sleep in jeans? You extend your arm reaching out, lightly shake his shoulder, calling his name. He jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his claws springing out instinctively. You barely managed to jump back, waist stumbled at his nightstand roughly, avoiding the glint of metal, your reflexes saving you but the sudden movement sent a sharp, searing pain through your side.

Logan looked horrified, retracting his claws immediately with his heavy breath. “Shit. I didn’t mean.. are you okay?” He asked voice slightly trembled.

You took a shaky breath, clutching your side. “Fuck...M' fine. But you were yelling. I thought…” You smirked slightly, hiding your discomfort.

“I swear I thought you had someone in here, keeping the entire floor up ‘til two in the morning.” You told him with hitched breath.

He almost cracked a smile, though a flash of something haunted lingered in his eyes. "Not exactly."

Feeling another throb in your side, you sank onto the edge of his bed, letting yourself sit for a moment. He scoot over to give you more personal space next to him, you picked up the bowl of blueberries, offering it to him with a shrug.

“Blueberries?” Logan accepted, and you both sat in a quiet, unexpected moment of ease, passing the bowl back and forth, the silence a balm for both your wounds. It’s rare to see his hair not styled in the way he always wears it, almost resembling cat ears. You’ve always wondered if that was intentional, but you could never be sure. Now, though, you can see how thick his dark brown hair truly is, with a slight touch of untidiness. A rare sight.

Both of you sat against the headboard of the bed, the room dimly lit, the quiet hum of the night filling the space. You felt the sting in your side with every slight movement but tried to ignore it, distracting yourself with the blueberries as you popped one into your mouth. You weren't exactly sure what to say to Logan. Should you ask if he's okay? The thought felt ridiculous, considering the two of you hardly knew how to talk about such things. It was easier to just let the silence hang. But it was suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and you needed to break it somehow.

“So,” you began, forcing casualness into your tone, “The PTSD from a hundred and twenty years in the military really got you good, huh?”

Logan glanced over at you, the faintest amusement flickering in his eyes. “What does twenty do to a person anyway?” He raised a brow, a little playful edge creeping into his voice.

You shrugged nonchalantly, popping another blueberry into your mouth. “Same thing. Probably why we’re both here at two, eating blueberries.”

Logan chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, as if it hadn’t been used in too long. There was a comfort in that, his laughter, even if it was bitter at the edges. You got him in a way few could, the way he handled pain, how he tucked it away under layers of sarcasm and distance. You weren’t sure if he even knew how much you could read him, how the small moments the way he carried himself, the flicker in his eyes told a whole story.

“That’s a hell of a breakfast,” he muttered, shaking his head with a grin that softened the edges of his usual guarded demeanor.

“Breakfast, midnight snack, same thing,” you shot back, a smirk tugging at your lips as you leaned back against the headboard, clutching your side again in an attempt to ease the pain.

A long pause followed. You caught him watching you out of the corner of his eye, like he was trying to figure something out. It didn’t bother you, though. After all, you’d both been through things most people couldn’t even begin to imagine. And you understood that, understood him better than anyone else.

Logan glanced down at the bowl, then back at you. “Guess we just keep eating until we’re tired of it, huh?” he said with a half smile. You smiled, feeling a little lighter. “Sounds about right.”

The air in the room grew still for a moment, the light dim and the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between you both. Logan's voice broke the silence, softer now, tinged with something he didn't quite want to admit.

"I could've killed you, y'know," he said, trying to sound casual selling his nonchalant face, but there was a slight edge to his voice that made it clear he was anything but nonchalant. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, a trace of concern buried in his usual guarded expression.

You met his gaze without flinching. "You didn’t," you said simply, your tone light, but you knew what he was getting at. His worry was clear, even though he was trying to mask it, you broke the eye contact now staring down at the bowl.

"You might've just opened my stitches again, which, I think, is worse." Logan's gaze hardened as he caught the scent of fresh blood. He pushed himself up from the bed, voice firm. “Wait here.”

You blinked, confused, watching as he stalked to his bathroom. He rummaged around for a moment before reappearing, his expression annoyed. Apparently, he hadn’t found what he was looking for. “Just wait,” he said again, sharper this time. “I’ll be right back.”

Left alone in his room, you found yourself glancing around. The room was sparse but lived-in: unfolded clothes thrown over a chair, a cigarette-filled ashtray on his nightstand, and a couple of empty beer bottles lining the windowsill. You smirked a bit at that, wondering how Charles hadn’t whipped his ass for sneaking those in.

Before you could delve deeper into the small details of his space, Logan stepped back in, a med kit in hand. He shot you a look that bordered on impatience and determination. Your eyebrows shot up as he set the kit down. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“Well,” he said flatly, “you’re bleeding all over my bed, and I’m not in the mood to be blamed for murder.”

You scoffed, moving to stand, still clutching your side as the pain spiked. The blood had already soaked through the fabric of your cream-colored Brooklyn sweater, stain spreading visibly. “No, I’m not letting you do that. Do you even know how to stitch?” You took a couple of steps toward the door, ready to brush him off and leave.

But Logan stepped in front of you, effectively blocking the doorway with his full frame. His expression was one of deadpan defiance. “Told you, I’ve lived too many lives. I know a thing or two. Now, sit down.”

You scowled, the pain now pulsing sharply with every movement, but his unyielding presence made it clear he wasn’t giving you much of a choice. “No, I’ll be fine,” you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction. Logan’s eyebrow quirked as he tilted his head, unconvinced, not budging an inch from the doorway. You tried to nudge him aside, but he didn’t even flinch. The effort triggered fresh pain from your wound, and you cursed under your breath, feeling the sting intensify.

“Just sit down,” he said with a faint irritation. “I even brought painkillers this time.” His comment was a jab at the last time you’d been stitched up, without any anesthesia, which had been a special kind of hell.

Reluctantly, you made your way back to the chair he’d hastily cleared of laundry, watching as he shoved the empty bottles in the windowsill aside to make room for the medical kit. With a quiet sigh of resignation, you sank down, your movements stiff and strained. You set the blueberries on the windowsill beside you, grimacing but knowing you didn’t have much of a choice now.

Logan handed you a small pill from the kit, his expression giving nothing away. You tossed it back but quickly realized you’d need water. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a sealed bottle of beer from his nightstand and held it out to you.

You looked at him, half-exasperated. “How’d you manage to sneak this in? Charles is gonna be furious.”

Logan smirked, giving you a quick, deadpan shrug. “Oh, it’s my weekly pay for teachin” he replied, clearly amused with himself.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you twisted off the cap. “Right. Because Charles would pay you in beer.” With no other choices you sip the beer anyway, sending the pill down your system.

Ignoring your jab, Logan prepared a syringe, carefully transferring a regional anesthetic from a vial. He seemed steady, his brow knit in concentration, but there was a faint tremor in his hands that told you he didn’t do this often at least, not like this. Still, he looked confident enough to keep you from second-guessing.

You took a breath and lifted the hem of your sweater, the chilly night air prickling your exposed skin as you braced for what was to come. Logan knelt beside you, his face softened by the dim light, he wiped down your skin with alcohol wipes to sterilize the area before injected the anesthetic carefully around your wound, aiming to block the nerves around your stomach.

The sensation was more disorienting than painful, and you clenched your jaw, trying to focus on anything else but the sharp reminder of how vulnerable this all felt. The pain had been long absent, a dull ache you’d forgotten, but tonight it was sharp and real, gnawing at the edges of your patience.

Logan retreated to the windowsill, waiting the anesthesia to function giving it at least ten minutes. He take a swig from the beer you’d just opened, his gaze flicking back to you as you reached for another blueberry. You caught him watching you, the hint of concern masked beneath his usual guarded stare.

“You don’t seem to do this often,” you said, popping the blueberry into your mouth, trying to sound casual.

He glanced at the bottle in his hand and shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ve got enough experience.”

You offered a small, skeptical smile, sliding your hand under the collar around your neck, scratching at the itch that had settled there. It was an irritating reminder of everything this collar had taken from you. Your power, your freedom, and, in a twisted way, even the luxury of forgetting what it felt like to be so breakable.

Logan’s gaze dropped to your hand at your neck, but he didn’t say anything, just took another swig of his beer. For once, the silence between you both felt almost...safe. He wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t push, and you knew that even if he did, he’d understand more than most.

As the two of you waited for the anesthetic to kick in, Logan walked over to his nightstand, rummaging through a drawer until he found a cigar. Meanwhile, you felt the trickle of blood from your re-opened stitches and reached for some gauze, pressing it against the torn wounds in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Four ugly, circular scars, a nasty reminders of where bullets had torn through you. Only one suture held, while the other three had unraveled under the strain. You sighed, wondering how long you could keep dealing with this before you could stepped in this damn collar.

Logan sit in the edge of his bed, lighting his cigar with a flick of his lighter, his eyes on you as you dabbed at your side. Frustration is written all over your face as he observed your attempt to manage the bleeding on your own. He sigh and walk towards you again, placed the cigar on the windowsill and pushed the window open, letting the smoky tendrils drift out into the night air, you despised that smell so much.

Finally, he grabbed the med kit and knelt beside you, extending his hand toward the gauze in a silent offer to take over. You didn't hesitated this time, willingly to let go when his rough fingers brushed against yours as you handed over the gauze. Your left hand still held the fabric of your sweater up, and your right arm rested on the edge of the chair, giving him room to work.

Logan’s face was set in concentration as he wiped the blood from your side, tearing open another alcohol wipe and cleaning the area around your wounds. He was careful, his touch firm yet unexpectedly gentle. After ensuring the area was sterile, he picked up a small pair of scissors and nudged it against your skin. “Feel anythin'?” he asked, his voice a little softer, making sure the anesthesia had taken full effect.

You shook your head. “No, it’s numb.”

Logan's brows drew together as he worked, his expression locked in that rare, focused intensity you’d come to recognize, and even find comfort in. The dim light from the windowsill cast shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight crease between his brows. You’d traced those lines in your mind a hundred times by now, memorized every edge, every angle. But tonight, as he worked with that raw focus, his face took on a different weight, a heaviness you could almost feel through the precision of his movements.

He held the metal scissors between his fingers, his hands steady, despite the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Gently, he pull the teared suture trough your skin, putting all the old stitches down before guided the needle through your skin, pulling it through with a practiced care that made each puncture bearable. You could feel the slightest tug as he drew the suture tight, securing it with a small knot, his gaze unwavering, as if each stitch were a piece of armor he was layering over your vulnerability.

You tried to focus on his hands instead of the needle. He didn’t look up, not even once, and you wondered what was going through his mind as he stitched each small wound, patching you up like it was a matter of necessity, not choice. You felt his grip tighten a little as he threaded the next stitch, a silent determination in the press of his fingers.

Logan’s mind, however, was far from calm. Beneath his outward resolve, there was a nagging unease, an urge to make sure he didn’t cause you any more pain than you’d already endured. The sight of the torn stitches, the fresh blood trickling down your side, sent a quiet rage through him, one he was careful to keep hidden. He’d seen plenty of wounds in his time, but with you, each drop of blood felt personal, like a failure he hadn’t planned for. He pushed the thought aside, though, focusing instead on keeping each stitch even, precise. He couldn't afford to let his own frustration cloud the task at hand.

You studied him in silence, feeling the coolness of the anesthetic but still sensing the pressure as the needle punctured your skin again and again. Each pull of the thread was a reminder of how close he was, yet how distant he could seem. His breathing was even, steady, but every so often, you saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, a reminder of the strain he kept hidden. The Logan before you wasn’t the snarling fighter or the distant figure, he was here, in this quiet, steady moment, each movement deliberate, each pull of the suture a silent promise.

Another stitch slid through, and he adjusted his angle, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that left a faint warmth where his touch lingered. You felt yourself tense, not from pain, but from the awareness of his closeness, the weight of his hand pressed against your side. He glanced up briefly, catching your eye, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He held it for just a second, before focusing back on the task, his jaw tightening as he continued to work.

In the silence, you found yourself grateful for this quiet, for the way he grounded you, even with the thick smoke from the forgotten cigar drifting through the air. Despite his own guarded nature, Logan’s presence carried a steady calm that dulled the ache, that let you release the fear of being so vulnerable in front of someone who’d seen it all, and maybe even felt it all.

Though he’d never say it. He could see the way you trusted him, even as your body flinched from each stitch. The way you held yourself still, giving him your silent approval, it did something to him, stirred something that he knew he couldn’t afford to dwell on. He finished the final suture, tying it off with a slight flick of his wrist, but he didn’t let go immediately. His hand rested against your skin for just a moment, almost like he was hesitant to break the connection, before he finally pulled back, a slight softness lingering in his gaze.

With the stitches complete, Logan finally sat back, his hand lingering near yours for just a moment before he pulled away completely.

As Logan returned the medical kit to the windowsill, your blood is staining all over his hands, he picked up his forgotten cigar, pressing it back between his lips, exhaling a thin trail of smoke. You sat quietly, should you even tell him to wash those blood stain? He doesn't seem to care.

Inspecting the new stitches one last time before pulling down your sweater. They were tight, clean, a reminder of his steady hands, though they left a faint, uncomfortable prickling sensation beneath the fabric. Logan perched by the windowsill, the soft glow from the moonlight outside casting a warm shadow across his face, lending a quiet stillness to the room.

Standing carefully, you felt the weight of lingering awkwardness. There was no reason to stay, no reason to let yourself get tangled up in his space any longer than necessary.

All of this, this wound, this time spent at his mercy, could’ve been avoided if you’d just ignored the sounds coming from his room earlier. A part of you wished you’d done just that, stayed in your own corner, kept your focus inward. But here you were. You picked up the half-empty bowl of blueberries, eyes drifting to him briefly.

“Thanks,” you muttered softly, not looking back as you turned toward the door.

Logan gave a small nod, his voice low, almost resigned. “You should rest.”

“I know,” you replied quietly, before stepping out. Closing his door behind leaving him and the thick, smoky air. Crossing the short distance to your room, you closed your door gently and set the bowl on your nightstand, then melted into the bed, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down. The collar pressed uncomfortably against your neck, a constant reminder that rest would be scarce tonight. You sighed, eyes tracing the ceiling as your body tried to settle, though the tight ache of tension lingered.

Meanwhile, Logan stood by the window, his gaze lost in the night sky as he took another drag of the cigar. The smoke drifted outward, mingling with the faint scent of antiseptic and the lingering trace of vanilla. Your presence hung thick in the room, an echo of moments both fleeting and unexpected. He found himself staring at his bloody hands, then the medical kit, its open lid and scattered supplies a strange, quiet reminder of you—your resilience, your stubborn refusal to back down.

A feeling twisted inside him, raw and unfamiliar. Something about you had begun to grow in his mind, a constant, persistent thought that clung to him no matter how much he tried to shake it off. It didn’t make sense, you two had only met two weeks ago, yet he could already recall the details of your presence in a way that both frustrated and intrigued him. The vanilla scent was etched into his senses, something that lingered even after you’d left, the scent of your soap, shampoo—probably even your perfume, he figured. Vanilla, sweet and subtle, weaving through the air as stubbornly as you.

He couldn’t deny it anymore, you were driving him crazy. Every instinct told him to let it go, to put some distance between the two of you. But your determined, relentless spirit was wearing at him, chipping away at walls he’d thought were firmly in place. He closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Whatever was growing inside him, you were a part of it, a force that tugged at his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to push you away.

With a final drag of his cigar, he stared out at the moonlight, each one sharp and unwavering against the night. And as the smoke drifted into the cool air, he realized that maybe, just maybe you had already rooted yourself somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit.

Part 6 ->

#logan howlett #x men #logan howlet x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x reader #xmen fanfiction

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gremlinmodetweeker · 12 hours ago

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Oh my goshhhhhh I just binged all of your eldrich König writing and I’m OBSESSED! I need to know everything, what does it mean that they’re the herald? How many realms are there? What are the geopolitical realities of an (unaligned?) military of summoners? Have summons always been a part of this world’s history?

His mom is the coolest and I love the way the eldrich remind me of Nyx and her many children the chorionic gods.

It’s killing me they haven’t banged it out yet. And if hes bedded other people how did he not know his dick is weird 👀 This konig isnt like others Ive read and I’m just loving the warm and fuzzies from him being such a thoughtful partner but like almost too well adjusted? Miss the pet names though… Can’t wait to read more 💖💯🙌🏻 thank you!

I want them to fuck but unfortunately, here we are. I am suffering so much. Alas, a slow burn must be stirred carefully.

Now! As to what the herald means? I can't say. As to how many realms there are? As many atoms as there are in the universe and then some. They're practically infinite. It just so happens that König comes from one only a couple of realms away. He's not so distant from us, which is part of what allows him to inhabit our reality. If he were too distant, his form wouldn't be able to be corporeal. It wouldn't be able to take shape, period. The farther away a realm is, the less control it has over ours, and likewise us to them.

As for summoners out of the military, summons are very common! Many people call upon summons to help with daily tasks. Some are just for washing dishes or clothes, some are to keep as company on lonely nights. The use of summons varies depending on the person. In this world, humans have dedicated themselves to learning about other realms and pursuing knowledge and arts. They value hard skills made by human hands, though usage of summons to make manufactured goods is still a staple. Some individuals are dedicated to finding more and more summons, others are dedicated to training summons. Humans live luxurious lives these days. After all, if you never have to worry about maintaining a home, what would you do with all the free time? Humans aren't always lazy. Many of us devolved to degeneracy, but those humans didn't last long and didn't produce many more. The ones who had an internal drive were the ones to really carry on having families and pursuing greatness. Though some people still fall through the cracks, humanity has prospered in the age of summons.

Have summons always been here? Not really. They were discovered in the early common era to the start of the industrial age. For this group of humans, the industrial age was the age of summons. The summoning age, if you will. This was what kick-started their technological revolution.

On a different note!

König's mother is a beautiful creature. I truly consider her as close to divine as mortals can bear witness to. I am in awe of her. She is genuinely a fascinating being. She loves her children, she loves life, but she's not a good being. She's the embodiment of chaos, a rung above König. She's as capable of good as she is of bad. I will say, she prefers to preserve life when possible. She likes life, she likes how chaotic it is. She wants to preserve our spontaneity.

She also is very careful about Summoner. She likes our chocolates, but she kinda knows that König and Summoner haven't actually started their relationship, contrary to what König thinks. However, she's certain that we will end up together, which is the main reason she doesn't snuff out our candle before it's been lit. Herald be damned, she doesn't care. If we hurt her baby boy she'll erase our bloodline from the entirety of existence. It's a damn good thing that Summoner eventually ends up with König!!!

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sixflame438 · 1 day ago

Text

What Is Love?

Synopsis - You are a renowned author known for writing great pieces but youve never written romance because you dont know what it feels like. Until one day you visit a bookstore and you meet a cute girl who makes you feel things.

Pairing - Huh Yunjin x Reader

Tags - Fluff, Artist!Yunjin, Writer!Reader, possible errors

A/N - Originally written on and for Yunjins bday (over a month ago). Was longer but this was finished already so ive cut it. Part 2 one day

Word Count - 3300

You couldnt write romance for shit. It was a well known fact in your fanbase and you were always victim to their teasing. As an author you were renowned for your talented abilities when it came to writing, always creating amazing pieces of work whether it was simple screenplay in hallmark movies or your own books that you drafted and published.

No matter the genre you wrote in, you were always praised and respected for what you wrote. Action, angst, fiction, science fiction, fantasy, fluff, horror. Just name the genre and you had probably written something in it before. All except for romance.

Youve had multiple questions from readers and critics alike grilling you to write romantic fluff for a change but you always evaded the questions to the best of your ability. It wasnt that you didnt want to write romance, in fact youd love to write some happy centric stories for a change but the problem was that you simply didnt know how to.

What was love? You didnt know the answer to that. Obviously you were well versed in platonic and parental love but not romantic love. Youve never been in a proper relationship, hell you dont think youve ever even had a crush before.

And sure youve had kissed a few times with other people but you never felt anything different afterwards. The fireworks when you kiss, the feelings of butterflies, the nervous stuttering of speech, the lingering burn when you brushed your hand against theirs. These were all just urban legends in your mind, always spoken about but never found.

You were convinced people were making it up, how could someone affect you so much by just existing? How was the mere thought of a crush enough to turn someone red? Why red? Is that why its the colour of love? You really couldnt wrap your head around the whole concept.

As a normal person would when writing, you would spend time researching your topic at hand to ensure youd write about it accurately and make sure the things you wrote were described correctly.

But no matter how long you spent studying articles and scientific thesis’s you just couldn’t understand anything. There were too many unknown variables and it seemed each relationship was different. Too many factors for you to bother with and the lack of experience really affected your take on the idea of love.

Of course you tried to put yourself out there, love was always a topic that required field research and experiencing first hand rather than second hand through papers and books, but that didnt mean it ever lead to anything.

There was a situation you were in once where to others it may seem you guys were totally going to get together and become official but it was completely one sided. The girl was obsessed with you, always trying to impress you the best she could in attempts to win you over but you never felt anything for her. If anything you felt a little confused and very sorry for her.

It was valiant dedication from her part you could acknowledge that but you just didnt understand why. Why did she want you to like her so much? Why didnt you feel anything romantic for her? And its not like you didnt want to not feel those feelings for her you just couldnt for some reason. She was cute, loyal and extremely friendly and caring. Textbook green flag. Would make for a perfect girlfriend, but apparently not for you. Maybe love just wasnt for you.

==============

As you step into the bookstore you feel at ease, a wave of calm exuded from the atmosphere within. You walk between aisles of wooden shelves, each stocked to the brim with every type of book you could ask for. The newest and latest, the old but classic, super specific and niche gaming guides, you name it the store probably had it.

Having already known what you were coming for you swiftly made your way to the section that displayed the newest releases of the month. [insert a book title] was the name of the book, written by yours truly as shown at the bottom with a nice little font that worked well with the cover page.

You weren’t an artist, didnt know any either so the covers were always a little plain but the material inside was good enough to negate that. Well you hope anyway because otherwise no one would buy your stuff and you’d just be another tired broke writer with a dream.

Was it a little conceited to be buying your own books? Maybe. But you had to boost sales somehow and its not like anyone else was gonna find out.

While you were gathering your items you noticed how quiet it actually was in the store, nothing but soft music could be heard in the background, it was the type with no lyrics, just pure instrumental talent. Was that a trumpet just now? You wouldn’t know you weren’t well versed in music.

It was weird though seeing no one else around you. Usually thered be a few people wondering around browsing whether that be alone or with their friends and there was always someone who would stand at the register and greet people who came in.

Was the store closed? Couldn’t be the lights were on and the door wasnt locked so there must be someone in here. Maybe theyre in the back you wonder to yourself as you bring your books to the register counter. Just as you were about to ring the bell you notice a small figure hunched over the counter behind the register.

The person had long straight light brown hair and with the way they were hovered over the counter it looked like they were taking a nap.

“Hello?”

Clearly started by your presence, the person looked up at you shocked, immediately pausing what they were doing. It was a girl that looked about your age and damn was she pretty. As the mystery girl stands up you notice she isnt as small as you originally thought she was, in fact if you had to guess you’d say shes about 12 centimetres taller than you give or take.

You watch on stunned by her beauty as she uses one hand to push her glasses up to their correct position on the bridge of her nose and the other waving around animatedly as she tried to explain herself.

“Oh im so sorry I didnt see or hear you come in, must’ve had my music on too loud again” She explains sheepishly while gesturing to the airpod in her left ear. When she doesnt get a reply from you she just stares back at you with a confused tilt of her head.

“Uh hello?” The girl says with a light wave in front of your face trying to get your attention, “are you there?”

“Oh right sorry” you finally reply, shaking your head slightly embarrassed as you realise you just zoned out staring at the girls face. “just wanted to get these please”

“Of course! Let me help you with that it wont be a minute” the girl says cheerfully

As your stack of books were getting processed you took the moment to fully take in the girl in front if you again. Hazel eyes, black frames, white and black lined shirt, wooden pencil, blue krabby patty bun?

“What were you drawing?”

“Oh im drawing a jellyfish” the girl replies proudly, picking up her sketchbook to show you her half finished drawing.

“Oh haha woops” you chuckle nervously as you scratch the back of your neck. “I thought it looked like a krabby patty”

“A krabby patty?!? Ill have you know this unfinished blob is NOT a krabby patty but a beautiful to be blue jellyfish” scoffs the employee who just finished packing up your books.

“Hey now its literally just a blue weirdly shaped circle what else was i supposed to think it was??”

“A jellyfish?”

“Nothing about that says jellyfish”

“Ugh i dont know im just offended you thought it was a krabby patty of all things”

“Does it not look like the shape of a top bun on a burger? And you drew it with a blue colouring pencil, there are no blue burgers that ive seen other than those weirdly coloured krabby patties from spongebob so of course thats what i thought, can you blame me?? It doesnt even have legs yet how am i supposed to know that it was meant to be a jellyfish??”

“So you think im a bad artist?” She says with pouted lips. You didnt understand how but your resolve weakened at the sight of that.

“Now hold on i never said that” you hurriedly rush out in a panic, trying to come up with a way to make the girl feel better.

“Hahaha no im just messing with you”

“Phew you had me worried” you sigh pretending to wipe of sweat of your forehead

“No but i promise im not actually a bad artist, here look through the book ive got better sketches in there which are done and so much better than the so called “krabby patty””

As you carefully flipped each page you took in all the doodles and drawings she had drawn, ranging from realistic environment sketches of mountains and rivers to drawings of people and animals. You also noticed the many many jellyfish scattered throughout the sketchbook.

“You have a thing for jellyfish or?”

“Oh i love jellyfish theyre my favorite animal”

“Thats seems pretty obvious”

“Yea i like drawing them, theyre easy and simple to sketch too! Just a blob for a head and some stringy legs. They also look so cute as well just floating along in the water”

Youre so cute is what you hear a little voice say in the back of your head.

“Whats this?” You ask showing its originator loose pages that you slipped out from the back of the sketchbook. They looked like they had been scrunched up in frustration due to the creases and tear marks on the page and possibly almost discarded.

“Oh uh dont worry about those theyre just some random ideas and concepts i had”

“Well theyre really cool” you comment as you bring attention to a page with a highly detailed sketch of a character you hadnt seen before.

“Did you come up with this yourself?”

“Yea those are my original designs. Ive always wanted to illustrate for books and things alike but i dont know any writers and im not good with words so its hard to come up with my own story” the girl shares and you dont miss the disappointed hopeless tone of her voice.

For some reason the ache in ur heart is back and you absolutely hate the feeling. Without even thinking you blurt out “I can help”. This causes aspiring artist to snap her head towards you, a hopeful yes tentative sparkle in her eyes.

“You can? How?”

As you finally register your words you quickly come up with an explanation, worthy of your previous statement. Mentally slapping yourself in the process for even offering your help. Why did you even agree? There wasnt much else you wanted to do other than buy the books and get out of the store.

“Well im an author myself and i could help you with the storyline of whatever your book would be about. I would just need some pointers on what you want it to be about and what the characters are like etc. Or we could work together and collaborate on something”

“WAIT YOU WOULD DO THAT FOR ME?”

“Mhm”

“OMG I LITERALLY LOVE YOU YOUR SO COOL FOR THAT THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU”

Hearing the phrase of endearment had your heart racing a little. To her it was just a throwaway term and you didnt even know this girl so what was this feeling? You watched a little amused as the girl dropped to her knees literally for you

“Ok calm down its not that big of a deal” You say turning your head away to hide the blush and how much that stupid action had affected you.

“Right sorry that was probably a bit much, but are you serious? Im not even that good it might turn into nothing”

“Yea im sure, and if nothing proper comes out of this well im sure ill still have a nice time getting to know you” You say beaming with confidence you didnt know you even had. Were you okay? Were you still in your own body? Since when were you so social / happy and straight forward?

“EEEEEEEEEKKK” the girl shrieked with pure unfiltered happiness, it was cute how excited she was and how her entire being seemed to be radiating with nothing but positivity. The hopeful look in her eyes that screamed gratitude and how one single phrase was enough to seemingly brighten her up like that, you never wanted that light to dim.

The girl recovers her composure and clears her throat.

“Im Yunjin” Your cashier says with an outstretched arm

“Yn, pleasure to meet your acquaintance” You say as you shake her hand, trying to keep professional.

Naturally your eyes travel down to your interlocked hands, it felt nice having it in yunjins. Hers were much bigger than yours and you could feel how soft and gentle her grip was, the warmth sending chills up your arm. Yunjin clears her throat again when she sees you zone out again and not letting go of her hand.

Embarrassed again you drop your grip and mentally curse yourself for being a fool and for holding her hand for the longer than acceptable time.

“Can I have your phone number?”

You dont know why but hearing that statement scared you a little, a prickly feeling that felt unsettling. Sensing your hesitance she quickly adds

“To contact you about you helping me with writing”

“Ah of course” You reply as nonchalantly as possible, trying to mask the embarrassment from almost misinterpreting her words. Theres a light blush over your face as you hand your phone over, hands slightly trembling when you brush against Yunjins.

It doesnt take long for her to make a new contact and when youre handed your phone back you notice ‘Yunjin 💕’ is what she saves herself as. Its almost like she knows the effect shes having on you and shes purposely playing with you.

Other than the foreign feelings you were feeling there was also a different kind of nervousness you were experiencing .   You had never worked with anyone else before. Its not that you didnt get offers but more that you didnt ever want to work with anyone. Many many talented people (artists and fellow writers alike) had come approaching you in the hopes of a collaboration piece but no matter how much experience or how famous they were you always turned the offers down, preferring your own silence and way of thinking.

It was weird, you were this amazing writer yet there was this indescribable feeling you couldn’t put into words that made you want to gravitate towards the girl. Maybe it was the comforting aura or her goofy personality you had started to see. Whatever it was it had to be big if it was leading you to make this kind of decision.

“So Ms Author what do you write? Do you even have published books?”

“I write childrens books” You say proudly

“Well i assumed thats the type of book you were referring too since your sketches look like they belong in some.” You comment causally with a shrug as if you didnt just diss her.

Wait that wasnt very nice you’ve hardly met this girl and yet youre already making backhanded jokes. Were you just that comfortable with her already to even say that or were you really just a bitch?

Yunjin sends you a glare and an angry pout as she turns her back to you with her arms crossed. You would’ve assumed you’d properly upset her if she didn’t break out into a fit of giggles a second later, wiping tears from her eyes as she turns back around.

“Damn you’re funny, I like you” She says while still laughing.

Then as if her emotions just turned off she pins you with a serious expression, her light tone replaced with a horrible attempt to sound grave

“Youre not serious though right cause you cant just come in here and insult my work”

“Yea im just fucking with you. You see those books?” You ask pointing towards the stack that you just purchased which were now neatly packed into a bag, ready for you to take. “Yea thats me” you finish, trying not to sound arrogant.

Yunjin looked at you in disbelief “You wrote that??!? So many people have come to get this ever since it dropped theres no way thats you, now youre really playing with me”

Not knowing what to say you just give her a small nod trying to remain unaffected as if it was information everyone knew but you couldnt help the little smile that creeps its way onto your face after hearing the praise.

“Shit so youre like famous famous….” Yunjin trails off as you can physically see the gears in her head turning, each furrow and blink signifying a new thought.

“Wait so people actually buy their own books? Can you not just get a free copy from the printing company or something? Why would you go out and buy one thats a waste of effort.”

“I do get a copy, I just like the feeling of buying something I actually made, its a nice feeling of satisfaction. Plus it boosts book sales”

“……is that not like cheating? Its smart, but it sounds wrong”

“Well im pretty sure im not the only one who does this” You say dismissively with a shrug.

“Huh guess you learn something new everyday” Yunjin replies as she slowly grasps the concept.

“Right here are your books you probably dont wanna be stuck here any longer, thatll be $57.94”

“Who says i wouldnt wanna be stuck here with someone as pretty and talented as you?” You reply cheekily as you lean on the counter to get closer to Yunjin.

Its funny seeing the blush rise from her face and you chuckle to yourself as you pull back from the counter to pay with your card.

Yunjin shakes her head lightly, getting out of her starstruck gaze and pushes the bag towards you. “Well here you go, thanks for shopping with us today and on a personal note thank you for offering your help. I really do appreciate it”

“Hey no worries Yunjin, itll be my first collab though so dont come at me if I disagree or do things weirdly”

“Haha dont worry, im quite excited either way”

“Oh me too. Im gonna go now but it was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah definitely” Yunjin says with a bright smile.

Youre waving as you leave and as your hand reaches for the door handle youre stopped by your cashier calling your name, turning to face her direction once again.

“Oh and yn?” Damn her saying your name felt nice. “Call me” she says with a wink and smirk.

You cant stop the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach but you turn back anyway and walk out as if you felt nothing.

Cruising down the street towards where your car was parked, you couldn’t help but be invigorated with this new feeling. It was hopeful, exciting and you couldn’t help thinking that this was going to be the start of something new.

#✰W - Works✰#huh yunjin #huh yunjin x reader #yunjin x reader #le sserafim fluff #le sserafim yunjin #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim

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