#just couldn't keep it to one post this time

[l-in-the-light]

This cultural mechanism of denying humanity of certain individuals (most often villains) has a name. Rene Girard wrote about it in his book called The Scapegoat. I tried finding ANY reblog of this post which actually mentions this, but despite scrolling through at least half of reblogs, I couldn't find it, which means even if someone did point it out then it still went pretty much unnoticed.

We all know who or what a scapegoat is. It's that thing or that person, the root of evil, the source of chaos, the troublemaker, the trickster disrupting the long established safety and order (which is, ofc, the ultimate good). If you only get rid of the problematic individual, everything will be okay again. That's how it works. But there's a problem with it. There's never one scapegoat. After one comes another, and another, and another, till you get hundreds and thousands of them and you can't fit them in one neat grave or prison anymore. They keep coming and there will be more and more of them, this will never stop, because it's a cycle. A cycle of violence. If you really want for "things to be okay", you need to break that cycle, instead of finding YET another scapegoat, yet another villain to bury for all of our sins. By sacrficing another villain, another victim, another scapegoat on the altar of society, you only support the cycle to keep on going.

Yes, you heard me right. Villains are scapegoats. But victims ARE scapegoats as well. Anyone we forcefully silence and refuse to give agency to is the scapegoat. The homeless, the LGBT, the mentally different, any disabled people etc. Anyone who fits into a very broad category of "otherness". But here's the catch. Because this category is so broad it's very easy to become that "other". That's why people are willing to go to extreme lengths just to make sure no one sees them as "other". They will deny their disabilities, they will deny they're not like those "others", they will even deny their own struggles, just to fit into the safe mold of "normal". And if you silence yourself just because you're afraid you might be the next one victimized or villainized, you're also a scapegoat, btw. Your inner life and self-consistency is the sacrifice on the altar of society that doesn't care if you actually have a heart. All it cares about is for you to make sure you're "normal", which has a very murky definition too. Who's normal? The one who acts like the majority of others? The one who has the applause? (applause can be shortlived and depends on trends, it's dangerous, you're dancing on the edge). Every time we see someone as the "other" we judge, we're scapegoating them. Yes, all of us, by succumbing to our fear of being judged, contribute to this mechanism. Otherwise the seams of the society might fall apart and we can all turn against each other, we can rip apart the system, they warn us of anarchy, you might get killed in the middle of the street, there will be no police to guard the order, no prisons to keep the bad eggs away from you. Stay quiet, endure, it's for the safety of all of us.

No one should have to carry that weight of the whole world on their own shoulders. Not like this. But we do, every single day.

We're all capable of being bad people and often are. But we also all want to believe we're good. People think if someone didn't get love there's a reason of why they didn't receive it. That belief didn't come out of nowhere. It's internalized violence and judgemental mentality. You prefer to doom someone else as long as it saves yourself from being doomed. You're not only hurting others with it, but YOURSELF as well in the process. You get rid of your true empathy for others, you decide whose pain or suffering is the one "worthy" of acceptance and which is not and needs to be condemned. You can't afford that empathy for anyone else than you after a while, after all you live in constant, silent fear of "being next" if you just stop for a moment and look too long at the scapegoats buried around you. And what you fail to see is that you're also a scapegoat. If we all accept each other and ourselves as "others", if we're all just different people and no one is normal anymore, will this finally break the cycle?

You want to feel like a good person? Of course, we all do. But you can't achieve that if you're too afraid to look into the abyss/mirror and realize you also do bad things. You also need to redeem yourself. You can do better, but it's not easy. You know what's easy instead? Finding a scapegoat and blaming them for their own misery. Literally requires no work, the world will applause you and all you need to do is repeat same words after others. The mechanism works like a perpetuum mobile at this point, it will mostly do this job for you. Just take a stand, deem the villains, blame the victims, ignore the struggles and pain of others.

But here's the catch. If you're too cold, you're also gonna be judged and called a psychopath. That's also a no-no, you're becoming the unacceptable "other" again. You have to show, in specific, allowed circumenstances, that you feel sorry for others. That you know how to choose the "right" side. That you understand "good" needs sacrfices and sometimes you're even expected to cry for them. And if you see those sacrfices as not-human "others", it's easier to accept it all.

Many people claim how scary it is to face certain truths, like "victims can turn into villains too", but the real truth no one wants to face is actually this: we allowed this to happen. We allowed the villains to be formed, all of us. Every time we engage in judgemental actions, every time we police someone dealing with their pain "in wrong way", every time we call someone "born evil". Every time we point a finger and call someone a villain, a victim, a barbarian, the other. By doing that we trap them in endless world of pain and suffering and abuse. They also want to be out of that cycle, but we keep trapping them, by silencing them and adding our own narrative on top. They suffer for our sins. Because they're our scapegoat, the sacrifice we made to keep on going, thinking how good this world is and how much worse it could have been, just look in the right places. Just don't look at the scapegoats too long. They corrupt. Maybe their otherness is even contagious, so stay as far away from them as possible.

You're allowed to be mad about this, btw. Anger is a neccessary emotion, it points at injustice done to you. But the society wants you to throw that emotion away and supress it, so you're tamed and silenced. It might even create a "safe space" to vent it out, by encouragig you into physical activities or taking part in some entertainment, so you can lose your steam in a way that doesn't challenge the system. It's a distraction. (the point here isn't to condemn sport or popculture btw, it just serves as an example, ok?)

All communities work like this. We're all trapped in endless cycle of violence. We bury endless scapegoats under our communities, they become our foundations. After all, nothing unites different people better than finding a common villain, it's us (the good) vs them (the evil). Wait, did I just say "different people"? But we're supposed to be all the same! No, that's a myth. We were all always different. We just have to choose who is "more different than others", so we can unite ourselves against them.

You know what that reminds me of? "We're all equal. But some are more equal than others". Animal farm was about power structures. By accepting easy scapegoats, by abiding to this mechanism, we support the power system that oppresses us. Think about it. Our civilisation is build on this and it would not thrive the way it did without the scapegoats.

And all of you blaming christianity for this instead, you need to understand one thing. What Jesus taught was actually the reverse of scapegoating. “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her”. This is literally Jesus telling people "you all have sinned, so why are you judging them if you don't judge yourself?". What you all mean by christian/puritanist beliefs is how christianity got distorted and institutionalized into a power abusing system called religion. Swallowed up by what it tried to fight against. Always identify the actual source of abuse, instead of doing more scapegoating. I'm in no way inclined to defend christianity (not in the form it exists now), but also if we keep on muddling the truth we will always make the same mistake, so, always dig deeper to avoid it. Thank you.

not to post even more Villains Discourse on main but it really bugs me how people read giving villains tragic backstories as inherently excusing their actions and/or demonizing trauma survivors.

the actual message of Tragic Villains is (almost) always “people who are never taught or given any healthy, constructive outlets for their emotions will often find unhealthy, destructive outlets.” it’s that people who are traumatized and never learn how to cope with that trauma can become a danger to themselves and others. the message isn’t “trauma makes you evil!!!!” or “genocide is okay if you’ve been sad before!!!!” it’s “people need compassion and help to recover from trauma instead of becoming increasingly angry and harming themselves and others in the process.”

this site takes an alarmingly behaviorist and punitive approach to everything and it’s literally the most annoying thing. y’all have this concept that “if we just punish people hard enough, if we just scare them enough, if we just make them feel guilty enough.” that people just Do Bad Things Because They Do Bad Things, I Guess, and Because We Didn’t Threaten Them And Shame Them Enough. but humans are an innately social species. at our very core, we need compassion and kindness. we need healthy relationships with other humans.

you can keep looking at traumatized villains and being like “haha this dumb pathetic sadboi thinks murder is okay because his parents died” but as a survivor myself, unaddressed/untreated trauma absolutely can make you ragey and destructive. i was lucky enough to have support and eventually get the treatment i needed. but it’s not hard at all for me to imagine how, if that hadn’t been the case, that could’ve been me. obviously not on a movie-villain scale like murder or war crimes, but it’s so irritating as someone whose trauma has always manifested as anger to watch people on this site be like “this is just bad writing!!! real survivors/good survivors don’t end up like that the writers just hate survivors and want the audience to condone murder!”

[zara-renata]

So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.

The river | ao3 | masterlist

It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.

Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)

Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me

Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)

Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!

Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭

Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.

Here you are. Again.

At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year. 

A long rope.

It’s the dark, this time of year. 

Maybe. 

You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.

Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.

The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.

Before everything.

Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth. 

You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now. 

They’re still kind. 

Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.

You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.

You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.

It’s not their fault. You did this.

You wanted this.

You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.

The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.

You think about how they never recovered a body.

Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.

You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.

You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.

You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it. 

You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.

You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.

Tears won’t bring a body back.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.

The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day. 

An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.

You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.

You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.

You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.

Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.

You could drown in them.

You look at the bridge.

You could drown in it all.

There’s no one left, after all.

Who will miss you?

You slow. Stop.

Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path. 

You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence. 

But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was  across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive. 

You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.

You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.

You wanted this.

The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.

You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.

You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.

The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.

There’s no one left to miss you.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.

Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.

You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.

You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.

You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.

You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.

Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets. 

You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.

You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.

You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.

A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.

You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.

The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.

Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.

But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.

Even now, the tears won’t come.

What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.

Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.

You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago? 

Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?

Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.

You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.

In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.

No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.

You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath. 

It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.

You’ve always had dreams of flying. 

You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.

You only have one hope.

I don’t want to be reborn.

You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.

You let yourself fall.

You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.

You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.

Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.

You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.

You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.

You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.

You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.

His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.

His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.

He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.

He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.

You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.

You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.

You don’t want to feel this much anymore.

If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.

Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.

You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.

This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.

You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.

He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil. 

Sylus.

Eventually, you tire yourself out—despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.

It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.

He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”

You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.

Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?

He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.

When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.

When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.

No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.

You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.

When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.

He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.

You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.

Tonight, you are now fully convinced.

“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”

You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.

“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”

“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.

He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”

You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”

You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen. 

“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”

You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard. 

But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free. 

But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.

You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.

You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own. 

Not a burden. 

Never a fucking burden. 

You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.

He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.

“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”

Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die���he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.

You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.

He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.

Then there’s something wrong with her.

You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.

But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it. 

You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.

“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.

You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.

“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”

You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”

“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”

Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.

You don’t expect an answer.

And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.

The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.

Of course. Of course.

No tool is irreplaceable.

You’re not irreplaceable.

You finally said the right thing, to push him away.

This is it. This is it. This is it. 

Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.

You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose. 

Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.

You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—

Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?

Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.

And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.

You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has. 

But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.

You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.

“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.

He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.

“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.

“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

You smile at him. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing. 

Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.

“Good luck, Sylus.”

You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter. 

You hope you won’t be reborn.

“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.

You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.

“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”

You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”

He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”

You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.

You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”

“What else?”

You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”

He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”

So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”

He stares at you. 

You prod him. “Is that enough?”

“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”

You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”

You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.

“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”

You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”

He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”

Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?

He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”

“What?”

He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”

You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”

He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?

“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”

“You… what?” 

“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.

You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”

He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.

He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.

“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.

“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”

You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.

His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”

You don’t know what to say. 

I’m desperate for you tonight.

You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.

You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.

Because of your resonance?

I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.

He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.

You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.

You didn’t think anyone was left to care.

You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.

You just were so tired of bleeding with it.

As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.

He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.

He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.

“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”

His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.

“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.

You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”

In this life.

Anymore.

You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.

“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”

He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”

You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.

You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.

You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.

You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.

“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”

You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”

“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.

You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.

It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”

“I’m scared,” you say.

His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”

You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky. 

But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.

“You’ll really stay?”

He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”

You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.

And I will not survive if you aren’t here with me.

You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?

Does it matter? 

It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.

You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.

You don’t hear its splash over the wind.

You turn back to Sylus.

He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”

You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.

You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.

He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”

You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”

He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”

You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”

You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.

“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you.  “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”

Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.

He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.

In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.

He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.

He pulls you further into your place.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.

The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.

Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.

Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.

It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.

I made my baby cry

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

Now I've gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”

You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge. 

You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.

What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?

You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.

You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree. 

I made my baby cry

You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.

You start to shake.

“Kitten?”

“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”

You nod, moving away from him, but he follows. 

Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”

You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”

He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.

He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.

You shiver.

He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.

He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.

You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?

What have you been fighting, this whole time? 

Just yourself. 

You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.

You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.

You stop shaking.

Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.

He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.

You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.

As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom. 

You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.

You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.

Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

Letters, a question.

Do you like me? Circle yes or no

Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.

You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.

love

He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.

He watches your reaction in the mirror.

You had no idea.

This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.

You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”

He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.

“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”

Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.

You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”

Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”

You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.

He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.

You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.

He bites harder.

You gasp.

“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.

He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.

You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?

You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.

You almost died tonight.

What have you been fighting this whole time?

Just yourself. 

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.

“You love me?”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”

“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.

He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”

“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.

He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”

His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.

You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.

But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.

You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.

After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”

“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.

He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”

“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing. 

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering. 

But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.

You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.

He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”

You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”

He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.

You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it. 

He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.

You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.

You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.

Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.

He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you. 

You smile at him. 

He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.

“Can we do that again?” you ask.

He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”

“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.

“Now?” He’s surprised again.

“Problem?” you grin at him. 

“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.

He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.

“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.

“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do. 

“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again. 

In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.

You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.

It’s Christmas.

Caleb and your grandmother are dead. 

But you’re still alive.

Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.

You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.

You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.

We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.

Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.

“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”

“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.

You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.

You hug him, look up into his face.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree. 

You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly. 

You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.

You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.

You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.

From Tara.

Xavier.

Your eyes widen.

Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.

Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.

Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.

None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year’s.

You turn to Sylus.

He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.

Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck. 

This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.

Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.

“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”

You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.

A thought occurs to you.

“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”

Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”

He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”

You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”

He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.

Here you are. Again.

You’re so grateful, to be here, again.

[toriisonadiet]

january lock in plan ᓚᘏᗢ

tw: €d

post under the cut

2025 LOCK IN TIME!!!

so you're looking to lock in this january... igu. this is a pretty typical month except for the power week, i've never tried it but i'm excited to!

GENERAL RULES:

drink a full glass of water before eating and brush your teeth when you crave!

take this with a grain of salt, you are on €dblr! if you feel ill please discontinue!

no specific rules against what you can/can't eat, just suggestions!

sleep when you need to! drink plenty of water!

take a multivitamin daily and a form of electrolytes (esp if you py*rge!)

have fun and gl!

ROUTINE

routine weeks will be your typical r€strict, workout, f4sting week. these are flexible, but it's VERY important to come up with a routine, as it helps keep you in rythym.

RULES:

avoid fried foods, sweets, sodium bombs, fast foods, and heavily processed foods.

try fresh fruits, salads, rice cakes, protein shakes, breads, and cheese instead!

at least 64 fl oz water daily

stay between 600 and 900 c@1s

fast DAILY, bare minimum 16:8, but strive for 18:6 or 20:4 (you burn fat after 14 hrs)

plate your food! do not eat from bags, cut up your fruit, and weigh EVERYTHING. sometimes nutrition label estimations are incorrect, so always look for how many GRAMS are in a serving!

get at least 6k steps daily

excercise 3x a week, at least 45 mins

try to drink tea daily!

my favs:

10 min everyday ab pilates

10 min everyday full body pilates

20 min full body pilates

30 min full body pilates

30 min full body advanced pilates

lidia mera is my queen if you couldn't tell...

POWER WEEK

this is a bit challenging esp if you're new to 4n@, but don't be discouraged! you got it! this is not sustainable, which is why it's js for one week, but try and challenge yourself this 2025! this is high res low workout, you may feel week, so ofc listen to your body and theres no shame in stopping if you're too sick. afterall you cant be skinny if you're d3ad! this is a weeklong shred, and it will be hard, but expect to lose a good amnt from this!

RULES:

lock in on f4sting. if you did routine week you should have a good schedule going, and if you can bump it up to 18:6 or 20:4 if you haven't already.

10k steps DAILY

500 c@1s limit, 2k steps extra per every 100 c@1s you go over

at least 64 fl oz daily

8 hrs of sleep daily

20 mins of pilates DAILY (10 min abs + 10 min full body) + stretching!

2 days this week fast for 24 hrs (working out is optional, 10k steps still required)

self care will be very important this week! if you're tired, nap!

RECOVERY WEEK

this week is to recover and refresh from last week bc odds are you're probably fainting every hour! this week will be light, but if you made it through that hell of a week, you DEFINETELY deserve it. this week we are focusing on maintaining or losing slowly!

if you are on 20:4 you can bump it down to 18:6, but try to keep it on 18:6!

RULES:

1000 c@1 limit (its around 1500 to maintain, so you can be flexible depending on what goals you have!)

8k steps daily

at least 64 fl oz water daily

8 hours of sleep every night

exercise 20-40 mins 3x a week. keep it low impact! (this can even include js stretching if you're tired)

drink tea 2x a day!

goodluck and be safe my lovely dolls ✧˖*°࿐

if you guys wanna update me on how its okay PLS DO SO!! i'd love to see you guys try this out! i'll be posting my progress with this. i love u guys 🫶🏼

TAGLIST:

@urfavgothbtxh @opheliacbitch @idfkimjustheretoreadsmut @psych0itgirl @sc4rletblush @theonlywayisthesk1nn1way @lollolo1234 @st-4-rving-girl @gwennspider @strvng-angel @fkyoi @dietcokeandst4rv1ng @skinnicokewhore @needtocorpse @private-vampire @one-apple-a-day @tinydancingstars @starving4perfectionn @jenscalx @obeseswan @eriahs-sadstory @incokezerowetrust @cauffl @jinx-stays @skyblueskin333 @auroryborealisss

[angiethewitch]

things I did thinking I was being spiritual but it was actually a severe psychotic episode

to preface i am a pagan but let's be honest here this was straight up a mental health crisis

okay let's go

convinced myself there was a very angry poltergeist in my loft after I found out there was an old bed frame up there and it needed my help to move on but instead I threw salt up there and refused to let anyone walk underneath the loft opening

decided I had mastered the art of astral projection and I was travelling to astral planes and I could fly around the world while I was actually just lying there vividly hallucinating

straight up told people that my spiritual guides were gonna kill them like how did I expect them to do anything but laugh in my face

blood magic. like really dangerous stuff. thought I could bring my dead mother back to life by exchanging my life force for her own. hello?

vividly hallucinated my dead mother talking to me and fully believed she was a trapped spirit but nobody else could hear her and it was up to me to save her. all through her funeral she talked to me, she spoke to me for months. took me nearly a year to start dealing with her death and actually begin the grieving process

decided my husband was cursed and made him stand in the kitchen while I walked in a circle around him boiling herbs. poor bloke has dealt with so much

became convinced if I could just cast the right glamour spell at the right time I could breathe underwater and tested this out in the ocean like a very normal and sane individual

thought the wind was actually terrible forces speaking to me and delivering messages just for me so I became terrified of wind because I would have to sit outside and decipher the words that were clearly just for me

sewed a load of crystals onto a t shirt to protect myself from bad energies and called myself "the high priestess" and got very upset when people couldn't understand my power

understood that my cat was not actually a cat and was in fact the spirit of a 2500 year old druid priest sent to guide me in the form of a cat. Still called him Jinx though

started a journal where I detailed all the signs that the end of the world was coming

Read online that the colour red means angry so I desperately avoided the colour red because that meant the world was angry with me

tried to summon satan to terrorise my neighbour who was mean to me and fully believed it would work

decided I was immortal and imbued with the powers of ancient gods which led to some very risky and dangerous situations which I will obviously not detail here

there are many more examples but these are the most ridiculous ones

if you followed me for the witchcraft posts, im sorry. ive had to take a step back from it all for the sake of my own mental wellbeing. spirituality is a huge trigger for me. I tried practicing in moderation, I tried practicing just a little, but it is too much now. I had to unfollow a lot of witchcraft blogs because 1) they all seemed to collectively devolve into conspiracy theories and 2) i had to remove myself from the online witchcraft space. if you were wondering why I don't post about witchcraft anymore, this is why. I barely practice anymore, and when I do, I keep it private so im not encouraged by online validation.

please practice safely. always consider the mundane explanations first.

[just-an-enby-lemon]

I'll try to be nice and polite about it because I really think you are coming from a good place: but the thing is you are just wrong.

At least based on my perspective as part of the Latam, all the factors you mentioned were struggles for you and others from the US to learn foreing languages happened here. The difference is that the average brazilian with no classes till maybe high school, the idea learning english is hard and boring and no incitive whastover still needs to know english to get okay-ish jobs, to study in certain academic fields, even to just deal with rude turists in some places. English is more and more becaming a skill that is unacessible but we still HAVE to get.

And this is by design. Is a way to keep us in our place, if we don't understand your language the oportunities created by the US egemony are closed to us and that makes less likely for people from Latin America, specially poor and native people, to get even remotedly close to an even playing field.

The problem isn't simply that you guys don't know our languages is that not knowing our languages means nothing. Doors aren't closed to you the same way they are to us. In that way the biggest problem is that we are forced to know yours.

In Brazil in theory we learn english starting at middle school. When I went to school it was starting when we were eleven. If you ever went to an english class in most public schools or even rural private schools you know that's not really how it works. We spend ten years on the "to be" verb. English was the grade people did because it was easy since we didn't actually had to do shit. The very marjority of people I know don't know english and all the ones I know that do did not learn it from school. But all of them feel like they have to.

In a more personal level I love english, I always loved languages and I would have loved to have learned english at school for fun.

But I learned english because my parents begged from relatives and took extra hours at work to give me some classes and the classes didn't even work as much as I noticed how hard it was for them and had to find ways to make it work for me. And my parents did all that because my cousin failed a bunch of job interviews for not knowing english. They did that because according to them "knowing english was becaming less a skill that helped someone in getting a great job and more a skill you needed to have to get most jobs." Neither of my parents speak english. But they did their best so me and my brother could (mostly via making me teach my brother cause they couldn't pay lessons for the both of us).

I had none of that to help me learn spanish nor italian nor any language I would love to learn for fun if I had the time.

I didn't learn english because it was fun. My brother hates languages. He still learned english after painfull horrible lessons that made me give up on my dreams of ever being a teacher.

The problems are way deeper than your shitty educacional system and it angers people like us because we had all the same problems and were forced to learn your language anyway only to see someone go "well we never had the chance" when neither did we. And I understand that not being incentivized to learn sucks, we didn't either, but the problem is way deeper. They don't want us to learn your language. They want us to have to but fail so that can be used as a justification to deny us oportunities. Is why imigrant characthers with broken english are still a joke on your media.

And this is what this post and this conversation is about. Not knowing other languages might be a result of bad education, might even be by design. But not HAVING to DESPITE the lack of everything is a privilege. And this is the point.

I rarely bring this up because it feels like fairly silly and low-stakes compared to all the other effects of american imperialism, but one of the funniest things when Americans deny that living in the imperial core and the center of global cultural hegemony confers them any sort of privilege over people from the imperial periphery is that like. In order for this conversation where you tell me you have no privilege over me to even be able to take place one of us had to learn the other's language, and it wasn't you.

I think the fact that by default the onus of learning the other's language to enable communication is always put on the other side is a pretty significant privilege on the cultural front.

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (14.1/15) - Part I

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @a-moment-captured, @boujiestpoet, @avngrsfangirl, @cocobutterqwueen @yeea-nah @alika-4466 @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @saturnville @weetjy @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @niahxo @purplelewlew @f1-football-fiend @imjustheretomanifest @gg-trini @kinggbl @iamryani @mitruscity @nichmeddar @xoscar03 @eugene-emt-roe @cherry2stems @louvrepool @tremendousstarlighttragedy @ggaslyp1 @lewisroscoelove

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. This chapter is a bit shorter for the plot. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 14.1: Silverstone Baby

Monaco's summer heat made Rorie's growing bump feel even more pronounced as they entered Dr. Dubois's office. At sixteen weeks, her petite frame couldn't hide the pregnancy much longer - oversized shirts and blouses had become her wardrobe staple.

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind since The Sun's public apology and retraction. Social media had exploded with support after the karting charity race in Austria. "This is what journalism should focus on!" one viral tweet read, accompanied by photos of the junior racers in their miniature suits. "Lewis Hamilton's son has his racing lines DOWN" another proclaimed, with side-by-side comparisons of father and son's driving styles.

The racing community had rallied around them, the paddock's usual politics temporarily forgotten in the face of watching their children race. Even the typically cynical F1 journalists had nothing but praise for the event, particularly after learning the cancelled practice session had been Stefano Domenicali's idea.

"Getting winded already?" Lewis asked softly as Rorie paused in the lobby of Dr. Dubois's office, Dr. Chen's trusted colleague in Monaco.

"Your child's pressing on everything," Rorie replied, adjusting her flowing top. "Between this and keeping up with our son..."

Lyric, ever curious, explored the waiting room with enthusiasm. "Mama sick again?"

"No, baby. Just tired." She settled into a chair, grateful for the air conditioning. "The Sun's apology bought us some time, but people will start noticing soon. That video of me at the karting race had some comments already."

Lewis nodded, pulling Lyric onto his lap. "Post-Silverstone party will be perfect timing. Everyone together for your birthday and Lyric's..."

"And Baby LH squared's debut," Rorie finished, rubbing her bump. "At least Dr. Chen's referral worked out - I wasn't looking forward to flying back to Los Angeles every few weeks."

Dr. Dubois welcomed them warmly. "Ah, the Hamiltons! Angela's told me so much about you. And who's this young man?"

"I'm Lyric!" he announced proudly. "I race now!"

"Oh yes, I saw the videos," Dr. Dubois smiled. "Second place - very impressive! Would you like to help me today? We're going to look at pictures of your baby brother or sister. Sarah and Angela mentioned you're about sixteen weeks now?"

"Yes," Rorie confirmed as she settled onto the exam table. "Angela said you've worked together for years?"

"Since our residency," Dr. Dubois smiled, preparing the ultrasound. "She called me personally about your case. Now, let's see this little one."

The ultrasound screen flickered to life, and Dr. Dubois began the examination. Lyric pressed closer to Lewis, fascinated by the images.

"There we are..." She pointed to the screen. "Look, Lyric - the baby's sucking its thumb!"

"Baby tiny," Lyric observed, his nose almost touching the monitor.

"Not so tiny anymore," Dr. Dubois smiled. "About the size of an avocado now. Let's see if we can determine the sex..." She pressed the wand against Rorie's belly, but the baby seemed determined to maintain its privacy. "Stubborn little one. Let me try something Angela taught me..." Her hands gently pressed around Rorie's bump, encouraging the baby to shift position. "Ah, there we go! Congratulations - you're having a girl!"

Lewis's face split into a triumphant grin. "I knew it!" He bent to kiss Rorie's belly, then her lips. "Told you, love."

"Finally a girl dad, eh?" Dr. Dubois chuckled.

Lewis couldn't contain his happiness. "Lyric, you're going to have a sister!"

Lyric considered this news carefully. "Like L’waura?"

"Yes, like Laura," Rorie laughed, thinking of how the two had become even more inseparable since the karting race. "Would you like that?"

"Name her L’waura?" Lyric asked hopefully.

"We'll add it to the list," Lewis promised, catching Rorie's amused look. They both knew Laura would remain just Lyric's friend rather than his sister's name.

Dr. Dubois printed several ultrasound photos, including one of their daughter still sucking her thumb. "She's perfect," she assured them. "Strong heartbeat, good size - though Mama might feel a bit cramped soon with such a tiny frame."

"Already do," Rorie admitted, accepting Lewis's help to sit up. "Worth it though."

As they left the office, Lyric holding tight to the ultrasound picture of his sister, Rorie leaned into Lewis's side. "A girl," she whispered.

"A girl," he repeated, voice full of wonder. "Think she'll let us sleep more than this one did?"

"Hamilton genes?" Rorie laughed. "Not a chance."

"I believe you owe me dinner. I won our bet," Lewis grinned.

"You're insufferable when you're right," Rorie groaned good-naturedly.

"Ice cream?" Lyric piped up hopefully.

Lewis scooped him up. "Of course - we're celebrating your sister after all."

The Silverstone fanzone vibrated with energy as Lewis stepped onto the stage. The British crowd's roar was deafening as he climbed the steps alongside George Russell, both Mercedes drivers grinning at their home fans. Flags waved in the sea of people - Union Jacks mixed with Mercedes silver and Lewis's purple personal flag.

"Lewis, George - what an incredible turnout!" The interviewer shouted over the crowd. "Your home race always brings out the fans, but this feels special today."

"It really does," George agreed, waving to a group from King's Lynn. "Nothing like racing at home."

"Lewis, we see quite the family gathering here for you?"

"Yeah, got everyone here today," Lewis beamed. "My mum, dad, stepmum Linda, my sisters Nicola and Sam, my brother Nicolas, all the nieces and nephews. And of course, my wife and Lyric."

The crowd erupted at the mention of his son's name, many holding up signs referencing his karting race performance.

"Like Father, Like Son!" read one sign.

"Lyric Hamilton 2040 WDC!" proclaimed another.

"Speaking of Lyric," the interviewer jumped in, "that was quite the showing in Austria. Any thoughts on Mercedes 2040 - Hamilton and Wolff junior lineup?"

Lewis chuckled at the interviewer's suggestion about Lyric's future F1 career, shaking his head. "He's not even two yet!" His smile was warm but firm. "If he wants to race when he's older, I'll support him completely. But no pressure - he needs to find his own path, his own passions. The karting race was for charity and fun. Let him be a kid first."

The crowd's appreciation for his answer was evident in their cheers. George nodded in agreement. "Though I have to say," he added with a grin, "his racing lines were pretty impressive for a toddler."

"Takes after his dad," the interviewer laughed. "Speaking of racing today, both of you qualified strongly. Lewis, P2 - your best qualifying this season. How are you feeling about the race?"

"I feel good. I'm ready."

The pre-race preparation felt different today. Maybe it was having his entire family present, or maybe it was something more - a feeling in the air.

The formation lap. Grid position. Five red lights.

Lights out.

Lewis got a perfect start, challenging Max into Turn 1. The Red Bull defended, but Lewis stayed close, waiting. The Mercedes had shown strong race pace all weekend.

Lap after lap, he maintained the pressure. The pit stops came and went, the gap remaining constant. Then, on lap 48, a chance - Max went slightly wide at Copse.

Lewis pounced, taking the inside line. This time, unlike 2021, there was no contact. Clean, precise, perfect. The crowd roared as he took the lead.

"Great move, Lewis," Bono's voice crackled over the radio. "Twelve laps to go, let's bring this home."

Those final laps felt eternal. Each corner, each straight stretched impossibly long. But the checkered flag finally flew, and Lewis Hamilton crossed the line first at Silverstone once again.

"YES!" His victory radio message was pure emotion. "Thank you everyone! We're back!"

The cooldown lap was a blur of waving to the crowds, his heart pounding with joy. In parc fermé, his father reached him first, wrapping him in a tight embrace. His mother was next, tears streaming down her face.

Then Rorie, beautiful and radiant. He hugged her carefully, wanting nothing more than to acknowledge their daughter too, but knowing they had to wait just a little longer. Lyric bounced in his uncle Nicolas's arms, cheering "Dada win! Dada win!"

The podium celebration was electric, the British crowd singing "God Save the King" at full volume. Lewis pointed to the sky, then to his family below. Nine hundred and forty-five days made this moment even sweeter.

Later, on the fanzone stage again, trophy in hand and surrounded by his family, Lewis felt complete. The Mercedes crew joined them, Toto pulling him into a bear hug.

"Worth the wait," Toto said simply.

"Abso-fuckin'-lutely," Lewis replied, catching Rorie's eye. He made his way to his wife once more, pulling her into a passionate kiss that caused everyone to hoot and holler, even Roscoe had something to say and let out a few howls.

When they finally broke apart, both cheesing so hard like Cheshire cats, Lewis leaned close to her ear to say: "I’m going to tear your ass up later, Mrs. Hamilton. Might fuck ‘round and have twins."

And with that, he gave her his usual panty-melting smirk and a wink for added effect while Rorie just shook her head in mock annoyance.

Leave it to her husband for always thinking about sex. Even after winning his first Grand Prix after 945 days.

"Down, boy."

"Never."

______________________________________________

The London summer evening painted their garden in warm golden light as Rorie surveyed the preparations she'd been directing since dawn. Fairy lights twinkled between oak trees, their subtle glow ready for when dusk would settle. White linen-covered tables dotted the lawn, decorated with fresh peonies and hydrangeas - her favorites mixed with the bright colors Lyric had insisted on.

"The bounce house goes there," she directed, pointing to a clear space near the children's area. "Lyric will riot if he doesn't have somewhere to burn energy with Jack and the others."

Lewis appeared behind her, hands settling on her shoulders. "You should rest. You've been at this since five AM."

"Can't rest. Your mother's coming, and you know she notices everything."

"Pretty sure she already suspects," Lewis chuckled. "You've been wearing my shirts for weeks."

The first guests arrived precisely at four - the Magnussens, always punctual, with their children immediately making a beeline for the bounce house. Louise hugged Rorie carefully, a knowing look in her eyes. "You're glowing," she whispered.

Susie and Jack Wolff weren't far behind, Jack proudly clutching his recent karting trophy. "Look what I won!" he announced to anyone within earshot.

"Good job, Jack!" Rorie praised, though her eyes were on Susie, who was studying Rorie with growing suspicion.

Miles and Spinz had commandeered the music setup, their friendly bickering carrying across the garden.

"Mate, you cannot play that at a kid's party," Miles protested.

"It's a clean version!"

"It's still about–"

"Boys," KiKi interrupted, hugging Rorie. "Let's keep it family-friendly. Need any help, Ror?"

"Just keep me from losing my mind," Rorie laughed.

Timothy wandered the garden, camera in hand, capturing candid moments: Anthony telling racing stories to an enraptured audience, Carmen and Marian deep in grandmother mode and comparing notes about their existing grandchildren, and Lyric leading a pack of children to chase Roscoe, who seemed delighted by the attention.

"He's such a little menace," Hailey observed from her seat, one hand resting on her own visible pregnancy.

Justin nodded, watching the children play. "He's going to run the playground."

Rorie's sister Aaliyah arrived with an armful of presents, her eyes narrowing at how Rorie's oxford shirt draped. "Something's different about you…"

"Help me with the cupcakes?" Rorie deflected, leading her sister toward the kitchen.

As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the garden, Lewis stood and tapped his glass with a spoon. The chatter gradually quieted.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate Rorie and Lyric's birthdays," he began, his voice warm with emotion. "The past few years have blessed us beyond measure. But…" he paused, eyes finding Rorie's, "we have one more surprise."

Rorie stood beside him, fingers working at her oxford shirt buttons. As the fabric fell open around her sixteen-week bump, Marian's screech pierced the evening air.

"Thank you Jesus!" She rushed to embrace her daughter, tears flowing freely. "My baby's having another baby!"

The garden erupted in celebration. Carmen and Anthony enveloped Lewis in a tight hug while Linda wiped tears from her eyes. Nicolas kept repeating, "I knew it! I knew something was different!"

When the initial excitement began to settle, Rorie cleared her throat. On cue, waiters appeared with cupcakes decorated with either "2" or "31".

"On three," she announced, eyes sparkling, "everyone take a bite."

"One…" Lewis began, arm around her waist. "Two…" Rorie continued, hand on her bump. "Three!" Lyric shouted, chocolate already smeared on his chin.

Pink filling revealed itself as everyone bit down.

"It's a girl!" the Hamilton family announced together.

Miles dissolved into tears, surprising no one. "You lot are too good at this, bruv. First the karting race, now this…"

"Our kids are going to be best friends," Hailey laughed, embracing Rorie.

"Another girl for the gang," Louise grinned. "Laura will be thrilled."

Under the fairy lights, surrounded by family and friends, their precious secret was finally, joyfully out. Lyric tugged on Lewis's shirt, pointing to his mother's bump. "Sister in there," he announced proudly. "I help teach racing."

Lewis scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Yes, you will, big man. Yes, you will."

The Hungarian paddock settled under overcast skies, a stark contrast to the warmth that had flooded Lewis's social media since their announcement. Rorie's photos, captured by Huy in New York, had taken over Instagram - stunning shots of her in a flowing black designer dress, the Manhattan skyline creating a dramatic backdrop. Her elegant silhouette highlighted the gentle curve of her bump, the high-fashion aesthetic pure Rorie. Huy's caption had been beautifully cryptic: "Baby LH-squared coming soon… 💙💗"

The fashion blogs that would normally be dissecting his new Dior ambassadorship and upcoming African-inspired ski resort collection were instead filled with screenshots of the announcement. "Lewis Hamilton: Seven-Time World Champion, Fashion Designer, and Soon-to-be Double Dad!" read one headline.

Social media was ablaze with speculation: "The way she's styled that bump! 😍" "Team boy! Lyric needs a brother!" "Nah, it's definitely a girl - look at how she's carrying" "First the Silverstone win, now this - what a summer for the Hamiltons!" "Anyone else notice the blue tights she’s wearing? 👀 #TeamBoy!"

"Any hints about what it is?" The questions and congratulations came from every direction as Lewis made his way through the paddock. Team principals, mechanics, catering staff - everyone had theories. His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since Rorie's post went live, the Dior announcement almost completely overshadowed by impending parenthood.

"Another little champion!" Fred Vasseur called out and enveloped him in a quick hug. "Do you guys know what the baby is?"

"I can’t tell you, Fred. Sorry," laughed Lewis as Fred pouted like a child.

"I won’t tell anyone. Not even my wife."

"Sorry, no can do. Rorie’ll kill me." And with that, he pantomimed his lips shut and continued on his way as Fred muttered a few grumbled curses in French.

The Mercedes garage buzzed with extra energy. Toto had already ordered two tiny race suits - one pink, one blue, and conspiratorially push the pink one closer to him. "We'll save the other for next time," he'd joked with a wink.

Charles Leclerc then stopped by the Mercedes garage. "Another racing Hamilton," he grinned. "Boy or girl?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Lewis replied smoothly, though keeping their secret made him want to burst.

"The Dior collection's looking amazing," Naomi Campbell had texted him a bit later. "But more importantly - any hints about baby? You know I need to start shopping! 👶🏽"

As qualifying approached, the congratulations and questions continued. Even the Sky Sports crew led with baby speculation before asking about track conditions.

The overcast sky threatened rain as Lewis prepared for qualifying, but his mood remained bright. Between Silverstone's victory, the pregnancy announcement, and yes, the Dior partnership, everything felt aligned.

His PR team had already fielded calls from every major outlet, all wanting exclusive details about the pregnancy. They'd stuck to their plan - minimal information, maximum privacy. After everything with The Sun, they were taking no chances.

"Focus time," Bono reminded him as he climbed into the car.

But even as he centered himself for qualifying, Lewis couldn't help but smile. Fashion collections could wait. Championships would come and go. Right now, his growing family was the only headline that mattered - even if everyone else was still guessing what color to buy.

The clouds grew heavier as qualifying approached. Weather radar suggested rain might hold off until Q2, but nothing was certain. Just like all the gender predictions flooding social media.

"Ready?" Bono asked, appearing with his race notes.

Lewis nodded, feeling centered despite the buzz around him. The Mercedes felt good under him during practice. Maybe today would bring another celebration to add to their summer of joy. Either way, as he prepared to head out for Q1, Lewis felt complete. His career was soaring, his fashion dreams were becoming reality, and most importantly, his family was growing.

The season still had plenty of racing ahead, the Dior collection would launch in due time, but right now, sitting in his car and listening to the familiar pre-qualifying radio checks, Lewis was simply a man looking forward to the future - all while keeping the sweetest secret tucked safely away.

"Track is clear," Bono's voice came through the radio. "Let's make this one count."

Lewis pulled out of the garage, ready to give the crowd something else to talk about besides baby predictions. Though he had to admit - watching the world try to guess what they already knew made every lap just a little bit sweeter.

_______________________________________________

Aaron lounged in one of the deck chairs on his brother's sprawling South Carolina property, watching Azariah tend to the grill. The smell of barbecue filled the warm evening air, punctuated by the distant sounds of Azariah's kids playing in the yard.

"You were wrong for that," Azariah said suddenly, not looking up from the grill. "What you said to Rorie in Barcelona."

Aaron scoffed, taking a swig of his beer. "Man, why you still on that?"

"Because you were out of line." Azariah's voice was firm but calm, the same tone he'd used to keep Aaron in check since they were kids. "And you know it."

"Whatever," Aaron muttered.

Azariah finally turned to face his younger brother. "You're mad at Dad. I get it. We all are. But Rorie? She didn't ask for any of this."

"She got the good life though, didn't she?" Aaron's voice was bitter. "Living it up with her Formula 1 champion husband while we—"

"While we what?" Azariah cut in. "Got private school education? Trust funds? Come on, man. You sound stupid right now."

Aaron fell silent, his jaw working as he stared out at the perfectly manicured lawn.

"You know what I see when I look at Rorie?" Azariah continued, flipping a burger. "I see a woman who grew up without her father. The only difference is she had no idea who he was."

"She knew," Aaron argued weakly.

"A name," Azariah corrected. "She had a name. That's it. No Christmas presents, no graduation appearances, no father-daughter dances. Nothing."

Aaron shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"So check yourself," Azariah concluded. "Your beef is with Dad. Don't put that on her."

As the sun set over the property, Aaron sat with his brother's words simmering in his mind. Azariah's wife, Michelle, came out with a plate of cornbread, their two daughters trailing behind her.

"Uncle Aaron!" the girls called out, but Aaron barely heard them, lost in his thoughts.

"Earth to Aaron," Azariah said, waving a spatula. "Food's ready."

Aaron didn’t move, his mind drifting to Rorie. News of her second pregnancy had hit him harder than he wanted to admit. He thought of Azariah's recent comment about how his daughters were excited to meet their cousin Lyric and the new baby. Azariah had even brought it up earlier that day, casually suggesting that Aaron should smooth things over.

Aaron had dismissed it at the time, but now the words weighed on him.

"I need to talk to Dad," Aaron said suddenly, standing up.

Azariah paused, studying his younger brother. "About?"

"About all of it. About her." Aaron’s voice was tight with emotion. "About why he gets to play happy family now when he—" He broke off, shaking his head.

"Aaron—" Azariah started, concern etched in his face.

"Nah, man. I hear you about Rorie, alright? Maybe you’re right. But Dad? He doesn’t get to just..." Aaron’s fists clenched at his sides. "He doesn’t get to pretend like everything’s cool now."

Azariah nodded slowly, sensing the deep pain behind his brother’s anger. "Just don’t do anything stupid."

Aaron was already heading toward his car, his dinner forgotten. The anger that had been misdirected at Rorie had found its proper target, and Martin Edwards was about to hear exactly what his youngest son thought about his attempts at playing father of the year.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Hello Aubrie! Goood, I love your writing so much, and I couldn't wait to send in another request!

Could I ask for Eyeless Jack and his s/o going on a date day? How it would look like and all that? (can be sfw/nsfw)

I decided to keep it just SFW this time as I was just in a fluffy vontent mood today, but you can feel free to request date night specific spicy stuff with EJ next time if you'd like :) I hope you enjoy, I'm extra tired today so my writing may be different but I had a need for EJ fluff

Your date day actually ends up being a date night with this one, as your boyfriend is nocturnal, however, he gets up a bit earlier than normal if the two of you want to spend a "day" together. Normally waking at about 6:00 pm, Jack will get up around 4:00 on a day the two of you wish to spend together. He'll spend a little while waking up, curled up in bed with you, discussing things you want to do, getting ready to go out with you, just waiting for the sun to go down more so Jack can handle being around the light (as he can't handle visibly bright light very well, hence the nocturnal part :p).

He'll make sure you get something yummy to eat for dinner, and that's usually your first spot on your date nights. The Underworld is full of restaurants that operate 24/7, so he'll take you out to eat at whichever place you'd prefer to go to, and you'll both sit and talk for a while over food. Even with the nocturnal citizens out and about, the Underworld is a lot more quiet at night, so Jack enjoys walking through it with you, enjoying the peace of it. The two of you might window shop a bit, going into any stores that catch your eye. I think if it's warm enough you two have a tradition of getting ice cream together, because there are places that serve a mix of demon and human appropriate flavors, so you can get whichever flavor you'd prefer, and EJ can get his go-to blood ice cream so he can enjoy it as well. Following that, Jack always loves taking you for another walk, this time through the forests of the Underworld. The air is nice and fresh, and the creatures running about are usually attracted to Jack, so he always gets excited by the chance to tell you what the different animals are, and because they trust him so much you can even pet them while they sit contentedly beside him.

It's not until either the sun starts coming back up or you start to get too tired that the two of you finally begin to make your way back to the mansion together. Once you get back, Jack normally prefers to enter relaxation mode with you again. You'll take a relaxing shower together, and then put on some perfectly fluffy, soft pajamas (Jack is a connoisseur of comfortable fabrics), and curl up in bed once more. Some nights you guys might put on a show in the background, or some music, or anything you're in the mood to watch and just sit, and cuddle to the background noise. However, there are also nights like tonight, when you snuggle up and read together. It always starts with both of you reading your own preferred books in silence, but then usually one of you grows more tired faster than the other (usually you, as it's generally 5:00 am by this point), and the other person will read their own book aloud for both of you. Days like these generally end with you fast asleep in Jack's arms due to your need for sleep overcoming you, and Jack will always chuckle and set his book aside, before pulling you into his chest, and finally falling asleep himself. You usually always wake before him, unless you sleep the whole day away (sometimes Jack also just refuses to let you out of his arms on purpose but shhhh it's fine, it doesn't matter), but post date day snuggles are also mandatory in this relationship, so really, date days are like two days in one because you've gotta recoup your energy from staying up so late. Even if the two of you just spend a date day curled up inside playing board games or reading, or even just silently snuggling up, Jack doesn't mind, so long as he gets to spend as much time with you as possible, anything is fine in his opinion. He's just thankful to have you there with him.

[peachhcs]

Samy does the trend where she wipes off the kisses that will gives her

i love that trend it's always so funny. samy's never wiped will's kisses off before so when she does it he's very shocked and immediately thinks he did something wrong. surprisingly someone else JUST about this so i’ll post it now :)) i wrote up so many of my requests last night to clear out my inbox but this was super fun!!

au masterlist

samy set her phone up while will was in the bathroom finishing getting ready. she saw the trend after scrolling through her for you page all morning and of course, she had to join in. pranking will was literally her favorite activity and it was payback for him spitting all of his water into her face the last time they made a tiktok together.

she pretended to be doing something on her computer while she hid her phone behind one of the potted plants on the counter. the bathroom door opened a few minutes later and samy could hear will's footsteps.

"hey, i'm gonna leave now. are you gonna be all good by yourself for a few hours?" will asked as he came up to her chair.

samy nodded, "yeah i'm gonna be fine."

"i'll be back at like 3 probably," the blonde leaned down to press a soft kiss to her cheek. samy immediately wiped her cheek when he removed his lips and will quickly made a face.

"what?" he grew confused.

"what?" samy played dumb.

"you just wiped off my kiss," will pointed out.

"i didn't," samy gaslit him and the blonde swore she did.

he decided to kiss her again this time on the lips. samy copied her exact movements from before and will definitely wasn't seeing things this time.

"does my breath smell bad or something? i brushed my teeth," the hockey player didn't know why she was wiping his kisses off.

"it smells fine," samy hummed and will stood above her staring at her confused.

he began wracking his brain of something he might've done wrong in the last few days, but when he couldn't think of anything, will was even more confused than before.

"are you mad at me or something?" he asked.

"no, why would i be mad at you?" samy finally caught his gaze and she had to stop herself from laughing when she saw her boyfriend's pout.

"because you're wiping off my kisses. did i do something wrong?" it was so hard keeping the bit up when he looked at her like that.

"no, you didn't. i'm just doing school work," samy said and that didn't answer any of will's confusion.

"you've never wiped my kisses off before?" the blonde pouted even more and samy couldn't keep it up. she bursted out laughing and poor will just stood beside her in confusion.

"it's a prank, baby, i promise. i love you," samy grabbed her phone and showed him the camera that was recording. the hockey player quickly rolled his eyes and gently shoved her.

"you're so mean to me," he mumbled as he went to grab a water from the fridge.

"i'm sorry, baby. it's payback from you spitting water in my face a few weeks ago," samy half joked.

"whatever. it was funny. that wasn't funny. i thought i did something wrong," will complained and samy got up to bring him into a hug.

"i'm sorry, you didn't. i love you. have fun," she kissed his lips to make up for the prank. will kissed her back, glad she didn't wipe her lips off after this time.

"i love you too. i'll see you later," he pecked her cheek and then finally left to go hang out with some of his teammates. he just knew he was about to get roasted in those comments whenever samy posted the video.

[panlight]

I remember seeing a post once about how Bella's only really ~selfless~ when it comes to the Edward/the Cullens and i honestly agree.

even if midnight sun supposedly gave more moments of bella's told ~kindness and selflessness~ in the main books where they're actually from HER pov there are still plenty moments where it comes off otherwise.

She only really gets close to jacob just to have him tell her about the legends, so she can figure out more about edward/his family, to which in MS Edward gets this ✨brilliant✨ idea to use that as a "justification" to slaughter a tribe that already is willing to allow his family in their area despite having EVERY right to not welcome them due to what their kind can do to their people. so that's..fun :) (actually speaking of MS, I can't get over how edward is bitching about billy being rightfully leery of them and hates how he sees them as monsters despite saying the same things to Bella whenever he wants to convince her of how dangerous their relationship/her choice to be a vampire is. lol)

In new moon, she only decides to reconnect with Jessica mainly to "get Charlie off her back" and when Jessica gets rightfully upset that she nearly got into trouble approaching some shady guys in a bar, Bella sees Jessica as "having gone to the dark side". Like?? Bella, your lucky she even still bothered to hang out with you after giving her the cold shoulder for months. And the first time you two hang out, you nearly endangered yourself AND her all because you wanted to see a figment of Edward in your head.

In fact! While I like Jacob's friendship with Bella in new moon (idc if people said it was boring because "no vampires"; the platonic chemistry bella and jacob had was 👌👌) the fact was Bella's original plan to see Jacob was to get him to fix the bikes so she can keep seeing "Edward" in her head.

I remember being irritated at Bella mostly at the end of New Moon, tbh. A moment that stood out was when Charlie was mad at Edward for leaving her behind and what he did to her (as a good father SHOULD) yet Bella threatens him to leave home if he won't ease up on edward as if he's the one who doesn't get it?? Bella sucks in that scene because earlier she LEARNS how hard it was for Charlie, seeing her like that and trying every possible way to help her (only for Bella to reject it each time) and yet he's expected to deal with the same guy who, from his perspective, broke his daughter's heart like nothing happened??

In Eclipse, while Bella's moment with Angela helping her with the letters was nice (wish we got more of these small moments, especially if Angela was supposedly such a good friend to her), it's tainted with how it was mainly so she wouldn't have to confront Edward's anger (yikes) for her seeing Jacob.

Actually, most of Eclipse i really disliked how Bella kinda see's anyone that doesn't kiss ass to the Cullens or are completely okay with her despite how she treated them during her depression period as the "bad guys" (Bella's words on her classmates: "us vs them").

Honestly, Breaking Dawn was such a hot mess (though our little friend group may be revisiting the entire saga (which will unfortunately include BD) next year for it's 20th anniversary, so...godspeed lol) but the main thing that stood out was how she and the Cullens were just...willing to host all the visiting vampires over at Forks, these vampires who DO feed on human blood, and risk all the children of the tribe phasing into wolves. And ALL she has to say about either are "well, them feeding on humans makes me uncomfortable but oh well :( " and "with all these vampires, the explosion of werewolf population was inevitable :0" Tbh it's not just Bella in this situation, the Cullens in here really suck. There was NO reason they couldn't just meet somewhere else. I do partially blame Jacob for it too, because I *think* there was this line where he talks (to Edward iirc?) about how hard it is to be away from Ricochet, but dude! Just go with them! You don't need to endanger the younger people in your tribe! You of ALL people should know what that's like!!

So far that's all i have to say becus that's all I can remember (though that might change once our friend book club get together next year for the saga's 20th, where our memories will be much more fresh XD). it's just,,,UGH, I can't wrap my head with how Edward and Jacob go on about Bella being so ~selfless~ with Jacob even going on about how she's a ~martyr when really, her selflessness is either selective, or mostly just self-serving.

I really enjoy the Jacob and Bella friendship, too, but when you stop and think about it . . . it all started with her using him. The first time she awkwardly attempted to flirt with him to get him to tell her the 'scary stories' on the beach, and then in New Moon she shows up out of nowhere because she wants him to fix the bikes. Bella eventually realizes like "oh hey I genuinely like spending time with Jake," but it started with "what can I get out of him?"

And like, fine! Humans do that kind of stuff! We're flawed! It's just weird the narrative is demonizing Jessica for like, mostly hanging out with Bella to try and get some of Bella's instant popularity to rub off on her, but Bella gets a pass for her treatment of Jacob because Protagonist. Bella's allowed to be flawed, that's great, makes her more interesting, but the overall narrative is still like "omg so SELFLESS" and it's like, um sometimes?

And yeah I will always hate the Breaking Dawn feeding situation. There are so many better ways to resolve it. But I think SM ultimately wasn't really interested in the vegetarian vampire stuff beyond just needing a reason Edward and Bella could be together. There are fun things she could have done here if she like, cared. She's already established that Carlisle is buying blood. Maybe their guests would have found it delightfully amusing to be served blood in wine glasses or Esme could make like 1950s housewife blood Jello molds or something. OR there could have been arguments about it! Carlisle trying to persuade them, Emmett challenging them "bet you can't go a week on our diet plan!" Rosalie sneering in disgust. Siobhan testing her maybe-power by trying to see if she can will everyone to abstain. OR they were literally only there for like two weeks. That's the average length of time between hunting. The book kind of makes it feel like they were there for a long time, but the earliest showed up middle of December and the confrontation is on New Year's Eve. Also I can't get over the idea that all these people KNOW Carlisle. Some have known him longer than the other Cullens have! You don't go visit your devout vegan friend and expect to be served bacon cheeseburgers. You try the tofu stir-fry.

But SM didn't really want to get into it, so Bella doesn't super care. I personally think "it makes me a little uncomfortable" was just the laziest, least satisfying way to handle it. And the shifters just having to stand there and watch because oh well we need them to witness for Nessie and she's Jacob's imprint so she matters more than anyone else is, uh, not good. Especially when earlier in the SAME BOOK Sem straight-up says: "When blood drinkers cross our land, we destroy them, no matter where they plan to hunt. We protect everyone we can." Again, there could be interesting conflict here, but it would shift the focus from the Bella and Nessie stuff, so Bella just feels a little bad and we move on.

But anyway yeah I think Bella's the most selfless when it comes to grand gestures. She'll exile herself to Forks so Renee will be free to travel, she'll sacrifice herself to James to save her mom, she'll consider stabbing herself with a rock to distract Victoria and Riley to save Edward and Seth, she'll risk her life and dreamed-of eternity with Edward to bring Renesmee into the world. But in the day-to-day stuff, she can be just as selfish and manipulative and judgmental as anyone else. She's 'human,' even when she's not human anymore.

[sir--crow]

this!!!

I've seen a lot of hate on Tiktok towards fanfictions to the point where thousands of people in the comment section will be making hateful jokes about the fanfic.

I'm like... that's weird. it's mean. it's rude.

there's one particular fanfiction in general within this fandom that gets a lot of hate, and the author is active within the community so I know that they see it. it makes my heart hurt for them. because they wrote a 400k+ fanfic FOR FREE. it might be ooc, but so what? it's fanfiction. it doesn't matter. ITS FREE. so I don't care.

I feel like a lot of people forget how lucky we are to have Ao3 and other fanfiction websites because it's a whole library we can access for free, and the authors don't get a dime for the hard work they put into it.

you wanna know what I do whenever I dislike a fanfic? I close the tab. I don't leave a hateful comment. I don't leave a bookmark saying "bad" or "wouldn't read again" because guess what? Ao3 isn't goodreads. that author WILL SEE WHAT U WRITE. as someone who published on Ao3, let me say that we can see everything people write in their bookmarks, and it always makes me happy to see loving comments or praise.

I couldn't imagine seeing a bookmark hating on my fanfic. it would break my heart.

so this post really resonated with me. if you see hate on any social media about a fanfiction. ignore it, or call them out!

fanfiction is free and the authors take time out of their day to write for YOU. so don't laugh at them when their writing isn't the best or the characters are a bit ooc and then act all shocked when they take the fanfic down for hate. they have no obligations to keep writing, and yet they still do it.

finally, I also see people say that fanfic authors of more serious topics are problematic because of what they write. for example, dead dove is a popular problematic genre on tik Tok that people bash. I'm sorry but what? once again YOU DONT HAVE TO READ IT and just because they write about it doesn't mean that they are that way/do those things themselves. just because someone writes about cannibalism doesn't mean that they're a cannibal. just because someone writes about murder doesn't make them a murderer.

I don't get it. is it a lack of media literacy? I feel like people get disconnected from reality whenever they write stuff on social media as if the person they're writing about isn't an actual person with feelings.

so please, don't hate on fanfiction. and let me say this YOU'RE ALLOWED TO DISLIKE STUFF. you're allowed to dislike a fanfiction! I'm not saying that you can't. I'm just saying that it's wrong to post hate.

be kind.

thanks for the insightful post OP.

Please stop publicly hating on fanfics. PLEASE!! Especially in a comment section of a video that’s about the fic or the fandom, because whether you’re aware of it or not, the author could have a social media account on that platform and see the hate. The hate on something they did for fun, for free. If you want more content then you have to stop hating. these authors aren’t celebrities they don’t have pr teams or people dealing with hate for them, they’re participants in fandom, and they’re real people.

Fanfics are not books, yes some are amazing enough to be, but you do not buy them, they’re provided to you for free. A fanfiction being popular is not like a book you bought sitting on your shelf, you should not feel obligated to read it because you spent money on it. Because you didn’t. it’s free. Fanfics no matter how popular should not be treated and reviewed like books, you do not get to publicly criticise or say “how are people buying this?!” Because they’re not. It’s free. It doesn’t matter if you think it’s overrated, it’s something someone did for fun, and you don’t get to criticise that, especially because it’s public for you to read!! Don’t be mad that something’s overrated, be glad that it was even up in the first place, someone could have easily just left it as a draft and never posted it, but they did. They decided to share this piece of themselves, to the fandom for anyone to read and that is a gift.

Ao3 is an uncensored website for fanfics, you can write about literally anything. And yet I see “no don’t read that fic it’s problematic!!” In a comment section. Fanfiction is not censored, if you want morals and every character being perfect and making the ‘right’ choices, then get off ao3. Also reminder that an author can write characters making decisions that they don’t agree with, for depth of the story. Just because your favourite character, that you see as the pinnacle of righteousness, makes a bad decision or says something mean does not make the story bad or problematic. It also doesn’t make the author agree with that decision. All the time authors of published books write about morally grey characters or villains. But when an ao3 author does it all of a sudden they must have committed the war crimes that they wrote their villain to commit. Do you realise how stupid that sounds?? 😭

Also don’t post vague negative videos about something/someone even if you don’t say who or what it’s about, it leads the comment section to gossip about who they hate and that’s just not cool. And tagging the fandom that they’re in??? 90% of the time they’re going to see that.

Public hate is not cool, if you don’t like someone, talk to you friends about it if you’re craving other peoples validation so badly. You don’t need to post something publicly. And I know hate gets more popular then love in fandom, no matter if it’s headcanons or fics or creators, but that doesn’t make it good. I don’t know why people are so negative all the time, like I don’t care what headcanons you hate, why do you even spend that much time thinking about something you hate?? I want to hear what headcanons you like, I want to know you fav characters, your kins, literally anything.

Sorry this is so long, it just pisses me off to see a fun video about fandom and then I open the comments and it’s filled with hate. This is a fandom, have fun with it!!! Please. 😭

[hockeygossipunhinged]

First,

About this "photo thing" I heard different tea and I believed it until I came here and read blogs. From what I've heard, it was Sienna who asked Jack to remove the photo. It happened end of November, apparently she said something like "we moved on" and "I don't want to be associated with you anymore". My source doesn't like Sammy so she believes Sammy asked her to do this (she might be biased) because there's no way a girl suddenly called an ex to Sienna dan Jack ended the rs in a good term so there's no way Sienna suddenly asks Jack to remove the photo of them behind a carousel post.

I don't know which one is true, but one thing that we know is deleting picture is so not Jack. Either Sienna or Sammy asked/forced him to do that in the first place.

Second,

Devils' lost strike happened after Xmas break which very unfortunate. Break isn't supposed to ruin the momentum but it happened. I agree Jack was a bit slumpy and sour on media lately, which lead me to think he doesn't feel happy nowadays. Again, my source might be biased but she said something happened between J n S right after Xmas just before home game vs. Carolina. S did something that J doesn't like and it seems they don't resolve the problem right away.

My source doesn't know J/S personally but she befriended Sammy's friends, and they were gossiping about Sammy wants "something" but Jack couldn't do anything with it because it's in the middle of hockey season and he has road trip in front of his eyes.

I don’t believe it was Sienna at all who asked him to delete. It was 100% Sammy. Sienna hasn’t interacted with Jack in a while unlike him who liked her pic.

while it’s the whole team I do think Jack isn’t playing well at all right now. Last time I saw this he deleted the pics then started playing well so I personally believe they had a fight

Some people on these blogs can’t understand the concept of it being hard to put personal issues aside during the game just like how it’s hard to keep something personal and hurt/anger off your mind during something (let’s say during a midterm at college)

for your source if they find out what she wanted and they don’t mind you telling us tell them if they want they can keep sending info but only if they feel comfortable doing so people would like it but tell them not to get discouraged by the gate people forget that it is all sip or spit

[guulyya]

Hey!

I have something to post after #charlos breakup, it’s keeping my mind busy the idea of the first day of 16 in Fiorano, where is no 55 anymore… idk it’s more likely platonic and desperate for both of them I would say. I can’t keep it myself so I have to let it out. Hope u like it, I will be very happy to read comments if there are any. xoxo

Fiorano day 1, 2025.

He would only let it ring 3 times and if he didn't answer, he would act like it had never happened.

But Charles wanted him to answer the call so badly. He had been here for years but this was the first time this place felt so strange and cold. How could someone take all the warmth with him when he left? The people around were the same, but everything felt was so different indeed. People called Charles the sun of this place but the real sun wasn't here right now...

"Hola!" - Charles closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch when he heard his voice. Thats it.

"H-hello! Its Charl-"

"I know who is this mate, come on. Whats up?" - you wont wanna know, Charles thought. But then he started talking with the safety he felt from hearing Carlos’ voice. They would talk about anything. They could still talk...right?

"Today is our first day here after the break. W-with new teammate. Everything feels so ridiculous Carlos. You not being here, not fighting together. The marketing meetings and other stuff will start soon. They're going to talk about the new car. The car.. we worked on together. I... I... umm. I wish you were here. This year. I don't know, everything feels so strange." - his thoughts were much more fluent, longer than this, but Charles couldn't find the right words. He missed him. He didn't know how to say it directly. And the silence on the other side grew longer as the seconds passed. With a little hysterical laugh - "I'm babbling again, aren't I? I shouldn't have called you. Sorry for bothe-"

"Charles..." - damn it. He even missed hearing his name. No one pronounced his name like Carlos did. They should have a little more time. Why did it have to be this short? He took a small breath, focued on him. - "..i miss you too."

Charles laughed softly. It was always like this. Carlos could hear even the things he didn't say.

- "The meetings here haven't started yet,”- Carlos contuined, “They're planning it for next week i guess. But ehm.. I was there in my dream today, you know? I was in red. And I was looking around wondering how this happened. I'm so hyped about here, I keep telling myself to get on with it, but I'm still there..in my dreams of course."

Charles’ face lifted with a broken smile. Both of them were desperate in that situation. You couldn't go to anyone and say that we don't want to seperate as teammates, no one would ever take you seriously. Therefore the decision was already made and they just obeyed.

"When I came here today, I had a kind of hope that I would find you in here you know. How ridiculous is this," Charles added, more like he was talking to himself, staring into space. -"As if you'll come out of somewhere by the time I open the door and everything will go back to how it was. Its stupid, eh? You're kilometers away from here."

"I didn't want to go, Charles. I never wanted to."

"I know..." his voice was helpless and quiet. Carlos was the one who was sent away, so was it selfish to call him and complain? But people always talked about those who left, no one cared about those who had to stay behind.

"Tell me a little about there," Carlos said, trying to change the subject "how's the weather? It's so cold here, I miss even the sunshine of the Fiorano." Charles' eyes moved from the wall he was staring to the window, ironically today was gloomy.

"Today is cloudy. I can say it's the coldest day in a long time." Cold in every sense. But he didn't add that. He had already revealed so much. -"Guess what, they’ve pictured that new design to the wall at the entrance you know, and its so stupid, we would joke around it and laugh for like 3 days. It's..its just so ridiculous that you're not here."

"You can still tell me you know..." Charles heard a deep breath from other line and Carlos add -“..I would listen to you for hours.” He knew. It was their thing. They could talk about anything, anytime, anywhere. But would the same thing happen now, on different teams, with different teammates?

Would Carlos talk to Alex for long hours and have ridiculous competations or playing chess? He realized for a moment that there was a pain in his chest when he think about it. Maybe the issue wasn't only Carlos was far away, but also he would be somewhere else with other people, person. Alex. Carlos is that type of person who can get on well with everyone. And what if they can never be the same again while he is on other team? With other teammate. That would mean losing Carlos. Charles couldn't stand the thought. The ache in his chest became more apparent. He had tried not to think about it all break. And he did good, he kept himself busy. But now he couldn’t avoid from these voices.

He got up from where he was sitting and felt that had to end this strange conversation before he got lost in the corridors of his mind.

"You're right. I'll send you its photo!" -He put his hands in his hair and ruffled it. -“I guess I have to go now. See you, Carl-”

“Charles…” - the same tone again. Charles leaned on the wall. He got overwhelmed. The jealosy was already too much to deal and other feelings were keep coming. But being around Carlos was always like that anyway. -“Just focus on your own performance, okay? No matter who is in front of you, you are a perfect teammate. And I… I am just going to another team, but I’ll be around. - Carlos took a little breath. He wanted to Charles got the message. He was not going anywhere, leaving team didnt mean leaving him. He tried to say that but he couldnt find the words. Instead he continued-“Yes… I’ll be around. I’ll still beat you on chess and give very hard time on the race.” Charles smiled softly. Carlos is just like that, he knew him very well to hear even his unspoken fears.

“Yeah you wish…”- he add mockingly “Thank you. You were the best tho. Best teammate. And I mean it. I can’t wait to race for wins against you soon!” - he heard Carlos’ laughter from the other side of the line. And that somehow felt like light of sun.

“Sure, sure. Whatever, I’ll let you go now. Good luck for today.”

“Okay. Thanks. See you.”

“See you.”

After finishing the call, Charles sent a photo of the stupid design and started the messaging that would last all day.

Maybe Carlos was right, maybe this wouldn’t be end.

[joysisland]

First post so first drabble about big mountain man König! I'm still unsure if I should write a part 2 or not Also, English isn't my first language so I'm sorry if u find some mistakes enjoy!<3

(TW: none)

Thinking about reader getting lost in the austrian alps, and it doesn't help that it's getting dark and progressively colder in the forest, you're tired and probably have walked for kilometres trying to find a way out, it probably goes in circles too.

But when you start to loose hope you finally find a way out - a house in a valley between mountains, you search for any other sign of civilization but it's just this house and what looks like a shack, or a barn. Weird.

But you're still *very* far from the nearest city, considering the only thing you see in the distance is the forest.

At this point it's pitch black outside but when you try to knock... no one answers. Definitely weird.

It's surely abandoned, and honestly you don't blame the owner, it must get lonely up there.

Shit, it's locked.

You decide it's safer to sleep in the hay of the barn instead of outside.

...

The next morning you're met with the indecipherable stare of a shepherd– a tall one at that –white as a ghost, even if his dirty clothes and toned physique show how much he works. He seems to also have a hood. Triple weird. Now that he noticed that you're awake he seems... nervous or at least awkward, as if you just caught him doing something he shouldn't do as soon as you return his gaze. After a long moment he finally speaks:

"...Uh, are you lost?"

...

In the next few hours you learn about the lonely shepherd named König, and how he lives in the mountains in total isolation except for the few times a year he goes to town (just to keep in touch with the outside world), while he prepares a meal for you to "heat up when it's so cold in these harsh mountains". Then, as you get comfortable in his house, you realize he's still using bronze pans and wooden tupperware like they used to a long time ago. After being done, he decides to sit by the fire as he tells you why he uses those still, and the sight of him as he carves a piece of wood with a knife is strangely... cozy, and warm, almost comforting.

After a bit of unintended staring you notice how he suddenly started stuttering over his words as the trembling in his hands worsened.

"Is... something wrong?" he eventually speaks up.

"No, nothing" you reply, but your gaze couldn't help but return to him naturally.

You figured it was just natural after he almost saved your life by giving you a warm place to stay. Plus, he has been very accommodating and respectful...

But you could see the glint in his eyes every time he looked at you, unhinged and almost off-putting, but you still decided to not let it bother you too much, as long as he didn't do anything weird.

In a strange way, this contributed to his mysterious and almost dangerous appeal: his forearms full of a variety of scars, all different and some faded more than others, and unfortunately for you they looked so good on his massive arms, which along with his huge physique played a large role in you stealing glances at him every time you could, even if he wasn't aware. God, he looked like he could've thrown you across the room like it was nothing.

A cough from König made you come back to reality, and as soon as you looked at him, a bit embarrassed to have even thought of something like that, he looked like he realized what you'd been thinking about. You couldn't exactly say you were discreet with your glances, so he must've figured out something.

It still threw you off, that crinkle in his eyes which suggested a smile, a smug one, so you weren't able to do anything but stare at the floor for a moment.

The rest of the night passed without any other embarrassing or remarkable moments, until:

He stretched for a moment and let out a tired groan "I'm tired, I'm going to bed"

you finally had the opportunity to ask him something that had been bothering you all night: "where am I sleeping tonight? — I don't mean we should share, but-"

"-don't worry, I don't snore" he cut you off, and without waiting for your response he headed to his room.

[jrow]

2024: Year in Review

Thanks for the tag @calaisreno! Your review got me thinking a lot about my writing this year.

As my kids are getting older, I am having trouble finding free time for myself. Because of that, 2024 had much less writing than years prior. Reading fic too, for that matter, but I hope to start getting through my massive MFL list soon!

In total, I posted just over 41,000 words over 3 stories. But, the time limitations also forced me to write things differently and take on new challenges. When May came along, I was itching to write something, so decided to try to base a story around short bits built around @calaisreno's May prompts. It definitely scratched the itch and I managed to post something every day! The resulting story was Open Your Eyes (T, Words = 17,073 over 31 chapters). Although the story could absolutely use a good edit, I think it hangs together pretty well given how it was written. I absolutely loved writing Rosie in this one, although I admit my fave chapters are the Mycroft POVs.

I participated in FTH 2024 knowing that it would help "force" me to write. And, luckily, my top bidder (72reasons) gave me a prompt that forced me out of my comfort zone again. For the first time ever, I posted an alternative first meeting, although I didn't quite manage to take it entirely out of canon. That story is Meet Ugly (T, Words = 9,766 over 5 chapters) and I had a lot of fun writing it. I am most pleased by comments that people find parts funny, because I admit I worked at that!

And then it was back to my bread and butter for my second FTH fic. To be honest, the timing was perfect. After writing a couple of stories that deviated from my usual style, I was pretty eager to write a more traditional case fic. But, I knew time wasn't on my side and forced myself to try to keep the fic shorter than usual. My goal was 10k and it ended up at 14,522, which isn't so far off ;). That fic is The Red-Headed League (T, 5 chapters), my update on the ACD story. I tried to think of an alternative update to the title, but couldn't think of anything that had the same "feel". I really appreciate all the love this one is getting. I like it, but the shorter length did create some challenges. I like the case part and I like the Rosie/Fam b-plot, but I don't think they are well integrated as in my other case fics (ie., I don't think it would be that difficult to pull them apart into two stories). I think part of what makes ACD short stories so great is how much plot (and relationship dynamics) is in so few words. But, I suppose ACD never worried about getting our protagonists together and that is a 100% requirement for my stories!

I am not sure what I'll tackle next. I have a few partly finished AUs, but I seem to have trouble bringing those to fruition (the amount of research needed seems insurmountable at times). Who knows though!

This ended up being pretty long, especially considering I started this post by saying I didn't have much time to write ... my gratitude to anyone whose made it to the end 💖💖💖💖💖!

I'm a bit late with this so I won't tag, but invite any one else to share their thoughts on their writing this year. I love to read them!

2024: Year in Review

This year I posted 14 stories, fewer than any other year, but my word count still hovers around 300k, as it has for several years.

This was my first year writing for Fandom Trumps Hate. My story, written for the very generous and lovely @LHRinchelsea, was The Disappointed Optimist's Guide to Sharing a Flat with a Madman. It was so rewarding to participate that I plan to offer a story again this year.

My favorite story I've written this year is Déjà Vu, a closing chapter for the Off Axis series. I may write more for that series, but this one is a story that brought a lot of closure for our heroes and their friends.

My second favorite: This is Family, a fill-in story for The Final Problem (S4Ep3). I combined this into a series with People We Love, an aftermath story I wrote in 2023. "Solving" The Final Problem was a very satisfying endeavour.

I had great fun writing my first Harry-centric story in October, When Harry Met Mary.

I'm closing the year with a parallel story for When We Were Young. My Heart at Your Door will finish posting in January 2025.

This was my second year doing the May Prompts event. In 2023 there were only a few of us, but this past year, it took off in a big way. I think I was tagging over 30 people with the daily prompt! As always, it was a lot of fun. This year we had a number of people writing daily limericks, an activity that has continued for the rest of 2024, and I hope will still be going strong in 2025. Thank you @Friday411 for inspiring that!

My number one project for 2025 is The Secret of Agra, a fic that I've been writing since 2020. I've called it a White Whale, but it might be more of a Frankenstein. 😆 It is finally coming together, though, and I hope to post in 2025.

I don't have any other specific writing goals for 2025. I have quite a happy writing groove, and many WIP that I hope to complete.

I'd love to hear what you are planning for 2025, if you'd like to share! Tagging:

@keirgreeneyes @meetinginsamarra @totallysilvergirl @raina-at

@7-percent @lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @copperplatebeech

@discordantwords @chriscalledmesweetie @holmesianlove

@khorazir @jrow @thegildedbee @ghostofnuggetspast

And anyone I've forgotten!

[itsmemuffy]

I can make you feel better...

And you know you will (chapter 2)

Contents: Original Trilogy! Logan x fem reader, obsessive and touched starved Logan, major honeymoon phase, male masturbation, panty stealing, oral (m! receiving), breast worship, fingering, cum eating/swapping, angst, light blood + violence, mentions of Charles, Scott, Jean, Ororo and Peter (Collosus)

Chapter One Summary: You keep everything running as smooth as possible in the background while Professor Xavier keeps a very full plate of locating mutants, running the school, and leading the X-Men. A steady stream of mutants come and go through the mansion, but a certain one in particular makes it his mission to nestle his way into your life.

Chapter Two Summary: Logan navigates his needs as your relationship blossoms. He weighs his insecurities against his feelings for the woman he loves. Once everything is said and done, he finally gives in. Smut under last divider.

Author's note: Credit where credit is due, this post by @avocado-writing inspired the first part of this chapter. Thank you to all the wonderful writers in this fandom ;*

Logan played the memory of your lips against his over so many times in his head as he was falling asleep that by the time he woke up, he thought it must of been a dream. The morning sun that crept through the curtains of his room assisted him in coming to his senses. He squinted as he finally opened his eyes, light beaming into his retinas. That wasn't a dream. It was all for real this time...

He stumbled down the dim hallway in his usual morning stupor. Routine the same as always, except for one factor. You were gone. Your scent lingered faintly in the hall from when you left to catch your flight before the sun even had a chance to rise above the landscape.

Logan's brain didn't have time to catch up with his body before his feet stopped himself in his own tracks in front of your bedroom door. Snapshots of you standing before him, wrapping yourself around his body flooded his memory. The way you held onto him in that moment was as sweet as candy, but your touch heated him like pure capsaicin.

As the scene replayed in his mind, that same throbbing heat overcame his body, starting at his groin until it reached the tip of his ears. Logan glanced to his left. And then his right. Good, he thought. No one was around to bear witness to what he was about to do. He tested his luck when he wrapped his hand around the doorknob. Holy shit, it's unlocked.

Your door was swiftly opened and then shut behind him with a quick squeak that sounded out into the hall. It was a noise no one would bat an eye at upon hearing, but Logan was treating this as serious as a diamond heist. Sometimes he forgets that not every mutant's senses are as sharp as his.

He decided against turning the light on as not to raise suspicion. Instead, he let the dull lines of blue light from the closed window shades guide his endeavor. The space was tidy and organized, just as Logan expected.

He had only been in your room once before now. You had left notes on your bedroom desk on students whose mutations required them specific nutritional needs. Charles had requested them in a meeting that Logan also attended. Of course, he was the first to volunteer to grab them for you.

He had ample opportunity then to do what he was doing in the current moment- hunting for pieces of you in your own private space. As much as he was tempted to do so, he couldn't bring himself to keep his sweet girl waiting. He melted at your praise when he promptly delivered your papers.

He glanced around your room. Logan didn't know exactly what he was looking for. Something- anything that could give him his fix. It was your own fault, after all. You just had to spur him on last night.

First and foremost, he was an animal that never gave much practice to supressing his more perverse compulsions. To Logan, it was just simple biology. That was the excuse he gave himself when he made a beeline straight to your dresser. He knew what he was looking for now.

He quietly opened each and every drawer, carefully sifting through your clothes making sure they were put back exactly where he found them. Some articles evoked pleasant memories of the times you have worn them- others he had yet to see on you. Logan dreamed of the day you would get all dressed up just for him, wearing things no other man has ever seen you in.

When he got to the second to last drawer, Logan hit the jackpot. Inside, your bras and panties were lined up in tidy little rows. He held up multiple pairs, envisioning the way the fabric would wrap snugly around your curves. A pink, silky thong adorned with little ribbons is what he settled on as his favorite. He put them all back except for that specific pair.

A stack of polaroid photos that lay on your dresser piqued Logan's interest next. He snatched them up and made himself comfortable on the divit on the far side of your bed. It wasn't lost on him how you appeared to sleep on a singular side in favor of the middle of the mattress. Maybe you were saving room for someone to lay down beside you at night. Maybe you needed him as much as he needed you.

He shamelessly took a moment to rub his face into the pillow. The scent of you mimicking the sensation he felt when he nuzzled himself into your hair the night previous. Your shampoo, your lotion, your perfume, your sweat. It all came together to create a sensation he could never get from anyone else.

It was maddening- all too much and never enough at the same time. His cup could never be full of you, yet it overflowed in crashing waves. God forbid you found out about his little expedition into your bedroom, but he was a desperate man. Logan lay on his back and focused his attention to the pictures he held.

The photo on top of the stack captured the common area of the mansion, adorned in white and gold with "New Year's Eve" hanging from the ceiling in glittering letters that reflected the flash of the camera. It was from the year before he had arrived at the mansion. He shuffled that one to the back of the pile.

The second one was of you, Jean, and Ororo posing with champagne glasses in hand. All of you were in your best holiday dresses. Logan's eyes immediately caught on your exposed thighs, semi-transparent tights spread taught over the ample flesh. Now we're getting somewhere...

He flipped through a few more; photos of the catering, Jean and Scott dancing, and the clock striking midnight. None of them interested Logan.

The next photo in the stack displayed a shining bald head taken from above. It was Charles with a bright lipstick print on top his scalp. Logan immediately recognized your signature shade. This one was labeled underneath as "New Year's Kiss."

He couldn't supress the laughter coming up from deep within his chest as he pictured you tipsy off the champagne, planting a big 'ol smooch onto the unsuspecting professor. Logan had half a mind to be jealous, but he was convinced he'd be the one you would welcome into the next year- this time on the lips.

Logan's breath caught in his throat when he saw what the next picture was of. You were standing in front of your bathroom mirror, leaning forward slightly over the sink with your chest pushed out. The straps of your dress had slipped down your shoulders, exposing your breasts.

Immediately, he felt his pants tighten. Logan already craved your body like a starved beast and seeing your perfect tits left him in awe. They were better than he could of ever imagined, and he imagined them a lot. The days you chose to wear your tight little sweaters were like fucking Chistmas to him.

As he notices your face was flush from the alcohol, he fantasizes about how that night must of went. His sweet, responible girl maybe had one too many to drink. You probably saw yourself all dolled up in the mirror when you stumbled into the bathroom, wishing you had someone like Logan there to worship your pretty tits. What else were you to do but reach for your camera, not to waste this precious moment?

His cock was expanding at such a rate he was all but bursting out of the denim. It was too late to turn back now. Logan hurriedly unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans to shimmy them down to his knees. He took a second to palm his hard buldge through his boxers. All of the time he spent memorizing your tender touch once again came to good use.

Enough playing around, he thought to himself, time to get to business.

Logan fished his fully erect cock out of his boxers in one swift motion. It was already throbbing. He took a single finger to spread clear beads of precum around the head until the swollen, sensitive flesh was sticky and shining in his own arousal. In his mind's eye, Logan was imagining you lapping at the tip of his dick like the needy little thing he knew he would be able to turn you into.

He placed the stack of photos down next to him, keeping his favorite on top, and grabbed your panties. With one hand steadily stroking up and down his entire length, the other held up the silky pair to his face. Logan would of preferred them worn and marked with your scent- but a man in his position has to take what he can get.

His tongue ran stripes up and down the crotch of your panties, now envisioning you sitting on his face with your juices soaking through the material. In reality, they were just coated in his saliva. He wanted to hold you tight and make you squeeze his head between your thighs like a vice. If he could just taste you, Logan may finally be able to die and reach heaven. He chokes out a desperate groan into the fabric, breathing heavy and shallow.

Logan was getting close, rhythmic schlick-ing noises echoing off the four walls. There was no way his fist would be able to squeeze around him like you would, but he still tried anyway. He wrapped your thong around the base of his cock, the delicate fabric brushing against his full balls with every stroke.

The final scene he conjured up that drove him over the edge was you bouncing on top of him. Logan pictured you all sweaty and panting as you chase your high. Your legs would shake against him with exhaustion. The way his cock would be nudged so far deep inside would be too intense for you to hold any of your pathetic little noises back. He'd leave bruises in the shape of his palm on your ass as you rode him. Just to make sure you were unmistakably his. Nobody else's.

He bit his knuckle to stifle the guttural sounds of him reaching his peak. All of Logan's red hot blood had rushed to his cock, length pulsating in syncopation with his heartbeat. His breathing stopped completely as he spurted thick, white ropes into his own hand. What a waste he wasn't dispositing his cum into your warm mouth. He knows his good girl wouldn't waste a drop.

Logan has touched himself to the thought of you before. Many times, in fact. But this time, deep in your very own bed, he reached heights he hasn't felt in god knows how long. His chest and thighs were slicked with sweat and his breathing remained heavy long after his initial release. When he finally gets to make you his, he questions if he'd be able to stop himself from completely ravaging your body. Would his sweet girl be able to handle all that he's ready to give you?

He cleaned up himself with your goddamn adorable little thong, fabric barely able to hold all of his spend. After his slow return back to reality, Logan realizes his teammates might start wondering where he is. Not that it's any of their damn business. I go where I please.

It could be bad news if they start searching for him, however. Him and Scott were due to depart on some sort of mission. The briefing that had been schedueled beforehand was coming up in less than twenty minutes. Alright, alright. Time to get a move on.

Logan wrapped your panties in a tissue from your nightstand and tucked them away in his pocket- making a mental note to hide them somewhere safe in his own room before he departed. He considered taking that photo with him, too. Ultimately, he ruled it too risky. But not before taking one last look, committing every detail to memory.

Charles has suspected there to be a shadow organization tasked with framing mutants for crimes they didn't commit to accelerate anti-mutant sentiment. He had split up the X-Men to visit scenes of the alleged crimes to hopefully figure out who could be behind this. Every team came back empty handed.

Time was moving painfully slow for Logan while you were away. The mission he had gone on with Scott ended up being a total waste of time. He had to endure an entire day working alongside his favorite teammate, with no one to mitigate between them, and it was all for nothing.

To top everything off, one of the students started a fire trying to toast a pop-tart in their room. Unable to control his ability, he instead let out a huge explosion that incinerated a good portion of the east wing. Charles almost had an aneurysm when he got an estimate on the renovation costs.

It took hours to clean out the debris, painstaking and tedious work for even the mighty Wolverine. Him, Scott and Peter were working at it even as the biting cold came with the nightfall. Needless to say, Logan was having a miserable weekend.

He needed a victory- some worthless piece of shit to sink his claws into. Logan was growing extremely restless. Good thing the danger room remained untouched in the accident. Might was well blow off some steam...

Logan trained well into the night, the morning you would arrive back fast approaching with the coming dawn. He lost himself tearing through fabricated enemies. So high on his own adrenaline, all the pain he should of felt went ignored. His knuckles were tingling and numb by the time he collapsed to the ground, heaving.

When he finally caught his breath and every wound stitched itself back together, he ended the session. He actually did feel better now- emotionally, anyway.

Logan stomped through the halls, mind completely vacant. His entire body gleamed with sweat, except for dull patches of dried blood scattered across his torso. The underside of his eyes were heavy with bags. If someone were to ask him at what point in there he had lost his shirt, he wouldn't of been able tell them.

"Jesus Christ," a voice he had dearly been missing called out from behind him. "You went ahead and dragged yourself through hell again, didn't you?"

All he could do was grunt as he turned on his heels to see you, eagerly prancing toward him with suitcases in stride. He took a second to take you all in. You were dressed in your comfiest of clothes, hair and makeup slightly dishelveled from your plane ride. Logan thought you looked oh so warm and inviting. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you around like his own personal teddy bear.

As jarring as he appeared before you, it wasn't a sight you've never seen before. You had to learn early on to let him do what he needed to do- and there was no use in wasting your breath to scold him for pushing himself past limits. In this moment, you were just happy to see his face.

"C'mere, big guy," you stepped forward and enveloped him into your arms, not caring if Logan was getting your sweatshirt dirty.

As much as you had fun spending your days off with some of your old friends, you couldn't help from thinking about him the entire time. You weren't quite sure where the two of you stood now in terms of your relationship. All you knew is that you both benefited from having eachother close.

Logan's nose flared up at the scent of dozens of strangers on you. The unfamiliar sensation made his lips curl up in a snarl. He wrapped his arm around your waist tight, lifting you a foot off the ground.

"Missed ya, doll," he nuzzled his beard up and down your neck and chest, marking your body with a scent more suitable for you. You giggled uncontrollably as the hairs tickled your flesh. "Hope you had a better past few days than I just did."

"Yeah, I heard..." You held on to the back of Logan's head as he put you back down, fingernails gently grazing his sweaty scalp, "I'm gone for one weekend and this place falls apart, huh?"

"Damn right, it did," he chuckled darkly, breath hot against your earlobe.

"I'm just glad no one was hurt," you watched him as he broke the embrace to scoop up your luggage, "that's more than we can hope for some of these days."

The two of you made your way down to the rooms. At your doorway, you thanked Logan for carrying your bags with a kiss on the cheek. He adored how the feel of your lips was already becoming routine.

"So, do you want to uh..," Oh god, you had no idea how to do this. You were so comfortable with eachother as friends but now that he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, it was like learning how to speak again. Logan would steal glances like this since the day he first laid eyes on you, but now he didn't have much of a reason to hide it anymore. It definetly did not help that the rise and fall of his bare chest with each breath was so fucking mesmerizing. "You want to maybe, um, see what I brought back from my trip?"

The way Logan towered over you, boxing you in against the doorframe and burning holes into your body with his gaze, was borderline criminal. "Let me go ahead and jump in the shower then you can show me, sweetheart. I want to hear all about your little vacation," his voiced remained low, bordering on a whisper. "I'll meet you back here when I'm done, okay?"

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before he split off into his own bedroom. Logan knew if he gave you anything more, he wouldn't be able to help from shoving his entire tongue in your mouth. All in good time, he reminded himself. There was no need to rush when things were going so well between you. You plopped down on your bed and tried not to think about the man soaping up his body just a few doors down.

Steaming hot blasts of water pounded away at Logan's aching muscles, reminding him how just exhausted he truly was. Despite the lethargy that was dragging him down, he was determined to push through it just to spend more time with you. It felt to him like he hadn't seen you in ages.

Logan patted himself dry as he stared into the mirror. Now that you were back he pondered all the ways this relationship could go. He ached to be close to you in every way possible. As much and he felt you belonged alongside him, there was still an apprehension nagging him in the back of his mind.

After all, you haven't even see the full aspects of his mutation. He's never protracted his claws around you- never had to, thankfully. And you've only witnessed him recover from very minor injuries. Would your soft, sweet self still feel the same way about him if you saw him bloody and gored, metal bones protruding?

You've never shown signs of being scared or wary of him besides basic shyness. Maybe you would of if you'd seen early on what he can really do. Logan wanted to squeeze you tight and never let go, but could he even trust himself to sleep through the night with you beside him? The rips and tears in his sheets told him, no, you can't.

He threw on a fresh pair of sweats and a t-shirt. With the flick of a lighter, he lit up a cigar to calm his nerves. After running his fingers through his hair to get it juuust right, he headed back to your room like he promised.

Your suitcases were open on the bed as you sat patiently at end with your hands in your lap. Was inviting him back into your bedroom a bad decision? Something in you yearned for Logan to take the lead and bring you to all those places that other men didn't even know existed within you. On the other hand, you weren't sure if you'd be ready to take him on in that way. At least not yet, anyway.

Your door opened and you immediately perked up. "You mind if I..." Logan waved the burning cigar in his hand before he entered the room. This may have been the first time in his life he had asked someone for permission to smoke. He cringed at himself for already being so whipped.

"As long as you don't ash anywhere but the tray." You had an old glass piece on your nightstand you repurposed into a dish for your jewelry. Rings rattled as you dumped them out and slid them out of the way. Logan turned his face to the side, hoping you wouldn't catch the small grin lifting his cheeks. It was the little actions that showed him how ready you were to make room for him in your life. Even as friends, you would always make the extra effort to go out of your way for him. God, what he wouldn't do for you in return.

He passed your dresser on his way to you and noticed the stack of photos as he felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach. Nestled there was something between guilt and the sick satisfaction that you were none the wiser about the parts of you he's now seen. The image of you topless in the bathroom mirror crept into his mind again and if Logan wasn't so damn exhausted, he would of gotten rock solid just thinking about it. Your panties were still hidden in the confines of his own room. He had already jerked off into the pair several times.

The bed dipped as his weight brought the mattress down, making your bags slide a bit towards him. He laid down on his side, propping himself up slightly on his elbow. "I'm all ears, baby. Tell me what my girl's been up to." Logan didn't miss how your posture shifted when he called you his.

He listened attentively to your soothing voice as you told him about the stores you visited and the all things you could only find in your hometown and he vented to you about his shitty weekend. You had a way of melting away the worries and the doubts from his mind without even trying.

Sleep crept it's way up his broad form until Logan fell unconscious. His cigar slowly billowed out in the tray. If it was a deliberate decision, he would of chosen to stay awake until he got back to his own room. You babbled on for a bit longer as you unpacked. After a minute or two without an affirmative yeah? or is that so? did you notice he was totally conked out.

You glanced over your shoulder to see him peacefully asleep, a low rumble sounding from his chest. He was obviously snoring, but the noise was more akin to that of a big purring kitten. It turned your heart to warm jelly seeing him this content.

You crawled on your hands and knees up the bed, careful not to wake him. At this point, you knew more than anyone else how falling and staying asleep was an active battle for Logan. You couldn't help from selfishly pressing a feathery-soft kiss to his forehead, even if there was a small chance the gesture would stir him to consciousness.

Your bodies faced eachother when you also succumbed to your own exhaustion- your travels hit your body harder than you had realized. Somewhere in your slumber, you had snaked your legs around his. Likewise, Logan instinctively reached out to hold your body against him with a heavy bicep.

A few hours later with noon fast approaching, a steady barrage of knocks at the door alerted Logan out his sleep. He glanced over to you, not able to recall when he had drifted off. Your limbs were still locked with eachother's as your slowed heartbeat and soft breath fanning against his arm almost lulled him back into his dream of you.

A voice from beyond the room shook him out of it. "Wakey wakey, I know you're in there." It was Scott. "I let you sleep in long enough. The professor needs you in his office asap."

Still in a daze, Logan completely forgot whose room he had just woken up in. He had not even considered that Scott could be talking to you. "Just fuck off and give me five more minutes, Summers," Logan grumbled.

Scott stood behind the door stunned, a scandalous smirk creeping up his face. Finally, some development between you and Logan- and was the visored mutant ever smug to be the one to make this discovery. He couldn't wait to tell everybody how he caught the big, bad Wolverine sneaking a nap in with the woman he has been pathetically crushing on for ages.

"Logan!?" Scott exclaimed incredulously, not even trying to supress the laughing fit he was breaking into. "Do me a favor, will you? Make sure the lady makes it to Charles in once piece. No time for funny business, you hear me?"

Logan would make him pay later on for mocking him, but to Scott it was sooo worth it. As he turned his attention back to you in bed, he noticed a dried streak of drool trailing from the corner of your mouth. You couldn't help it- his presence next to you made you feel safe and that lent itself to a very deep slumber. He wet his thumb between his lips before wiping it away from your face.

"Sweetheart, get up," Logan gently but firmly coaxed you out of your slumber with a hand tapping your shoulder.

"Mnnn... whaaat?" You mumbled as you swatted his hand away. "C'mon, let's go back to sleep..." You reached to pull him in, but he was all too sturdy in his stance. He was this close to saying fuck it and giving in to you. Hopefully you would forgive him for denying your whims this time.

"No, you come on. The big boss says he needs you in his office," his response illicited a long, disapproving groan from you. "Hey, hey, none of that," Logan tsked. "Not my fault my girl is so important."

My girl. Those words sure had a way of making you feel energized. You reluctantly sprung up from the bed and headed straight to the bathroom to clean yourself up a bit. He got up and followed close behind you, watching you wash your face and thinking about how that was the best sleep he had gotten in ages- even if it was only a short nap. Maybe sleeping next to you every night wasn't as crazy a dream as he thought.

You sat opposite of Professor Xavier at his desk, old leather of the seat sticking to your legs. The office was bright with natural light, fresh air circulating in through an open window. Charles was giving you a run down on everything he needed done this week. Letters to send out, field trips to scheduele, and an obscene amount of phone calls to make.

"We need to get those repairs done before the weather does irreperable damage to the insulation. Patching the roof is our top priority, call this number first." He handed you a slip full of contact information.

"Now that you're all caught up on current affairs, is there any matters you'd like to bring to my attention, my dear?" The professor looked you dead in the eyes in a way that you hated. You could never let your guard down around a telepath.

"You know me, Charles. Same old, same old. Never anything too exiting," a nervous exhale punctuated your words.

"What about Logan?"

Goddammit, Charles. You also couldn't stand how absolutely nosy the man could be sometimes. He was like a father awkwardly trying to gossip with his children, if only out of a desire to feel more included in their lives. It was irritating as it was endearing.

"What about Logan?" The way his name rolled off your tongue was enough to quicken your pulse. When did his name become the most beautiful sounding word? Everything was for Logan. Logan. Logan. Logan. "He's my best friend. We've just gotten close over the time he's been here, you know?"

"Fine. Whatever you say, my dear." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Charles gave up. You both had far too much to do for him to waste time wearing you down. He already saw everything he needed to see- sitting front row in the theater of your mind. The lecture he just gave to the students on ethics in telepathy be damned.

"Sorry, Charlie. You can't be the only man in my life forever."

"Yes, I know, I know." You could see the corner of his mouth curl upwards. It was nice to see a smile on the professor's face despite the stress he's been under recently.

He left you alone in his office to make your calls. The majority of the next few hours mostly consisted of hold music and the impatient tapping of your pen against the desk. You took on meaningless tasks like tidying up Charles' already spotless office as you silently prayed for a savior to your boredom.

Your prayers must of somehow been heard. As soon as your brain started to leak out of your ears from the sheer lack of stimulation, a larger than life presence made his way through the door.

"Thought you could get away with skipping breakfast, huh?" Logan sauntered his way into the open room, carrying something in his hand. "And skipping lunch, for that matter," he stated as he set down a plate full of food in front of you.

On the plate sat what was perhaps the saddest looking sandwich you had ever seen in your life- toppings slapped haphazardly between two slices of bread with condiments dripping down the sides. Still, it was cut vertically in half with chips filling the free space of the dish. You could tell he earnestly attempted to make it into something special.

"Tried to do it up as nice as you always make 'em for me..." Logan trailed off as he gazed down at the pathetic display. "Listen, at least it tastes good. I made sure a'that," he reached down to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Only now did you notice the bite taken out of the corner.

You brought your hand up to shyly cover the grin creeping up your face. "Looks delicious, Logan. Thank you," you giggled.

"What's baldy got you doing now? Playin' secretary?" Logan's focus turned to your legs that were swaying to the tempo of elevator jazz playing from the phone's fuzzy speaker. He watched intently as each subtle movement shifted the hem of your skirt.

"Basically. Not the most exiting but it needs to get done all the same." You took a mouthful of the sandwich and he was right- it was pretty damn good. If not a bit messy.

Small smudges of mustard collected at the corner of your lips, "No napkins?" Logan shook his head in response. You collected the condiment with your thumb, bringing it up to your mouth to clean off your finger. "Did I get it all?"

"Let me look at ya," he lifted your chin and turned your face, using this as an excuse to admire each side. From the slope of your nose to the angle of your eyes- every feature was a work of art to him. "Missed a spot." Logan's towering form bent down to be eye level with you sitting. Before you could realize what was happening, you felt his warm tongue lap at the smear on your cheek.

You didn't even know how to react. Logan was a roaring fire- in every aspect. Not only in terms of body temperature, but in his rage and how he burned hot for you. Crackling flames inside him drove his every decision. Your affection only provided more kindling. To put it simply, he was not a subtle lover.

He snuck in a few extra licks than were necessary and patted the excess drool away with his sleeve. "You're disgusting," you scolded him light-heartedly.

"Tell me you don't love it." Logan shifted to his knees to stay face to face with you. He captured your lips in a kiss, toying with locks of your hair while he put his devotion on display.

You could tell he was using every ounce of restraint he had. It was sickly sweet the way your mouths met again and again- each kiss never going beyond surface level. A fog was rolling in on the both of you. Dense in the air was the feeling of longing for more. These desires were as desperate as they were aimless. The two of you would never truly be able to get enough of eachother.

Your hands found themselves tenderly smoothing over the hair on his face. At this point, you knew him all too well. He was waiting for you to demonstrate to him how far you were willing to go. Logan felt the tip of your tongue swipe his bottom lip and the grunt this illicited from him sent a rush to your core.

He greeted your tongue with his and next thing you knew, your mouths were inseparable- locked together with no intentions of coming up for air anytime soon. Logan's movements still remained steady and deliberate. He was hedonistic in how he savored every sensation. His hands moved lower to knead at the dip in your hips to steady himself. Yours remained on his face to keep him locked in this embrace.

The two of you could of stayed like this forever, wetting eachother's appetite as you both held on for dear life. Forever came to an end when the hold music cut out abruptly- "Sorry for the wait, m'am. How may we help you?"

That night the students were still camped out in the common area whilst the repairs on their rooms were in progress. They made themselves comfortable on couches and in sleeping bags. It wasn't an ideal situation, but you tried to make it fun for them. You prepared popcorn and let them watch a few movies past their typical bedtime.

After the kids were all settled in for the evening, you joined everyone else in the kitchen. The soft buzzing of activity put you at ease. Within the room, Scott and Logan were complaining to one another- a cornerstone of their relationship.

"I don't understand why Charles couldn't just let us fix up the place ourselves like we aren't more than capable," Scott whined. He stood behind where Jean was sitting, leaning on the back of her chair.

"I reckon he doesn't think we're fit for the job," Logan left his position against the wall when he was greeted with your presence. Everyone's eyes were on him as he gravitated towards you.

"You know there are codes and regulations for stuff like that, right?"Jean remarked through a mouthful of pasta. "Stick to fixing sinks and patching up walls and leave the rest to the professionals."

He was standing right next to you now, hand at the small of your back while the conversation continued, "I'm telling ya, they didn't look very professional to me."

Logan took it upon himself to investigate the workers from the roofing company. They had arrived earlier to assess the damage. It didn't sit right with him how late they came and at such short notice. He took note of their attire- neat work pants and button ups that appeared to have never seen a day of hard labor in their life. The men were also absent of the distinct musk that handing tiles and other construction materials gave off. No traces of dust or dirt, the only thing Logan's nose detected was the unremarkable scent of a sterile office space.

"If they end up doing an inadequate job, you and Scott owe us a big, fat I told you so," Ororo chimed in from in front of the fridge. "Until then, the two of you can hush."

Logan's brows lifted and he rolled his eyes. It was hard to argue with a literal goddess. The hand at your back snaked its way to your hip, pulling you closer. He needed you close and he didn't care who knew. In fact, he preferred it that way. There would be no question of who he belonged to, because no one would dare mess with the woman who had his heart.

Knowing looks were cast in your direction from every corner of the kitchen. Everybody in the mansion has always regarded you with respect, even if you had a tendency to fade into the background. Frankly, you were not used to this kind of extra attention.

You pretended not to notice but Logan could tell it was bothering you. "Uh oh, I guess they know I'm sweet on ya, doll," he muttered to only you before planting a kiss to the top of your head, guiding your focus away from the prying eyes and back to him. "I'm going out for a smoke, c'mon."

Logan kept his arm around your waist as he escorted you through the mansion. You weren't sure where he was taking you, but you didn't care. As long as you were with him, all other details were not of concern.

The two of you turned a corner and he stalled, catching you from tripping over your interrupted step. An unfamiliar silhouette stood at the end of the hall, casting a long shadow against the dark wooden floor. Logan's body tensed up and all his senses were on alert. He recognized that sterile scent from earlier.

"Stay here," Logan commanded as he grabbed and secured you against a nook in the hallway. His touch was rougher than what was typical for when he handled you. You could feel the urgency in his grasp.

You froze in place and watched as he made his way towards the stranger. Logan took an intimidating stance, arms hunched out and prepared to make a move at a moment's notice. "Any reason you're still here? Why don't you head home, bub?"

The other man stayed silent in response. At this point, you and Logan both knew something was not right. He stood a few feet away from the stranger while waiting for provocation to retaliate.

The dim light caught between Logan's knuckles. Shining appendages gradually expanded from his fist with a sound unlike anything you have ever heard before- a combination of flesh tearing and a metallic shling that made you a bit queasy. He was preparing to strike.

You knew what they were. It was no secret to you what Logan was equipped with. His fellow X-Men would tell you wild stories about the vicious Wolverine that fought alongside them on missions, describing someone completely different from the man that you've come to know.

After what felt like an eternity but in actuality couldn't have been more than a few seconds, the man made his move. He grabbed something at his side. Everything was happening far too fast for you to catch what it was.

A large cracking noise reverberated off the walls as Logan was struck on the shoulder. You couldn't tell if the sound was the weapon breaking or him. He toppled over slightly, swinging his sharp claws at the stranger's legs with a roar. A twisted symphony of growls, grunts and shredding rung through your ears.

Before you knew it, the stranger slumped to the floor with a thud. The man wasn't dead, the exasperated breaths that he was squeezing out of his lungs made that much clear. Logan wasn't going to let him take another step towards everything that he cared for.

A group of speeding footsteps could be heard behind you as they made their way onto the scene. Jean, Scott, and Ororo must of heard the commotion. Still high off his own adrenaline, Logan turned to face you and his teammates. You could barely make out the dark fluid dripping from his claws and onto the floorboards. The air smelled like a roll of newly-minted pennies.

His eyes caught on your face. He had on an expression that you have never seen before. Wide-eyed and crazed, with a hint of something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Was it rage, remorse, or maybe even shame? Arms now limp at his side, Logan's slowly slid his claws back into himself.

You now understood the paralyzing fear his enemies must have felt when they faced him in combat. More importantly, you understood that he would preserve the safety of those around him without hesitation. All you could do was stand and stare, half expecting him to be pulled towards you like an opposite magnet similar to how he did earlier- but he didn't.

No one asked any questions. They all had a mutual understanding of what was to be done next and they made quick work of that. Jean took the man to the infirmary to treat his injuries and to be questioned later on. Ororo and Scott patrolled the mansion to see if the aggressor was alone, securing every enterence around perimeter. Now it was just you and Logan alone together again.

The gap was bridged between the two of you when you cautiously stepped towards him. The closer you got, the harder it was for him to maintain eye contact with you. Logan wanted to avoid this moment for as long as possible and he deluded himself into thinking he may of been able to forever.

You stood before him, granting him the space to recoup from what just happened. He was still stiff in posture.

"Well, we shouldn't just stand here," you were desperate to break up this painfully strained moment. "Those kids are probably scared, they don't know what's going on."

Logan followed close behind you, still on alert. To your surprise, the students were sound asleep in the common area. The movie still playing in the background must have drowned out the commotion down the hall. You sat on the last remaining couch that didn't have someone passed out on it and patting the space beside you. "Let's stay just here while we wait to hear back from everyone else."

Good idea, he thought. If anyone with nefarious intentions got to you or the children while he was absent, Logan would never forgive himself. Might as well make himself comfortable because he was not planning on getting a lick of sleep tonight. He sat down next to you, keeping a noticeable distance.

You thought of something you could do or say to put his mind at ease. Just when you thought you were starting to tear down his walls, he puts up another barrier. It was frustrating. All you wanted was to know what he was thinking.

"I don't really know what else to say but... thank you, Logan." You really meant it. No one was hurt because of him. The way he was quick to act with no regard for himself was unlike anything you had ever seen before.

"Don't mention it," he muttered shortly. Logan cut himself off before he could assure you with the usual affectionate pet name. You noticed this, and it made your heart sink to the pit of your stomach.

"Are you... hurt?" You knew he was okay, even if he felt the pain in the moment like anybody else would. "You took quite a blow back there."

"M'fine." He couldn't even look at you. You were getting nowhere.

"Whatever it is, just know that I love you, Lo." He was now viewing you from his peripheral, not even turning his head. You felt your voice start to waver, "All of you, every part. Don't worry about saying it back. I just need you to know that."

"Love ya, too. Not another word now, sweetheart, I mean it." Logan pulled you into him and you wrapped yourself around his side. You obeyed his request even if there was so much more you both could say.

You dozed off on his shoulder as he stayed awake through the night, ruminating on his conflicting feelings. It amazed him how even after you've seen the animal- no, the monster he saw himself as, you still felt secure in his presence.

Tonight he gave you a piece of himself he never intended to give, and you cradled that piece in your hands with a tenderness no one has ever granted him. His cheeks became damp with sparse tears as he kept his eyes darting between every point of entry. Under this roof, he was loved. He was needed. Anyone threatening his home better be ready to beg for mercy.

Charles assigned everyone busywork while he formulated his next move. He suspects that the X-Men were close to getting to the bottom of what was going on with the shadow organization, and perhaps that's why the mansion was targeted. Logan was more than happy to distract himself by putting his calloused hands to good use. In the end, him and Scott got what they wanted. They both worked from the inside while Ororo flew between sections of the busted roof.

You assisted them any way that you could, mostly by running supplies back and fourth. The mansion was filled with chatter about the night previous, but no one would have many answers until Jean finished questioning the intruder.

By nightfall, building materials had run out and there was nothing left to do until the stores opened the next day. A sizable portion had gotten done, but there was still plenty of work ahead.

After dusting himself off, Logan pulled you to the side. "Meet me in my room in a bit, yeah?" he rasped in a way that put you on edge. The two of you hadn't exchanged many words that day. The most you were able to get from him were single-word replies paired with a hungry look in his eyes.

"Are we going to talk, then?" You anxiously rubbed the tip of his elbow as you spoke.

"Talk?"

You bit your lip. Maybe now wasn't the best time to push him out of his comfort zone. "I care about you, Logan. I'd like to know what's on your mind sometimes."

"Hmm..." he leaned into you, close enough you could feel every exhale of each breath he took. "What if I showed ya instead of saying it with words? How's that, darlin'?"

A flutter was felt in the depths of your core as you realized what he might have in mind. "Yeah, I'd like that."

With a kiss that was much too quick, the two of you parted. You checked in with Charles like you always did before you retired for the night. After confirming he didn't need anything from you, it was time to make your way back towards Logan.

You approached his door and for a second, you hesistated. If Logan always made you feel safe when you were around him, why were you so damn nervous? There was so much pent up energy inside you that you were almost afraid to release. You felt for him far too much and you didn't want to mess this up.

The metal of the doorknob was cold in your hands as you turned it. Inside the room, Logan sat in a chair in the far corner in the low light of a desk lamp. He was leaning back with his legs spread apart.

"C'mere, baby," he set down his glass of whisky on the side table and gestured you towards him with his pointer finger. "Been hard at work all day. All I want is my sweet girl."

Logan never took his eyes off you as you made your way toward him. You felt his gaze shift up and down your body. When you stood before him, he looked up at your face again and patted his lap.

You sat down with your legs splayed across his own. He kept you in place on top of him with an arm around your waist while his fingers absent-mindedly stroked your upper thigh. All that was on his mind was how perfectly you fit against him. This is what he wanted- to clear his thoughts. You were the only person who had the power to do that for him.

"Wanna know what's really been on my mind, huh?" His words came out rough and strained. Before you had showed up, Logan was already getting himself worked up. He was savoring the sweet silence and the harsh bite of liquor all while visions of you danced around his head.

Logan ran the pad of his thumb back and fourth across your bottom lip, steady and focused. Blood rushed to your face and you couldn't help but purse your lips to gently kiss the tip of his calloused finger. This only encouraged him further.

You felt his digit dip past your lips and you obediently parted them. He started to rub small circles on the tip of your tongue, collecting saliva. Once he was pleased with how wet your mouth had gotten for him, Logan slid his thumb all the way in.

Gentle strokes to the back of your tongue was all the instruction you needed. You hollowed out your cheeks and began to suck as he pumped his finger in and out in a agonizingly slow motion. This action somehow both shut off your brain and fired all of it's synapses simultaneously.

"Now that's a good girl." His low, rough voice continued to fill the air with praises as you salivated around his digit. Logan was a man of few words, but he'd run his mouth nonstop about inane nonsense if it meant he could keep you here like this. He couldn't help but feel this way, you were being so good for him.

It was all so was maddening. Didn't he know how frustrating this was for you? Of course, the man knew. He could hear in your pulse, smell it in your perspiration. The sillage of the arousal between your legs was the most prominent as it wafted around him. Knowing that you are just as crazy about him as he is about you was the only way he could be satisfied. Logan figured now was the perfect time to take things a step further.

"Your mouth feels so good, sweetheart," he cooed through steady breaths. "Wanna taste the real thing?"

Your jaw dropped a little and your eyes widened. This was getting too real too fast. Fantasies were crossing over into reality and the excitement was almost too much. Your heart was now pounding against your ribcage.

Logan was gazing at you with soft eyes, pupils blown out to their fullest extent as he awaited your answer. You couldn't say no to him when he was looking like this. No longer were you going to let your nerves stop you from getting what you truly wanted. Especially when the thing you wanted was pressing into the underside of your thigh.

You nodded with his thumb still in your mouth. He drew it out with a string of spit gradually stretching until it broke apart. The same hand then held you by the jaw and pulled you into a kiss. Every muscle in your body seemed to give out. You had no choice but to lean into him, palms pressed into his solid chest.

The exchange was hungry, wet. Way sloppier than he has ever kissed you before and it caught you a bit off guard. He took turns between sucking at your top and bottom lip. You let him take what he needed while you savored the taste of him- faint flavors of cigars and whiskey. So decadent, so Logan.

"Tell me, baby," He used his grip on you to pull you back so he could admire your swollen lips, slicked from his own mouth. To him you were the most gorgeous like this, when you looked like something that was his. Logan's breath was hot againt your face. "Need to know how bad you want it."

"Please, I..." you trailed off trying to find the right words. You've never spoken your desires out loud for anybody to hear like this before. "I need it, Lo. Please let me taste you."

"Hmm..." Logan mockingly looked to the side as pretended to think about your request, like he somehow had pros and cons to weigh about having your lips wrapped around his cock. Then he clicked his tongue. "How can I say no to my girl when she asks so sweetly. Of course you can, baby."

He connected your lips to his again, tongue unabashedly exploring your mouth. So warm and velvety, Logan couldn't believe you were about to use it for his pleasure. You gathered your bearings and kissed him back, matching his fervor. It wouldn't be surprising if the nicotine and alcohol was getting into your bloodstream this way.

His hands found the dip in your hips as he lifted you up. You squealed as Logan placed you exactly where he wanted you- on the floor with your back pressed up to the foot of the bed.

You gazed upwards at the man before you. The buldge in his jeans was eye level with you in a way that was honestly a bit intimidating. Shaky hands reached for his belt. Your body was acting with very little input from your brain, so drunk off of him.

Logan's buckle was undone with a clink and you slid his belt out of the denim loops. The way he was watching you with big, dark eyes made you hot with embarrassment. That feeling mixed with the heat between your legs practically melting you into a puddle on his floor.

After popping the top button and unzipping his pants, the material fell to his ankles. His cock was straining against he cotton of his boxers. You notice a damp patch around where the head is. Without thinking, you leaned forward and closed your mouth around the clothed tip. Logan tasted better than you expected; rich and heady, sweet and salty. You were desperately sucking the precum out of the fabric, already addicted to the taste.

"Such a dirty little tease," Logan groaned, gaze never departing from the look of mindless bliss on your face. "Couldn't even wait to undress me to get a taste."

In an unexpected move, he pulled you back with a hand on your neck and yanked his boxers down with the other. His cock swung around from the momentum, casting a shadow over you.

Logan held himself by the base, rubbing the cockhead across your bottom and top lips. His arousal was speared all over your mouth "Don't you look so fucking pretty. Think we found you your new favorite lipstick, sweetheart?"

"Mmm hmm," you agreed, the sound vibrating though his length making him shudder.

"Now open up, baby," Logan was practically whining. He was just as deperate at this point. You obey and part your lips.

He slid his cock past your wet, swollen lips. Your tongue ran against the vein on the underside of his cock, the taste of him even stronger now. "That's it, just like that. Doin' so good for me."

The back of your head was cushioned by the edge of the mattress and he shallowly thrust into your mouth. Logan was testing how much of him you could take. The obscene symphony of you slurping and gagging around his dick was more than enough to make him lose his mind. He wiped a tear streaming down your cheek away with his thumb.

You push your head forward, bringing him into your throat. Logan would be happy with anything you were willing to give. Still, you felt the need to prove yourself to him, make him proud. You were demonstrating how you would chose his cock over air. With each loud, deep groan from the man above you, you took him in deeper.

"M'gonna... fuck," his hips quivered and his voice was faltering. You knew what that meant- soon you would get the reward for all your hard work.

"I'm almost there. Can I please cum in your mouth, sweetheart?" Logan reached down to push the hair out of your face. All you could do is look up at him through your watery vision- eye contact acting as a silent permission. While panting sequences of please, please, baby, please, he pushed himself to the back of your throat.

Rope after rope of his hot, thick spend filled your mouth. Some of it slid down your throat causing you to cough around his cock, making a mess of the both of you. Logan rode out his high with a few more additional thrusts before gently pulling out.

"On the bed, c'mon," he lifted you up and made you sit on the edge of the mattress. There, he stood between your legs and began lapping up all the excess cum on your face. Your mind was so clouded by arousal, all you could do was pathetically whine at the sensation.

"Shh, shh..." Logan reassured you between tender kisses, delighting in the taste of himself on you. "Don't worry, sweet thing. I'll make sure you are taken care of."

He starting to knead at your breasts through your shirt, feeling your heart beat fast in your chest. "You're gonna let me make you feel good, aren't ya?"

"Yes, Lo. Please," your words were barely audible through airy gasps.

He didn't waste another second removing your top. If Logan was able to rewind this moment and watch it over, he would be embarrassed by the groans slipping so easily from his lips. The anticipation of finally being able to feel you, to worship you- it was almost too much.

To take out his excess frustration, Logan started attacking you with his mouth. He licked, sucked, and bit from jugular to your sternum like he was trying to eat you alive. All while snaking his hands around your back to unclasp your bra. Marks were already blooming across your chest. No one could deny who you belonged to now.

Your nipples wound themselves into tight buds from the sudden exposure to air. Rough palms warmed them up again as he desperately groped at you. You let out a long moan when you felt him roll your nipples between his calloused fingertips.

"Sensitive, huh?" Logan exhaled into your neck, "just how I knew they'd be."

He trailed sloppy kisses down to your breasts, marking the mounds with the signature of his mouth. His warm tongue swirled around your hardened bud as the hand it replaced trailed lower.

Logan was completely gone at this point, suckling at your tits like it was the only thing he wanted to do for the rest of his long life. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive area and you threw your head back in response. Every whimper and mewl was music to his ears.

His love bites almost distracted you from the palm underneath your skirt groping your thigh. Logan's hand was brought to the front of your mind when his fingers grazed the damp crotch of your panties.

"Got this wet just from sucking my cock? What a needy little thing. It's okay, it's all yours now, sweetheart. I'm all yours." He incoherently rambled with your tit in his mouth, "don't you worry 'bout a damn thing, baby."

He slid his hand under the waistband of your panties, palm now flush against your wet, hot cunt. You squirmed in his grasp, overstimulated from having your breasts and pussy worked at the same time. A finger rubbed circles around your enterence before dipping into the quivering hole.

Logan's mouth was still sucking and biting your flesh raw until your entire chest was flushed. The scratch of his beard only made it more intense. You glistened under the low light from a mixture sweat and saliva coating your complexion. He pumped a single finger in and out of you, losing control of the pace. You squeezed around him when he crooked the digit, swiping your sweet spot with every thrust.

Your arousal was all but leaking down to his wrist as he inserted another finger, fucking you knuckle-deep with his hand. He could tell you were close by the way you were scratching at his shoulders, holding onto him for dear life.

"C'mon, let it out. Be a good girl and let it all go for me." Logan groaned into your chest while you ground your hips onto his hand. He didn't stop or slow down when your legs violently shook around him.

The wind was completely knocked out of you as you came. "Breathe, baby, breathe," he coaxed you through your high. Your windpipe opened again and you gasped for air, shocks from your orgasm still rippling through you.

A lewd, wet noise sounded out as he slipped his fingers out of you. Logan brought them to his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning from the taste. He met your lips with his and the swirl of flavors from eachother was unlike anything you ever tasted. There was no way you wouldn't be thinking about the taste the next day, craving it's decadence until you got your next fix.

Logan kissed and held you throughout the night. From here on out, he didn't want to make it to another morning without you in his arms. That was where you belonged and that was where he'd make sure you stayed.

Fin.

[cherryhazee]

Patience Is a Virtue | Luke Hughes

wc: 1.8k

Part 5 of The Art of Loving series

One and a half weeks. That was the time the Devils were on the road around Canada. Ten days, four cities, and countless hours on buses and in hotel rooms. For most of the team, it was a routine part of the season, a chance to bond, test their stamina, and hopefully stack up some wins. For Luke Hughes, however, it was proving to be a test of patience.

“You're going to burn a hole in your screen if you keep staring at it like that.”

Luke looked up to see Dawson dropping into the seat beside him, a knowing grin on his face. “What are you talking about?” Luke asked, too quickly.

Dawson gestured toward the phone in Luke's hand. “You've been glued to that thing all trip. Don't think we haven't noticed.”

Luke's noise-canceling headphones rested loosely around his neck, his phone still open on Instagram. Specifically, in a post that Avery had shared earlier that day, it was a photo of a new exhibit at the gallery, captioned with her usual humor. He smiled faintly, his thumb hovering over the like button.

“Noticed what?” Jack chimed in from across the aisle, leaning over to get in on the conversation.

“How Luke here is lovesick,” Dawson announced, loud enough for the entire bus to hear.

“I'm not,” Luke muttered, turning his phone off and shoving it into his pocket with more force than necessary.

“Oh, you so are,” Jack teased a mischievous glint in his eyes, not missing the look his brother threw his way. “What? Haven’t you told them about the date you had with Avery?”

Luke groaned and sank lower in his seat, his face rapidly turning different shades of red. “Can you not?” he hissed, glaring at his older brother.

The banter quickly spread through the bus. “Avery? That’s the girl from New York, right?” Nico asked from a few rows up. Did the whole team already know or what?

“Yeah, the art girl,” Dawson confirmed, grinning.

“She’s not just 'the art girl,'” Luke shot back, his voice coming out more defensive than he intended to, feeling his face grow even hotter.

“Oh, so she’s special,” Dawson said

“Trust me she’s more than special,” Jack said. Here we go, Luke thought to himself.

The team erupted into laughter, and the teasing only escalated as they approached the hotel. Even Ondřej, usually the voice of reason, joined in. “Kid, you should’ve seen how nervous you were when she came to that game,” he said with a grin. “You could barely stand on your feet,” he laughed.

“Yeah, Luke,” Jack continued, smirking. “All that talk about her, and then you couldn't even string a sentence together when she was actually there.”

“You should’ve seen his face when we interrupted them at the lounge,” he turned to the rest of the guys, “If looks could kill I wouldn’t be here right now,” he said while laughing.

Luke rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all hilarious,” he said dryly.

“Come on, admit it,” Dawson said. “She’s got you completely whipped.”

Luke shook his head, trying to play it cool as the team’s laughter rang around him. But as the bus came to a stop outside the hotel, his thoughts drifted back to the person this whole thing was about.

As the team filed off the bus and into the lobby, Luke stayed a few steps behind pulling out his phone. His chat with Avery was already open, her most recent text catching his eye.

How’s Canada treating you?

Luke smiled faintly as he typed out a reply.

Road trips are exhausting but I’m managing. Lots of time on the bus, but at least the team keeps it somewhat interesting.

Avery’s response came almost immediately.

I bet. Must be a lot of Jack teasing you, huh?

Luke shook his head, smirking as he leaned against the wall of the hotel lobby.

More like the entire team. I might need a new seat on the bus.

Poor Luke, she teased. Good luck in today’s game, by the way. I’ll be watching.

Luke’s heart skipped a beat at her words. It wasn’t just that she’d be watching, it was that she cared enough to try. She didn’t grow up around hockey which meant the game probably still felt foreign to her. Yet she still made the effort.

He could picture her now, tuning into the game from her apartment, the slight frown she made when she focused, probably trying her best to understand the rules and follow the game.

Thanks. I’ll try to make it worth watching.

Her reply came more quickly than he anticipated.

You always do.

Luke stared at her message for a long moment, a warm feeling spreading through him.

And then there was the thought that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't watching hockey for the game itself, but for him. That thought, as much as he tried to push it aside, left him feeling equal parts thrilled and nervous.

“See! That’s what we were talking about.” Dawson’s voice boomed through the lobby, snapping him out of his thoughts.

With a roll of his eyes, he placed his phone in his pocket and headed toward the elevator, his teammates’ laughter still audible in the background.

Tonight’s game was just another stop on their road trip, but knowing Avery was watching made it feel like something more.

—

When the game ended with a 3-0 win against the Oilers, the place was buzzing with energy. Hooting and hollering could be heard from outside of the locker room as the team relished in their shutout victory. Luke, fresh from his post-game shower, was still riding the high of the win, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.

As he pulled his phone out of his bag, he noticed a notification, a text from Avery.

Congrats on another win! I think I even managed to follow most of it. That save by your goalie in the second period was insane.

He could see that a few minutes had passed before she had sent another message.

Right?

Luke chuckled under his breath, imagining her replaying that moment to catch every angle.

Thanks! Yeah. Guessing you’re becoming a hockey expert now?

Her reply came a few moments later.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I still had to Google ‘goalie interference’ halfway through the third period.

Luke’s laugh came a little louder than he intended, earning a curious glance from Nico as he walked past. He quickly typed out a response.

Hey, that’s progress. Next time, you’ll be explaining it to someone else.

Don’t hold your breath.

Leaning back against the locker, Luke let out a content sigh.

As the team wrapped up their post-game routines and boarded the bus back to the hotel, Luke found himself scrolling back through their conversation. It wasn't anything overly sentimental or dramatic, but it was enough to keep him grounded.

By the time the bus pulled into the hotel parking lot, Luke had his reply ready.

By the way, next time we’re in the same city, I owe you a crash course in hockey. No Googling is required.

He hit send and pocketed his phone, feeling lighter as he stepped off the bus.

–

The team had safely made it to Vancouver, which meant one thing: a Hughes family reunion. With the game not being until tomorrow afternoon, the evening was occupied by some much-needed family time over a home-cooked dinner.

“So, how’s the road trip treating you, Luke?” His mother asked, handing him a plate as everyone settled around the table.

“Good,” Luke said with a shrug. “Tiring, but good.”

Jack smirked from across the table, unable to resist. “You mean when you’re not glued to your phone?”

Luke froze, glaring at his brother. “What are you talking about?” he said quickly, a little too defensive for it to go unnoticed.

Their father raised an eyebrow. “Glued to your phone? What’s that about?”

Jack leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh, you know. Texting someone. Like all the time.”

Quinn, who’d been quietly listening, perked up. “Wait, is this about a girl?”

Luke shot Jack a sharp look, but he wasn’t done. “Might be,” Jack added while grinning. “Her name’s Avery. She’s living in New York and works at some art gallery. Also, she came to one of our games, too.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Luke muttered, slumping in his chair as all eyes turned to him.

Ellen’s expression shifted to one of delighted curiosity. “A girl? And Jack knows about her before we do?” She feigned being hurt by this.

“Technically, I don’t know much,” Jack said, shrugging dramatically. “Luke doesn’t exactly tell me all the details. But he talks about her enough that we all know he’s into her.”

“Jack,” Luke groaned, his face now buried in his hands, not knowing what to do to stop him.

Jim chuckled, shaking his head. “So, who’s Avery?”

Luke sighed, realizing there was no getting out of it. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he couldn’t quite break, and avoided meeting their eyes. “She’s a friend,” he said carefully.

There was a brief pause as if he was weighing whether to say more, but instead, he pressed his lips together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. His gaze dropped to his hands, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve before he forced a casual shrug. “That’s all there is to it.”

Quinn leaned forward, his curiosity clear. “And she went to one of your games?”

“Yeah,” Luke admitted, feeling his face heat up. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“Sounds like it might’ve been,” Ellen said with a knowing smile.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Jim asked bluntly, his tone teasing.

Luke hesitated, not wanting to complicate things even further. “No,” he said honestly. “We’re just…no.”

“Well, she must be something special if you're texting her all the time.” Ellen said while sending her youngest son a warm smile.

Luke smiled, the thought of Avery momentarily easing his small frustration with Jack. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She is.”

The conversation eventually shifted back to family updates, but Luke couldn’t help replaying the moment in his mind. Jack’s big mouth had caught him off guard, but in all honesty, he didn’t really mind Avery being part of the conversation, it even felt natural.

As they all prepared for the night, Luke’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly, an easy smile tugging at his lips as he saw Avery’s name on the screen.

I could definitely use some Canadian adventures. You’ll have to fill me in when you’re back.

He smiled at her last message, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Before he could second-guess himself, he typed out a reply.

Definitely. Can’t wait to see you again.

Luke leaned back against the couch, his nerves melting into a quiet excitement. Jack, catching his expression, smirked.

“What now?” Luke asked.

Jack just shook his head. “Nothing. You’re just really bad at pretending this is ‘just friends’.”

Luke rolled his eyes but this time he didn’t argue.