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motherismotheringggg · 1 day ago

Text

friends who know

summary: you and cooper are best frjends but when he comes to your apartment after a night out and failed date for you, he tells you how he really feels

type: fem! reader x cooper koch

tags/warnings: 18+, fingering, oral (f! receiving)

author’s note: there’s a shortage of cooper fic and we MUST fix this; i think i only saw this once but in case there’s a larger concern about writing cooper in hetero sex scenarios i want to say 1.) all my fics are based in alternate universes 2.) its not that deep 3.) with cooper i try to keep his sexuality open in all my fics

word count: 4482

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The hum of the city outside was barely audible through the thick walls of the apartment, the occasional honk of a car or distant voice muffled by the calm inside. Cooper’s steps wobbled slightly as he made his way to the door, the alcohol coursing through his veins making everything feel heavier than usual.

Each movement seemed slower than usual as if the world was spinning just a little too fast for him to keep up. He had intended to just let himself into his friend’s apartment. Since she lived closer to the bar he was coming from and she should still be on her date, they had planned for Cooper to crash at her place if he didn’t make it home. But as he fumbled with his key in the lock, his vision blurry from the alcohol, he froze when the door swung open on its own.

“It took you ridiculously long to get that, I had to help you,” you teased with a playful smirk, your voice light as you opened the door to reveal your tipsy friend. Your makeup and hair were still done from the night out. You’d swapped your date outfit for something more comfortable—a big t-shirt that fell loosely over your frame and a pair of shorts, casual and relaxed for the evening ahead.

Cooper flashed a toothy grin, his eyes squinting slightly, the kind of grin that makes his whole face light up and his mouth stretch wide. His voice was heavy with tipsiness, slurring just a little, and his gaze was unfocused like he couldn’t quite center on anything. “Oh shit, I did not expect you to be home!” he chuckled, his voice warm but thick with the alcohol.

You raised an eyebrow, looking him over with amusement. "Well I do live here," you teased, stepping aside to let him stumble past. “I texted you like 30 minutes ago saying I got back early.” You could tell by the way he was swaying slightly that he had more than just a few drinks, but despite his drunken state, something was endearing about the way he carried himself—like his carefree nature was still intact even in this slightly hazy moment.

"I can’t even tell you if I have my phone with me," he scoffed, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. But despite his wobbly state, there was a lightness to his words, a mischief in his tone that was unmistakable. His lips curled into a smile, one that reached his eyes most charmingly. As he tried to steady himself, you took a step back, allowing him into the apartment.

He made his way to the couch and crashed into the cushions with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the soft fabric like he was just too tired to fight it. There was something about him in this state, so relaxed, that made him look even more appealing, his usual confident energy replaced with a kind of laid-back vulnerability.

His messy, tousled curls fell in loose strands over his forehead, a few bits caught in his eyes as he leaned his head back. He let out a content sigh, eyes half-lidded but still looking at you with that lazy smile. His long arms rested casually on either side, his broad forearms stretching across the armrests as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The muscles in his arms were defined even through the fabric of his shirt, and the way he moved—slow, relaxed—gave off an air of lazy strength like he could melt into any space and make it his own. He was a man who commanded attention without even trying, and now, sprawled on your couch, he looked like he was taking up all the space in the room without even realizing it.

You came from the kitchen with a bottle of water in hand, twisting off the cap as you walked into the living room. Your phone was still clutched between your fingers, but you focused on Cooper first. "I ordered us a pizza, but it’s gonna take a while," you said, offering him the bottle.

You ran your hands through his hair in a comforting manner as he took the bottle. He held your hand steady on his head while taking deep gulps of water that brought him back to life. He opened his eyes and his gaze met yours. You always felt very protective of him but even in this moment, where you were taking care of him, you felt safe.

“No worries, I’ll just raid your kitchen if I need to,” Cooper joked with a grin that was goofy but still disarmingly charming. His eyes tracked your every move from behind the couch and him to plopping down next to him on the couch, a slight tilt to his head like he was trying to piece together the picture of the night. His eyes focused on you, still too tipsy to hide his curiosity, though it was endearing more than anything.

There was a comfortable silence in your apartment. You scrolled on your phone and Cooper continued to drink his water. His gulps being the only noise in the room aside from the occasional notification vibration from your phone. Cooper began to sit up and look in your direction, his eyes narrowed slightly, "What happened to your hot date?" he asked, his voice low and heavy with the alcohol, but the hint of genuine interest was there.

You scoffed, leaning back into the couch with a small huff of frustration. "Hot date?" you repeated, rolling your eyes as you took a drink of your own water you had on the coffee table "It was a hot fucking mess.”

Cooper’s eyes widened a bit as he blinked, clearly processing what you’d said. "A mess? Alright, spill!" He tapped his legs, gesturing for you to put your feet up on him. His words came out a little slower, laced with curiosity and softened by the slur of someone who’d had a few drinks. But even through the haze, there was a genuine concern behind his playful tone, a real interest in knowing exactly what had gone wrong.

You shook your head, feeling a mixture of irritation and amusement at how easily your frustration was slipping into your words. "God, he was so obnoxious," you began, putting your drink down to properly explain, the weight of the evening pressing down on you. "Loud, pushy, and worse of all…he was terrible at eating me out”

Cooper leaned in even more curious than before, you let out a sharp exhale, the frustration of the night slipping out with every word. "We went to his place and he went down on me and it was so …bad. He had no direction, no idea where my clit was and he had the nerve to keep asking me if I was close to finishing.”

Cooper let out a laugh, one that he immediately regretted, but it bubbled up before he could stop it. He couldn’t help it. “I just can’t believe he was that bad,” he said, his voice dripping with a mix of disbelief and amusement. He shook his head as if trying to wrap his mind around it, still finding it hard to believe. “Honestly, it sounds like you dodged a bullet.”

Then, with a slightly lopsided grin, his tone lightened, and he added, “You deserve a guy who's gonna treat you and eat you.” He said it with a chuckle, but as the words left his mouth, a flicker of something serious flashed in his eyes, like he hadn’t quite meant to let that much slip out. He was drunk enough for it to come out in jest, but his gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than it should have, his protective nature subtly making the comment feel heavier than the casual joke implied.

The mix of joking and sincerity hung in the air, and for a moment, the playful edge of his voice didn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes. He was too far gone to realize how true that statement felt, how much he actually meant it.

He opened his arms, gesturing for you to lean in, and you didn’t hesitate. Letting yourself settle against him, you felt his warmth and the soft, steady thrum of his heartbeat. The scent of his cologne, mixed with a hint of the whiskey he’d had earlier, wrapped around you, making the room feel a little smaller, a little more intimate.

Cooper’s arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, and he let out a low chuckle. “We’ve shared so many hookup stories over the year and I remember a lot. His head dipped closer to yours, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I remember every little thing you said you like,” he admitted, his tone soft but sure. “I mean… I bet I could get you off, no problem.” The confidence in his voice was clear, even if he was too far gone to fully realize the weight of what he was saying.

He shifted slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that caught you off guard, his usual playful edge softened by something deeper. His fingers brushed lightly over your arm, tracing slow, absentminded patterns as if testing the waters, letting you feel his warmth through the gentle, almost reverent touch. “I’d want to,” he murmured as if the thought had just come to him. “I’d want to do it right… make you feel good.”

His words lingered, heavy with intention, his face hovering close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.

You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought about what it would be like to hook up with Cooper. He’d always had this effortless charm, and he loved to talk up his own skills, claiming he could leave anyone breathless. He had a way of paying attention, too—he’d often talk about how he could read the other person’s body, letting them lead while he responded, always focused on making them feel good. The idea had crossed your mind more than once, but you’d always brushed it off. Cooper was a friend, and here he was, drunk and vulnerable.

Your hand came up to gently caress his face, thumb grazing along his cheek as you murmured, "You’re drunk," your lips curling into a teasing smirk.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes with a smirk of his own. "I might be," he admitted, his voice a lazy drawl, "but I know you’ve thought about it."

He leaned back on the couch, eyes closed, that self-assured grin still tugging at his lips, and for a moment, you just watched him, the silence between you loaded with unspoken possibilities. You could feel the tension building, lingering in the space between you like an electric charge, neither of you moving, neither of you saying anything more. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, and the way he lay there—so casually, so confidently—only heightened the pull.

The knock at the door broke the tension, snapping you both back to reality. Flushing slightly, you got up to answer, grateful for the interruption yet already wondering what might have happened if it hadn’t come just then. When the pizza arrived, you both dove in, and as you took those first bites, the charged atmosphere seemed to ease. With each slice, the playful banter returned, and the lingering tension faded, replaced by the easy, familiar vibe that always felt natural between you.

By the time the food was gone, a warm, sleepy calm had settled in. You suggested getting ready for bed, and Cooper agreed with a lazy nod, stumbling off to the bathroom for a shower, hoping to shake off the haze of the night.

———

You were scrolling through your phone in bed when you heard the bathroom door creak open. Cooper stepped into the room, towel wrapped low around his waist, damp curls still clinging to his forehead. The soft glow of your dim bedroom lights cast shadows across his broad shoulders, drops of water gleaming on his skin as he moved. You couldn’t help but let your gaze linger on him, caught off-guard by how good he looked, how real he felt right there in front of you.

His eyes met yours, and you saw the smirk tug at the corners of his lips, that familiar teasing glint in his gaze. "How do you feel?" you asked, trying to play it off as nonchalantly as you could, even though your heart was pounding in your chest.

"Better… sober," he responded with a grin, running a hand through his wet hair, his voice thick with that playful edge you’d come to know well.

He climbed into bed beside you, and the two of you settled into your usual comfortable routine, your bodies instinctively gravitating toward each other. But underneath the familiarity, a different kind of tension lingered—one you couldn’t shake. Every inch of your body was aware of his proximity, your senses heightened by the memory of what had nearly happened earlier. You figured that with how drunk he had been, Cooper had probably forgotten everything he’d said before—everything that had made the air between you so thick with unspoken words.

The silence stretched on, each second feeling longer than the last. But then, Cooper broke it abruptly, his voice low and purposeful.

"So… are we gonna act like you don’t want me to eat your pussy?" he said, smirking as he glanced at you, that familiar cocky confidence back in full force.

You shot up, utterly stunned by his boldness, your eyes wide as your mind scrambled to process what he’d just said. You opened your mouth but couldn’t find the words to respond.

Cooper, noticing your shock, leaned back against the pillows, not missing a beat. "This was bound to happen," he murmured, his tone shifting to something softer but still charged with intent. "I think you’re beautiful, I always have. And I’ve wanted to taste you for as long as I can remember. And at the very least, the very very least… you deserve to cum tonight. `You went through all the trouble of getting ready…"

His words were like a spark, setting off a flood of heat that rushed through you, igniting the tension you’d been holding back. You were still reeling from the bluntness of his words, but now you couldn’t deny what you’d been feeling—the way he made you want him, despite the years of friendship, despite the risk.

Without another word, Cooper moved closer, kissing you slowly at first, his lips pressing against yours with a soft, knowing pressure. Your body reacted instinctively, leaning into the kiss, your hands reaching up to tangle in his wet hair, pulling him deeper. He groaned softly into your mouth as his hands wandered, exploring the curve of your body, his touch making you shiver.

He pulled away just enough to murmur, "Get on top of me." The command was quiet but unmistakable, his eyes dark with desire as he watched you, waiting.

You straddled him, the motion slow, deliberate, as you slid your legs over him, settling into his lap. The kiss resumed, deeper now, more frantic, as his hands roamed over your body, tracing the lines of your curves. One of his hands found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your skin as your lacy bra was exposed, and Cooper let out a low, appreciative hum.

Without missing a beat, his face dropped to your chest, his lips brushing over the curve of your breast before he kissed a trail down toward your cleavage. The sensation of his mouth on you, the warmth of his breath, sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. He didn’t waste time, his hands following suit, his fingers sliding along the lace of your bra before he pulled it down with just enough urgency to make you gasp.

His lips found your nipple, and as he kissed and nipped at your skin, your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but arch into him. The combination of his soft kisses and the heat building between you made it clear that neither of you were going to be able to turn back.

He continued to work on her breast, he would switch between and whatever one he wasn’t pleasuring with his teeth and tongue, he would use his fingers to lightly twist and pinch. Every touch. His hands were gentle but firm, making your skin tingle with every touch. What might have gone unnoticed with anyone else felt completely different with Cooper—his touch sending waves of warmth through your body. The simplest graze of his fingers, the way his lips moved with such intent, seemed to awaken a reaction in you that left you utterly breathless, as if every part of you was attuned to Cooper and Cooper alone. The space between you both, once so familiar, now felt charged with something new, something undeniable.

Cooper wrapped one arm around you, gently pulling you closer as he shifted positions. With careful tenderness, he laid you back on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second of the closeness between you. He hovered over you for a moment, his lips brushing lightly against your forehead before he leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time, his mouth warm and insistent against yours.

His hand trailed down your side, his touch light yet electrifying, as if he could feel the way your body responded to every brush of his fingers. The heat between you seemed to grow, the air around you thick with anticipation. He kissed you with a quiet intensity, his lips moving against yours as if he were memorizing the feel of you, the way you fit perfectly together.

The pressure of his body against yours sent a jolt through you, his solid form pressing down on you in a way that made your heart race even faster. Every inch of his body seemed to fit perfectly against yours as if you were meant to be like this. You wrapped your arms around him, your hands struggling to meet due to the sheer width of his shoulders, the feeling of his body almost overwhelming in the best way possible.

He paused for a moment, hovering above you, his gaze intense and unwavering. His hazel eyes locked with yours, the intensity of his stare sending a shiver down your spine. At that moment, you could see the way he took in every part of you as if memorizing the way you looked beneath him, your chest rising and falling with each breath. To him, you were beautiful, every curve, every inch of you a part of the image he had in his mind. The breathless, shaky exhale that escaped him only amplified the heat between you, the feeling of him exploring your body with his mouth still fresh on your skin.

There was a quiet tension in the air, a hunger that neither of you could ignore. The lust in your eyes matched the hunger in his, mutual desire pulsing between you both. It was as if the world outside of this moment no longer existed, leaving only the undeniable chemistry and the burning need to get closer, to feel more. Every small touch, every lingering kiss, heightened the anticipation, each of you wanting to give and receive more.

Cooper leaned in, his lips crashing against yours once again, this time with a deeper, more fervent passion. His kisses were insistent as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you, his hands roaming over your body with increasing urgency. His lips moved from yours, trailing down your jawline to your ear, where he lingered, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

His voice was low, husky with desire, as he whispered in your ear, the words almost a command, "Take them off." The tone was grumbly, yet full of something far more intimate—something that made your pulse quicken. It wasn’t just the words, but the way he said them, as if he knew exactly how to break down the walls between you.

As his lips worked their way down to your neck, nibbling softly, the sensation of his teeth grazing your skin left you breathless. His hands, now urgent, explored your body as though he couldn’t get enough of you. The way he touched you, moved over your skin, ignited a fire deep within. Every caress, every brush of his fingers, made you feel like you were losing control, unraveling under his touch.

You could feel the tension building between you, the weight of your friendship slowly being replaced by something far more electric, far more heated. The way his hands moved, quickly but with purpose, made you feel as if you were being pulled apart, piece by piece. You could no longer hold onto the rational thoughts in your head; everything else faded, and all that mattered was the feeling of his touch, the warmth of his body against yours.

Cooper’s kisses moved lower, his lips soft against your skin, each one sending small waves of heat through your body. His touch was gentle but deliberate, and you could feel your heart race in time with every movement. You could barely catch your breath, each kiss pushing you closer to the edge of something unspoken between you two.

As he hovered just above you, you could see the spark in his eyes, a playful yet serious glint. His gaze met yours, intense, but there was a warmth in it too—a familiarity, a promise that things would change, that they already had. His lips parted slightly as he asked, his voice smooth yet filled with a hint of something darker, “Are you ready for me, gorgeous?”

Your breath caught in your throat, your body trembling with anticipation. You couldn’t find the words to respond, only a nod, your head moving with the rhythm of your pounding heart. The weight of the moment felt heavy, but not in a way that made you want to pull away. It was a feeling that had been building for a long time, a connection that was deepening in ways neither of you had anticipated.

He smiled, and the tension between you only seemed to grow as he moved lower, his kisses now tracing the outline of your thighs. You bit your lip, the sensation both teasing and maddening as he drew closer and then pulled away, leaving you wanting more. The moment stretched out, thick with longing. You could feel every inch of him—the warmth of his breath, the gentle pressure of his lips—as he moved closer but never quite touched where you wanted him.

Frustration bubbled up inside you, and you found yourself instinctively reaching for him, your hands threading through his damp hair. Without thinking, you guided him toward you, a silent plea for him to take that final step. He let out a low chuckle, a sound that vibrated through your chest, and followed your direction, his body responding to yours with the same quiet urgency.

His kisses trailed down your body, leaving a path of warmth as he moved lower, each soft smooch against your skin sending shivers just below the surface. You felt the tension slip from your body, your breath quickening as he took his time, savoring each touch, each kiss. When you finally pulled off your panties, he slid down further, aligning himself with your most sensitive spot.

The first swipe of his tongue over your folds released a moan you hadn’t meant to hold back, all the built-up anticipation unraveling in that one, perfect stroke. Cooper’s tongue moved with a skillful intent, each motion precise and unhurried, as if he was mapping every inch of you. His mouth wrapped around your clit with a tender urgency, his lips creating a gentle, pulsing suction that made your body arch toward him, every movement filled with both calm and passion. Each moan you let out only spurred him on, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he continued, building you up slowly, expertly, until the tension inside you swelled to its peak.

Before you knew it, your body was moving instinctively, grinding in perfect rhythm with Cooper’s touch, amplifying every sensation that pulsed through you. Your breaths came in short gasps, your moans barely contained as he held you firmly, guiding you to where he wanted you. "Fuck… Cooper, that feels so good," you breathed, fingers threading through his hair, gripping tightly as he continued. Without pausing, he slid his fingers into you, each movement deliberate and deeply satisfying, his mouth still working at your heat, pushing you toward the edge.

Cooper’s hand found its way to your mouth, the same finger he just used to get you closer to your climax, he put on the edge of your lips. He didn’t even have to ask before you took the finger into your mouth and started sucking. His gaze flicked up briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before he murmured, “That’s a good girl,” the words rolling off his tongue, rough and warm.

Your breaths turned into desperate, shallow gasps, your body arching as Cooper’s grip tightened, holding you exactly where he wanted. You clutched his hair, then your breasts, each touch adding to the intensity building deep within. "Don’t stop, Cooper—right there," you pleaded, voice trembling as he focused right on that sensitive spot, his mouth and fingers working together in perfect rhythm.

The heat built into a fiery pulse radiating through you, spreading from your core to every inch of your body. “Cooper, I’m… I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, the words spilling out as he gave a low, approving “mhm,” the vibration adding to your pleasure as he continued relentlessly. He reached out, his strong hands clasping yours, grounding you even as your body surrendered completely.

The climax hit you like a wave, crashing over you in a rush of intense sensation. Your thighs clenched around him as your back arched, head thrown back as you cried out his name. Cooper stayed right with you, his mouth and fingers maintaining their pace as you unraveled, every nerve electrified, holding onto his hands as the release poured over you, leaving you breathless and utterly spent.

Cooper pulled back and kissed up your torso, to your neck and then eventually planting a passionate final kiss on your lips. He laid next to you on his side while you were still flat on your back trying to catch your breath. He let out a low laugh watching you trying to gather yourself, “I told you I could get you there”.

#nasty remix #cooper koch #cooper koch fanfic #cooper koch smut #cooper koch fic #cooper koch x reader #cooper koch x y/n

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danidrabbles · 10 hours ago

Text

Cardinal

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

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

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

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

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

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

THE LOOKOUT

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today you want it to be your last time here.

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

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

“Hey, stop!”

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

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

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

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

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

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

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

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

“You know–” he begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Understanding.

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

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

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

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

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

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

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

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

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

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

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

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CRAVING

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

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

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

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

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

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

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

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

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

“First time’s on the house.”

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

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

“She isn’t interested, pal.”

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

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

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

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

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

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

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

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – – –

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

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

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

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

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

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

“What–”

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

“Oh…,” you say, voice small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PUZZLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

He nods in acknowledgement.

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

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

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

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

– – – – –

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re a quick study.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can pay next time.”

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

– – – – –

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

THE PANTRY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

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

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

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

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

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

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

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

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

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

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

– – – – –

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

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

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

You respond in kind.

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

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

THE MEETING

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

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

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

You’d answered without saying a word.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

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

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

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

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

Logan scoffs in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe next time.”

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

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

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

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely,” you reply.

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

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

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

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

“See you.”

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

THE SUMMER

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

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

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

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wade,” Logan warns.

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

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

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

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

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

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

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

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

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

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

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

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

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

– – – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– – – – –

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PARTY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you smile.

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

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

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

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

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

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

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

– – – – –

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you dance?”

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

“Logan,” you breathe.

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

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

You like him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

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

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

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

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

But he might.

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

But it would change everyth–

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

friends.

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

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

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

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

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

#dani writing #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #james logan howlett x reader #worst wolverine x reader #logan x reader #x men x reader #worst wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine smut

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leighsartworks216 · 2 days ago

Text

Good Girl

Zayne x fem!Reader

My first Zayne smut, god bless (I just put him on Workout and now he is breathin in my ear oh lordy-)

Based on this post by @deusfoundry

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

Warnings: smut, established relationship, grinding, thigh riding, light bondage, kissing, pet names, praise kink

Word Count: 1,780

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Zayne in that suit always drives you just a little bit crazy. The neat tan vest that hugs his waist and accentuates the hazel of his eyes. The tidy white button down, and those arm bands that strain just slightly against his muscles. The accentuating fixtures - his cufflinks, the chain dangling from a lower button of the vest, the tie clip. It’s perfectly fine-tuned to draw your eyes to him throughout the entire night.

It’s not like he doesn’t notice, either. The first couple of times he caught you staring, he didn’t think much of it. You were out at dinner, after all. It’s only natural that you should give your attention to the person you’re with.

But then he saw your eyes linger on his throat. And his arms. And he couldn’t justify it as anything but lust any longer.

The drive home is torture. You catch every red light. Every. Single. One. So you can be forgiven when you practically drag him inside, and then for pressing him against the door to kiss that self-satisfied smirk off his face.

He groans softly as he meets your fervor with his own. His hands are on your waist in a flash. Large palms and long fingers spread out to feel every part of you he can through your dress. He finds the zipper in the back and undoes it easily. You pull your arms from it as he pushes the gown off of you. It pools on the floor of the entryway.

You pull his tie free from his vest and step away. His eyes, lidded with lust, watch as you tug him along. His hands slip from your warm skin. He wants little more than to reach out and feel it again. For now, he’s powerless to do anything but follow.

You grin with kiss-swollen lips as you bring him along to the sofa. You playfully shove him down to be sitting, his tie sliding from your fingers so he can lean back without being choked. His ears are burning.

“My love, wouldn’t the bed be-”

You shush him, resting your fingers over his mouth to stop him talking. You swear you can see the way his pupils dilate, before you caress his cheek and he closes his eyes to seek out your touch. His legs are spread to welcome you, and you perch yourself on one of his thighs.

You trail your hand from his cheek, down his neck. His eyes open to watch you with keen interest as you slowly undo his tie. He reaches out to feel you, to hold your waist and keep you close. You grab his wrist before he can.

“Put your wrists together,” you command, but your voice is almost a whisper.

The black tie, clip discarded to the side, slips from his collar. His heart thumbs harder in his ribcage as he realizes just what you intend to do to him.

He lifts his arms over his head, wrists crossed over one another. It’s a familiar position, but not for him. You wrap the tie around his wrists and carefully follow a set of steps in your head. When you pull the knot tight and sit back, he recognizes the technique you used.

He grins. “Have you been practicing?” he teases.

You smile back, leaning forward to kiss along his jaw as you undo the top few buttons of his white dress shirt. “I learned from the best, doc-tor,” you whisper. He nearly shivers at the purr in your voice.

You stand up from his lap. He thinks you may leave completely, abandon him here with the aching erection straining against the front of his pants. Instead, he watches, mouth going dry, as you kick your shoes aside and slowly, tantalizingly, lower your panties. Panties dangling from a finger as you stand, you consider what to do with them for a moment, before you drape them on his shoulder. The heady scent of your arousal is impossible to ignore. His cock twitches in desperation.

You press your knee to the couch between his legs, grazing his crotch. His breath hitches in his throat from even that small touch. Your other knee presses down on the other side of his leg, straddling him. You don’t lower yourself to a sit just yet. Instead, you hold yourself up, chest at eye-level with Zayne, and unclasp your bra.

Of all the teasing you have done so far, this is the worst. It’s never been a secret how much he adores your chest. He wants to run his mouth along your clavicle, glide his tongue along the valley of your breasts, suck and kiss your nipples as they harden in his mouth. He wants to grab you, hold your back so you can’t squirm away as he devours every inch of skin before him. But he can’t. And when he tries leaning forward anyway, you push him right back down.

“My love,” he groans, “the things you do to me…”

You caress his jaw again, thumb running over his chin and just under his lower lip. “Should I show you what you do to me?” You guide his head down to look at where you hover just above him. “What you’ve been doing to me all night?”

You finally lower yourself to rest on his leg. Your folds part, pressed open and dripping wet against the fabric of his pants. He can feel the heat. Through the heartbeat pounding in his ears, he can hear your quiet sounds as you drag your cunt up his thigh. When you slide down toward his knee, there’s a trail of slick arousal left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. The word sounds almost wrong coming from him, a man who prides himself on wit and educated speech to get his points across. Yet it’s the only think he can think to say as you guide yourself along his thigh again.

The fabric of his pants rubs deliciously over your clit with every pass. Your cunt throbs with unbridled desire. It aches to be filled, to have something - his fingers, his tongue, his cock - inside of you. You tilt your hips forward to press your clit further into him.

“Do you know how handsome you are?” you gasp.

His wrists strain against his tie. His mind floods with images of grabbing your hips and helping you grind against him. His own needs are completely forgotten, replaced only with the thought of having you cum against him from this alone.

You speed up, panting softly with the effort. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Always, no matter what.” You whine and grab onto the lapels of his vest. “But in this? I- fuck, all I can think about is riding you. So fucking gorgeous.”

It takes all his effort to drag his eyes up to meet yours. Your face is so flush, pupils blown with desire. You are the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “How often have you thought about this?” he asks. He pushes his thigh up into you for emphasis, pressing against your clit so perfectly it leaves you breathless. “How long have you been practicing tying me up?”

“Always.” You lean forward, pressing your face into his neck where your hot breath fans across his heated skin. “Ever since you first tied me up.”

His mind reels. The first time he ever “showed you how a surgeon ties knots” was months ago. So from that first time, you’ve been secretly teaching yourself how to do it, imagining just how he would look tied up like you were, biding your time until now? He groans, eyes slipping shut in the ecstasy of his love for you as he takes advantage of your proximity to kiss and suck on your neck and shoulder. You don’t push him back, don’t stop him. Your sweet moans resonate in his ear.

Deciding to push his luck even further, perhaps inspired by all the times you have before, he lowers his arms to circle around you. He supports your lower back, guiding you against him. You don’t stop him here, either. No, you wrap your arms around his neck, tangle your fingers in his hair, keep yourself as close to him as possible. Your panties are dislodged from their place on his shoulder without care.

You grind faster, harder, down onto his leg. Your thighs burn, but you can’t stop. You can’t even consider stopping. You gasp right by his ear. “Close…” You whimper. “So- ah, fuck- so close…”

He speaks between sloppy, wet kisses. “I know, my love. Be a good girl and come for me. Be my good girl…”

You clutch onto his hair as your hips falter, a wanton cry of his name filling the air with your heavy breaths as your orgasm snaps within you. Your legs shake, squeezing his thigh desperately as you rock in small movements against him. He guides you, helps you ride through your bliss with the utmost pleasure.

When you whimper with overstimulation, he stops. You slump against him. He presses soft kisses over your shoulder, panting softly himself. “Good girl.” You don’t see the grin that grows on his face when you shudder at the praise.

You sit there for a while, just reorienting yourself. Your cunt throbs against his leg, your cum soaking his pants completely where you rest. Once you’ve caught your breath, he raises his arms again, releasing you so you can sit back. He watches you carefully to make sure you don’t fall off the couch, given how worn out your legs are.

You reach up and carefully undo the knot in his tie. It’s dropped to the side, falling somewhere with your panties and his tie clip. His arms are a bit numb from the position, but he pushes it aside to hold your waist anyway.

“How are you feeling?”

You hum, trying to think of the best word to describe it. You slide your hands from his neck to cup his cheeks. He turns his head to kiss the meat of your thumb, eyes closing slightly in affection.

“Wonderful.”

You glance down to look at just how ruined his pants must be, when you notice the still-prominent bulge in his pants. You trail a hand down his chest and brush your fingers against it. His breath hitches, and that soft look in his eyes hardens once more into something lecherous.

Before you can get the words out to tease him, he flips you over onto the couch, supporting himself with a hand beside your head. “Do you think you can take a bit more?”

You nod eagerly.

He smiles. “Good girl.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton

#fanfic #fanfiction #zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #lnds zayne #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads #lads x reader #lnds #lnds x reader #fem reader #x fem reader #female reader #x female reader #smut

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a-shade-of-blue · 16 hours ago

Text

I've recently moved to a new country due to the worsening political environment in my home country, and I've been struggling to adapt. Uprooting yourself from the place you've called home your entire life is not easy, and I've had to discard many items close to my heart because I cannot afford to bring them with me.

Therefore, I cannot imagine what Mahmoud's family (@mahmoudfamily1 ) must be feeling. They have had to evacuate 16 times in a year! Each time they evacuate, there are fewer things they can bring with them. They are a family of 17 people, 10 of whom are children! With limited space on the car they use to move, should they bring all the blankets they own so everyone can keep warm, even if it means discarding a young child's favourite toy?

Then there is the problem of food. With the scarcity of food, they are forced to eat spoiled food because the alternative would be to not eat anything at all and go hungry. As a result, the 10 children suffer from constant stomachaches and diarrhea from the contaminated food and water they consume. Imagine evacuating, walking for miles and miles, while in constant pain!

Most worryingly, Mahmoud's family also includes 3 infants. The youngest of them, baby Meryem, was only born a few months ago in this genocidal war. Mahmoud's sister almost lost her life in the birth process due to a lack of medical resources. She still suffers from severe infections caused by the difficult birth because she has not been able to get the medical supplies and the treatment she needs. And reminding everyone again that they have to deal with all that while bombs are falling all around them!

Mahmoud's campaign has barely been getting any donations. Even though he has been raising funds for almost 6 months now, he has only reached 6% of campaign goal and has only raised $4,763 CAD out of his $80K target!

This campaign is #3 on @/gaza-evacuation-funds vetted list here, #117 on @/gazavetters vetted list, vetted by bilal-salah0, and vetted by association!

Donations have stopped for Mahmoud's campaign!! Last donation was more than 2 days ago!

tagging for reach

@hazem-khalil @soggystyrofoam @kibumkim @pigswithwings @plaidos @bellybuttonblue2 @caseys-soup-corner @squidie-tittie @bubonicherald @seravph @horreurscopes @ripe @irradiatedsnakes @dreamingamongthestars @hoodnaruto @akaratna @mai-monnie @novastarology @nightydraws @elderscrollpdf @geospiral @lone-nyctophile @mysteryvhs @wiremotherrrrr @artoatsblog @beepbatt @theothergal @mere-glim @feytouched @nash13 @chilisaws @biterflies @twistedmiffy @ilovelifetbh @thecoffeelorian @artofenby @entryn17 @bifauxnnen @dormont @dykefagz @beargif @wouriqueen @coffeelich @battle-spouse @block-swing-perry @ana-bananya@northgazaupdates@c-u-c-koo-4-40k@riding-with-the-wild-hunt @roadimusprime@aces-and-angels@just-browsing1222@neptunerings@mushroomjar@northgazaupdates2@kyra45-helping-others@decolonize-solidarity @heritageposts@timetravellingkitty @briarhips @ankle-beez @akajustmerry @wellwaterhysteria @rhubarbspring @brutaliakhoa @decolonize-the-everything @sporesgalaxy @postanagramgenerator@heydreamchild @watermotif @stuckinapril @malcriada @appsa @buttercuparry@bixels @afro-elf @officialspec @wormzandgutz @tlirsgender @apas-95 @renegadeer @fadedlovemp3

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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago

Text

It Was Smiling Down - A No Love Lost Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Author's Note: Ryan Butcher I'd die for you. If Eric Kripke EVER does you dirty he will have to answer to me personally. Title from San Francisco by the Mowgli's.

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary/Warnings: A Ryan pov Chapter! Takes place between Chapter 26 and Chapter 27. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, tooth-rotting fluff, slightly angst, pre-established relationship

Ryan Butcher doesn’t really trust people. As a whole, they haven’t proven themselves to be that trustworthy. They mostly lie to him, or hurt him, or yell at him things that haunt him when he can’t sleep. Things about how he hurts people, when he doesn’t mean to.

He never means to hurt anyone. It makes him feel heavy and sad and sick, and then the sizzle of flesh or crunch of bones has to be added to his nightmares, along with all the other faces that he did something bad to. Mom said hurting people was bad, and that we should treat others with kindness.

Dad said it didn’t matter. Dad said that people were like toys for them—the stronger, the better, the gods—to play with. That if Ryan broke one or two spines, or smashed four or five people into buildings, or punched a dozen people’s faces into their bodies, it didn’t really matter. The toy box was infinite, so they’d find a replacement. Dad said that humans couldn’t stop reproducing like cockroaches, so killing a few, or a lot, was if anything a favor to the universe.

Ryan had told Her that once. Not what his Dad had said—the mention of Dad always made Her face look sad, and Ben’s face look angry—but that cockroaches reproduced a lot. She’d been visiting him and Ben during training—all of them sitting on the floor, Ryan cross legged and Her leaning against Ben’s body—and Ryan had said it for a reason he couldn’t now remember.

She’d paused, frowning at her sandwich, then looked up at Ryan with a soft, curious gaze. “Do they? I mean, all bugs reproduce quickly for survival purposes, but I don’t think cockroaches are that remarkable at it.”

“I, I don’t know.” Ryan had mumbled, his eyes dropping to the mat. He didn’t want Her to be disappointed in him, even if she’d never been before. “I just heard it somewhere, I guess.”

“Huh.” She’d shrugged, reaching over Ben’s body to grab one of his fries that he always told Ryan tasted like fucking Styrofoam, but still brought every time she ate lunch with them. “Maybe I’m wrong-“

“No.” Ryan’s head had shaken nervously, because if Ben had taught him anything it was that She was almost never wrong. “I, I must have gotten it mixed up, I don’t know what animal reproduces the most-“

“Seahorses.”

Ryan had looked back up to Her, to see her grinning at him. All teeth and a warm affection that made the twisting feeling in Ryan’s gut fade. “Seahorses?”

She’d nodded, humming an affirmation. “Up to 2,000 babies at a time.” Then She’d twisted around to look at Ben, her face growing just a little brighter than it had been before as Ryan saw their eyes meet. “And the men give birth to them, Benjamin.”

Ben had scowled. “How the fuck is that my problem-“

She’d pouted at him, and Ryan had seen them do this a million times before. She poked him, and he poked back, and neither of them ever really meant it, and it would go and go until one of them—probably Ben, Ryan had seen Her talk circles around their whole weird little family all at once with breaking or faltering—gave in and shut the other up.

“Would you give birth to my seahorse babies, my love?”

“I’m not giving birth to fucking shit-“

“But would you-“

“No.” Ben had grunted, rolling his eyes. “Because men don’t give fucking birth-“

“Seahorse men do. Seahorse men get pregnant, and then give birth. Which is usually how that process goes, but in seahorse societies it’s considered masculine. The men give birth because they love their partners and don’t want them to be in pain-“

Ryan didn’t think that last part was true, but there was usually a point in these arguments where She started to tug at Ben’s shirt with a soft, teasing smile, and said words that didn’t need to be true, because they were almost always her winning blow. This hadn’t been any different, because She’d cut herself off with a small yelp as Ben pulled her further into his lap, leaning down to kiss her.

Ryan had found somewhere else to look for a few minutes. He’d gotten good at that, at reading when he had to pretend that his two trusted adults weren’t maybe seconds from having sex on the floor. They never did, and it didn’t really bother Ryan—they both smiled twice as much when they were done, and Ryan had seen a lot worse than the way they always seemed to be eating each other’s faces—but he still had to wait it out.

When it was preceded by one of their fake arguments, it usually lasted a little longer. The kissing would stop, and they’d just look at each for a minute or two until She turned back to Ryan and Ben’s arms locked around her stomach.

That was Ryan’s favorite part of this. How She’d keep talking to him with a wide, happy expression that Butcher had called Her ditzy fuckin Soldier Boy smile, and Ben would just look at Her.

Ryan really liked how Ben looked at Her. It was an expression of something soft and powerful that he’d only ever seen on Ben’s face, only ever directed at her. It was relaxed and adoring, but still solemn and firm in the only way Ben seemed to know how to be. Like She might be the only thing that Ben knew was real, and he wasn’t bothered by that at all.

It wasn’t like Dad had looked at Stormfront. That had been meaner. Like they were always in a fight—not one of Her and Ben’s play fights, which were more like a cat and a dog swatting at each other before the dog flopped over, and the cat climbed on top of it, but instead a violent, bloody war—and were trying to see who’d snap first. Dad had looked at Stormfront like he was waiting for her to stab him, but wasn’t sure she would.

Ben looked at Her like he’d handed her the knife to carve into his body, and She’d made a face and thrown it away.

Ryan hadn’t really ever seen Butcher look at Mom, but he hoped it had been a little like that. It was what Mom had deserved, even if Butcher could be a cock fuck bitch with his head tonguing his own ass, in Ben’s words.

But Butcher was getting better. He’d apologized for saying Ryan had hurt Mom—he hadn’t meant to, he never meant to, and he still had nightmares where Mom’s guts were spilling out of her body, and she looked right through Ryan like he was a ghost—and mostly didn’t talk to Ryan about Dad anymore.

Nobody really liked to talk to Ryan about Dad. Ryan knew She would, if he asked, but he didn’t want to ask. He’d never forget what Butcher had shown him—about Mom and Dad and Her—or how, for the first two months Ryan had lived with everyone, She’d been gone because of Dad. Because of Ryan.

Not your fucking fault, kid. She’d kill me if I let you blame yourself for your pussy fuck dad’s actions.

That was why Ryan talked to Ben about it. He didn’t coddle or lie or sweeten the truth, he just grunted words that—when Ben said them—always seemed to be the inherent truth. Dad wasn’t Ryan’s fault, and Ryan was getting stronger, and it was okay that Ryan got afraid because it he wasn’t a pathetic fucking dickless pussy about it.

Ryan asked Ben if it was okay to hurt people, and Ben told him if they fucking deserve it, but only if they deserve it, and Ryan decided that sounded right. And She said most people didn’t deserve to be hurt, and very few things were truly unforgivable, so Ryan could try to figure out what things were really wrong, and then hurt the people that really deserved it.

Dad deserved it. When Ryan wasn’t afraid of Dad, he was angry at him.

“Do you get angry?” He’d mumbled over a breakfast in Her and Ben’s apartment, and She’d hummed, tilting her head.

“I do. We all do. Anger is our brains telling us that something is unfair, and a lot of this isn’t really fair. So yeah, I get angry.”

Ryan had nodded slowly, turning to Ben as he approached the table from the kitchen. “Ben, do you-“

“Course I fucking get angry.” Ben had dumped three large pancakes onto Ryan’s plate, then two larger ones onto Her’s, then a smaller one onto his own, and ignored Her glare as he dropped into his seat. “This whole goddamn thing-“

She’d cleared her throat, eyes narrowed at Ben. “Benjamin.”

“What-“

She’d given a pointed look to his plate, then back to him. “You need to eat as well.”

“I’ll be fine, Sunshine, you and the kid need more than I do-“

She’d cut one of Her pancakes in half, moving the bigger piece to Ben’s plate, and he’d scowled. They’d both been silent, glaring at each other for almost a minute, and then Ben had grunted. She’d leaned back into her chair with a smug grin, and everything had moved on.

Neither of them had been mad, though. Ryan had thought that glaring and frowning was only about hatred, but when She and Ben glowered at each other it seemed to be more of a standoff. An act or show or contest of affection that neither of them ever seemed to be upset about losing.

They were never really mad at each other at all. Ryan had seen them yell at and taunt and mock each other, but there always seemed to be something under it that sounded like I love you. I’m allowed to call you a dumb dumb or pain in the ass, because I love you and we both know I don’t mean it, because I’m “fighting” with you, but I’m also holding onto you like you’re a buoy in the storm.

Ryan wanted to love someone like that. He wanted someone to love him like that. Because Ben never seemed to really think she was mad at him, even when she called him a cunt or idiot or asshole. Ryan himself didn’t think she was ever really mad at Ben, because he’d watch Her hit Ben’s arm with a fake pout or glare, but she’d never flinch or cower away from him. She was always touching Ben, and she was never afraid of him. Ben had hurt people, Ben was just as dangerous as Ryan was, but She only touched and looked at him like he’d fallen from heaven for her to have. She always kept her hand in Ben’s, or her body in his arms, or their legs pressed together. And she always looked for him. And She always seemed to be happier when she was talking to and looking at Ben, with just his presence never failing to make her smile.

And Ben loved Her. It seemed like love in movies Ryan had watched with Mom, or that he’d read about in books he’d found tucked in corners of Butcher’s apartment. But real. Ryan didn’t think Ben was capable of being really, truly mad at Her, and she seemed to know it. Ben would roll his eyes at Her, and grumble that she was brat, or glare at her in a way that would be dangerous if it wasn’t at Her. Whenever Ben glared at Her it was so painfully fake Ryan wondered if Butcher had been lying when he’d told Ryan not to mention love around those two twats, they ain’t aware that they’re fuckin obsessed with each other yet after She’d returned, because Ben didn’t seem capable looking at Her with anything but love painted over his features.

They certainly knew now. Everyone knew, because every third sentence out of Ben’s mouth was another declaration of love for Her. Every single thing Ben did seemed to be something for Her. Ryan would eat dinner with them, and he’d see Ben pass Her a fistful of stolen chocolate under the table. He’d watch a movie with them, and She’d would be holding Ben’s arms against Her, and Ben would kiss her in the dark and snort at her jokes and get Her and Ryan snacks whenever either of them so much as mentioned the word hungry. He’d train with Ben, and ask a question about punching, and Ben would grumble about how She said you could punch people and be a pacifist, like Muhammad Ali, and she was always fucking right about that shit. And She was a genius. And a better person than every other fucking pussy on the planet, so they should both fucking listen to her.

Ben carried Her in his arms wherever she let him, and She never stopped smiling at him, and Ryan had decided that if he ever loved someone—far in the future, when Dad was just a faint, reoccurring nightmare—he’d love them like Ben loved Her.

Ryan would never be like Homelander, because he’d never lock up or hurt people he loved. Ryan would be like Ben. And that felt easier, because Ben never demanded that Ryan follow in his steps. He was just there, and trustworthy, and Ryan wanted to be strong like him. He wanted to protect people and do things for them. He wanted to never speak or think of his Dad again, because really their family was Ben and Her, a stained hole that didn’t really matter and Ben wouldn’t let hurt them, and Ryan. It was Butcher forgiving Ryan, because he was trying, and She said the most important thing anyone could do was try to be better.

He was really trying to be better. Ryan didn’t really trust people, but he trusted Her and Ben when they said that this wasn’t his fault. He believed them when they told him what he knew, that Ryan really didn’t mean to hurt people.

And Ryan hoped that, after Homelander was dead, he’d get to have a life where they kept smiling at each other—and him—and Ryan never was made to hurt someone again.

End Note: Catch Ben in his Dad era, coming to a No Love Lost chapter near you (in all seriousness I hope you guys liked the extra pov! An outside perspective on how down bad they both are was very fun to write)

If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

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jetii · 2 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Seventeen: Downpour

Chapter WC: 12,129

Chapter Tags/Warnings: battle stuff, kinda angsty but compared to last chapter this is nothing

A/N: Once again there is a lot going on here. 💀 I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for ages, so I hope you enjoy!

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Kamino, 21 BBY

It's raining. Of course it's raining.

You can't even remember a time you were on Kamino that it wasn't. It's a strange world, a planet of extremes. Cold, wet, and miserable. And yet, there's a beauty to it. The way the waves crash against the buildings, the roar of the wind, the smell of the salt water.

It's been over a month since the siege of Null, and you haven't been able to rest. Not truly. Your mind has been racing, the memory of finding Yaddle's things haunting your every waking moment.

You haven't slept for longer than an hour or two at a time, and even when you do manage to fall asleep, the nightmares are worse. The severing you felt the moment she died finds you in your sleep, but it's not her death, it's Rex's. Or Obi-Wan's. Or Anakin's. Or Ahsoka's. They're dead, and it's because of you. Because you weren't strong enough, or fast enough, or smart enough.

And the dreams always end the same.

With the severed bond, with the loss, with the anguish.

It's not fair, and you're angry, but more than that, you're frustrated. You can't bring the evidence to the Council's attention without requesting a hearing, and the Council seems content with keeping you away from Coruscant. They've been keeping you too busy, assigning the 212th to a dozen missions, never allowing you to have a moment's peace.

And, you can't help but wonder if it's because they know. If they know what you have. It's irrational, of course, but the anxiety won't stop gnawing at you, the worry growing by the day.

As a result, you've become increasingly paranoid, and you're constantly checking your belongings, checking the box underneath your bed aboard the Negotiator, making sure everything is where it should be. Obi-Wan's noticed, of course, but he's too occupied with his own inner turmoil over what happened with Duchess Satine to worry too much about yours.

Cody's noticed too, but he's been kind enough not to say anything. You suspect Rex has told him to leave it alone, which you're grateful for. You don't have the energy to explain yourself, not when there's so much else to worry about.

And right now, there is plenty to worry about.

"Sir, look out!"

A trooper in a full white kit grabs your arm and yanks you back just as a stray bolt nearly clips you in the head. You stumble backwards, landing hard on your ass, and you blink, trying to clear the rain from your eyes.

A pair of hands grab you, pulling you to your feet.

"Sorry, sir," the trooper apologizes. His helmet obscures his face, but you can tell he's embarrassed. "Didn't mean to manhandle you."

"It's alright," you assure him. "Better than getting shot in the head."

He nods and returns his attention to the firefight, raising his rifle and squeezing off a round. The droid at the far end of the platform drops, a smoking hole in its chest, and the trooper lets out a satisfied grunt before turning back to you.

"Stay close. I'll cover you," he says, and he moves past you into the chaos. You blink, trying to process what just happened, but then the sound of blaster fire reaches your ears, and you duck, your senses snapping back into focus.

The two of you weave through the melee, the air thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the metallic tang of blaster fire. It's slow going, and the shots are coming fast and thick. More than once, the trooper has to grab you and pull you to the ground, the heat of a bolt singing your ear.

You're starting to feel frustrated, and embarrassed. You should be able to handle yourself better. You've been trained since birth to deal with these situations. And yet, here you are, relying on some poor shiny to drag you around like a baby.

It's shameful.

A blast comes from above, and you throw up a hasty shield, deflecting the energy bolt. The trooper ducks, hissing, and you reach out with the Force, yanking him behind a twisted heap of droid parts at the same time as you shove the sniper off the roof.

"Sorry," you say as you land hard next to him, your knees screaming in protest. "Normally, I'm better at this."

"At what? Being shot at?"

You huff. "Being a Jedi."

The trooper laughs, and then turns and leans around the pile of scrap, firing his rifle. "I don't know, General. Seems like you're doing just fine to me."

"That's...generous of you," you mutter. You lean back, taking a moment to catch your breath.

It's not easy to focus. Everything is chaos. Screams, explosions, blaster fire. The time you all had to prepare for the siege had not been nearly enough, and the blockade had been brutal. By the time you'd arrived on the planet, the battle was already in full swing.

You and Cody had only just managed to land before the shuttle had been forced to evacuate, and while he had rushed off to secure the barracks with Rex, you were tasked with defending the training facility with a contingent of newly trained clones. They were an interesting bunch, a little wild and eager, but they knew how to fight, and you'd seen them cut down more droids than their fair share.

You just hoped that would be enough.

Droids were rising from the ocean like the living dead, and they were everywhere, a sea of metal, their red eyes flashing in the storm. There's little cover on the open platform, and the clones are doing their best to hold their ground, but they're being pushed back, the droids overwhelming them.

"This is fucking insane," the trooper growls, and you glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it," you chuckle. "I've heard worse."

He huffs and shakes his head, and then he raises his blaster and fires off another round at the same time as you pop up and throw your shoto in a wide arc. The yellow streak cuts through the air and collides with a pair of battle droids, severing clean through their torsos, the halves clattering to the ground.

"Nice shot," the trooper grunts. You look over at him and grin as you catch the blade, but it fades when you notice his hand clutching his arm, his armor charred and cracked.

"You're hurt," you gasp, reaching out, but he pulls away.

"It's nothing," he insists, shaking his head. "I'm fine."

"Let me see," you press.

He sighs, but he releases his arm, allowing you to examine the wound. The flesh is scorched, but it's not deep. You can't risk applying bacta, not in the middle of a battle, but you can ease the pain, at least.

You place your hand on his arm, and he jerks, his helmet whipping towards you. You meet his gaze and try to smile reassuringly.

"Just relax," you tell him. "It won't hurt."

He hesitates, but then he nods, and he lets out a slow breath. You close your eyes and focus, the Force flowing through you, into him. It's the same technique you used to heal Rex's injury on Null, but the effect is more temporary, the tissue healing slower than usual. You're sure that if Rex knew what you were doing, he'd have a few choice words, but you don't care. These men are under your command, and it's your duty to protect them. Even if that means pushing your own limits.

"Wow," the trooper murmurs. He rolls his arm, flexing his fingers, a note of awe in his voice. "How did you do that?"

You shrug. "I have my ways."

"Very mysterious, sir," he teases, and you roll your eyes. He peers around the pile of scrap, and then turns back to you, his shoulders slumping. "Not gonna lie, this isn't looking good."

"No, it's not," you agree. You take a deep breath, your hands resting on your knees. You feel lightheaded, and a little woozy. Healing him took more out of you than you expected.

"You're not doing so great either," the trooper observes, and you blink, turning to him.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not doing so great," he repeats. He cocks his head, and then adds, "Sir."

You can't help but snort at that, and the two of you share a chuckle. It feels good to laugh, to find a moment of levity in the chaos. The trooper may have been a little awkward and blunt, but you couldn't help but like him. He was refreshingly honest. Or maybe you were just a little delirious.

"Thanks," you mumble. You pause, and then look around, trying to formulate a plan. The platform is surrounded, and the droids are pouring out of the ocean faster than the clones can shoot them down. You've never been great at strategy, but you've survived this long. You're going to have to rely on instinct. And hope.

You raise your blades and stand, a grim determination settling over you.

"Stay close," you say, and the trooper rises to his feet, his blaster at the ready. "We're going to break their ranks."

"Sir, yes, sir."

You nod, and the two of you leap out from behind the pile of scrap, launching yourselves into the fray. For a few moments, everything is a blur. You lose yourself in the movement, the familiar weight of your weapons in your hands. It's a dance, really, the steps as natural as breathing. You duck, dodge, spin, strike, parry, thrust, and repeat. The droids fall before you, their metal limbs scattering across the platform, but it's still not enough.

"We have to fall back," you shout. "Get the wounded into the building and seal the doors. We'll regroup and formulate a plan."

The trooper nods, and he signals the men, repeating your orders. A moment later, they're retreating, falling back to the safety of the training facility. You hold the rear, deflecting shot after shot, the lightning crackling overhead, the wind roaring in your ears. The droids are relentless, and their shots are becoming more accurate. One hits a clone in front of you, and he falls to the ground, his body limp.

"Grab him," you call out. Another bolts grazes your pauldron, and you flinch, nearly tripping over a severed droid arm at your feet. "Hurry!"

The troopers haul their fallen comrade, and they rush back into the training facility, the doors sealing behind them. The one who had saved your life before remains at your side, and together, the two of you hold the line, keeping the droids from breaching the entrance. But, even with your combined efforts, the droids are still advancing, and they're quickly gaining ground.

The rain is coming down hard, and the wind is blowing it sideways, soaking through your clothes and chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth, and continue deflecting shots, the droids' numbers seeming endless. If only Obi-Wan was here. He'd have thought of something clever, something that would have turned the tide in your favor. You, however, have nothing. Nothing but desperation, and anger, and fear.

A particularly well-aimed shot whizzes past your ear, and you feel the heat of it graze your cheek. Another shoots by, and another, and another. They're close, too close, and your arms are starting to tremble, your fingers slipping on the hilts of your sabers.

"Sir, come on!" the trooper urges, grabbing your arm and pulling you back toward the facility. You can barely keep up, your boots sliding on the wet ground. The doors are so close, but they're also so far.

A sudden blast rocks the platform, sending the two of you sprawling. Your sabers go flying, clattering across the duracrete, and you watch the blades deactivate, the metal growing cold and silent. The trooper groans beside you, and then he sits up, shaking his head. You can't blame him for his lack of grace. The world is spinning, and the ringing in your ears is deafening.

"Fuck," you hiss, pushing yourself up. You reach out with the Force and drag a crate to the side, forming a barrier between the two of you and the advancing droids. It's a flimsy shield, but it's better than nothing. You press your back against the crate and close your eyes, gathering your strength.

"I've got an idea," the trooper pants, and his voice sounds like it's coming from a million lightyears away. His helmet tilts your direction, his chest heaving. "But you're not going to like it."

"Try me," you grunt, trying to clear your vision.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, the sound sharp through the modulator. "See that downed trident ship? The one with the hole in the side?"

You turn and look, spotting the wreckage. It's close, no more than a few dozen meters away, behind the hoard of advancing droids. It's a mess of broken metal, the hull twisted and shattered, the observation portals cracked.

"Yeah, I see it," you reply, a hint of suspicion creeping into your voice.

"Can you use the Force to move it?" He pulls a grenade from his belt. "If you can bring it close enough, I can toss a popper into the hole and detonate the fuel reserves."

You stare at him, the implications dawning on you. You're not a demolitions expert, but even you know that blowing up a downed ship in the middle of a battle is a risky move. The explosion would likely cause significant damage, and the fallout could be deadly.

"Do you think you can do it?" he asks, his voice laced with urgency.

"I can do it," you reply, and the trooper gives a short nod.

"Then, let's do this," he says.

"On my mark," you say, and he nods again.

You rise and extend your hand, calling upon the Force. The moment you connect, a wave of power rushes through you, and you can feel the weight of the ship heavy in your grasp. You take a deep breath, and you start to pull, using all your strength.

The ship groans, the metal creaking and screeching. It's heavier than you thought, and it's hard to focus with the blaster fire coming at you. You grit your teeth, and you throw every ounce of energy into the task. Slowly, the ship begins to move, its metal body scraping against the deck until it lifts into the air.

The droids don't seem to notice the trident floating above their heads, and they continue their advance, their red eyes gleaming in the storm. It's almost comical, how the metal behemoth hangs there twists in the air behind them, its tentacle-like limbs dangling beneath.

The rain is pouring now, the water streaming down your face, and your entire body is trembling, exhaustion threatening to overtake you. It's getting harder and harder to maintain control, and the ship is wavering, the hull swinging back and forth.

"I can't hold it much longer," you shout, your voice straining.

"Almost there," the trooper shouts back. His hand grips the grenade, his finger hovering over the trigger. "Just a little longer!"

You let out a cry and pull with all your might, and the ship responds, jerking forward, the tentacles swinging wildly. He presses the activator, hurling the grenade towards the hull just as it falls from your grasp. It arcs through the air, hitting the edge of the hole and bouncing inside.

"Get down!"

The trooper grabs you and tackles you to the ground, shielding your body with his. A second later, the trident explodes, a blinding flash of light filling the sky. The shockwave is deafening, the pressure slamming into you, the heat from it hot on your skin.

Debris rains down, the deck trembles beneath you, and the ground shifts. For a moment, you think it's about to collapse, and the two of you are going to tumble into the ocean below. But, then, everything goes still and silent.

You lay there, stunned. Your ears are ringing, and your body is aching, the pain pulsing through you. You're alive, though. And, surprisingly, uninjured.

You turn your head and glance at the trooper, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He's alive. He's alive.

The two of you are silent for a moment, and then, a chuckle escapes your lips. You can't help it, the adrenaline surging through you. He lets out a weak laugh, and you start to laugh harder, the hysteria gripping you. It's insane, all of it, and the two of you laugh until you're crying, your ribs aching, the tears mixing with the rain.

After what feels like an eternity, you manage to regain control, and you wipe the tears from your cheeks, a giddy sense of relief washing over you. The trooper pushes himself up and offers his hand, pulling you to your feet. Once you're steady, you clasp his shoulder, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"That was insane. Absolutely insane." You can't help but laugh again, the adrenaline still pumping through you. "And, I have to admit, pretty damn clever."

He chuckles and shrugs, brushing aside the compliment. "Thanks, sir. But, I can't take the credit. That was all you."

"Well, whatever. It was a team effort." You look around, the smoke from the explosion clearing, revealing the aftermath. The droids are scattered in pieces across the deck, their limbs bent and twisted. You know more will come, but for now, the platform is secure.

"You have a name, trooper?" you ask.

"CC-8411, sir," he replies. He holsters his rifle and straightens his back, a sense of pride in his stance. "Though my brothers call me Booker."

"A commander, huh?" You tilt your head, studying him. "I should have known. You have quite the aim, Booker. Thank you for watching my back."

"Of course, sir." He shifts nervously on his feet, glancing down at the ground and back up. "And I, uh, I'm not a commander yet, sir, but I'm working on it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Booker says. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. "Just finished my ARC training. I'm pretty good at shooting, and my scores are high. My CO's seem to think I'm ready, it's just, well, I can't get promoted unless I've had experience leading a unit."

You raise an eyebrow, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "You don't say."

Booker clears his throat and stands at attention, his gaze straight ahead. "I'm just...I'm looking for the right opportunity, sir."

"Hm," you hum, studying him. You call your lightsabers back into your hands, and you point at him with the hilt of one. "That could be arranged."

His helmet snaps in your direction as you holster them. "Sir?"

"You said it yourself. You have the skills," you point out. "And, if your superiors think you're ready, I see no reason why we can't put you to the test. Come on."

You turn and gesture for him to follow, and the two of you make your way back into the facility, the doors opening with a hiss. The rest of the men are waiting inside, their bodies slumped against the wall, the injured being treated. When they catch sight of you, a cheer rises, and the air fills with applause.

You can't help but smirk, and you glance at Booker, giving him a wink.

"Looks like you're already popular," you tease.

"Well, what can I say?" he laughs. "I have a way with people."

"Yeah, I can see that." You stop in the center of the room and take a deep breath. "Status report."

One of the troopers steps forward, and he salutes, his helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes are wide, a mixture of awe and terror, and he swallows, trying to gather himself.

"All troopers accounted for, sir," he reports. "One casualty, but all other injuries are non-life threatening. I've sent word to the barracks, but I don't know if anyone's heard us." He looks around the room, his expression grim. "I think we're on our own, sir."

You nod. You'd expected as much. Still, it's not the news you wanted to hear.

"Very well," you say, sighing. You reach out, placing your hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. "Stay calm. What's your name?"

"Snap, sir," he answers.

"Well, Snap, let's do this one step at a time, okay?" You pat his arm and take a step back, taking a deep breath. "First things first. How many able men are here?"

"About forty, sir."

You bite your lip, calculating the numbers. It's not enough. Not by a long shot. But, it'll have to do.

"Alright, listen up," you declare, and the room goes silent. "We need to start clearing buildings. If we can create a clear path to the barracks, we can get our brothers the reinforcements they need. Now, the enemy is numerous, and they're well-armed, but they're also spread out. So, we're going to take advantage of that."

You pause and look at each trooper, their faces serious. Then, you turn back to Booker, giving him a nod.

"We're going to split into teams and work our way through the city, building by building, until we reach the barracks. Our goal is to clear as much ground as possible and take out as many droids as we can along the way. Commander Booker will be leading a team. I'll be taking the rest."

Booker stiffens, and he glances at you. "Sir?"

"Time to prove yourself, Commander," you tell him, and the room breaks into a flurry of excited murmurs. "I want you to lead a team through the east wing. You're a good shot. Take out as many droids as you can."

He's quiet for a moment, and then he nods, squaring his shoulders.

"You heard the General," he says as he turns back to the men, his voice firm and commanding. There's no trace of the nervousness he displayed only moments before. "Form up."

The troopers begin gathering their gear, the room filled with a newfound sense of purpose. You can't help but smile, and a wave of pride swells inside you. They may not be the most skilled fighters, but these men are brave, and they're determined. And, if the past few hours have shown you anything, it's that they're smart. They'll be fine.

Booker steps closer to you as the men move into formation, and he hesitates before pulling his helmet off, revealing a face you've seen a thousand times and a crooked smile that's all his own. His hair is dangerously close to being out of regulation for a shiny, and his eyes are bright and full of life.

"I won't let you down, sir," he vows.

"I know," you assure him, and his smile widens. "I'll see you on the other side, Commander."

He gives a final nod, and he jams his helmet back on, turning to the troopers who have assembled beside him. He barks a command, and the group disappears into the hallway. The remaining troopers turn to you, waiting for their orders.

You take a deep breath and steel yourself, feeling the weight of the battle heavy on your shoulders. You wave your hand, and the men follow you down the opposite corridor, their footsteps echoing behind you.

The halls are quiet, the only sound the hiss of the doors opening and closing as the men file out and the rain pattering against the glass above, the droplets running down the window.

It's dark, the lights flickering, and the building feels abandoned, a shell of its former glory. There are no signs of life, no indication that anyone is left behind, and the silence is unnerving. It's almost like a ghost town. Or a tomb. But, the droids are here, lurking somewhere, and you know that the fight is far from over.

You pass through the training facility, the space littered with broken equipment and shattered glass, the droid corpses scattered throughout. There are blast marks on the walls, scorch marks on the floor, the metal dented and twisted.

Somewhere, you know Obi-Wan is fighting General Grievous, and you pray to the Force that he succeeds. You'd never say it aloud, but you're glad it's him and not you. Not this time. He's faced the cyborg more than once before, and he's still standing. You can't say the same after your last encounter, and while the idea of having a rematch is tempting, the idea of facing that monster again terrifies you.

It's a selfish thought, and one that Obi-Wan would be disappointed in, but it's true. You're afraid. Afraid of the pain, of the horror, of the nightmares that plague you still. And, if you're honest, afraid of the darkness within yourself, the one that lingers, whispering in your ear. The one that you've barely kept at bay, but knows no bounds. You'd tempted fate once, and you'd nearly paid the price.

No, you're better off where you are, facing droids instead of demons.

"Sir," a voice interrupts, and you blink, realizing you've stopped walking. You feel a flicker of embarrassment as you look at the trooper who spoke, his helmet tilted, and you give a quick nod to speak. "We've cleared the building. No signs of life. No droids, either."

You let out a sigh, relief washing over you.

"Thank you," you say, giving him a smile. "Good work."

"Where to next?"

You consider his words, and you weigh the options. You know the barracks are in the north, and you're currently in the south. To reach them, you'll have to fight your way through the city, which is crawling with droids, and there's no telling what they have planned. They could have already taken the barracks, and you'd have no way of knowing until it was too late.

You look at the trooper, and he shifts under your gaze. "What's your name?"

"CT-4398, sir," he answers, his voice wavering slightly. "I mean, um, Dash. Sir."

You give him a small smile, trying to ease his nerves. He's young, barely out of his teens, and it's clear he's never been in the field before. "Well, Dash, what do you think?"

"Me?" he stammers. "I don't... I'm not sure..."

"It's okay," you reassure him. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

"Well, sir, I was just thinking...maybe we should check the control room," he says, gesturing down the hall. "It's just around the corner. We might be able to find out where the droids are coming from, and get some information on the barracks."

"Sounds like a plan," you say, smiling. You clap him on the shoulder. "I need you to man the control room with..." You blink, turning to the trooper next to him. "What's your name?"

"Screwball, sir," the trooper says. You try to disguise the laughter, but Screwball is already shaking his head. "Don't ask."

"Right," you drawl, and you turn back to Dash. "With Screwball. Monitor the communications. Try to raise the barracks."

Dash stares at you, and it’s only when Screwball slaps him on the back hard enough to send him stumbling forward does he finally snap out of his stupor.

"Y-yes, sir," he replies. "Understood, sir."

“I’ll watch him, sir,” Screwball adds confidently.

"Good," you say. You nod to the remaining troopers. "Let's move out."

As you continue down the corridor, you can't help but wonder if you're doing the right thing. If there's even a right thing. There's so much about this war that feels wrong, but it's still the clones, and their treatment, that trouble you the most.

They were created, not born. Taught, not raised. Molded, not nurtured. Their entire lives, they were engineered to serve, bred to fight. And, yet, there's so much more to them.

They're men, flesh and blood, and you can't help but feel responsible for their lives. These clones in particular, still so young, still so new. They've barely begun to live. To die now, here on Kamino, would be a waste. A tragic end to bright lives cut too short.

You can't allow that.

You won't.

Ahead, the corridor splits, the left leading to the control room, the right continuing on to the rest of the building. Dash and Screwball peel off, and the group continues. You're not sure what awaits you outside, but you're determined to face it. The odds are stacked against you, but so far, you've overcome the worst, and you've survived. You can do this. You can save them.

As the door slides open, and the rain batters against your face, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the battle ahead.

Booker and his squad are waiting when you finally meet up hours later, their armor drenched, their weapons hanging at their sides. You can tell they've been through the wringer, but the sight of them is a welcome relief. In fact, every single trooper on his squad is accounted for and then some — a score of fifteen men you haven’t seen before.

"I see you picked up some friends," you tease, giving him a tired smile.

Booker chuckles, and he shakes his head, his armor dripping. "A few stragglers, but I'm not complaining. Thought they might be useful."

"You thought right." You reach out and pat his shoulder, your fingers squeezing his plastoid. "Good work, Commander. I'm glad you're okay."

"I told you I wouldn't let you down," he reminds you. "Besides, it's not over yet."

He's right. You're still not even halfway through the city, and the storm is only getting worse, the waves crashing against the buildings, the wind howling.

You've cleared five buildings so far, and each one has been an ordeal. The droids are everywhere, and they're relentless. Your troops have had to fight their way through blockades, shoot down trident ships, and fend off swarms of B2s. It's been a brutal slog, and your body is exhausted, the adrenaline from the first few hours waning.

The good news is, there doesn't seem to be an endless supply of droids. The bad news is, there's still enough to pose a serious threat.

Your men have been hit hard, and more than a few have been wounded. Some are unconscious, and some are worse. Some were too injured to move, and you've done what you can to stabilize them, but the truth is, there's not much you can do. There's not enough bacta to go around, and there's no way to safely transport them.

It's a grim reality, and it's one that haunts you. Not long ago you'd felt the loss of every death, the pain and suffering washing over you. It had nearly driven you mad. Now, the feeling has faded, becoming nothing more than a dull ache. A reminder.

It's not right. None of this is right.

Your thoughts drift to Rex, and the image of his face is clear in your mind. He's alive, you can sense it. And if anyone can survive a battle, it's him, but that doesn't stop the fear from taking hold. It's irrational, and you know it, but you can't shake the dread that gnaws at you. He's the best fighter you've ever known, and he's faced death a hundred times before, and still, a part of you is terrified that this time, it'll be the last. That the nightmares you've dismissed as just that will become real again.

"You alright?" Booker asks, and you realize he's been staring at you.

You shake yourself free of the thought and look at him, a tight smile pulling at your mouth.

"I'm fine," you mutter. You run your hand through your hair, pushing the strands away from your face, and you turn to look over the rest of the troopers. “Tell the men to rest for a moment, and then we'll make a run on the barracks. I want a headcount, and we'll need to re-evaluate the plan. I'll brief you in a moment."

"Yes, sir." Booker gives you a lingering glance before he moves away, gathering the rest of the group. As the clones begin to settle down, taking advantage of the reprieve, you find yourself wandering away from them.

You walk away toward the edge of the platform, and your eyes scan the horizon. The lightning is still dancing across the darkened sky, a beautiful, terrifying sight. It's a reminder of the power you hold, of the power you're capable of wielding, and of the danger that lurks in the shadows.

It's also a reminder of how small you are. How insignificant.

You lift your communicator up and press the button, praying to the Force that Dash and Screwball were able to get the communications back online. When static fills your ears, followed by the voice of the young trooper, relief floods you.

"General, is that you?"

"It is," you say, leaning against the railing, the rain dripping down your face. "Status report."

"Well, uh, we haven't had any success reaching the barracks," he says, his voice shaky. "But, we did manage to restore the cameras."

"That's something, at least." You let out a sigh, and you close your eyes, trying to calm yourself. "How are we looking?"

There's a pause, and then a crackle of static. "Not great, sir."

"Define not great," you urge.

"The droids are surrounding the building, and they've got heavy artillery. Our brothers are holding them off, but the numbers are against them. At this rate, they're not going to last long."

"Shit." You open your eyes and stare into the distance, your mind racing. Dash quickly reads out the position of Obi-Wan and Anakin, both engaged in their own duels with Grievous and Ventress, and it's clear from the strain in his voice that he's barely holding it together. You need to get moving. But, the question is, where?

"Anything else?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

"The storm has caused a lot of damage," he replies, the words coming faster, almost tumbling over each other. "Several buildings have collapsed, and the waves are getting worse. The ocean is rising."

"Great," you groan, letting out a huff. "Just what we needed."

"Yeah," Dash sighs, and there's a hint of desperation in his voice. "We're running out of time."

"Stay calm," you tell him, though the words are meant for yourself. "Just keep monitoring the situation. Let me know if anything changes."

"Yes, sir," he replies.

"And, Dash? Watch out for Screwball. Don't let him do anything stupid."

"Too late," the other trooper shouts in the background.

You chuckle, shaking your head. "Yeah, okay. Never mind."

"I'll keep him safe, sir," Dash says with a weak laugh. "Good luck."

You close the connection, and you press the communicator against your forehead, taking a deep breath. The wind whips around you, the rain pelting your body, and the thunder roars above, a cacophony of noise. It's a fitting backdrop for the moment, a reflection of the chaos inside your head. You feel the darkness stirring within, its tendrils snaking their way around your heart, and you squeeze the railing tighter, trying to resist. Trying to fight.

You've never been a good strategist, but even you can tell this is a losing battle. Even if you were to somehow manage to make it to the barracks, there's no guarantee that you'll be able to turn the tide. You'll be walking straight into a firing line, and the odds are stacked against you. Still, you have to try.

After a few more minutes of trying to hail Cody, Obi-Wan, Anakin, anyone, it becomes clear the storm is causing the communications to fail. No amount of trying is getting you through, and you're fighting a losing battle against the frustration. If only you could use the Force, but the sheer amount of energy and concentration to reach out is not something you have the strength for, not after the battles.

With a frustrated growl, you slam your commlink down, the metal casing creaking. It's a pointless action, but it does make you feel better. For a moment, at least.

"Having trouble?" a voice calls out, and you spin around, the hilt of your saber already in your hand. Booker is standing behind you, his arms folded, a smirk on his lips. "Whoa, easy. I come in peace."

You lower your lightsaber, and you shake your head, a wry smile on your lips. "Sorry. Force of habit."

"You don't have to apologize, General." He steps closer and leans against the railing, his helmet tucked under his arm. The storm is picking up, and the wind is blowing his hair in all directions, but he seems unbothered, the rain trickling down his face. He turns to look at you, and he tilts his head. "I'll admit, I didn't think you'd be like this."

"Like what?" you ask, a note of caution in your voice.

"Well, like this." He waves his hand in a vague gesture, his eyes never leaving yours. "I don't know. I guess I just thought you'd be a little more...serious."

"I am serious," you insist, and he snorts, his gaze drifting to the sky.

"No, I know that," he chuckles. "But you've got to admit, you've got quite the reputation."

You sigh. "So I've heard."

"Don't take this the wrong way, sir," Booker says, his eyes shifting back to you. "But a lot of us were a little scared of you. Well, more like intimidated. We'd heard the stories, and we'd seen the footage, and well...you seemed pretty intense."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? What changed your mind?"

"You saved my life. Twice. And you gave me a chance to lead." He shrugs, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing. "You didn't have to do that, sir, but you did. I won't forget that."

"I'm glad," you say, and you give him a small smile.

"Plus, the fact that you're a general who cares enough about us to save our asses is pretty nice." He pauses and glances at you, and then he looks away, his gaze distant. "Most generals would have left us to fend for ourselves."

You don't respond, not sure what to say. The truth is, there's no doubt in your mind that some of the other Jedi would have done exactly what Booker suggested. They would have seen the clone as sacrifices that had to be made, and they would have moved on. After all, it's not their job to protect them, or to train them. Their duty is to the Republic, not the individual. To the greater good, not the lesser evil.

It's a lesson you're not sure you'll ever be able to learn, not completely. Maybe that makes you naive, or soft, or too emotional. But, you don't care.

"I won't abandon my men," you declare, your voice firm and determined.

"Good." Booker nods, and then he pushes himself away from the railing, his expression grim. "Because we've got a battle to win, and we could use your help."

"Sir," a trooper calls, waving you over. "We're ready."

You turn back to Booker, your hands gripping the hilts of your sabers.

“Let’s move.”

It's early morning by the time the battle is won, and the sun is just beginning to rise. You're exhausted, and Grievous and Ventress have escaped yet again, but you're still standing, and Kamino is once again under Republic control. It's a small victory, but one that's earned.

Your clothes are soaked, your body is bruised, and your limbs are aching, but it's a sweet kind of pain, the kind that comes with survival. And, despite the loss of many, the clones have never looked more alive.

The storm is finally receding, the rain now nothing more than a drizzle, and the sky is streaked with vibrant hues of gold and pink through the transparisteel windows. You've never seen a sunrise like it.

The view is beautiful, and it fills you with hope, a sense of peace that seems impossible in the wake of the devastation. The sun is rising on a new day, and you know the ones you care about have made it through the night.

You've already spoken to Obi-Wan and Cody, and you can't help the relief that's washing over you. Both are alright, though a bit worse for wear, and the two men are leading the cleanup efforts, trying to restore order and repair the damage that has been done. Anakin is a little roughed up, but he's still in good spirits, and he's taken over coordinating the search and rescue effort, which is much appreciated.

You haven't spoken to Rex, though. Not yet. You haven't even had a chance to breathe, let alone try to locate him. But you can feel his presence through the Force, and you know he's alive, and for now, that's enough.

You’ve dismissed your contingent from your command, but that hasn’t stopped them from approaching you as you walk with Booker toward the medbay. He’s escorting you for your safety. Or at least, that’s what he says.

You can tell he’s lying, and you can tell he’s worried about you. He hasn’t stopped hovering since the battle ended, and he keeps a watchful eye on your surroundings, his hand never far from his blaster. It's an amusing gesture, but you appreciate the sentiment, even if you find it irritating.

He's a good man, and you can't help but feel proud of him. He's young, and he has a lot to learn, but he's also smart, observant, and he knows how to read people. That, combined with his skill with a blaster, makes him an ideal candidate. He'll be a great commander.

But, first, he needs some time. Time to recover from his injuries, time to process everything that happened, time to get used to being a leader.

“Almost there, sir,” Booker says, tugging you along when you stop to shake Snap’s hand. He gives the clone a wink, and then nudges you again, forcing you to keep walking.

You laugh as you wave your hand at him. "I can manage, Booker. I'm not that bad."

"Yes, sir," he chuckles. He glances down at you, and you can see his expression shift from amusement to concern, his eyes narrowed. You realize he’s staring at the scar stretched across your palm, the one that has long since healed, and you quickly fold both your hands behind your back. You'd forgotten.

"Sorry, sir," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," you assure him quietly. "I know it looks strange. But, it's an old injury. From before the war."

Booker nods, but he doesn't look convinced. You can't blame him. The scars are strange, jagged lines that stretch across the palms of your hand, the skin raised and pale. You've never really gotten used to the sight of them, preferring to ignore their existence completely. But now that you know for sure that Dooku is responsible, you've caught yourself tracing the lines more than once in recent weeks.

Booker clears his throat, and he gestures toward the entrance to the medbay. "After you, sir."

You give him a look as you walk past him and step through the doors, the smell of antiseptic and bacta filling your nose. The room is large, and the white walls and floor reflect the fluorescent lighting, making it feel even bigger. There are rows of beds lined up against the wall, and medical droids moving between the patients. The place is crowded, and the air is filled with the sounds of moans and whimpers.

A Kaminoan lingers in the back of the room, watching with an unblinking focus that unnerves you, and you do your best to avoid her gaze. You’ve had enough of the Kaminoans and their superiority for one day.

“Wise!” Booker calls out as he pushes you gently to sit on an open cot. “Got a fresh one for you.”

A bald trooper currently arguing with a medical droid freezes and turns, his expression sour.

“Can’t you see I’m busy—" He stops short when he sees you, and the furious glare tempers slightly. "Apologies, sir, I didn't realize. I'll be with you in a minute, okay? Just—shit, put that down!”

"Um, no problem," you mutter. "Take your time."

You can't help but smirk as he smacks the droid with the back of his hand and turns back to it, berating it for its incompetence. You turn and raise an eyebrow at Booker. "Wise?"

"Short for wiseass," Booker explains, snickering. "But, don't tell him I told you."

You chuckle, and you settle onto the bed, pulling your legs up and crossing them. You're exhausted. Your muscles ache, and your head is pounding, but you know you'll have to wait a bit before you can rest. There are still things to do, and reports to write.

You look around the room, trying to distract yourself. The medbay is filled with clones, all sporting various injuries, some worse than others. You see a few you recognize, men who have fought at your side, and a few that were part of the original group you'd saved. Their injuries are mostly superficial, though one has a broken arm. He waves when he catches you staring, and you give him a nod.

“Alright, what can I do for you, sir?” Wise asks, stepping in front of you. He glances down at the carbon scoring on your armor and the gash on your cheek, and he raises a brow. "You don't look too bad, to be honest. Nothing a few bacta patches can't fix."

"Trust me, I've had worse," you laugh, shaking your head.

"I'm sure." He sighs, and he leans against the bed, a grimace on his face. "Listen, I've been working nonstop for the past six hours, and I'm dead tired. I just want to go to sleep and forget today ever happened. So can you just let me take a quick scan and say it's all good, please?"

"Sounds good to me," you say, nodding.

He gives a grunt, and he pulls a small scanner from his pocket, waving it over your body. A beam of light sweeps over you, the data scrolling across the screen, and Wise hums to himself, checking the readings.

You sit there patiently, trying not to fidget. You've never liked the medscanner. You always feel like it's judging you, somehow. And, while you know it's just a machine, the sensation of the beam running over your body is still uncomfortable, the feeling akin to that of someone staring at you.

"Well, the good news is, there's no internal bleeding," Wise declares, looking up. He puts the scanner down, his expression serious. "The bad news is, you have a mild concussion, you're dehydrated, your blood pressure is low, and your heart rate is elevated."

"So, normal," you quip.

"She has jokes." Wise sighs and turns, rummaging through the medkit. He pulls out a bottle of pills and a bottle of water. "Take these, drink this, and rest. You can have a bacta patch for that cut, and then you can get out of my medbay."

"That's it?" you ask, frowning. You're so used to Kix's fussing, the fact that Wise isn't nagging you about everything is a bit of a shock.

"That's it," Wise confirms. He presses the items into your hands, his eyes narrowing. "What, were you hoping for something else? Like a kiss, maybe?

You choke, the water dribbling down your chin, and Booker snorts.

"Don't push it, vod," Booker warns, but his words are laced with humor. "She could take your head off."

"And I'd enjoy every second," you add, popping the pills into your mouth and downing the rest of the water. You wipe your lips, a smirk tugging at the corner as the medic rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Just let me take a look at that gash."

Wise moves closer, and his hand rests lightly against your face, his fingers tilting your chin up. He's surprisingly gentle for someone so brash and grumpy, his touch careful, his gaze focused. He hums, dabbing the disinfectant on the wound. You barely feel it.

"Looks like you'll live," he says. He holds his hand out, and a medical droid places a bacta patch in his palm. As Wise applies the bacta patch, Booker moves to stand next to him, his hands clasped behind his back.

"How are things looking, Wise?" he asks, his voice casual. You know he's checking on the men, but there's a note of concern in his tone, a worry that he's trying to mask.

Wise doesn't bother hiding it. He huffs and turns his gaze to Booker, his scowl deepening. "They're holding on, but not much more." He pauses and glances at you, his expression darkening. "Some of the boys have had it rougher than others, but, well, that's war."

Booker nods, and he glances around the room, his gaze moving over the wounded men. You can't see his expression, but you can feel the shift in his emotions. It’s the first time he’s lost a man, and it won't be the last.

"It'll be alright, Booker," you reassure him.

He's silent, but he gives a small nod.

"If you need anything, I'll be in the back," Wise mutters. He pats Booker's arm, the gesture friendly, and then turns away, walking toward the next patient.

"Thanks," you call. He doesn't respond, and you let out a sigh. "I don't think he likes me."

Booker laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His earlier mood seems to have lightened, and he clasps your shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"Are you kidding me? He loves you. I can tell," he insists. "That was practically a marriage proposal."

You roll your eyes. "Right. And I suppose you'll be my bridesmaid."

Booker opens his mouth to retort, but his gaze flickers, his attention caught by something. The medbay doors slide open, and a trooper in familiar blue and white armor steps through, his posture stiff, his helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex.

The room goes quiet, every clone in the room turning their head to follow his path as he walks. Rex doesn't seem to notice. He moves with purpose, his eyes scanning the rows of beds, searching.

He looks tired, his armor dented and scorched, his hair damp from the rain. There's a scratch on his cheek, a cut across his brow, and his bottom lip is swollen, split at the corner. But, he's alive. He's here, and he's standing.

And, he's looking for you.

You can feel the moment Rex sees you. His eyes widen, and he freezes, his jaw going slack. The wave of relief that washes over him is strong, so strong it's almost tangible. He lets out a shuddering breath, and his gaze moves over your face, taking you in. You do the same. And, for a moment, the two of you just stare.

Then, the world shifts back into motion.

Rex starts to move, his steps slow at first, almost hesitant, as if he's not sure he's seeing you. Then the hesitation disappears, and he's suddenly striding towards you, his gase locked on yours.

“Is that…” Booker straightens, his eyes wide, and he takes a reflexive step back. He gives a sharp nod to Rex as he approaches, and his hands fall to his sides, his fingers flexing. “Captain Rex, sir.”

Rex doesn't even acknowledge him. He stops in front of you, his chest rising and falling, his expression pained. His eyes roam over you, taking in the state of your armor, the gash on your cheek, and then, he finally meets your gaze.

You swallow, forcing yourself to breathe.

"We have to stop meeting like this," you say, trying to break the tension.

It doesn't work.

Rex doesn't say anything, but the pain in his eyes only intensifies, and the look is so raw, so visceral, that it takes your breath away. His mouth trembles, his lips parting, and his hand lifts, hovering for a second before falling to his side.

"General," he says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm fine, Rex," you assure him. You reach out and place a hand on his arm, giving him a reassuring smile. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting the air out slowly. When he opens his eyes, the pain is gone, replaced by something softer, and he gives you a small nod, a silent thank you.

“You okay?” you ask, and he gives a tight nod, his fingers flexing at his side.

"Yeah," Rex breathes. "You?"

"Never better."

He snorts, his lips twitching into a smile. "Liar."

"Maybe."

Rex shakes his head, and then, he finally seems to notice the man standing beside you. You glance at Booker, and you realize the clone has gone completely still, his back straight, his shoulders stiff, his expression one of awe and disbelief.

You bite your lip, trying to hide your amusement. You know the feeling. Rex is intimidating when he wants to be, and it's clear Booker is not immune to the Captain's commanding presence, or his reputation.

"Who's your friend, General?" Rex asks, his voice low. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing, and the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile. You can feel his amusement, and it's a relief.

"Commander Booker, sir," Booker responds. He hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. "I...was assigned to the general. To protect her."

"Oh?" Rex's eyes shift, and he looks at you, his expression softening. "And, did you?"

"I did, sir." Booker sounds almost defensive, and his gaze darts to you, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. "I mean, not that she needs my help. She's a Jedi. She can handle herself. But, I was...there."

Rex hums, his lips pressed together, and his gaze moves over the trooper, assessing him. You can't help but roll your eyes. Rex is being difficult, and you know it. But, he can't seem to help himself, and he's enjoying the discomfort on Booker's face far too much.

"He saved my life," you add, and Booker lets out a relieved sigh. "Twice, actually."

"Twice, huh?" Rex's eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at the clone again, a new respect shining in his eyes. "Good work, Commander."

"Thank you, sir," Booker says. His posture relaxes slightly, and he lets out a small breath, his shoulders slumping. "It was an honor to serve with the General. She's a good leader."

"That she is," Rex agrees. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a moment with the General."

"Oh, yes, of course," Booker stammers, and he takes a step back. He turns to you, a questioning look on his face. "General?"

"You're dismissed," you say. "Go get some rest, Booker. You've earned it."

He hesitates, his gaze lingering on Rex, and you can tell he wants to argue. But, he's smart, and he knows when to retreat.

"Yes, sir." He snaps a salute, his helmet tucked under his arm. "Goodbye, General. It was a pleasure serving with you."

You smile. "Goodbye, Commander. I'll see you around."

He nods and moves away, joining the group of clones who are standing near the doors. They exchange quiet words, their voices hushed, and then, they disappear.

"I like him," you announce as the door slides shut behind them, and Rex lets out a soft snort.

"I'm sure you do," he says, shaking his head. "He seems...eager."

"Be nice." You roll your eyes and nudge him playfully with your arm. "He fought well today. I’m putting my recommendation in to have him promoted officially. I think he'd make a good leader."

“If he’s got your approval, he'll do just fine," Rex says, his voice quiet.

"You're probably right." You pause, and then, you tilt your head, looking at him. "Why aren't you with the other men?"

"I was, but..." He trails off, his jaw working. Rex takes a step closer and glances at Wise, who's hovering nearby, doing a poor job of pretending not to listen, and he clears his throat. “Is the General clear to go? We have a briefing to get to.”

Wise gives a curt nod, and he waves a hand toward the exit. "All clear, Captain. You can take her."

"Good." Rex looks back at you. "Ready, General?"

You sigh. The last thing you want to do is attend another pointless briefing, but you know it's important. So, you nod.

"Ready."

He holds out a hand, and you take it, letting him pull you to your feet. You sway slightly, and his other hand settles at the small of your back, steadying you. He holds you like that for a moment, and then he releases you, his hands falling to his sides.

"Come on," he mutters, his eyes dark.

The two of you leave the medbay, the silence heavy between you. There's a tension in his posture, a strain in his voice, and a tightness to his jaw that tells you something's bothering him. And it's not just the eyes on the two of you.

"Is everything alright?" you ask.

"Everything's fine."

You study his face, trying to read his expression, but his mask is firmly in place, his thoughts hidden. It's easier to sense his emotions. Anger, frustration, pain, exhaustion, fear. All of it's there, swirling beneath the surface, but the reasons behind them are unclear.

Rex is one of the most self-contained people you've ever met, but you've gotten better at reading him over the months together. The slightest twitch, the faintest tremor, the briefest flicker. There's a whole language in those little things, and you're starting to learn it. And, right now, he's struggling.

You glance around the hallway, noting the curious eyes that linger, the whispers that follow, the stares that bore into your back. But the further you walk, the less people there are, and the quieter it becomes. Soon, the only sound is the steady thud of Rex's boots and the hum of the ventilation system.

“So, where’s the briefing?” you ask, trying to fill the silence. Your arms extend above your head in a stretch, and a yawn escapes your mouth, making you feel even more tired. You can't wait to sleep.

“There isn’t one,” Rex admits.

Your arms drop, your brow furrowing.

“Then why did you…”

Rex stops and turns to face you. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he's standing tall, his shoulders squared, his head held high. He looks every inch the soldier. A perfect example of discipline, restraint, and control.

But, his eyes betray him.

He's afraid.

You blink, surprised, and you open your mouth to speak, but Rex shakes his head. He reaches out and grabs your arm, tugging you into a nearby alcove, and you stumble after him. His grip is gentle, but there's a firmness to it that warns you not to fight him.

Once the two of you are alone, Rex releases your arm and takes a step back, and his hands ball into fists at his side. He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

"Rex," you say, trying to catch his attention. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

He doesn't answer. He's staring at the floor, his brow furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line. His jaw clenches, and his lips part, as if he's about to speak, but no words come.

You watch as his hands flex, the fingers curling and uncurling, and he runs a palm over his face.

"No, I'm not okay," he finally says, a rough exhale escaping him. His voice is strained, his words coming out in a low rasp. "I thought...I thought...for a minute, I..."

The realization hits you, and you close your eyes, taking a shaky breath.

He'd thought you were dead.

He'd thought he'd lost you.

And, judging by the look on his face, the pain he's clearly trying to mask, it's shaken him more than he'll ever admit.

"Rex," you breathe, your heart sinking.

You'd felt his emotions when the battle started, the worry and fear that had radiated from him, but you'd assumed it was because he knew what was coming, and because he was worried about the other men. You never thought it was because of you. Because he was scared for you.

You'd been so focused on your own feelings, on the dread and anxiety that had plagued you, that you'd never considered the possibility that Rex might feel the same way. That his thoughts might drift to you. That he might wonder if you'd made it through the storm.

The realization is painful, and it brings a lump to your throat. You feel guilty, and ashamed.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to worry you."

His gaze drops, and he shakes his head. "No, it's not your fault. I'm the one who's sorry. I should have...I shouldn't have let it get to me. I know better than to lose my focus like that. I just...when I heard the explosion, I..."

He stops and lets out a ragged breath, and his body sags, the fight draining out of him. You step closer, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek. His skin is warm, and his stubble scratches against your palm. Rex leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and his head tilts to the side, his nose brushing against your wrist.

"It's okay. You're allowed to be upset." You offer a small smile. "You're only human."

Rex doesn't say anything. He just sighs and covers your hand with his, pressing it closer to his skin. You can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath your fingertips, and his grip tightens, as if he's afraid to let go.

"You're going to make me cry," you joke weakly, but the truth is, his pain is almost unbearable. It's too close, too real. You can feel it echoing inside you, and the weight of it is almost crushing. You hate seeing him like this. You hate knowing that you're the cause of it.

"Please don't," he mutters. His voice is rough, and there's a raw edge to it that makes your stomach twist.

"Why not?"

"Because I'll probably start crying, too," he confesses, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he opens his eyes. "I've had a rough day."

You let out a weak laugh, trying to fight the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You blink, and a single tear rolls down your cheek.

Rex's eyes widen, and his face falls.

"Now you've done it," he grumbles, but there's a tenderness to his words that makes your heart swell.

His hands move to your shoulders, and he gently pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your body. Your face buries in his neck, and his chin rests on the top of your head.

"I'm glad you're alive," he whispers. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into the back of your robes. "When I didn't see you after the battle...I didn't know what to think. I couldn't find you. I didn't know where you were, or if you were even..."

You squeeze him harder, letting him know you're here, and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You can feel his body trembling beneath your touch, and his hand reaches up, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"I'm not going anywhere," you murmur, your voice muffled as you bury your face further into the crook of his neck.

Rex lets out a shaky breath. "Good."

You stand like that for a long moment, the two of you clinging to each other, neither of you willing to let go. You can feel his heartbeat slowing, his muscles relaxing, and his breathing evens out. His grip loosens, and his fingers trail through your hair, his nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

He needs this. He needs you. And, for once, he's letting himself have it

You know the feeling.

The war has taken its toll on both of you, and the weight of it has been a burden that you've borne separately and together. The endless battles, the constant stress, the loss of life. It's all wearing you down. You want to comfort him, to give him the support he so desperately needs, but you're not sure how. Not when your own emotions are so tangled. Nothing seems right, nothing seems enough. And, the words that come out are inadequate.

"We made it," you say, and the words sound hollow, even to you. "That's all that matters."

Rex makes a small noise, almost a laugh, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing along the base of your skull.

"Yeah," he breathes. “Yeah, we did."

"We're okay," you remind him, pulling back to look him in the eye. You give him a smile, and he returns it, his eyes crinkling. "I promise."

Rex studies you for a long moment, his gaze moving over your face, as if trying to memorize every detail. His expression softens, and his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over the bacta patch.

"I'm going to hold you to that,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, his tone serious, but the corner of his mouth curves into a half-smile.

"Good. You should.”

"You know, if you keep saying things like that, I'm going to start thinking you actually care," he teases, his fingers trailing along your cheekbone.

You roll your eyes, and your hands move to his chest, pushing him away. He chuckles and pulls back, releasing his hold on you.

"You know what I meant," you say, wiping away the wetness from your cheeks. "And, for the record, I do care."

"I know," he replies softly, his eyes flickering. He clears his throat and glances away, his cheeks flushing, and you can't help but smile.

"I was worried, too," you confess. Rex's eyes snap back to yours, and his eyebrows rise. "About you, I mean. About all of you. I thought...well, I thought a lot of things. And, I'm glad none of them came true."

"Me too," he agrees. "I don't know what I would have done if..." He trails off, his voice fading, and his lips press into a firm line. He swallows and takes a deep breath, his hand moving to the back of his neck, rubbing at the tense muscles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into an empty hallway just to have a breakdown. I just..."

"You needed a minute," you finish, and he nods, his shoulders slumping.

"Something like that."

"You have nothing to apologize for," you tell him, giving his arm a squeeze. "It's been a rough day for all of us. And, you're not the only one who's a little shaken."

"You're right," he concedes, letting out a long exhale.

You pat his arm and offer him a smile, trying to lift his mood. “Besides, if we're keeping track of emotional breakdowns, I'm still way ahead of you. You're gonna have to try a lot harder if you want to catch up."

Rex huffs and shakes his head, his lips twitching.

"Well, I don’t think this war is ending anytime soon," he quips. "I'll have plenty of opportunities."

"True."

You give a sigh and lean against the wall, resting your head back. You can feel the exhaustion starting to catch up with you, and your body is heavy, the weight of the past few hours weighing down on you. You close your eyes and let out a groan, wishing you could just crawl into a bed and sleep for the next ten years.

Rex moves to stand beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours. The heat radiating from his body is comforting, and you lean into him, savoring his closeness. He turns his head, his eyes searching your face, and you meet his gaze, a faint smile on your lips.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "For letting me have a minute."

"Any time," you tell him, and you mean it. He's done so much for you. He's given so much of himself. You'd give anything to ease his pain, and if a minute is what he needs, you'll give him that. It’s the least you can do.

His lips part, as if he's going to say something, but no words come out. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his jaw tenses, his throat bobbing. Then, he shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says, and his gaze lifts, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "You're just...you're a good friend, General."

The word friend stings more than you expect, and you bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to grimace. You can't blame him for saying it. Not when it's the truth. You are his friend. But a small part of you had hoped...well, it doesn't matter.

"Right," you say, your smile a little strained. "So are you."

Rex gives a nod and turns his gaze away, looking down the hallway. He seems lost in thought, his brow furrowed, his lips twisted, and you watch as he looks left and right, checking to see if the coast is clear. There's a moment of hesitation, and then, he sighs and turns back to you, his expression softening. He looks almost shy.

"I..." He stops and takes a deep breath, as if he's steeling himself for what's to come. "Here."

He pulls up his vambrace, and you watch, confused, as he taps a few buttons. His finger hovers over one of the controls, and then he presses it.

A second later, your commlink begins to chime. Your eyes widen, and you quickly pull it out to silence it, staring at the display that pops up. You glance up at Rex, and his cheeks flush, his hand rising to the back of his neck as his eyes avoid yours. He's nervous. He should be. He’s breaking about a dozen regulations by giving you his private frequency, and you know it. He knows it.

And, yet, here he is, giving it to you anyway.

It's dangerous, risky, and foolish, but neither of you seem to care. The war is already hard enough, and the idea of keeping each other at a distance, especially now, is an unnecessary cruelty. So, you don't argue. You save the contact, and you tuck your commlink away, giving him a smile.

"Just in case," he mutters, his gaze finally meeting yours.

"In case what?"

"In case you need me," he says. His voice is quiet, but there's a strength to it, a resolve. "Or, in case I need you."

You stare at him, unable to speak. The look in his eyes is so tender, so earnest, that it takes your breath away. There's something else there, too, something deeper, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. You have to look away.

"Got it," you manage.

Rex gives a small nod, and he pushes himself off the wall, moving to stand in front of you. His hands settle on your shoulders, his thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of your tunic.

"We'll see each other soon," he promises. "Just...let me know when you get back to the Temple. Okay?"

"I will," you agree.

"Good."

Rex gives you one last smile, and then he releases you. You watch as he walks away, his footsteps echoing in the corridor, before he disappears around the corner, leaving you alone.

You take a deep breath and try to compose yourself, smoothing the front of your robes. Your hands are trembling, and your heart is racing, but you ignore the feelings, burying them. It's just stress, you tell yourself. It's been a long day. You're just tired.

Your eyes trace the panels along the walls, and you stare up at the ceiling, the white lights overhead. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, clearing your mind. When you open them, you feel calm, the momentary panic fading.

There's a sudden ping from your commlink, and you jump, startled. Your fingers fumble with the device, and you quickly bring it up, tapping the display.

Stay safe.

The words make your heart skip a beat, and you type out a response without hesitation.

Always.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #forcing everyone to read about my clone ocs like a proud grandparent pulling photos out of their wallet #but hey!! relationship progression!!

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pepperonijem · 13 hours ago

Text

iii. tell me your favorite love song || to.you

"i wanna sing it with you."

summary: Council meeting! It's time for you to reminisce on failed dates and first confessions with Eren, Mikasa, Armin, and Jean! pairing: Levi Ackerman x gn!reader content: cursing, floch slander lol songs mentioned: completely - jaehyun

A/N: this chapter is definitely more filler, but I had to split it up because it was hitting well over 10k words for one chapter lol.

let me know if you'd like to be tagged! comments and rb's are appreciated :)

previous chapter || masterlist || next chapter

“Did you… Did you write that yourself?”

The last note from the piano seemed to echo through the room for a while before Levi finally turned to look at you.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Just finished it last night actually.” Levi looked down at the piano keys as his fingers ghosted over them, touching them with enough pressure to push down but not make a sound. “What did you think of it?” he asked. He seemed more vulnerable than you had seen him before, like you were seeing him in a way he wasn’t even used to seeing himself.

“It’s really good,” you answered. You weren’t really sure what else to say. It was good, it felt personal, like something more than just a catchy song. He had used your words, that had to mean something, but you weren’t sure what. “Was that part about the coffee–”

“From you?” Levi interrupted. Although he was looking away from you, you could see his ears turn pink. “Yeah, it was. I’m glad you noticed.”

You felt something flutter away at your chest. “I’m glad I could help you out,” you replied. If he wasn’t going to say anything more than that, then you would just take it for what it was. Levi nodded but didn’t reply. “I’m really flattered that I got to hear it first.”

Levi finally looked up at you. “Of course,” his head tilted. “Who else would I play it for?” As if it was the most obvious thing.

You’re sure your eyes widened in surprise and your cheeks definitely went pink, because almost immediately, Levi coughed and added, “You helped me write it so obviously you’d hear it first.” Right. That’s all. He was just offering something in return.

“Oh,” you began. Not sure if the sigh that escaped your lips was relief or disappointment. “Well if you ever need to write another song, you know where to find me. Though maybe I should start charging.” You hoped your tone was as light and playful as you intended it to be.

Levi let out a soft chuckle as he shook his head. Good. “Name your price.”

Before you could add on, his phone buzzed against the wood of the piano before he reached out to check it.

“It’s Hange,” he explained. “Apparently we have band practice in 20.” He pocketed his phone before turning back to you with an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you around?”

His eyes seemed to twinkle under the fluorescents of the practice room and you felt your heart thud against your chest. He smiled. “See you around.”

Levi left right after that, and you found yourself stuck in the room thinking about his song. Your fingers pressed against some of the keys that you remember him playing, as if looking for a code to see what he was thinking. It felt… electric, to have something, not quite a secret, between the two of you. You couldn’t help but imagine him singing it on stage, no one else knowing that a little bit of you existed in the lyrics of his song.

You found yourself wishing that you could hear him sing your song — the song about yo– the song he wrote that just so happened to include your words and seemed to describe exactly how you were feeling about him – again. Maybe he’d say it was for you.

Maybe he’d say it was how he felt about you too.

Later that night, you found yourself at Eren and Mikasa’s place, laying on their sofa with your head in Mikasa’s lap. You had sent out a text to your group chat, in desperate need of more minds on the case. A knock sounded on the door and Eren stood up to answer the door. You heard him groan immediately as it swung open.

“Why the hell are you here?” Eren spoke. It was immediately obvious from his lack of enthusiasm that he was not speaking to Armin.

You heard Armin’s voice reply. “I heard this was a council meeting,” he explained nonchalantly as he walked in with two boxes of pizza and a smug looking Jean behind him. “I saw Jean on my way here and figured he could be helpful.” The two of them smiled and waved as they walked into the living room and set the pizzas down on the coffee table.

“I don’t let strays into my place, Armin,” Eren huffed as he shut the door behind him, letting Jean into his place anyway.

Mikasa rolled her eyes and you chuckled as she chastised Eren. “Whatever, babe,” you felt her chuckle. “Just last week you pulled over in the parking garage and caused a 15 minute traffic jam because you stopped to pick up a lost cat.”

Eren’s cheeks reddened as he relented. Pouty as he was, he could never say no to Mikasa. Walking over, he lifted your legs as he sat down next to her before letting you rest them in his lap. “You didn’t need to announce it,” he whined as Mikasa leaned over to kiss his cheek.

“Anyway,” Armin chuckled, moving to sit beside Jean against the coffee table and facing the three of you. “We haven’t called a council meeting like this since Eren went through his emo phase.” Armin looked over at Jean as he explained.

“You would have an emo phase,” Jean sneered at Eren.

“You probably had one too, dickhead.” Eren countered.

“Yeah, if you count Justin Bieber as emo,” Jean rolled his eyes.

“Jean…” Armin began softly. “That’s… that’s not any better.” Armin patted his back as Jean looked away in embarrassment. Everyone laughed lightheartedly at that, even Jean… eventually.

“Okay,” you began, drawing out the last syllable. “Now that we’ve determined that Eren and Jean are both dorks, we can get to the problem at hand.”

“Hey!” Eren and Jean both shouted in offense.

You sat up and reached for a slice of pizza before you continued. You weren’t particularly sure of how to approach the subject, but you also knew that after five seconds of silence, Eren would begin prodding at you. Maybe it was like ripping off a bandaid?

“I think Levi likes me.”

The silence was deafening. You weren’t really sure what to expect, but silence from everyone, especially Eren, was not it. Mikasa, definitely. Armin, maybe, he liked to think before he responded. Jean, from what you’d come to know, tended to hold off on offering advice until he heard others’ perspectives. Eren, however, was always one to speak whatever was in his mind, to refine his thoughts aloud.

“Did you all hear me? I said–”

“No, we heard you the first time,” Eren said, still staring at you with wide eyes. “Levi? Like 5’3” lead singer of No Name that looks like he wants to beat my ass every 10 minutes, Levi?”

You nodded back. Looking around the room, everyone seemed to be in a similar state of shock. Mikasa was resting her chin on a closed fist and her eyes were full of intrigue. Armin had a brow raised quizzingly, and Jean’s mouth was wide open until something settled in his brain and his lips pressed together in a smirk.

“I totally called it,” Jean beamed. “Didn’t I tell you he was singing right at you that one night?”

You recalled Jean’s words from the first Halloween party you saw Levi at and you nodded. Levi did seem to have his eye on you that time.

“Nope, no, no,” Eren stood up. There was the Eren you knew. You sat up as well.“Levi doesn’t sing to people, he just sings and then glares from the stage. He glares at everyone.”

Eren also had a point. You’d known Levi to be exceptionally grouchy, and to make no exceptions for who he glares at. Maybe he was glaring at you for dancing with Jean, who he didn’t seem too fond of.

“What makes you think he likes you?” Armin asked curiously.

“I… He wrote a song about me?” you offered sheepishly as Eren’s eyes somehow got wider.

“He what?” Everyone asked in unison.

“I–” you stammered. “Well he never said it was about me, but he did use my line.”

Eren was pacing around the room now. “What was the line he used?”

“Something about the first coffee shop run in autumn.”

Recognition lit up in his eyes as you mentioned the lyric and he paused his movements. “He also used a line from Erwin in that song,” Eren thought aloud. “And I think he had a line about the drums that Hange had said about Miche.”

Oh, you thought to yourself. You couldn’t help but feel… disappointed. Eren’s words were sobering, and you felt yourself shrink. It was true, you had only met him a handful of times. Why would he write about you? Mikasa seemed to sense your deflating mood because she leaned over to wrap an arm around you. You smiled at her in return.

Upon noticing your mood, Eren let out a sigh. He sat back down beside you and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want him to like you,” he began. “It’s just that… well, Levi’s the most emotionally unavailable guy I know. I’ve never so much as heard him say the word ‘happy’ outside of a song. I just don’t want you to build him up in your head just to get hurt by reality.” He looked at you knowingly.

Armin nodded along. “Eren’s right,” he agreed. “Being in love with the idea of someone is as good as handing your heart over to be broken. You shouldn’t have to put yourself through that again.”

Again.

You remember that night freshman year that you were supposed to go on a date with a guy named Floch.

Floch had come up to where you and Eren were sitting and having lunch out on the quad. It was a breezy spring morning and you recall the way Floch’s red hair blew across his face as he approached the two of you with an easy smile. You gave Eren a ‘do you know this guy?’ look as he shook his head no.

“Hey,” he had said to you, pointedly ignoring Eren.

“Hey…” you answered politely but cautiously as you looked over at Eren. Eren was eyeing him suspiciously.

“I just wanted to let you know how good you look in this light,” he spoke again with a charming smile and his hand extended out for a handshake. “I’m Floch.” You blushed at him and slipped your hand in his as you introduced yourself. Eren’s eyes sharpened into a dangerous glare when Floch twisted your hand in his and brushed his lips against your knuckles. He coughed and finally drew the redhead’s attention to him.

“I’m Eren,” he said and reached his hand out, knuckles up, to mock Floch.

Floch simply laughed and nodded his head. His eyes fixed into a cold stare that contrasted his smile. “Hey man.”

Floch reached over for one of the napkins that sat between you and Eren and pulled out of a pen and wrote down his number. “Text me?” And when you nodded, he walked away, back to his group of friends who jovially patted him on the back at his return.

“That guy is an absolute creep,” Eren breathed out, not bothering to wait for him to be completely out of earshot.

“Eren…” you warned. “He seemed nice, and he was kind of cute.” You pulled out your phone.

“He looks like half the guys on this campus,” Eren rolled his eyes as he looked at the number written on your napkin. “Don’t text him.”

“Too late,” you replied, as you hit send on a message.

Once Mikasa and Armin found out about it, they were on his side.

Floch had asked you out on a date immediately upon seeing your message and that Friday night, Armin and Eren had come over to the dorm room that you and Mikasa shared. You were in the middle of getting ready, still trying to settle on an outfit and the two of them were sitting on Mikasa’s twin bed watching you with interest.

Mikasa stood by you at your wardrobe, helping you pick and choose tops for your outfit while Armin deeply sighed.

“Are you sure we can’t convince you to not go?” Mikasa prodded even as she handed you another piece. You held it against your body to check it in your reflection before shaking your head and handing it to her.

“Guys,” you pleaded. “I really like him. I don’t see what the issue is.”

You watched Eren scoff and make eye contact with you in the mirror. His bright eyes watching yours carefully. “I can give you a list. Alphabetized even.”

You turned to glare at him. “Bite me, Yaeger.” Floch had joined you and Eren and Armin for lunch the next afternoon with a fully cooked meal for you and a bouquet of flowers, and since then, you and Eren had been arguing about him since then. Even Armin was skeptical of him and how he seemed to love-bomb you, as he called it, right after meeting you. “It’s nice to be with a guy that’s so direct about how he feels about me.”

“That’s the problem,” Armin spoke up. “Isn’t he a little too interested? The flowers, coming to your classes with breakfast, like that’s nice, but you’ve known him for all of two days. He hasn’t even asked about your major.”

You chewed your lip. You could argue with Eren all day long, but Armin had always been able to get you to see reason, even if you chose to ignore it. Which you did. There was only 15 minutes left before the time Floch said he’d pick you up, and you decided you were too far in to text him now.

“Armin’s right,” Mikasa said. “And he’s been a shit texter, hasn’t he?”

“Okay, but not everyone is a good texter,” you argued. You grabbed one last outfit option and walked into the bathroom to change. “Misa, you barely send five words in a single text on a good day.” You walked back out after changing and watched as Armin and Eren and Mikasa gave you a reluctant thumbs up.

You settled onto your own bed and Mikasa sat beside you and fussed with the collar of your top. “Shouldn’t that jackass be here soon?” Eren sighed.

“Yeah,” you replied. “He said 7, so five more minutes.”

At 7 p.m., Floch was nowhere to be found.

At 7:15 p.m. he hadn’t answered any of your texts.

At 7:38 p.m. you got a call from Floch. Who butt-dialed you. From the club. With his friends who congratulated him on getting a girl to fall for him in a record-breaking five days.

At 7:45 you were crying into Mikasa’s arms.

At 8 p.m. Eren said, “A guy who likes you isn’t going to see you as a challenge to be won.”

“Woah woah woah,” Jean chimed in. “How do you know that he’s emotionally unavailable?”

Jean’s voice brought you back to the situation at hand.

You’re not quite sure why you were suddenly feeling defensive. Armin and Eren had only ever looked out for your best interests, especially after that incident with Floch. But when you remember how shy Levi got after he finished playing, and how open he was with you the night before, a part of you desperately wanted them to be wrong.

“Have you met him?” Mikasa chuckled. “That man is the definition of ‘if looks could kill.’ He only looks nice when he’s on stage.”

“Well he can’t be all bad if he can write songs that are so… personal” Jean continued to ask. Armin was right to bring him. His presence was refreshing.

“You somehow manage to be passing psych when you’re an absolute dumbass,” Eren countered. Mikasa swatted at him and he immediately folded. “Sorry. Instinct. What I meant to say was that Levi holds his cards close to his chest, not necessarily that he doesn’t have feelings.”

“My question still stands,” Jean replied. “How can you write songs like that and be emotionally unavailable?”

Eren looked at him with frustration. “It’s not that hard,” he retorted.

Again, Mikasa swatted at his arm and shot him a glare.

“I mean I imagine it’s not that hard.”

Jean rolled his eyes before continuing. “No offense dude,” he began as Eren scowled at him. “But you are the biggest loverboy I’ve ever met. It’s pretty obvious which songs you had a hand in writing because they’re so very clearly about Mikasa and so very clearly written by a simp.”

“First of all, how would you know?” Eren accused. “And second of all… which songs?” he blushed as Jean smirked. He was a lot more perceptive than he let on.

Jean cleared his throat as he began to sing… croak, more like.

“Oh, show me a map of your soul Every second from now I’m gonna love you completely.”

Jean only stopped when Eren lobbed a pillow at his face, but it didn’t stop him from laughing. That was the song you’d danced with Jean to the first night.

He was right.

Eren wrote that song when the four of you were still in high school, when he and Mikasa had first started dating. It was the night of the winter formal and you, him, and Armin had spent weeks coming up with the perfect plan for him to confess to her and Eren was more nervous than you’d ever seen him.

“Are you guys sure I have to tell her?” Eren had sweat dripping down his forehead even as you stood on the balcony of the ballroom in the middle of December. He had already pulled his coat off, left only in his white button up and red tie, both of which he’d undone a bit to try to cool himself off.

“Yes!” you and Armin both cried out.

“But what if she hates me after this?”

“Do you know how stupid you sound right now?” you scoffed at him, your breath coming out in puffs in front of you.

“But–”

“No buts, Eren,” Armin chastised. “Mikasa deserves to know.”

“And you both deserve to be happy,” you added. “She’s going to love this.”

Eren, with a nod of determination, reached for his guitar case and shook his fingers out, trying to warm them up. Armin gave you a quick nod and you were thankful to be able to get out of the cold.

You walked back into the ballroom to find Mikasa already wearing a coat. The dancing was still in full swing and the band that the school had hired was playing some slow jazz standards. Under the glow of the warm lights, you could see your hands regaining color after having to hype your nervous friend up for over 20 minutes in the cold. She smiled when she saw you approach. “Headed somewhere?” you had asked her.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I couldn’t find you guys, so I thought I’d go out to the balcony for a breather.”

Perfect. You smiled sweetly at her as she raised an eyebrow. She knew something was up, but Mikasa in all her kindness was never one to fight against one of your schemes. “Oh? I’ll walk you out.”

You slipped your arm into hers and reached for your phone with your other hand, shooting Armin a text, telling him to clear out. He found the two of you just as you reached the french doors. His cheeks were pale with a bright spot of red that stretched across his cheeks and his blonde hair was disheveled from the wind.

“Oh hey,” Armin said casually. He pulled you away from Mikasa as she looked at the two of you with confusion. “Sorry, we just have to, uh, discuss some things. But the balcony’s free.”

“Thanks…” Mikasa said skeptically. The two of you watched as she finally walked out of eyesight before Armin grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you upstairs to another balcony.

“Armin, you suck at bluffing,” you chuckled at him as he rolled his eyes.

Once you were both settled, you and Armin headed towards the railing. You could hear Eren’s voice crack as he spoke to Mikasa, “I wrote a song for you.” Armin looked at you curiously as you reached for the tie of your coat and began to wrap it around your phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Armin whisper-shouted to you. He made no moves to stop you.

“They’ll want a video of this,” you explained matter-of-factly. “Now hand me your tie, it’s not long enough.”

With a roll of his eyes, he obeyed and you knotted the two ties together. Armin made sure the phone was secure and hit record before leaning over the balcony to dangle your phone over the edge. You and Armin both listened in awe as you listened to Eren sing.

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard him play the guitar, but it was the first time you’d heard his voice. You didn’t think he had it in him to carry a tune, honestly, but he did surprisingly well.

Jean’s voice snapped you out of your memories. “Was I right?” he questioned smugly.

Mikasa smiled as she looked over at a blushing Eren. “Yeah, you were.”

“See?” he raised an eyebrow at you as he continued. “All I’m saying is that maybe that song was about you, and maybe he only knows how to express his feelings through music. I don’t think it’s a reach.” Jean put his hands up in defense as he finished his statement.

“Well look,” Armin conceded. “Jean has a point. Some people are better at expressing themselves in other ways, like some people are acts of service people.” He pointed over at you. “Like how you make sure Eren and Jean always have class notes when they need it.”

He pointed at Mikasa. “Physical touch,” he explained. “You don’t say much, but you know when to put an arm around someone who’s sad.”

Finally at Jean. “Quality time.” Jean scoffed as he wondered how Armin read him so easily. “You don’t have to hang out with us if you don’t want to, but you’re here.”

“Whatever,” Jean mumbled, but his cheeks turned pink anyway. Jean was perceptive, but Armin could read any person and a situation upside down and backwards.

“Well how does that help me?” you asked. “We can speculate about Levi’s feelings all day long… but I’d like to have a concrete answer.”

Armin’s eyes lit up as he devised a plan.

“Eren, what did you say your psych project was again?”

“To spend time with… oh no,” Eren trailed off as he watched the all too familiar mischievous glint in Armin’s eyes. He sat up straighter. “Armin, don’t include me in your plans.” “What?” Jean asked. “What are you planning, blondie?”

“Well, if you and Levi just so happen to do things together, and Jean and Eren just so happen to be there too,” Armin explained with a smug smile. “Then you can have them keep track of whether or not there are signs that Levi’s actually into you.”

Eren groaned as Jean laughed heartily. “That sounds so fun, actually,” Jean said. Armin returned his grin.

“It really doesn’t,” Eren countered. “Why can’t you and Mikasa go?” he asked Armin.

“I’m busy working on my own projects,” Mikasa shrugged. She smiled smugly as she continued. “Armin has his capstone.” If Mikasa was on board, so was Eren, however reluctant he may be.

“So it has to be you and Jean,” Armin confirmed to Eren. “Plus you guys will keep each other balanced, since Eren is a skeptic and Jean is a believer. And you guys get a good grade on your project.”

“C’mon, jackass,” Jean rolled his eyes at Eren. “It’s only a few more weeks till the end of the semester.”

Usually, you and Armin were the schemers of the group. One of you would come up with a plan, and the other would be ready to make it happen. This time however, you had a weird feeling. Anticipation? Excitement? You didn’t have time to decide, because soon, all eyes were on you.

“What do you think?” Armin asked. You scanned their faces. Jean and Armin looked at you with excitement. Mikasa also seemed interested in this plan. Eren, though he tried to hide it, also raised an eyebrow in interest.

“Ah,” you sighed. “What the hell? Why not?”

a/n: originally, i was gonna make floch a guy who tried to date you to convince you to join a cult (bc surprisingly, when i was in university, cult recruitment was a big thing?) but decided to make him a jack-ass instead. also the idea of Eren being a "can i sing for u" type of guy is so funny to me and you can't convince me that if he had a little sibling he wouldn't be a protective overbearing little shit.

#levi ackerman #levi aot #captain levi #levi attack on titan #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x reader #snk levi #levi x reader #levi x you #attack on titan #aot #aot headcanons #aot x reader #snk #shingeki no kyojin

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mllemaenad · 2 days ago

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I really do not understand why Varric is the one pursuing Solas. I mean, I understand the Doylist explanation – Varric is a beloved character who will now have featured in three separate games, as well as multiple novels and comics.

But the Watsonian explanation is not clicking. I did my homework. I sat down and read The Missing, but that did not help at all. In fact, I have now considered my Inquisitor and am completely confident that Dirthara Lavellan's plan for dealing with the Solas problem would absolutely not be "send the ageing viscount of Kirkwall on a months long wild goose chase, with the apparent end goal of ... talking Solas out of his plan".

First, I don't see why Varric would be the most likely person to be able to reach Solas. The Inquisitor herself seems the more reasonable option.

Second, Varric is viscount of Kirkwall, a city-state notorious for setting itself on fire if you take your eyes off it for five minutes. I appreciate Alistair had a few adventures in the graphic novels, and there was that time Maric got lost in the Deep Roads but ... broadly, heading up the "Stop Solas" taskforce is a whole separate responsibility that does not seem to be something you should allocate to a man who has the Worst City in Thedas to rule.

Third ... seriously, the plan is to find Solas and have a chat? That's it? It's clearly it. All through The Missing, they keep noting that they don't really know what they'll do if they actually stumble across Solas. And the backup plan, to which Harding occasionally alludes and at which Varric consistently baulks, is to stab Solas until he stops moving. That one ... also doesn't inspire much confidence.

At this point, I'm not sure what Solas's plan entails or exactly what the outcome will be. I'm not even 100% sure I'm opposed to it. I recognise that the narrative is telegraphing that this is bad but, eh, they say that about blood magic too, and my feelings on that are much more complicated.

Surely, instead of chasing Solas all over the map like a fantasy Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?, we should be researching what his scheme entails, and potentially how to disrupt it. There have to be options other than this. We have a game series littered with elven scholars like Merrill, accomplished mages like Dorian or Morrigan, thoughtful rebels like Briala or Anders and ... we're ... not ... going to do anything with that?

In both Origins and Inquisition the set up established that there was a solid plan that unexpectedly failed: the Battle of Ostagar in the former and the Conclave in the latter. While I was not a fan of how many of its established plot lines Inquisition chose to just blow up instead of actually resolving, I at least understand how both scenarios led to a rag tag band who should never have been responsible for any of this saving the world. Dragon Age 2 was about the systematic failure of government in Kirkwall and, again, Hawke is forced to act as the people in power utterly refuse to do anything reasonable at all.

Here, my question is – why are we doing it like this now, before we have to?

Ah, well. Maybe it will become clear in time. I may look back on this post and laugh.

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers

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kisses-soft-like-sunshine · 2 days ago

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Bittersweet - Part III *rewritten*

Fluff w angst, Lee Know x fem!reader, coffee shop AU, idol AU, 1070 words. Content warning: none! As promised, here is the rewritten part III for Bittersweet. I feel like it deserved a better ending and I hope this does justice! Thank you for reading :) Tagged: @linocz <3

The drive to the café is filled with shyness and unsaid words. If it weren't for social conventions you would ask him everything and anything. I can't believe I hugged him… what's wrong with me? He's going to think I'm just another fan girl… You wondered what his dating life must be like, with his demanding lifestyle. How little intimacy he can actually manage to get… You were saddened to see how right you were to assume his loneliness echoed yours. The bright neon letters of the coffee shop picking through the windshield relieved a soft gasp out of you and him both. His mind and heart were all over the place too. If it weren't for his focus being on the road, he would have melted into your arms again or skyrocketed himself into outer space never to be seen again. You both needed the warmth of each other more than you’d like to admit, more than he’d allow it.

You made your way to the alley discreetly, followed by your charming stranger, his eyes tenderly storing the details of you in his heart for keepsake. You both sat at the makeshift table you and your coworkers used on breaks, when you noticed his gaze on you. A small but unabashed grin grazed your lips as you chose the sky over his gorgeous onyx eyes. The heat of your cheek could keep you warm for the winter to come. God, how warm his arms were…

“What should I get you? The usual?” you asked, trying to distract your own thoughts.

“Do you remember every customer’s order?”

“No. Not, everyone…” You, only you. You didn’t even know you did before he asked you the question.

“Ah… I’ll have the usual then, yes.” He said with a kittenish smile.

You excused yourself and went back inside, hoping your coworkers wouldn’t mind your presence. Luckily, the one who knew about the situation (partially) was not here today. You made matching cappuccinos for the both of you with precision, adding a delicate heart-shaped drawing to his. A common practice which took on a brand new connotation. You kept yourself from giggling at your own actions, resolved to calm yourself before joining him again. It’s probably just the tension diffusing… Everything was so intense. He was there when no one else was… There’s nothing else to it, really. His gentle gaze as you peered through the back door snapped you back to your feelings. Oh, how screwed you were…

“Thank you” he said as he grabbed both drinks, making it easier for you to sit back down. You simply smiled at him as a response.

His ears turned pink again when he noticed the specific drink you had handed him had a heart doodled on it while the other didn’t. You couldn’t help but wonder how the warmth of his blush would feel on the softness of your lips. How the softness of his lips, now gently kissing the porcelain, would feel on your lips… Your gaze shifted to your drink when his eyes reached yours over the cup. Oh, no… I was staring. You both drank your coffees quietly, enjoying the comfort of the other being near, when small drops started to trace dark dots on the pilling mint table.

You looked up at the clouds above simultaneously, then at each other. Without a word, you both stood and reached for the door but found it closed. You had inadvertently kicked the box holding it open on your way back, too busy preventing yourself from daydreaming about him. You were locked outside with the rain pouring harder and harder. You looked at him with sorry eyes and he laughed it off. His hand grabbed yours before he pulled you toward the nearest shelter. The old movie theater in the next door building had one of these classic red awning ornamenting its unused exit. It wasn’t far but by the time you both reached it you were soaked. He let go of your hand as he turned to look at you, his radiant smile drying the droplets on your skin. You answered with a smile of your own and he could have sworn he was growing a fever just by looking at you. You tenderly brushed the strands of hair falling over his face, making his ears burn even more. He flinched at the sight of the scar sealed on the inside of your hand and suddenly grabbed it in his. You were startled by his gesture but it’s the soft kiss he placed on your injured palm that made you lose your breath. Your wound must have opened again by the way his kiss electrified your whole body. Or maybe it had healing properties. He kept his eyes closed as he pressed into it, and your thumb intuitively traced the bridge of his nose. He let go of your hand, and you moved it to the side of his face, gently caressing it in a reassuring manner. It was okay. You were okay. His eyes searched for yours in the daze of the cloudy weather and you blinked softly as to let him know your guards were down. You moved closer and placed your hand on the side of his neck, fingers brushing at the sprouts of his hair. He was the one who moved closer this time, holding you to his chest, his hands nervously reaching for you like he did back at the police station. This felt new yet instinctive for the both of you. You couldn’t decipher his heartbeat from yours. He sweetly brushed his nose on the side of yours before faintly placing his mouth on your own. The cushiony texture of his lips on yours made you sink deeper into the kiss. Both of your hands were fully wrapped around his neck now, your fingers comfortably nesting in his silky hair. A grin grew on his lips and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“This isn't… something… I mean, this isn’t a habit of mine…” he said, parting from your lips reluctantly.

“What isn’t?” you asked, perfectly aware of what he was talking about.

“Kissing strangers…” he answered shyly.

“Let’s not be strangers, then.” You said, playing with the wet curls at the back of his head. “I sure could make this a habit of mine…”

“Sounds good to me” he said, smirking, before pulling you in for another kiss.

#skz fanfic #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know fluff

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itwasntimethatdidit40 · 16 hours ago

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A heart that hurts is a heart that works - Something Rotten sequel.

first part can be read here

Pairing: Dark!Joel Miller x afab!reader x Dark!Tess Servopoulos

Words count: 3829

Rating: Mature, absolutely NSFW and again, this shit is triggering. Please, read the tags carefully and if you're a minor don’t interact.

Tags/warning: This happens the morning immediately after the events of Something Rotten, pov second person, no use of y/n, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, heavy degradation, angst, smut, DUB CON/NON CON, reader is barely described, she has breasts and vagina, no mention of her skin tone, she doesn’t blush, she has hair but it’s not described, it is mentioned that Joel's clothes are too big for her (pics are just for aesthetic and don’t represent reader), the only thing is that reader's father died of lung cancer (like mine), depressive thoughts, as said in the first part: reader is held prisoner by Joel and Tess, on her leg is carved the word “pet” (Tess did it), use of a knife, groping, a large amount of bites, mention of wounds, mention of bruises, no kindness whatsoever towards reader, Joel and Tess are both EVIL, fingering (Tess receiving), oral (Tess receiving) spitting, nipples sucking and biting (it's not my ff if there is no attention towards nipples OKAY), unprotected p in v (both f receiving, wrap it up IRL), pussy slapping, cum eating, Joel comes on reader’s face, pissing, a little more scissoring, a little bit of chocking, squirting, brief insert of reader's thoughts in italics… I think it’s all 😅 If I notice I've forgotten something important I'll add it right away.

A/N: Title comes from a Placebo song called Bright Lights. It seemed right to continue with them since "Something Rotten" is also one of their songs. Anyway, I leave you the entire playlist that I listened to while I was writing both this and the first part and again thank you very much to those who recommended songs to me ♥️

There is something of my experience and pain in this so please be particularly kind. English is not my first language and I have no beta, I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you enjoy it, thank you so much to anyone who reads it.

[I started a tag list, if you want to be added let me know, I never tag people because I don't want to impose anything on anyone but if you like it I'm happy too ♥️ ]

Your mind is completely clouded. You open your eyes and for a moment you don’t remember where you are, you rub your eyes, feeling your aching body awaken, the pain of every joint coming back to you. You reach out and press a spot on your stiff neck, a stab of pain shooting up your brain like a gunshot and then sliding down your spine, making you grit your teeth to stifle a moan.

You shut your eyes as images of what happened flash before your eyes, a piercing pain taking over your head.

You don’t know how much time has passed but when you manage to sit up, biting the pain between your lips, you see a bright light coming in through the dirty window, a speck of dust stirring in the beam of light that illuminates the messy bed, the crumpled sheets and the two people lying on it. Tess is on her side, her arms folded, her hands resting on the pillow, near her head. There is always a kind of tension in her, you see it even when she is sleeping, in her huddled body that seems ready to attack and unleash its claws on anyone. She is wearing nothing but panties and Joel’s shirt left open, revealing the outline of her breasts.

She should disgust you, but instead as soon as you see one of her nipples poking out from under her shirt salive pools into your mouth. You put a hand to your forehead, overwhelmed by yourself, by what you feel and by a shame that creeps up inside you and makes your temples throb.

This is so wrong. Yet you would like to lace your lips on that little button and suck it, if only she would let you do it, if only she would let you lie next to her gently, allowing you to be the good pet she expects you to be.

Shifting your gaze to Joel doesn't help soothe your twisted mind. He’s on the other side, lying on his back, in his boxers, your eyes wander on the defined muscles on his chest, the softness of his belly, and a strip of sunlight hitting his abdomen highlighting hair leading to his groin.

He seems carved out of a block of marble, skimmed by scars, exuding power and sex, the tips of your fingers graze your swollen lips and you still feel his taste, the weight of his cock on your tongue, his relentless thrusts, his hungry eyes on you.

They must have fallen asleep, which gave you some respite even if you don’t feel rested at all.

You look at your thigh and it's still there, the pulsing sign that you should leave, just run while you can, sneak out of this place quietly and look for somewhere to hide. But you feel like a mouse in a cage, your body not moving an inch. You’re still untied; it would take nothing to reach the door and close it behind you. But what if they woke up? If they felt the bed lighten with your weight? You know they'd have you back in an instant.

Your brain, you can't decide whether very stupidly or very wisely, thinks that it is better not to make any risky moves to stay alive.

Helpless and desperate you lie back on the bed staring at the ceiling, the silence broken only by Joel's soft snoring.

Your arms spread across the bed as you sink into your thoughts and your fingers casually graze the knife abandoned on the sheets. The coldness of the blade sends a chill down your spine.

You have to do something for yourself. At least try. You cannot be so spineless. You move one leg off the bed, your eyes fixed on your captors, seeming not to notice anything so you move the other leg as well, letting yourself slide cautiously along the edge of the bed, finally resting both feet on the floor. You pick up the closest garment you can find on the ground, it's a Joel T-shirt, wide and long enough to cover your butt. You just have to get up, you can do it. Leaning your weight on your legs feeling your knees crack in the effort, you wonder what in your body is not sore. You are on your feet. Joel and Tess are motionless in the same position as before. You walk on the floor resting your toe and then your heel, silent and terrified like a prey trying to evade before falling into the lion's jaws, hoping that the wood will not creak under your gait. You reach for the door. You almost make it. Just rest your hand on the handle and lower it. A moment and you're out of here. As soon as your hand touches the cold metal you hear a voice behind you, “Where do you think you're going?”

You feel your heart falling out of your chest, freezing where you are, your eyes at the door, your breath getting heavy.

“Turn around”

You do it slowly, praying you don't feel a blow immediately afterward. Joel is standing in front of you. “Please” your voice is a barely audible whisper ”please.”

Joel reaches out, grabs you by the wrist “no fucking way”

He doesn't add anything more, he takes you back to the bed, forcibly lays you down and lies on top of you. His eyes look at you fiercely, he drops down next to your ear “maybe I was wrong about you, you're not the good pet I thought you were. Let me teach you your priorities straight“ he growls, his voice low, sharp.

His body weighs down on you, completely overpowering you, his legs blocking yours, his hands resting on the sheets on either side of your face.

"I give you credit for that. You were brave to think you could sneak away. But also incredibly stupid." His voice vibrates close to your ear, it is eerily calm and controlled, sounding as if it came from the darkest part of him, straight from his gut.

A lump rises from the pit of your stomach to your throat, sickening. "I'm sorry," you stammer, Joel's eyes lighting up with that sinister hue you now know like the back of your hand.

He retrieves the knife from above the bed and places the blade under the fabric of the T-shirt, cutting through the sleeves and tearing it from the neck to the hem, reducing it to a shred of fabric lying beneath you. You tremble when the icy blade touches your skin.

His boxer-covered erection presses against your thigh, against your wound.

Again you wonder what substance your mind is now made of because feeling him against you, demanding, claiming your body, makes your pleasure slide down your legs. You can feel it on your skin, a shiver, a wetness, a trickle of you leaving you to become his. You mold under him, relaxing your muscles, ceasing to resist, submitting to his stern eyes nailing you to the bed.

He takes your hands and intertwines them possessively with his own as his legs push between yours, forcefully spreading them apart.

He crawls on you like a rabid dog, inhaling your scent on your neck, down to your sternum, reaching your breast, licking the skin above your ribcage “You were Robert's, weren't you?”

His teeth close on one of your nipples, biting it, your back arches pushing against his mouth, demanding more. “This? It's mine now.” he whispers in a rough voice ‘This is mine too.’ he adds, twisting the other nipple, he moves one hand to your mound, grabbing it ”What about this wet pussy? She's mine too. I own you now. Make sure you don’t forget that, you little cock slave”

And you feel it again. The desire coursing down your body, clinging to your nerves, flowing into the middle of your thighs.

It lingers on you deeply. And you’re pleading at that. Before you sense your own voice saying it, like it doesn’t belong to you, coming out of someone’s else body “Please” you babble “please, more” as he run a single finger through your folds.

Everyone you knew died. Every person you loved is gone, ruined by the spreading epidemic. Except your father, who passed away a few years before the pandemic broke out, obliterated by lung cancer. You still remember his jagged, exhausted breathing getting more and more labored, small and thin, until it died out completely. You still remember the smell of the hospital room, the dimness, your gripped heart, your silent tears. It was something you never wanted to see, the moment when death takes someone. It stays inside, digs deep into you, rattles in the walls of your brain until one day it subsides and remains a creeping awareness you have to live with. A brick in your pocket that will forever weigh of absence, of pain, of lack.

And when you thought maybe you could make it, one day when the brick seemed lighter, pandemic came and your mother turned into a monster. From a fragile woman, still bent by your father's absence, to a ferocious beast with bloodshot eyes that tried to break your neck.

You had had to tear it down yourself, with your own strength, that thing your mother had turned into. And you couldn't explain it for days, or how you had done it, or what had happened. People were running around terrified, not knowing where to take refuge, not knowing if it would ever end. Until they came and loaded you onto trucks, promising to escort you to a safe area. What you were not told was that there was no solution, for some of you there was not even a place in the QZ. The epidemic took away not only the people you cared about but also your dreams, every hope you had for your future, every plan to become a good teacher, to accompany young minds in creating a better world. There is nothing left to create, only destruction.

You could have offered yourself as a teacher in the Qz but you had decided not to bow to a system that spread only government propaganda, instilling in kids that there was nothing else to believe in but FEDRA.

And even in the face of desperation the cruelty had not stopped, some soldiers had tried to take you at night, traumatized and without strength, you had been saved only by the good heart of one of your neighbors who had defended you. You had jumped out of the truck, along with him and some other people, looking for an alternative that would never come. They had fallen like skittles, one after another. You were tired of seeing it, the cold hand of death reaching out to everyone around you.

Your heart still aches horribly, but after all, a heart that hurts is a heart that works. And you're still alive.

He takes the finger away and shoves it in his mouth, enjoying the taste of you and then he’s close to your ear again grazing you with his beard and graveling “I knew you were a little slut,” Joel's heavy breath warms your skin, driving your being back into your body. “When I'm done with you you'll want nothing more than to be my brainless whore”

You’re bucking your hips against him, mindlessly, while he takes your body with his mouth and hands, furiously licking, biting and groping your flesh, moving impatiently over you on the bed and waking Tess up. She takes a few seconds to focus, abruptly recovered from a deep sleep, but then you hear her dry voice, “oh, are you having fun without me?”

Joel does not tell her that you tried to escape. which in itself is a miracle for you. He turns to her just a moment, leaving your nipple with a loud pop .

“Come” he tells her, and it's almost sweet. Almost. Tess comes crawling up on the bed like a feline and looks down at you, smiling cruelly.

“Lie on top of her, make sure this bitch doesn't move” Tess nods, he makes room for her, and she crushes you with all her weight, her scarred back against your tits, as if you were a mat, clinging to your arms as Joel watches the scene smugly "Quite a picture" he growls.

He pulls down Tess's panties, tossing them aside. He does the same with his boxers. “This is exactly what I want. Two pretty cunts all for me”

He stoops to observe you both, his eyes roaming your sexes, his thumb touching you first, a creamy river in between your folds, and then Tess. She snorts “will you hurry up?”

“mmm you're not wet enough honey, but we can fix that”

“Honey”, you think he is the only person who can call Tess that. Anyone else would be out of balls in a heartbeat.

He buries his face in her cunt and you feel Tess stiffen on top of you, her whole body reacting to the first touch of Joel's tongue. You seem to catch a glimpse of submerged fragility behind all that violence and resentment she always displays.

She grips your wrists in a vice as her hips rise toward Joel and a low, deep moan escapes from her throat.

Joel's fingers run hard and calloused over your folds, collecting what drips from you and spreading it over Tess's pussy, mixing your essences, then returning to lick her. And you can feel her, crumbling on top of you, conceding willingly, every muscle in her asking for more.

Each lapping of Joel's tongue on her vibrates over your body like a wave, Tess's butt sliding over your folds, crawling over your clit, giving you reflex stimulation.

“Mmmm just like that, baby, that’s fucking good”

She whines so sweetly under his ministration, an undertone so vulnerable and tender in her voice you almost think she turned into another person. And you are in the front row watching this, a silent witness to the other Tess, the one who still has a shred of humanity hidden within her.

It’s unique, you think, how sex with the right person, a person we care about, a person we share a path with, makes us. Defenseless, no mask to wear against the world. Even Tess, perhaps the coldest woman you’ve ever met.

“Nice and drippy” Joel murmurs, nuzzling at Tess’s cunt “fucking gorgeous”

He dips his nose in there, moving through her folds up to her clits, brushing the tip over it. “You smell so good, babe, such an nice mess for me to feast on”

“Fuck” Tess gasps “just fuck me”

“Yeah baby, I’m going to stretch you both so damn right”

Tess rolls her eyes in twisted need, impatient like the bossy woman she still is and you whine like the shy mess that you are.

So different and yet ready for the same cock.

You noticed the way Joel’s voice soften when he speaks to Tess, the intimacy between them is palpable, in this moment you’re just an appendage.

You want that desperately, belong to someone, to him, to her, to feel his voice and his whole body going unshielded for you.

Joel spits into his palm and takes his cock in his fist, pumping it and then tapping the tip on her cunt, once, twice, three times, rubbing it on her folds, lubricating it with her juices, before getting it all the way inside her. Tess's body arches so desperately over yours, merging with Joel's as he begins to thrust inside her.

She thrashes on top of you, clinging to your forearms, pushing you back against the mattress, her hips swaying over yours again giving secondhand attention to your clit, now so swollen and needy that each thrust you emit a moan in sync with her, shyly participating in her pleasure. You bend your neck slightly to one side to look at Joel standing before you, bronze and sculptural, a cruel god who leaves you breathless. His chest glistens in the dim sunlight streaming in through the window, revealing tiny droplets of sweat beading on him, a grin painted on his face, brows furrowed, lost in Tess's wet walls, focused on pounding on her special spot again and again.

“You like that huh? You like this cock splitting you, yeah, I know you do, fuck you’re so drenched I could take a bath in it, all slippery and warm...mmm baby, just like that. Take it.”

He rests a hand on her belly to hold her more firmly, a sense of possession different from that manifested with you, purer and deeper, made up of silent, recurring gestures between them. It's as if you feel it all the way down into your stomach as he sinks into her, the forced closeness making you almost delirious, sensitive and wanting.

Tess is almost at her peak, sliding on you now unceasingly, her back kneading your breasts, up and down, your nipples impossibly hard against her skin, she stammers "there- there- I'm almost there- oh fuck"

"Not yet, baby, hold it back" he challenges her and she growls in disappointment and frustration, as he comes out of her. Joel brushes against you "it's time to put this slut in her place. You want it huh?" he roars as he looks at you "I can see it from here, you're flowing like a fucking river, clenching around nothing like a whore”

His eyes sparkle with evil. He spits on your cunt, a glob of saliva right on your clit. He spreads it quickly over your entrance and thrusts into you unceremoniously, all the way down, in one breath-breaking stroke. "You're full now huh? Clench around my shaft, bitch”

You feel your walls strangle his cock, eager to hold him inside, to belong to him, to be broken through. "Yes" you moan, not even sure why you had tried to run away from this anymore. Tess wouldn't even need to hold you with her whole body but you'll never say it, the way she bounces on top of you drives you crazy. You are back on the scene now, eager, drunk with a dark, all-consuming desire burning in your veins.

He grips your hips hard, digging his fingers into your thighs, going out and back in you harder, deeper each time, using your cunt as his personal toy, beating on your cervix as if he were to fill it with bruises. And you don't care, welcoming each thrust as if it were the last thing you will ever receive.

Your mouth proceeds alone, bellowing and wailing each moan like an off-key song you can't stop singing, irrepressible, obscene, feverish.

"You're tight for a whore, pet, but don't worry, I'll take care of it." Joel grunts, Tess echoes you, her harsh voice protesting uselessly to let her finish, her legs wrap around Joel's waist claiming him but he is focused on ruining you now with the cruel and unrelenting force he has not reserved for her.

Her nails sink into the skin of your arms, you feel them barely disconcerted by Joel's stabs but a tiny part of your brain knows they will leave more marks on you.

There is nothing gentle about it, no attention, no care, just animalistic thrusts that make your body shake like an earthquake.

You are less, obviously less, but you are still something.

Tess turns on you, looking into your eyes, lowering a hand to your clit, rubbing it furiously and then colliding it with her own, clit against clit, pressed together in sloppy kissing, hips rocking back and forth, sliding up to the point where Joel joins obscenely with you, seeking on her own the finish Joel has not yet given her by using your body.

“Oh fuck, yes,” she screeches, "here we go little slut, give it all to me" biting your skin on the marks Joel left, on your neck, on your tits, sucking your nipples between her lips, unrestrained. She's a wild amazon riding you, untamed, fierce and mean, teeth, tongue and hips demanding no permission and taking from your body what they want.

And then again her hand descends between you to rub her clit as her knuckles press against yours, squirting letting out a guttural sound, flooding you, Joel's cock and the sheets.

Joel growls at the vision “oh that’s fucking right, babe, yeah spurt all over me, FUCK, so good”

And you lose yourself, your sanity flying out the window with your attempts to escape, you are caged by Tess's body, hammered by Joel's cock, you feel their eyes on you looking fiercely, them calling you their slut again and again, that's all you can do.

Tess pulls away from you, Joel holds you firmly by the hips, his face contorts into a grimace, he bites his lower lip as he thrusts himself possessively into you, reaches down and puts a hand around your neck, squeezing your pulse point, smiling cruelly as your air diminishes and your mind becomes rarefied “keep it up slut, milk me” and she scolds him “you can't cum inside her”.

“Fuck” he snorts "you're right". The grip on your neck loosens and you gasp, panting hard, trying to regain oxygen.

Joel slaps your pussy hard with his hand open, ordering: “on your knees, pet.”

You sit complacently on your lap on the bed, uncertain of what he wants to do. Tess is at your side, sneering.

“Stick out your tongue for me.” He says harshly, Tess's hand bends your back, making you squat, waiting.

“Good kitten” Joel grunts stroking his cock up and down, the angry red tip aimed at you. You don't realize it in time that long, thick, streaks of cum hit your face, your mouth, slide down your chin. You close your eyes just a moment before you feel his semen hit your eyelashes and run thickly down your cheek.

“Mmm now you look just like a proper slut” Tess giggles wickedly, then pauses "In fact no, we can do better". She grabs you by the arm, drags you naked as a maggot into the bathroom, and gets you on your knees inside the tub. “Hold still” she barks at you. You close your eyes, trembling, not knowing what to expect, until you feel something warm hit your forehead, run down your face, partially wash the cum off. An acrid, pungent smell makes its way into your nostrils. As soon as it reaches your lips you realize.

You open your eyes, clouded by Tess's piss, her degrading gaze penetrating your bones along with Joel's laughter, standing in the bathroom enjoying the show.

“Now you're perfect.”

tag list: @aurorawritestoescape , @baronessvonglitter

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