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Soapâs eyebrows lifted with a curious glint in his eye as he looked from you to Adira, a playful grin edging onto his face. He leaned in, never one to miss a chance at a bit of friendly prodding.
âSo⌠youâre married?â he asked, his tone as light as his smirk.
You laughed, the sound warm and genuine. âHaha! No, Iâm not.â You gave Adiraâs tiny hand a gentle squeeze, glancing down at her with a smile that softened every edge on your face.Â
Soap tilted his head, pretending to be shocked. âA bonnie lass like yerself? Unmarried?â he teased, hand on his chest as though it were a crime.
âGuess Iâm a rare breed,â you replied with a grin, chuckling as you shifted Adiraâs hand in yours.
Soapâs face lit up at your response, as if heâd just been given the most interesting bit of news heâd heard all week. He shot Ghost a quick look, but Ghost was still watching Adira, his gaze softened with something unreadable.
Meanwhile, Gaz wasn't fascinated by Soap's ability to make anyone at ease, the man was a cassanova. Roach watched Adira with curiosity, as though piecing together a puzzle he hadnât realized existed until now. Price stood off to the side, arms crossed, silently observing the whole scene.
âIf you arenât married, howâd you get this little one?â Soap pushed, grinning as he wiggled a playful finger in Adiraâs direction.
Adiraâs gaze snapped up from Ghost to the man with the funny hair, her little brow furrowing as she studied Soap with a mix of curiosity and caution. She leaned into your leg, clearly wary, but her attention stayed on the finger waving in front of her.
You chuckled, brushing a hand over Adiraâs head to reassure her. âLong story,â you replied, smiling. âLetâs just say she was an unexpected blessing.â
Soap laughed softly, glancing at Ghost with a gleam in his eye. âAh, aye, lifeâs full of surprises, eh?âÂ
Ghost, who had been studying Adira in silence, clenched his jaw, shifting uncomfortably as Soapâs words hit a little too close to home.
âI used to be really wild back in the day,â you admitted with a sheepish grin, a hint of nostalgia coloring your tone as you thought back to those not-so-distant years.
Soap wasnât quite done yet, though. âDoes the father know?â he threw a quick glance at Ghost, who had just risen from his crouched position. A new tension ran through Ghostâs frame, his stance rigid, as if the question had struck something heâd rather not confront.
You hesitated, a shadow crossing your expression before you shook your head. âNo, he doesnât⌠He, uh, probably has no idea.â
Ghostâs jaw tightened, his gaze flickering from you to Adira, who was absorbed in her drink, unaware of the intensity surrounding her. His shoulders stiffened, and for a split second, he looked as though he wanted to speakâbut whatever words he had caught in his throat, locked behind his silence.
"I see, well. I'm sorry if I took up your time, maâam, you've been a nice chat," Soap said, his voice softening with a touch of politeness, his grin still present but more reserved now.
You nodded, giving Adiraâs hand a gentle tug as you continued on your way, the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots the only sound accompanying your steps. The blue sky stretched above, peaceful, serene. As you walked, Adira turned her head, glancing back at Ghost one final time. She refused to let go of her cup, her small fingers gripping it tightly, but she lifted her other hand in a small, hesitant wave. "Bye-bye," she whispered, her voice soft but sweet.
Ghostâs gaze lingered, but he didnât move. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of things churning behind those eyes.Â
Price let out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms and facing Ghost. âSo... whatâs the plan?â he asked, his tone both blunt and expectant, clearly waiting for some kind of direction. The rest of the team stood in silence, watching the exchange unfold.
Ghost didnât answer immediately. His gaze remained on you and Adira, watching you both disappear further down the street, the distance growing with each step. The soft crunch of snow under your boots was the only sound in the quiet winter air. He didnât even notice Price's voice until the man spoke again, closer now, with a slight edge to his tone.
"Ghost, talk to me. Whatâs the plan here?â
Finally, Ghost shifted, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched as he turned to face Price. There was a flicker of something in his eyesâsomething caught between anger, confusion, and a deep, gnawing regret.
"I don't know," he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips. "I wasn't expecting this. Hell, I didn't even know she existed." His voice was low, strained, but there was a quiet honesty to it, as if he was trying to process something that didnât make sense.
Soap stepped closer, his expression serious for once. "What now, Ghost? We can help. But you need to tell us what's going on."
Ghost finally looked away, his attention drawn to the ground, his fingers twitching like he was trying to find something to hold onto. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. "All I know is... I saw her. And it hit me like a fucking truck."
Roach, always one to stay in the background, spoke up. âMaybe itâs time to talk to her, yeah? Figure out where to go from here?â
Priceâs eyes narrowed, his stern gaze shifting to Ghost, assessing him. âAnd what exactly do you want from us? Youâre in this, whether you like it or not.â
Ghost let out a frustrated breath. âI donât know,â he repeated, voice hoarse. âBut I canât just let her slip away.â
A silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, as the weight of the situation settled in. Then, slowly, Ghost nodded. âIâll figure it out. Just⌠not now. Not here.â His eyes flicked toward the street where you had disappeared, and something in his gaze softened, just for a moment, before the mask fell back into place.
Price gave a single nod. "Alright. But we stick together on this. Youâre not doing it alone, Ghost."
The team stood together for a moment longer, the wind howling through the alley, before they slowly began to move, their steps trailing off into the winter evening. The silence that hung between them was thick with uncertainty. No one knew what came next, but they knew one thing for sure: whatever happened, they were in this together.
A month passed, the team giving Ghost the space he needed to process the whirlwind that had hit him. They all knew this was something he had to handle on his own terms, but that didn't mean the questions didn't linger. What did it mean for the future? What did he want? The answers were still unclear, even to Ghost himself.
But Soap, ever the persistent one, wasnât content to let things sit in limbo. He knew Ghost, knew how his mind worked, and that sometimes the best way to breakthrough was to take small steps. And if that meant subtly nudging you into the picture, then so be it. Heâd always been good at thisâat slipping in the background, making things happen without anyone noticing.
So, Soap started to "accidentally" run nto you. At the park, when you were out with Adira, he'd make sure to be in the same place at the same time, offering a casual greeting. It always started simple, harmless, with a nod or a small comment about the weather. Then, of course, there was that coffee shop where you'd gone to get hot chocolate for Adira.
The first time he "bumped" into you there, it was nothing more than a quick exchange. A question about the drink, a comment on the cold weather, just the usual small talk. But Johnny's natural charm and ease made you relax, and made the conversation flow without much effort. Over time, those small moments grew. You'd smile when you'd see him, and he'd greet you with the same friendly energy, always leaving you feeling at ease. No pressure, just casual.
And slowly, ever so slowly, Johnny began to warm you up to the idea of him. It wasn't much at firstâa smile here, a shared laugh thereâbut he knew what he was doing. He wasn't pushing, just letting the connection build at its own pace. The more you saw him, the more comfortable you felt. The more you talked, the more you found yourself enjoying the interactions, even if they were brief.
One evening, Johnny sat beside you on the park bench, casually leaning back as Adira bounced around in the snow, her laughter filling the crisp air. The sound was contagious, and for a moment, you let yourself relax, watching her with a soft smile.
"So, me and a couple friends are meeting up at Leslie's this weekend," Johnny said, his tone light but with a hint of something more. "Would you be interested?"
You snorted, expecting the usual joke or teasing, but when you glanced over at him, his expression was far more serious than you anticipated. For a moment, you considered dismissing it. After all, Leslie's? A pub? That was a far cry from the cozy routine youâd built for yourself with Adira.Â
âSeriously?â you asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think I fit the scene."
Johnny shrugged nonchalantly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that playful grin of his. âPlease. It'll just be like old times.â
Your mind immediately wandered, trying to understand what he meant by that. What was it about old times that Johnny thought might appeal to you? You didnât exactly have a wild past to cling to. Sure, youâd had your moments, but those felt long behind you now.Â
Still, something about the invitation lingered. A night out... maybe it wouldnât be so bad. You hadnât done anything for you in a while. And maybe, just maybe, it would be nice to let someone else take care of the night for once. No worrying about Adira, no responsibilities for a few hours. Just some fun, whatever that meant now.
You hesitated, looking down at Adira as she made another snow angel, oblivious to the conversation happening nearby. Sheâd be fine, right? And you could leave if things felt uncomfortable.Â
âAlright,â you finally said, meeting Johnnyâs gaze with a reluctant but genuine smile. "I'll join you. But only if itâs not as crazy as youâre making it sound."Â
Johnnyâs grin widened, and you could tell he was already mentally planning the evening, no doubt with some plan to ease you in without overwhelming you. He stood up, dusting off the snow on his pants as he glanced back at you.
âDeal. Iâll make sure itâs a night to remember.â
You just hoped he wasnât overselling it.
The weekend seemed to arrive so fast, and here you were, standing outside your apartment, nervously adjusting your blue blouse and jeans. It wasnât exactly the type of outfit you thought would fit a night out, but it was the best you could do. Most of your wardrobe these days consisted of comfortable clothes, ones that could be easily changed or wiped clean in case Adira had another of her toddler mishaps. Sexy or flirty clothes were a distant memory, tucked away in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust.
Adira stood in the doorway, clutching her little stuffed bear to her chest, eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. The sight hit you harder than you expected. You knelt down in front of her, your heart sinking at the sight of her teary eyes. âIâll be back in a couple hours, I promise,â you said, your voice gentle but firm, reaching out to her with a reassuring smile.
Adira sniffled, her tiny hand coming up to rub her eyes, but she didnât break her stare. You held out your pinky, the gesture as familiar as breathing. Slowly, she reached out, her small finger wrapping around yours with the same trust she always had. The connection was brief, but it felt like a promise, one that you hoped would calm her.
"I won't be out long," you said softly to the friend youâd left with her. "And you, be good for Auntie too." The last part was directed at Adira, though the words felt bittersweet on your tongue.
Adira nodded, but her face still held that sadness, that uncertainty of what the night would bring without you.Â
Standing up, you ruffled her hair and offered a small, hopeful smile. âIâll be back before you know it. Just a little fun for Mama, okay?â
Her small nod didnât do much to ease the tightness in your chest, but you turned and gave her one last look before stepping outside. The cool evening air wrapped around you, a contrast to the warmth of the apartment behind you, but you pushed the feeling away. Tonight was for you, however strange that sounded.Â
As you locked the door behind you, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach. This wasnât just any night out. It was a night with Johnny, with his friends, with the possibility of reconnecting to parts of yourself youâd set aside for so long.
As you arrived outside the establishment, the familiar hum of chatter and music filled the night air, but what caught your attention first was Johnny standing outside, leaning against the brick wall, checking his watch. The moment his eyes met yours, they lit up, his expression shifting from casual to something almost... eager.Â
âWell, well, look at you,â he said with that trademark wink of his, his gaze raking over you with a genuine appreciation that made you feel suddenly self-conscious. âYou clean up well.â
You rolled your eyes but couldnât suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. It was hard to resist the easy charm of Johnny.
âLetâs just hope I survive this night,â you muttered, though the words were more for yourself than him. You werenât sure what to expect tonight, but you couldnât shake the feeling that things might not go as smoothly as Johnny seemed to think.
Johnny chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. âIâm sure you will. Now, letâs get going before I change my mind.â
With that, you fell into step beside him, the weight of your hand at your side suddenly feeling strange in the cool night air. He led you toward the door, and as you entered the dimly lit space of the bar, your eyes scanned the room.Â
It was bustling, a mix of regulars and newcomers, all seeking solace or company for the night. It smelled of beer, whiskey, and the faintest hint of fried food, a familiar and welcoming kind of atmosphere. But as soon as you stepped inside, your nerves shot back up again. You tried not to let the nerves show, but they were there, itching under your skin.
What you didnât notice, as you made your way to the bar, was the group inside. Ghost, Price, Gaz, Roachâquietly observing, waiting for their chance to either speak to you or simply let you slip through their fingers once more. Ghostâs eyes tracked you the moment you stepped inside, and there was a hesitation in his gaze, something raw and almost pained that flickered in and out.Â
For a moment, Ghost didnât move, didnât speak. He simply watched you, aware that the moment heâd been dreadingâhe had finally stumbled into. Your gaze met his across the room, the flicker of recognition passing between you both. But that was it. You didnât remember. You didnât know him. You didnât know what he was to you.
Approaching the bar, you saw that Johnny was already leaning in, chatting with the bartender, exchanging friendly banter. You barely heard the words, only caught up in the feeling that something was different. Something you couldnât quite place. You glanced back at the table where those men sat. They werenât talking, but their eyes were all trained on you, as if waiting for something to happen.
Your heart raced without explanation. Ghostâs eyesâthose eyesâstayed locked on you. He didnât know how to approach, how to change what had already seemingly been set in stone. What was he supposed to say? What was the plan now that you were here, so close? God, why the fuck did johnny do this.
Johnny leaned toward you again, a soft smile curling his lips. âYou good, love?â he asked, his voice pulling you back to the present.
âYeah,â you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. You forced a smile, trying to ignore the uneasy tension brewing in your chest. âJust... getting used to being out.â
Johnny winked again, oblivious to the chaos of emotions swirling within you. âItâs all good. Letâs have some fun tonight, yeah?â
Ghostâs fist clenched involuntarily under the table. He wasnât sure how much longer he could keep this distance, this silent acknowledgment of his role, or how long he could ignore what it meant to see you here now.Â
âYouâll fit right in,â Johnny said, though there was a hint of something deeper behind his words. âJust a bunch of mates enjoying a drink, nothing crazy.â Johnny leads you over to the table, you expected to be met with⌠well you didn't quite know what. Â
Price leaned back in his seat, cigar in hand, a soft smile on his weathered face as he regarded you with a raised brow. âDidnât think youâd actually show up.â
"Neither did I," you muttered under your breath, forcing a smile and doing your best to ignore the gnawing feeling that lingered when you looked at him. You hadnât quite expected this part of the evening.
âIâm just here for a drink, nothing more,â you said, looking over at Johnny was getting comfortable in his chair.
âWell, pull up a seat, love,â Price said, motioning to the empty spot next to him. âWeâre all friends here.â
You hesitated but made your way over, perching yourself on the seat next to him. The sound of the glass being slid toward you, the clink of ice against glass, broke through the chatter around you. Your nerves buzzed as you focused on the drink in front of you, trying to ignore the sudden realization of just how different this was from the quiet, routine life you had at home with Adira.
âEnjoy yourself,â Price said with an air of casual amusement, leaning back in his chair. âThis is all new for you, isnât it?â
You raised an eyebrow, not wanting to admit just how out of place you felt in the moment. Instead, you took a sip of your drink, the burn of whiskey warming you from the inside out.
You laugh lightly, a bit awkwardly, trying to shake off the nerves that gnawed at you. "Yeah, this all a bit... newish. I haven't been out like this in years honestly," you admit, taking a deep breath and glancing around the bar. The warmth of the space was a welcome contrast to the chill outside, but the sight of the men made you feel more like a fish out of water than ever.
Johnny claps you on the back with an easy grin, clearly trying to make you feel more comfortable. âThese are my mates. Price, Kyle, Gary, and Simon," he introduces with a flourish, motioning to each man in turn.Â
You give them all a polite smile, not quite sure what to make of them just yet. There was something about the way they carried themselves, all standing a little apart from the crowd, that made it clear they were more than just regulars at the pub. But you didnât have time to focus too much on that right now. You were trying to just survive the night.
Price, who looked a bit older than the rest, nods at you, his gaze thoughtful, almost cautious. âNice to meet you,â he says in a tone that is polite but distant, as though heâs waiting for something, some sign.
Kyle, as Johnny had called himâgives you a friendly nod, a playful glint in his eyes, but there's a strange sharpness to his look that you canât quite place. âPleasure," he says, offering you a tight smile.
Gary simply gives you a quick but sincere nod. His eyes linger on you just long enough for you to catch a flicker of interest before he looks away.
And then thereâs Simon. His presence, as always, is quieter, more intense. Heâs sitting in the middle, arms crossed, his gaze fixed directly on you. You can feel the weight of it, though. Itâs impossible not to. There was something you couldn't place with him though you couldnât see too well under the dim light.
You try to shake off the unease creeping up your spine. âNice to meet you all," you reply, your voice warmer than you feel.Â
Johnny, oblivious to the awkwardness in the air, slaps the bar and gives a nod. âAlright, drinks all around, yeah? Letâs get this party started!â he declares, pulling the group into the rhythm of the night.
As the revelry began your stomach churns slightly, a sense of unease still lingering despite the distraction. You knew something was off, something you couldnât quite put into words. It wasnât just the menâit was the way Simonâs gaze lingered on you, the way he looked at you as if he were waiting for something. It unsettled you, but you couldnât figure out why.
Johnny, seemingly oblivious to your tension, slides a drink toward you. âFirst roundâs on me," he grins, the clink of glass against the table snapping you back to the present. "Hereâs to a good night.â.
You took a deep breath, swallowing down the nerves that still clung to you. This was supposed to be a night out, after all. A chance to shake off the past, to let loose just a little. You couldnât let the weight of everything pull you under before you even tried. What would be the point if you didnât at least try and enjoy yourself?
Shaking the tension from your shoulders, you took a sip of your drink, the burn of alcohol easing the knot in your stomach just slightly. The guys were chatting among themselves, Johnnyâs laughter cutting through the low hum of the bar as he joked with Kyle. Price was listening intently, nodding along while Gary seemed content to let the others talk, his eyes occasionally flicking to you, though his gaze didnât linger long.
And then there was Simon.
His presence loomed even when he wasnât speaking, his broad frame leaning against the bar just slightly, face half hidden by the shadows. You caught his eyes for a split second, the intensity of his stare making your pulse hitch. You quickly looked away, focusing on your drink, your nerves creeping back up despite the effort to push them aside.
You could feel his gaze on you, though, like a weight pressing against your back. You tried not to let it show, tried not to acknowledge how his proximity seemed to pull at something inside you, but it was impossible to ignore. There was a pull, something in the air, but you couldnât quite grasp it.
Sighing inwardly, you turned your attention back to the others. Just enjoy yourself, you remind yourself again. Donât think about him. Donât think about any of it.
Johnny clinked his glass against yours, a grin on his face. âHereâs to not letting the night pass us by,â he said with a wink, and you couldnât help but smile back, lifting your glass.
âCheers,â you said, the warmth of the alcohol giving you just the nudge you needed to ease into the evening. For now, youâd ignore the tight feeling in your chest. Youâd enjoy yourself.Â
But the eyes that lingered on you would remain, whether you were ready for them or not.
You pushed your chair back with more force than necessary, the scrape of it against the floor loud in the otherwise quiet bar. The conversation still echoed in your ears, but your focus had been on the man, Simon, for the past half hour. His silence had become suffocating, every glance he cast in your direction feeling like it held some hidden meaning. You couldn't quite place it, but something was off about him. His eyes, cold and intense, had followed you too much, made you second guess every word youâd said.
"Im... gonna go powder my nose," you muttered, more to fill the silence than anything else. You didnât wait for a response, the words barely out of your mouth before you were already making your way across the room, past the low hum of idle chatter and the clink of glasses.
While you were in the bathroom, the entire team turned their attention towards Ghost, each of them sizing him up, starting with Soap.
"What is wrong with you?" Soap asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.
"What?" Simon blinked, genuinely confused.
"Mate, you've been gawking at her all night," Gaz added, raising an eyebrow, his voice teasing but laced with concern.
"Shit. Are you serious?" Simon muttered, running a hand through his hair, but his gaze didn't stray far from where you had just disappeared.
Roach, leaning back casually with his drink in hand, nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's like youâve been stuck in a staring contest with her since she walked in."
Price, who had been watching quietly, shook his head with a resigned sigh. He snuffed out his cigar in the nearby ashtray, eyes narrowing as he met Simon's gaze. "If you scared her off, I doubt youâll get another chance, lad."
Simonâs jaw clenched. He hadnât realized how obvious it had been, but now that the team was calling him out on it, he felt the heat rise in his chest. He hadnât meant to make you uncomfortable, but the pull to look at you, to remember what had sparked your connection all those years ago had been almost magnetic.
âAlright, alright,â Soap teased, leaning in, a smirk tugging at his lips. âJust don't burn a hole in her head.â
âShut up,â Simon muttered, his mind racing, trying to figure out how to fix this without making things worse.
Price shared a look with the rest of the team, a silent understanding passing between them. While Soap might have been the one to set this whole thing in motion, it didn't mean the others didn't have contingencies in place.Â
Soap got up first, stretching a bit. âGonna make sure no one's tried to get in my car,â he said with a casual tone.
âIâll come with you,â Gaz chimed in, already pushing himself up from his seat and following Soap toward the door.
A minute later, Roach also stood, excusing himself without a word, and then Price followed suit, his movements deliberate. âIâm gonna make sure theyâre not up to anything,â he said with a knowing glance.
With everyone out of the immediate area, the bar suddenly felt quieter, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken. It took Ghost only a second for it all to clickâhe had been set up. Without thinking, he bolted from his seat, rushing outside just in time to catch the taillights of Soap's car disappearing down the street.
He cursed under his breath, but before he could make another move, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the screen. There, in simple words from Price:Â
âGood luck.â
Ghost stood still for a moment, phone in hand, as the weight of the situation hit him. His heart thudded in his chest. This was it. There was no turning back now.
By the time you returned to the table, you felt a bit more at ease. The night out wasnât all that bad⌠it was just that Johnny had some weird taste in friends. Well, mostly the tall one. You couldnât help but notice how everyone seemed to have left, a pit forming in your stomach at the thought of being ditched.
You let out a quiet sigh, about to gather your things and head out when your phone lit up in your purse. Pulling it out, you saw a text from Johnny.Â
"Emergency, looks like one of the beers wasn't that good, poor Kyle threw up."
You paused, reading the message again, a small smile tugging at your lips. Aww⌠nevermind. At least they hadnât forgotten about you after all.Â
"Hope he's okay." You replied quickly, grabbing the straps of your bag when suddenly a hand landed on top of yours.
You looked up, meeting the intense gaze of Simon. Seriously? You couldnât help but think. They took everyone but this guy?
You forced a smile, trying to pull your hand away, but Simonâs grip was firm, not unkind. âLook, I had a decent time, but I have to goââ
âJust a minute,â he interrupted, his voice low, steady, almost pleading. There was something about the way he said it that made you pause, something different than the usual small talk.
"Fine." The word slipped out before you could process it, and you cursed yourself inwardly. Really? You just agreed to stay with the guy who hadnât stopped staring since you met him. You sat back down, and he mirrored you, settling across the table.Â
Silence stretched between you, his intense gaze unwavering. He didnât so much as blink, and you couldnât help but feel more unsettled by the second.
What the hell is his deal?
âLook, if you're just going to be a creep, I don't think I want to meeâ"
âDo you remember Armed Forces Day?â His voice cut through your words, quiet but resolute.
Okay, this took all day, I wanted to give you all something long to read incase I disappear for finals (which I might)
Reblogs appreciated!!!
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WOWWW LOOK AT ALL THESE NAMES. Thank you all so much for the support!! Im sorry if i missed any, I will update if I noticed any missing or comment on those who's tags didnt go through!
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rating different responses to telling someone iâm polyamorous / dating multiple people
âoh⌠but how does that work?â a little annoying but usually comes from a place of genuine confusion or curiosity. 6/10
âbut isnt that cheating?â no. 2/10
âso whoâs your favourite partner?â believe it or not i dont have one, and even if i did have a fave itâd be shitty to say it out loud. 3/10
âoh sweet me tooâ FUCK YEAH 10/10
âcan i joinâ well i barely know you so no. ranges from 2/10 to 4/10 depending on whoâs asking
âwoah so youâre like, an ot3 in real lifeâ fuck your fandom shit. touch grass. 1/10
âi could never do polyamoryâ youâd think this is a perfectly fine thing to hear until you get it from EVERY FUCKING PERSON. 3/10
âthats coolâ hell yeah it is. 9/10
âyou'll get married and find the one eventuallyâ fuck you ive already found the several and amatonormativity can go give birth to a cactus out of its asshole. 0/10
âso how do you guys break upâ and weâre back with another well meaning question. if you are familiar with among us then thatâs your answer. 5/10
âlike sister wivesâ absolutely not. wildly different. 1/10
ârent must be way easierâ monogamy? in this economy? yeah you have a point. 7/10
âhuh i never thought of that, maybe i should become poly/open up my relationshipâ go nuts!! but be cautious as it could fuck up any present monogamous relationship you have, make sure to communicate clearly & respect boundaries. 6/10
âdamn you must have so many threesomes/orgiesâ i mean yeah but also thats not how you start a conversation. 3/10
âoh that must be nice, having so many people who love you and you care aboutâ awww thank you. it really, really is. 10/10
âlike mormonsâ die. -10000/10
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Lay Me to Rest- DCxDP Prompt
Warning: Blood and gore
There has been a series of murders across the country. Each death was varied and self-inflicted. At first, they all seemed like suicide but each had a strange range of symptoms before death.
Sudden paranoia, incoherent mumbling, screaming or yelling, going in and out of their homes sporadically, random fixations, and finally self-harm.
The victims were teachers, parents, businessmen, truckers, and even a crime novelist. All unrelated and in different states.
Each victim didn't seem to have a connection until an investigation discovered that each one had been an active serial killer. The body counts ranged from as little as 5 to as much as 23. The killer was named the Serial Serial Killer which wasn't creative but it was catchy. Some called them the Angel of Vengeance but most thought it was cringy and overdramatic. Many people didn't want them to be caught but others hotly debated letting a killer dispense justice when their crusade could easily turn into them killing people for innocuous things.
The police were still questioning whether this killer even existed. One thing was clear, there was a trail and it led straight to Gotham. A goldmine for them. Naturally, Batman had gotten a hold on the case and began an investigation.
The biggest question was how the killer found their victims and how they knew that they were killers.
The answer was obvious. They didn't need to figure it out. They just needed to wait. Why just in the effort to investigate when a serial killer tries to convince you to leave with them? So bars are the obvious place. But that's shaky at best since there is a period of torment that takes place that allows the victims to return home. The killer doesn't care if the victims could call the police, perhaps because they know their victim won't.
Bruce started to build a profile. He saw a pattern here. Each of the victims had a preference for their victims as well. They targeted young people, mainly boys. Odds are the Serial Serial Killer matched that description or age range. So bars weren't the hunting ground. So parks were more likely to go unnoticed and boys tended to hang out there longer after dark.
The killer was more than likely a victim himself so he may have a few scars but probably not noticeable enough that his would-be assailants would be turned off. There is no ignoring the predatory nature of the victims. Each killed children for gratification in some form. It's not that the boy is attractive but he probably has traits that the victims found attractive in children. So babyfaced, short, native, and polite.
There was much else Bruce could get. There was nothing concrete and he still didn't understand the method that was used. So far this was guesswork.
It wasn't until a few weeks later while he tracking another killer that he found his answer.
Dr.Kinder a Biologist by day and a killer who experiments on his victims at night had picked up a promising new lab rat a week ago. He had intended to slowly dissect the boy. He had gotten so used to the screams he stopped using anesthetics besides he wanted to see how the fear response caused the organs to shift.
To his surprise the boy didn't fight, in fact he seemed to jump to the table and say he didn't need restraints. Disturbing. But he was restrained anyways.
As the doctor cut him open the boy didn't react, only humming to himself as he watched the doctor.
"What are you hoping to find?" He asked. "I'm getting bored and this bearly hurts."
The boy annoyingly never stopped talking and never missed a chance to ruin the moment. There were never any screams or cries but incessant talking.
Dr.Kinder found the boy disturbing so he simply took an axe and chopped the boy into pieces. Not once did he make a sound. The doctor thought it was over but the next day the boy was back. He sat on the autopsy table kicking his feet in nothing but his bare skin.
"What the hell are you?" The doctor gasped in horror.
"I'm bored. Play with me again." The boy purred.
Bile crawled up his throat as the doctor restained this...thing again.
This time the boy spoke differently.
"You cut me up last time. Did you do that to the last boy. After you...you know." A sick grin spread across his cheeks.
The doctor cut open his neck this time and let him bleed out.
Everyday he came back and every day the doctor killed him until the time between his death got shorter and shorter. The days began to blur and he had no idea how long he had been doing this. But that thing kept talkimg to him.
Dr.Kinder stared down at his desk at the papers trying to think of anything but-
"I wonder what people would think about what you've done. You're a disgusting and depraved man doctor. Look at what you've done to me." The sing-song voice of that demon called out.
He could feel those blood-soaked arms wrapped around his neck.
He flinch as he pushed the thing away.
"Oh, are you going to beat me or stab me this time? Ooo, or are you going to put me through the woodchipper again?" The demon asked as the doctor wrapped his hands around his throat.
He just kept squeezing until the boy went limp. It never ends. The blood never goes away. It covered every surface of the room. Dripping, conjugating, and spreading into every corner. Whenever he turned his head he could see body parts spread across the room in the pools of blood he could they the faces of the others that he had killed. Each face wretched in agony.
"You hold on better than the others. I've been eaten, torched, and disemboweled before but after coming back a few times they usually end it after a few words. But every time they don't feel guilt. They just don't want to face consequences." The boy said. "Do you even remember my name? The one I told you when you picked me up on the side of the road or was I just another body to use and discard? I used the name of your first victim. I hoped you'd notice."
The doctor knew he couldn't kill the boy but he could end himself. He had tried it once but just like the kid he came back without a scratch.
"Not yet. This is your life now. Come on, let's taste death together. Again and again and again and again and-" he repeated over and over.
This was hell. This was his hell.
But it came to an end eventually. Dr.Kinder put an end to himself in a gruesome display.
Batman had only caught the tail end as he faced a young boy standing an a pool of blood.
****
"Yeah, that thing is like a worse version of a revenant. Doesn't really have a name yet to describe it. It's undead for sure. You kill it and it just comes back." Constantine said "Why did you bring it here?"
After a long bath and some new clothes, the kid looked normal as played on a phone given to him.
"Look, I didn't know what else to do." Bruce explained.
"You leave it alone!" Constantine said exasperated "Look they are harmless to anything they don't bear a grudge towards. Think of it as a force of nature." Constantine said.
"I just want to know how to stop him." Bruce said.
"Well you can't kill it but you can't bring him back entirely. You can just soothe it 'till it stops targeting its victims. It must have died pretty gruesomely to go to these lengths. You need to find where it died and lay it to rest. Properly." Constantine sighed knowing that appeasing this soul would be more than just difficult.
"Danny, come on. Let's go." Bruced said putting a hand on the boy's head as Danny stood up to leave.
"Okay. Bye!" Danny waved to Constantine.
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Riddle: I would like to apologize for invading your privacy; no excuse can undo what I've done.
MC: ...
MC: I don't understand-
Riddle: You left your journal in the classroom, and I intended to return it immediately, but my curiosity got the best of me,
Riddle: and I read a few pages... *gets embarrassed*
MC: ...
MC: *chuckles* It's alright, Riddle. I'm not offended at all.
Riddle: A-Are you sure?
MC: *nods*
MC: But I would like to know, did you answer any of the questions on the pages you read?
Riddle: ...
Riddle: Yes.
800 Rules of the Queen of Hearts - Completed
Insights:
The rules may seem random, yet they create a strong sense of discipline. Itâs no wonder Riddle is so dedicated to following them and upholding order.
Though memorizing all of them would be impossible, Iâd love to learn them deeply. That way, if I ever return to my world, Iâll carry a piece of Heartslabyul with me and never forget its essence.
I wonder⌠which rule should I embrace for myself?
Riddle: It's rule #432 - Always make time for a kind word, for kindness is the true measure of strength.
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trust me
max verstappen x reader | 2.3k
after an incredible (and wet) weekend in brazil, you have a confession to make.
cw: a loving relationship! discussion of anxiety/fear/worrying about your race car driver bf, healthy communication, and softness galore.
a/n: being a wag must be so stressful. like, damn! also, rain races stress me out, personally. this fic is about that.
__
The triple header comes to an end in the best way possible.
Max Verstappen wins the SĂŁo Paulo Grand Prix from a 17th-place start! It's the stuff of dreams. The fist around your heart unclenches just a little bit as you watch him smiling, roaring, hoisting his well-earned trophy aloft. It's your best day in a long time, watching your darling boyfriend like that, and you celebrate with everyone late into the night. The Championship battle looms in the background but tonight is about the hard work from the weekend. The stress, the frustration, the damn rain. All of it worth it for the pride you all feel right now.
But what comes after -- that, you can admit, you enjoy even more. Three weeks until Las Vegas and Max and the team have plenty of work to do before then, but for now? For now, it's this: rest.
Everyone gets to go home, finally. And for you, home is wherever Max is. You've spent the first few days of the break thus far at his place. On the floor with the cats, on the couch watching movies. In his bed, sleeping, sometimes, other times... not so much. Hours and hours just being together. You'll have plenty of time for this once the season ends but you can never get enough of him.
You're on the couch, sprawled across the length of it with a book in hand. It's a good one, so much so that you don't notice Max until he taps your ankle and you jump.
"Jesus," you gasp. His lips are pulled up at one corner in the precursor to a full grin, sweatpants slung low enough that you can see the branded band of his underwear between the drawstrings and the hem of his t-shirt. "Where did you come from?"
"Watching race replays," he says with a shrug. "Scooch." You tug your legs back and sit up a little, bookmarking your page as he rounds the couch and plops down where your feet were.
"Max," you whine. "I like to watch those, too. So you can do that thing where you narrate like, every second." You're teasing, but only a little. For all the jokes about "maxplaining," you really do love how he explains things. He tells you what he was thinking at every turn, what the trick is, how long it took him to get it right. He points out his mistakes and those of the other drivers. All of it thoroughly and with enthusiasm, answering your questions like you're the best student he's ever had.
"Yeah, well," he says, sinking into the couch, arm stretched across the cushions towards you. Your eyes rake over the line of his bicep as he talks. "You don't like rain races very much. Wasn't sure you'd want to see it again."
That gets your attention. "How did you know that?" You've never told him outright that they stress you out. It's really important to you that you keep your cool at the track, that you don't do anything to let on that he should worry about you.
But you should know better, it seems.
"I can tell," Max says, looking right at you. "I pay attention."
You hum, not sure what to say. "You've got me there," you confess. "I'm sorry."
"Hey," he tuts. "Why the apology? You can feel however you want to. This weekend was complicated."
He feels too far away. You set your book on the ground and shove your toes under this thigh. He keeps his eyes on your face but you fuss with the hem of your t-shirt rather than look back.
"They're exciting. Rain races, I mean." You sigh. "But I can't help but worry, Max. From the garage, it's so --"
You lose track of your words because Max grabs hold of your legs and tugs them over his thighs as he moves closer to you, almost crowding you against the arm of the couch. He reaches for your collarbone to pick some lint from your shirt, his other arm slung across your calves.
"Were you scared?" he asks. "This weekend, I mean."
Frankly, you avoid telling him things like this because you don't want to distract him. You don't want to detract from his performance in any way and maybe that's selfish, because you know he's very good at what he does and how you feel isn't going to derail his weekend. But you know he loves you, and you know how deeply he feels things. How much he wants to be a good partner, a good driver, a good man. And you try really hard to let him know that he is all of those things.
The reality of your position in his life is that there will always be people who heavily imply that your presence, your actions, your choices could be at fault. It's ludicrous -- Max has said so many times -- but it makes you hype-aware. You don't want to overstep. It's something you know you should articulate to him properly, but you know he'll be upset that you think you can be anything but a good part of his life. It's an endless cycle.
"Hey," he says, mistaking your silence for emotion. "Liefje, I'm fine." He reaches for you, cupping your cheek with a warm hand. You look up at him and find him frowning.
"I know," you say, leaning into his palm. "I know you are. I just -- I don't want it to sound like I'm a whining baby or something."
"Whining baby?" Max gently rubs the skin under your eye with his thumb. "Psh. We've got some of those on track. You couldn't come close to them if you tried."
That gets a laugh out of you and he cracks a smile at the small victory.
You sigh. "I was scared," you admit, voice soft. Max presses a little closer to you, his hand falling from your face to catch yours, fingers twining together.
"Are you always scared?" he asks. "You're more tense on rain weekends, I can tell that much. But you've never really talked about this. I guess I--" He frowns again. "I've never really asked you."
"That's okay," you say. "It's nothing, really."
Blue eyes bore into yours. "No, I want to know," he presses. "Please, tell me?"
You tip your head back a little, eyes on the ceiling. How to say it?
"I guess I'm always a little scared, yeah," you say. "I don't know how I wouldn't be."
He tugs on your hand so you'll look at him. "What is it, do you think?" The question comes out in his typical way. This must be how he is in driver briefings, you think fleetingly. Max is analytical, methodical, always looking for the root of the problem so he can understand it and adapt.
But how do you explain this?
"Well, it's a dangerous sport," you explain. "As you know. And I -- Max, I love you, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you."
The furrow of his brow lessens a bit and he presses a light kiss to the back of your hand. Your stomach flutters, even after all this time.
But Max has no time for your mooning, apparently. "Were you scared before we knew each other?" he asks.
You think about it. "It's different, I guess. I was worried, generally. For all of you. I'm still worried for all of you, but --"
His eyebrow quirks and he fails to hide a cheeky smile. "Me the most?"
You roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. "You the most. But don't tell Carlos that."
Max tuts. "So, now it's just worse? You feel it more?"
Nodding, you try to explain. "I don't even like watching on TV, now, because I'm so far away. I feel so helpless."
You can't make it to every race but you try your hardest, not only to support Max but for your own sanity. It's easier to calm yourself down when you're around other people who believe in him, when you have access to all the details and when he's only a few steps away when he's out of the car.
"I don't want you to be worried," he says, softly. "You don't let on that you are when we say goodbye before the race, aside from being a little tense."
One of your favorite pieces of race weekends -- those few moments when all of his attention is on you. He makes sure you have everything you need and leaves you with a kiss and a smile and a see you later. His confidence and his competence are like balms.
"When I'm looking at you, I'm not as stressed," you say, a bit shy. "You're very good at your job, you know. And your confidence is convincing."
"I know," he says, seriously. "That's why I know it'll be fine. Do you not know that?"
If he was less determined, you'd ask him to drop it, since you're starting to feel embarrassed. But you know he won't let it lie.
"I know it, too, Max." You reach for his face to push back some fringe from his forehead. "I'll always be worried about you, though. You get in the car and drive away and I just -- sit there. And wait for you to come back."
He frowns, deeper this time. You keep your hand on him, cupping his jaw and running your thumb along his stubble.
"And I love it. You know I was a fan before I met you and it's a dream to be there to watch you race. I love seeing you do crazy things like win from p17. It's so much fun."
He knows this about you. You've got a bit of a reputation for your facial expressions in the Red Bull garage, always the first on your feet when he overtakes, jumping up and down when he extends his lead. It's an infectious kind of joy and energy and you lean into it every time, even if your stomach is churning with anxiety.
Max is quiet for a few moments. He covers your hand with his and leans into it further.
"You trust me, right?"
"Of course," you say right away. "Always."
"I've never really thought about it," he says, slowly. "I mean, in the car. I don't worry about you because I'm not worried, so I just thought you knew not to be, too."
"I'll always worry, Max. Even though I trust you."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Your cheeks heat and you look away from him, pulling your hand free to cradle it in your lap.
"You've got a million other things to worry about besides me," you say. "I don't want to distract you."
Max says your name with a scoff, literally waving his hand as if swatting away your silly notions. "Distract me? Come on," he says. "I wouldn't be a three-time world champion if I could get so easily distracted." He leans into your space, nosing at your jaw. "Even if you are very distracting."
You allow the attention for a few moments before pushing him back with a laugh. His cheeks are flushed, hair a bit of a mess, like after he takes off his helmet. And, god, he looks relaxed. You're so proud of him you can hardly stand it. The season is almost over and you know he's got a lot of work ahead of him, and you've got a lot of worrying. But he's motivated, and you know he can win. You know he'll come back to you.
Max leans his head back on the couch and casts his gaze sideways at you, nose scrunched. "I can't fix this, can I? You're still going to worry."
He sounds so resigned, so disappointed in himself that you tug on his hand so he'll get closer. This time, you frame his face with your hands and kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. Both of you sigh into it, and you drag your mouth along his cheek until you reach his ear.
"I'm still going to worry," you whisper. "But I love you and I trust you. And I know it'll be okay."
Max sighs and presses his forehead to your shoulder, practically pulling you into his lap so he can wrap his arms around you.
"You better hope it doesn't rain for the rest of the season," he mumbles.
"That damn VSC," you groan, pulling back from him a bit. "I was going to tear my hair out!"
Max laughs. "It kept things interesting," he says lightly. "Rain isn't really a problem for me, schatje, you know this --"
"Because you're Dutch, I know, Max." You roll your eyes. "Even Fernando couldn't keep it together! I mean, the gasps from the garage when --"
The seriousness of your conversation fades as you trade tidbits about the race -- you've done this already, hashed it out in the hotel room and the flight home and in bed since Sunday. Max watches you talk, elbow braced on the couch and his head resting in his hand. His eyes sparkle and you know you're amusing him as he corrects you on the turn names and who went in the wall when. Max loves you: you've never doubted this. He loves you and he cares about how you feel and doesn't want you to be worried.
And while you will be, because you love him, you know that it'll be alright.
"Hey," Max says, interrupting your opinions about start procedures. "I love you, okay? Thank you for worrying about me."
"Graag gedaan," you say. Well, you try to say. Max laughs and corrects your pronunciation. You're welcome, he says, over and over, a kiss to your cheeks, your nose, your forehead each time. Ik houd van je. Your lips, your neck, your jaw.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen#max verstappen fanfic#mv33 x reader#f1 fanfic#my writing#mv33#fic: trust me
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An intro to doing crosswords for complete beginners
as told by someone who didnât do any before this year and now has gotten so deeply into them
with examples pulled almost entirely from crosswords published in American publications this week
A crossword is not a measure of general knowledge or intelligence or skill with words anymore than a Mario game is a measure of how good you are at plumbing. It certainly helps to have the same cultural reference points as the puzzle, but you can brute force your way through a lot of it if you just know how crosswords work
Easiest on Mondays and then get harder over the week
The answer is in the same verb tense as the clue (ex. âdoesnât floatâ is âSINKSâ while âdidnât floatâ is âSANKâ)
If thereâs an acronym or abbreviation in the clue, the answer will have one as well (ex. âToothpaste-approving org.â is âADAâ because that the short way of referring to the American Dental Association)
If the answer is in written like a text from a teen girl with her first flip phone, the answer will be a common texting abbreviation (TMI, OMG, LOL, LMAO, BRB, TTYL, etc) (ex. three letter word with clue âi canât believe u told me thatâ is âTMIâ)
If the clue is in quotes, itâs dialogue and the response should also be dialogue (ex. the clue ââThatâs it for me!ââ is âIQUITâ)
An answer can be multiple words, (see above) so some correct answers can make you second guess yourself because it creates letter combos that seem impossible to be in one English (mostly) word or mess you up bc itâs ambiguous where one word ends and another begins (ex. you have the letters âOWFOâ and the answer ends up being âPILLOWFORTâ or âUDATâ being âBERMUDATRIANGLEâ)
Treat clues with a question mark like theyâre going to be puns that make you groan so think about other meanings of the words in the clue (ex. âVolumes you can hear?â is âAUDIOBOOKSâ or âNot fancy at all?â is âHATEâ or âRemained under cover?â is âSLEPTINâ)
Clues that add hedging language line âthey could be calledâŚâ or one might use this asâŚâ are telling you to think very laterally. These are the ones that make you a little mad when you get them (ex. âThey might be said to be dancing or ragingâ is âFLAMESâ or âThey admit they might be punchedâ is âTICKETSâ)
The word âmaybeâ usually indicates the answer will be an example of the clue, not a synonym (ex. âPet, maybeâ is âCATâ)
If a person is in the clue and a person is the answer, the answer will be from the same part of name as the clue (ex. Trevor Noah replaced John Stewart on the Daily Show. So the clue âStewartâs successor on the Daily Showâ is âNOAHâ while âJohnâs successor on the Daily Showâ would be âTREVORâ
No word in the clue will be featured in the answer (ex. âWhat BeyoncĂŠ Knowles goes byâ could be âONENAMEâ but could never be âBEYONCĂâ)
A answer can be a phonetic spelling of a letter (ex. âEpic finale?â is âCEEâ)
Not every clue is going to be tricky and clever, donât rule out an obvious choice just because itâs obvious (ex. âDo ___ disturbâ is âNOTâ)
Roman numerals pop up a lot but typically only in clues where a Roman numeral makes sense, so âfinale of a play?â could be âACTIIâ but âNumber of Stoogesâ is not going to be âIIIâ
Thereâs a ton of really common clues. If you do enough crossword puzzles you recognize them. (ex. Literally almost anything about oil is going to be OPEC, any variations on âthings on a smartphone that someone can download and useâ is going to be âAPPSâ, and anything about a european capital city is probably âOSLOâ)
If a clue can be about a cookie, the answer is almost certainly âOREOâ
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Speaking as someone with a traumatic brain injury, I'm not sure that PSAs alone will never be enough. I do have an idea, and I am curious about your thoughts.
If you want effective change you have to reach out to the people either do not remember PSAs or more likely, don't read PSAs, who think they are good people but are actually terrible in ways they cannot accept and thus cannot grow from -- who chase respectability as social clout instead of making babysteps needed to get things done.
So here it is:
Your alternatives don't work for sociolinguistic reasons
Your chosen word of interest is an adjective form of a verb.
R-word can be used easily, interchangably and with little effort when someone is stressed because every form of it is grammatically correct and socially incorrect, which is what is usually craved in an insult.
Language is an ecology: A space of predator words and prey words based on which words replace each in their fashionableness.
As with any ecology, there are niches: pockets of success where a need exists and a word slips into the gap to fill it.
In Europe we didn't get your word of interest until the mid 2000's, and it was occupied by a form of the word spastic (the medical condition) shortened to the slur "spaz" (which I've been on the recieving end of many times).
Consequences create martyrs and those seeking to differentiate themselves will adopt waning or discouraged language to differentiate themselves (PSA culture got us edgelord culture).
When a word goes out of popularity is when another word which is significantly cleverer takes its place, which is more biting and more cutting.
A great example is how "the slur beginning in F ending in T" in many progressive circles is front-loaded with the expectation of one word, and then instead people say "fascist" and everybody smiles.
It is one of the ways of controlling language:
You take the second-association added to an instrinsic thing eg, the "other" meaning of gay used on xbox live) and you attach it to something else
You outsource sentiment to a different target.
You retire one word, and inject another which better aligns with your sentiment and intentionality.
You MUST do this in a way which punches up instead of down, or you risk watering down the perception of a word -- and you must likewise be able to answer the question "how is that <other word>?" on the spot with a single sentence and shut down a conversation.
Back to this context, I genuinely use
"mentally redacted",
This replaced my previous go-to
"mentally retired",
which I felt licked of ageism and made me uncomfortable.
Meaning, that something was censored or removed or deleted intentionally. I make this about thoughtless intentionality of action, not intrinsic nature of a person or their situation or whatever has happened to them.
It shifts from medicalism to mentality.
The imperfectionism of it is the scar-tissue of culture as words fall out of favour.
Maybe that's not good enough for Americans? I don't know!
Does it just read of hiding the word and playing slight of hand instead? Does it have some third other reason? There's no good answer here, I feel.
But it makes me personally feel one hell of a lot better about my slowness instead of slipping up when talking about myself and throwing a slur at the person I'm talking to.
I'd genuinely like to know your thoughts!
e:
There's a great bit in the notes by op about how swearing disrupts civility; disruption is the only way to make any protest get noticed. I will say, a slur is often just a culturally acceptable swearword, which again is miserable. I hate to say it but we do need to get meaner if we're gonna survive. We do need to invent our own words about the people who oppress us that are robust descriptors with ride recognition.
e2:
I came very close to using dysthymic as an insult to describe "I need more" greedy "more lanes bro" VC/corpo-brain types before realizing good people would be caught in the cross-fire despite the fact dysthymia is one of the major medical roots of their behavior and damn that is a hard one for me to figure out. The great thing about medicine is it gives us lots of great complex descriptors that are easy to look up. The downside is when we use medicalization as a callout or attack there is always friendly fire. An oppressor will never care about friendly fire, which means we are always stuck playing defense and its fucking bullshit and makes me so mad.
e3:
I really wish there was a way to make words which disrupted civility without... disrupting... civility... okay that's a paradox. Fine, then are there words which can disrupt anti-civility? I want those.
e4:
Found one. The crushing response. "human pet guy"
Since the r-slur is making a comeback (you know, the word that starts with R, has six letters, and ends in D), I'm gonna make a little PSA:
Yes, it's an ableist slur.
Terms like "asshat," "head-up-ass," "up their own ass," and "high on their own farts" exist. There's also words like crap, dogshit, half-assed, assclown, and chucklefuck. And on the less vulgar side, there are terms like ridiculous, nonsense, train wreck, pointless, insipid, self-absorbed, pretentious, annoying, boring, contemptible, vile, and disgusting.
Substituting words like restarted, poptarted, brain damaged, smoothbrain, etc. is still ableist, because either 1. you obviously still mean the r-word, or 2. you're still using disability as an insult.
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Ko-fi prompt from @liberwolf:
Could you explain Tariff's , like who pays them and what they do to a country?
Well, I can definitely guess where this question is coming from.
Honestly, I was pretty excited to get this prompt, because it's one I can answer and was part of my studies focus in college. International business was my thing, and the issues of comparative advantage (along with Power Purchasing Parity) were one of the things I liked to explore.
-----------------
At their simplest, tariffs are an import tax. The United States has had tariffs as low as 5%, and at other times as high as 44% on most goods, such as during the Civil War. The purpose of a tariff is in two parts: generating revenue for the government, and protectionism.
Let's first explore how a tariff works. If you want to be confused, then you need to have never taken an economics class, and look at this graph:
(src)
So let's undo that confusion.
The simplest examples are raw or basic materials such as steel, cotton, or wine.
First, without tariffs:
Let us say that Country A and Country B both produce steel, and it is of similar quality, and in both cases cost $100 per unit. Transportation from one country to the other is $50/unit, so you can either buy domestically for $100, or internationally for $150. So you buy domestically.
Now, Country B discovers a new place to mine iron very easily, and so their cost for steel drops to $60/unit due to increased ease of access. Country A can either purchase domestically for $100, or internationally for $110 (incl. shipping), which is much more even. Still, it is more cost-effective to purchase domestically, and so Country A isn't worried.
Transportation technology is improved, dropping the shipping costs to $30/unit. A person from Country A can buy: Domestic: $100 International: $60+$30 = $90 Purchasing steel from Country B is now cheaper than purchasing it from Country A, regardless of where you live.
Citizens in Country A, in order to reduce costs for domestic construction, begin to purchase their steel from Country B. As a result, money flows from Country A to B, and the domestic steel industry in Country A begins to feel the strain as demand dwindles.
In this scenario, with no tariffs, Country A begins to rely on B for their steel, which causes a loss of jobs (steelworkers, miners), loss of infrastructure (closing of mines and factories), and an outflow of funds to another country. As a result, Country A sees itself as losing money to B, while also growing increasingly reliant on their trading partner for the crucial good that is steel. If something happens to drive up the price of B's steel again, like political upheaval or a natural disaster, it will be difficult to quickly ramp up the production of steel in Country A's domestic facilities again.
What if a tariff is introduced early?
Alternately, the dropping of complete costs for purchase of steel from Country B could be counteracted with tariffs. Let's say we do a 25% tariff on that steel. This tariff is placed on the value of the steel, not the end cost, so:
$60 + (0.25 x $60) + $30 = $105/unit
Suddenly, with the implementation of a 25% tariff on steel from Country B, the domestic market is once again competitive. People can still buy from Country B if they would like, but Country A is less worried about the potential impacts to the domestic market.
The above example is done in regards to a mature market that has not yet begun to dwindle. The infrastructure and labor is still present, and is being preemptively protected against possible loss of industry to purchasing abroad.
What happens if the tariff is not implemented until after the market has dwindled?
Let's say that the domestic market was not protected by the tariff until several decades on. Country A's domestic production, in response to increased purchasing from abroad, has dwindled to one third of what it was before the change in pricing incentivized purchase from B. Prices have, for the sake of keeping this example simple, remained at $100(A) and $60(B) in that time. However, transportation has likely become better, so transportation is down to $20, meaning that total cost for steel from B is $80, accelerating the turn from domestic steel to international.
So, what happens if you suddenly implement a tariff on international steel? Shall we say, 40%?
$60 + (0.4 x 60) + 20 = $104
It's more expensive to order from abroad! Wow! Let's purchase domestically instead, because these prices add up!
But the production is only a third of what it used to be, and domestic mines and factories for refining the iron into steel can't keep up. They're scaling, sure, but that takes time. Because demand is suddenly triple of the supply, the cost skyrockets, and so steel in Country A is now $150/unit! The price will hopefully come down eventually, as factories and mines get back in gear, but will the people setting prices let that happen?
So industries that have begun to rely on international steel, which had come to $80/unit prior to the tariff, are facing the sudden impact of a cost increase of at least $25/unit (B with tariff) or the demand-driven price increase of domestic (nearly double the pre-tariff cost of steel from B), which is an increase of at least 30% what they were paying prior to the tariff.
There are possible other aspects here, such as government subsidies to buoy the domestic steel industry until it catches back up, or possibly Country B eating some of the costs so that people still buy from them (selling for $50 instead of $60 to mitigate some of the price hike, and maintain a loyal customer base), but that's not a direct impact of the tariff.
Who pays for tariffs?
Ultimately, this is a tax on a product (as opposed to a tax on profits or capital themselves, which has other effects), which means the majority of the cost is passed on directly to the consume.
As I said, we could see the producers in Country B cut their costs a little bit to maintain a loyal customer base, but depending on their trade relationships with other countries, they are just as likely to stop trading with Country A altogether in order to focus on more profitable markets.
So why do not put tariffs on everything?
Well... for that, we get into the question of production efficiency, or in this case, comparative advantage.
Let's say we have two small, neighboring countries, C and D, that have negligible transportation costs and similar industries. Both have extensive farmland, and both have a history of growing grapes for wine, and goats for wool. Country C is a little further north than D, so it has more rocky grasses that are good for goats, while D has more fertile plains that are good for growing grapes.
Let's say that they have an equal workforce of 500,000 of people. I'm going to say that 10,000 people working full time for a year is 1 unit of labor. So, Country C and Country D have between the 100 units of labor, and 50 each.
The cost of 1 unit of wool = the cost of 1 unit of wine
Country C, having better land for goats, can produce 4 units of wool for every unit of labor, and 2 units of wine for every unit of labor.
Meanwhile, Country D, having better land for grapes, can produce 2 units of wool per unit of labor, and 4 units of wine per unit of labor.
If they each devote exactly half their workforce to each product, then:
Country C: 100 units of wool, 50 units of wine Country D: 50 units of wool, 100 units of wine
Totaling 150 units of each product.
However, if each devotes all of their workforce to the product they're better at...
Country C: 200 units of wool, no wine Country D: no wool, 200 units of wine
and when they trade with each other, they each end up with 100 units of each product, which is a doubling of what their less-efficient labor would have resulted in!
The real world is obviously much more complicated, but in this example, we can see the pros of outsourcing some of your production to another country to focus on your own specialties.
Extreme examples of this IRL are countries where most of the economy rests on one product, such as middle-eastern petro-states that are now struggling to diversify their economies in order to not get left behind in the transition to green energy, or Taiwan's role as the world's primary producer of semiconductors being its 'silicon shield' against China.
Comparative advantage can be used well, such as our Unnamed Countries (that are definitely not the classic example of England and Portugal, with goats instead of sheep) up in the example. With each economy focusing on its specialty, there is a greater yield of both products, meaning a greater bounty for both countries.
However, should something happen to Country C up there, like an earthquake that kills half the goats, they are suddenly left with barely enough wool to clothe themselves, and nothing for Country D, which now has a surplus of wine and no wool.
So you do have to keep some domestic industry, because Bad Things Can Happen. And if we want to avoid the steel example of a collapse in the given industry, tariffs might be needed.
Are export tariffs a thing?
Yes, but they are much rarer, and can largely be defined as "oh my god, everyone please stop getting rid of this really important resource by selling it to foreigners for a big buck, we are depleting this crucial resource."
So what's the big confusion right now?
Donald Trump has, on a number of occasions, talked about 'making China pay' tariffs on the goods they import into the US. This has led to a belief that is not entirely unreasonable, that China would be the side paying the tariffs.
The view this statement engenders is that a tariff is a bit like paying a rental fee for a seller's table at an event: the producer or merchant pays the host (or landlord or what have you) a fee to sell their product on the premises. This could be a farmer's market, a renaissance faire, a comic book convention, whatever. If you want to sell at the event, you have to pay a fee to get a space to set up your table.
In the eyes of the people who listened to Trump, the tariff is that fee. China is paying the United States for access to the market.
And, technically, that's not entirely wrong. China is thus paying to enter the US market. It's just the money to pay that fee needs to come from somewhere, and like most taxes on goods, that fee comes from the consumer.
So... what now?
Well, a lot of smaller US companies that rely on cheap goods made in China are buying up non-perishables while they can, before the tariffs hit. Long-term, manufacturers in the US that rely on parts and tools manufactured in China are going to feel the squeeze once that frontloaded stock is depleted.
Some companies are large enough to take the hit on their own end, still selling at cheap rates to the consumer, because they can offset those costs with other parts of their empire... at least until smaller competitors are driven out of business, at which point they can start jacking up their prices since there are no options left. You may look at that and think, "huh, isn't that the modus operandi for Walmart and Amazon already?" and yes. It is. We are very much anticipating a 'rich get richer, poor go out of business' situation with these tariffs.
The tariffs will also impact larger companies, including non-US ones like Zara (Spanish) and H&M (Swedish), if they have a huge reliance on Chinese production to supply their huge market in the United States.
If you're interested in the repercussions that people expect from these proposed tariffs on Chinese goods, I'd suggest listening to or watching the November 8th, 2024 episode of Morning Brew Daily (I linked to YouTube, but it's also available on Spotify, Nebula, the Morning Brew website, and other podcast platforms).
#id in alt text#id in alt#economics#tariffs#import tax#customs#customs duties#ko fi prompts#capitalism#phoenix talks#ko fi#taxes#taxation
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How about Joshua with a s/o who always wears baggy clothes and doesnt feel attractive because she doesnt wear revealing ones ?
If u want to write it pls do it only if u are ok with it and feel inspired âĄâĄ
content: bf!joshua, established relationship, some talk about insecurities, fluff, etc.
wc: 605
a/n: so sorry i took so long to write this!!
masterlist
"hey, babe, have you seen my shirt? you know, the grey one with the loose neck? i thought i- oh."
"huh? what was that?", you asked as you took out an earbud, turning to look at the boy who'd been trying to call your attention.
chuckling, he rounded the kitchen island to reach your side, hands practically attaching to your waist like magnets as he aided you in removing the other earbud, placing both on the counter next to you.
"i was just wondering where my band tee went, but i think i have my answer," he chuckled, pressing a sweet peck to your temple.
"oh, fuck. sorry, josh. do you want it? i can go change," you went to disconnect from him, but he wasnt having it, instead nuzzling his head on your shoulder.
"hm. it smells of my cologne still," he said almost to himself, "you don't have to take it off. i like you in my clothes," he reassured.
you could only scoff.
"your clothes are baggy on me. just like all my other clothes. what difference does it really make?"
joshua shrugged, "just like knowing you're wearing something of mine. you're style's cute. you're cute."
"flattery will get you everywhere, hong," you laughed.
it was one of those nice, domestic moments that occurred every so often. you basked in it, enjoying it before the two of you went back to your regular days.
it wasn't until later that you started to think about what you'd said to joshua earlier.
you did have a tendency to wear baggier clothes. hell, there really was no difference between wearing something of his and a piece of your own. it was incredibly rare for you to show skin or any sort of silhouette, and those instances were really reserved for nights too warm to handle in which you had to opt for some shorts and a tank top.
but even then, you went for looser ensembles. clothes that showed your figure were never really your forte.
you couldn't help but wonder if this ever bothered josh. would he have preferred if your style varied more? what if he thought of you as a prude? maybe he-
"what's got you thinking so loud?", the boy in question interrupted your inner turmoil.
you hadn't realized as you sat in front of your vanity, face wash in hand and still unused, that you'd frozen in place as you thought. his presence in the restroom hadn't registered until he spoke.
"just, uh," you pondered as to whether or not to voice your concerns, but his compassionate smile reflecting on the mirror made you decide, "i was thinking that maybe you'd like it better if i dressed differently? you know, maybe show more skin?"
you voiced it as a question, insecurities building in you as you sought a direct expression of his preferences.
"are you kidding? i like how you dress. and it's not really something that bothers me. you're comfortable and you're beautiful. it's a win-win situation for me," he kind of chuckled as he spoke, finding your question very sudden and unnecessary.
"oh."
you felt a bit dumb now.
"has this been worrying you? you know i'm like obsessed with you, right? you could wear a trash bag and i'd still be as obsessed," he joked, closing in on you similarly to how he'd done earlier in the day.
he finished his statement with a kiss pressed to your lips, humming when you kissed back.
"this just gives me free reign of your closet. i hope you know that," you jested.
"baby, i'm rich. take whatever you want."
#seventeen x reader#seventeen fanfic#svt fanfic#svt x reader#seventeen imagine#seventeen oneshot#svt reactions#seventeen reaction#joshua oneshot#joshua imagines#joshua x reader#joshua fanfic#joshua scenarios
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our names in the paper - footballer!james potter x fem!sports journalist!reader
wc: 11,151
cw: swearing, fade to black but suggestive moments?, smoking, slut-shaming, kissing
info: r and james are about 24, set in 2007ish solely for the romcom vibes. james is the equivalent of like David Beckham in his prime, all pics are for vibes only, not reflective of r's appearance etc
me: i've been working on this for soooo long i am so happy it's finally done!! if u couldn't tell it's very inspired by early 2000s romcoms and i am honestly so proud of it so praying it doesn't flop LOL
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"James, James! Over here! What's the defence strategy this season?"
If you had to hear James' name one more time you might scream. Unfortunately, you were locked in a room with nothing but that. Worse, you were part of the problem.
"Mister Potter, what do you think about your striker's goal-to-game ratio falling rapidly this season?" You called, begrudgingly hoping for a moment of the soccer star's attention. Fortunately (or unfortunately), his glittering eyes settled on you, singling you out from the room of hungry journalists.
"I think that you miss one hundred per cent of the shots you don't take," He said, smirk turning to something challenging, "And as long as my team is training and working together, I'm not gonna cry over a bit of spilt milk or missed goals. And, as far as I'm concerned we're still winning games, aren't we?" You rolled your eyes, scribbling down his answer nonetheless.
You continued the catfight of trying to get answers for your newest article, keeping the balance of vying for James' attention and showing him you didn't care for him personally, unlike the other journalists you were pushing against. The conference room was full of men and women who wanted to be James or be with him. Aside from the professional questions, there were certainly several invitations to the pub thrown around, and you were sure you saw one woman try and give him her cellphone number. You rolled your eyes again at that, James was nothing to fawn over.
He might be a big shot now, but you'd known him almost all your life. The two of you had gone to school together and had bickered through every interaction since then. James had always wanted to be a football star, and you a journalist. You'd never believed in him and vice versa, both of you taking every opportunity to tease the other or cut each other down. Maybe it was just clashing personalities, two people too ambitious to be friends. The rivalry had lasted past school, and unfortunately, the two of you often crossed paths in your respective careers.
The press conference wrapped up soon after your question, and you ended up lingering in the room trying to finish your notes. James was still over at his podium next to his coach, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and arduously texting on his flip phone. Seeing you hovering by the door he called your last name, sauntering up behind you. You rolled your eyes and braced yourself for the encounter.
"Potter." You smiled curtly, moving to leave.
"You don't have to call me 'Mr Potter' during the conferences, you know. James is perfectly fine, everyone else calls me that."
"Just trying to stay professional," You said through gritted teeth, aware his coach and a few others were still around you. It could cost you your job to snap at him.
"Was it professional when I was your first kiss?" He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back, feeling the plaster wall graze your back through your work blazer.
"It was spin the bottle and we were twelve, it's ancient history. And do you mind? I know you're some kind of god around here but I have a reputation to uphold," You whispered, glancing around anxiously. James laughed at your distress which only annoyed you further. Maybe he could get away with anything, but you had to fight for your place in your field as a female sports journalist, you couldn't afford to take it lightly.
You couldn't help the physical reaction to being trapped between James and the wall though, your breathing shallow and quick, face tilted up slightly to look at him. You felt a bit like prey, caught in the predator's territory and resigned to imminent death.
"Let her go, will you? She's just doing her job," Remus Lupin said, entering the conference room with his nose crinkled from the smell. You couldn't blame him, sweaty players and hungry journalists didn't make any kind of utopia together.
"I wasn't doing anything!" James cried, hands up in surrender, "Come on love, I was just giving you the scoop, right?"
"First of all, if you were giving me 'the scoop' right now I'd certainly be accused of sleeping to the top by all the blokes waiting out there," You gestured to the group of other reporters still lingering in the hall waiting for any scraps of information, "And secondly, I work for the bloody Sunday People, not the BBC. I honestly think they'd rather I just write about your 'dashing good looks' or a drug scandal than your games," You complained, falling back into the ease of conversation now that Remus was there. He'd been at school with the both of you, growing up to be a physiotherapist, but was always much more palatable than James.
Both men laughed at your plight.
"If you ever need a more detailed look at my dashing good looks just ask, sweetheart. I'd be glad to show you, you know, for your articles." You rolled your eyes at James' attempt to be charming, snapping your notebook shut.
"Alright, I think that's my cue to go," You said curtly, smoothing out your work trousers. "Remus, I'll return Dracula next time I see you; I'm almost finished." You remembered you'd had his novel for quite a while, sparing him a smile on the way out.
"You lend her books?" James asked incredulously, hazel eyes curiously following your figure down the hall. Remus just shrugged, patting James on the shoulder and attending to his actual job, checking up on the players after the match.
James was still hung up on the fact when he returned to the apartment he shared with Remus and Sirius, flabbergasted as he hung his coat on the rack.
"Since when are you two close enough to be sharing books?" He cried as he paced through the kitchen, "Have we not all been in agreement that she is stubborn and hard-headed and annoying and has been since school?"
"No," Remus shook his head, "You decided that, and I daresay she feels the same about you. I've always rather liked her."
James was unexpectedly dumbfounded at the realisation that you werenât the common enemy he thought you were. Even Sirius didnât seem to dislike you, always stopping for a chat when you were around the stadium and giving you extra comments with a flirty wink.
James didnât need to think about you for another few weeks; his team hadnât played one week and youâd been assigned other matches for the others â he read your very amusing pieces on lawn bowls and chess-boxing, partly because he knew youâd hate the assignment.
You were blissfully apart until one Saturday night. You were out with your friends and a few coworkers and James was out with his. Heâd started in the local pub while you were at a fancy cocktail restaurant for Lilyâs bachelorette party, however, your groups crossed paths in the depths of a nightclub.
Maybe you were getting too old for them, waking up with sore backs and knees after nights of dancing, but it didnât mean you wouldnât give it a red hot go. And with a few cocktails in your system, nobody could convince you it wasnât a good idea.
You'd been shaking what your mother gave you for the better part of an hour before it was your turn to get another round, telling the girls you'd be back before stumbling through a sea of sweaty bodies.
Some gross man who was definitely too old for you obstructed your path, grabbing your arms to make you dance with him. Your face crinkled in disgust of its own accord, trying to wiggle yourself free. He continued to encroach on your space, forcing you around despite your persistence. Finally, a man's hands landed on his shoulders, yanking him away and subsequently freeing you from his grasp. The momentum sent you tumbling in your strappy heels, right into something warm and solid. You cringed, having been there before. You turned slowly to meet your unwitting saviour, huffing when you realised it was James.
"Oh, fuck off," You grumbled, mostly to yourself, producing a quick apology to not seem totally impolite.
"Alright?" Sirius asked, revealing himself as the one who'd gotten you away from the creep. You shrugged, fixing your hair.
"Been better," You told him, preparing to leave before seemingly their whole team had surrounded you, all greeting you loudly. You weakly waved at them, feeling dreadfully underdressed and professional. You were used to seeing them in the stadium and press conferences where you were much more modestly dressed. The strapless mini dress wasn't giving you the same layer of protection.
"Right," You said when there didn't seem to be any more productive conversation happening, "I'm off to the bar then."
"Let me buy you a drink, to make up for the freak," One of the players, Frank, said. You smiled but shook your head.
"I'm buying for several, it wouldn't be fair. It's Lily's bachelorette." You directed the last sentence to those who knew her, the football and journalism professions having considerable overlap due to events and the never-ending scandals and interviews. James covered his face in mock-devastation.
"Not Lily! Have I missed my chance forever?" He moaned, earning some shoves from the rest of the group. You and Lily had been friends since uni, and you'd introduced her to the boys at one of the terrible house parties you'd endured over your three years studying. James had developed a thing for her right away (no one knew how much of it was serious and how much was for comedic value) and had been loudly pining for her ever since, despite her long-term relationship with Dirk Cresswell, an economist who worked in the building down the block from your office.
"I think you missed your chance the first time," You retorted with a snort, a little drunk to have any ferocity in your tone. You both made a face at each other, ignoring the laughter of those around you. You dismissed the group and danced away, shaking your arse over to the bar.
A few rounds later and you were not in your best shape. The girls had been absolute menaces, feeding you shots and deceiving colourful cocktails that actually held like seven standards in them, and you were certainly feeling the effects. You excused yourself from the group to find a loo, bile rising in your throat as you pushed past dancers, not even sparing a comment for James as you saw him.
That confused both James and his friends, becoming used to your insistent teasing over the years. He exchanged a look with Sirius, following you through the crowd and to the bathrooms.
He figured something was wrong when you burst into the gender-neutral bathrooms, not bothering to lock the door behind you. James and Sirius silently fought about who was going to follow you in and check on you; James found you insufferable, Sirius had severe emetophobia and would probably throw up himself if he had to be close to you vomiting. James rolled his eyes, it was his responsibility. Sirius clapped him on the back gratefully, leaving him to return to the others. James sighed, reciting some affirmations before he cracked the door open, calling out to you.
When you responded with a disgusting wretch, James slipped inside, gagging a little as he saw you leant over the toilet bowl, bare knees on the grimy tile floor.
"Alright?" He asked for lack of anything better, unsurprised when you replied with another gag.
"I feel ill," You said pathetically, head hung low in the bowl which James knew you would resent tomorrow. He laughed quietly, getting closer to you.
"No shit, idiot," His tone was light as he began to rub your back softly, making sure your hair was away from your mouth. You vomited a few more times, your body reacting in violent hurls as James tried to be both soothing and as far away as possible.
When your stomach was finally empty you slumped against the toilet, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain.
"Woah," James pulled you up to a sitting position, "That cannot be good for your skin. Let's get you home, okay?" You nodded petulantly, letting yourself be led out through the club, James telling Lily he'd make sure you got home (and congratulated her on the upcoming wedding).
"Can we get some gum or something? My throat tastes like vom." James looked down at you from where you were lodged into his side, legs shaky as you wobbled down the street. He sighed and steered you in the direction of a convenience store, picking out strawberry gum for you since it tasted better than mint, your words. Good you thought when he paid for it, the football star can shell out 2 pounds, makes more than you anyhow.
You chewed happily, stumbling down the pavement as James held onto you, keeping you upright.
"You're so muscly," You said, somewhat in a drunken haze.
"Thank you?" James laughed, patting you softly on the forearm he was holding. To be fair, you weren't quite sure if it was a compliment either. Your words were admittedly oddly nice but your tone made it confusing, drunk thoughts not completely translating to sober dynamics.
You meandered for a few oddly peaceful minutes, neither of you starting an argument or picking a fight. It was a nice break from normal, the two of you even sharing some peaceful small talk -- discussing a movie you'd both seen recently.
Of course, nothing good lasts.
"James!" A voice yelled from the other side of the street, a short man with mousy mannerisms. James groaned beside you.
"Peter Pettigrew," He whispered to you, trying to pull you along faster, "We used to be mates but turns out he was just using me to get team secrets out into the papers." You whipped your head around to look at him. Oh! You knew Pettigrew, unsurprising given you both reported on essentially the same topics, but he had a bad name even in your circles. He was closer to a paparazzi than a journalist, going for the cheap stories and ad hominem approaches rather than searching for any meaningful insights. Simply put, in an already sleazy career, Peter Pettigrew was the bottom of the barrel.
"Later, mate. I'm in the middle of something right now." James put his arm around your shoulder, better shielding you as he tried to make a getaway. The telltale flash of a camera reflected off the grey pavement, making both you and James whip your heads around to face Peter, looking hardly ashamed of himself. After a moment of shock, you both covered your faces, stumbling down the street as fast as you could manage. The damage was already done.
Suddenly you didn't feel as drunk, navigating the cobblestone streets with unanticipated nimbleness. James might've had the athlete's advantage but you were on home turf, leading him through local shortcuts and to the front door of your apartment building.
On the journey over you'd attracted a few more photographers all fiending for a scandalous picture of James, a small mob forming as you tried to punch in the door code despite your shaking hands. James was right behind you, front pressed to your back, holding his Adidas windbreaker out in a position to shield your face from the prying eyes.
You slammed the door shut, the nosy questions and camera clicks immediately muffled. James let out a long sigh, running a hand through his already tousled hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, processing what had happened.
"Make yourself at home then." You cringed as you surveyed the state of your flat; clothes flung over chairs and dishes still in the sink. Your only option for living alone was cramming all your stuff into what was essentially a shoebox, so any amount of mess made the place look chaotic.
"Nice place," James said and you immediately rolled your eyes, snatching up a stray bra strewn across an armchair. "No, I mean it! It's cozy. Very you." He gestured up at the colourful, mismatched glassware in a kitchen cabinet and the beaded curtain separating your bedroom. You blushed slightly; you didn't often take men home, your flat staying a girly paradise just for you.
You put on the kettle, comforted by the familiar sounds of water beginning to boil. James sat awkwardly on an armchair near the window, anxiously peeking out from behind the curtain every few minutes. His reactions told you the paparazzi were still loitering outside.
James took his tea gratefully, surprisingly still agreeable despite all the terrible things that had happened in the course of a few hours.
"Do you have a back exit or something? Somewhere I can slip out and get home?" You shook your head with a grimace.
"Only the fire exit, but that still goes out near the front. Otherwise we're surrounded by other buildings."
"You must be exhausted after everything. Head off to bed, I'll wait until the gits outside fuck off then lock the door behind me. We don't have to ever mention this again if you don't want." The orange lamp light made James' eyes look unfairly soft, highlighting the golden flecks amongst the brown. You steeled your nerve and shook your head.
"I'm not that bad of a host," You tried to joke, "Besides, don't you have training tomorrow? You're already up later than I'm sure you intended to be. I couldn't live with myself if I ruined England's star player by making him stay up all night, you take my bed and go to sleep." You were both very carefully trying to keep things light, not wanting to spend any more of the night miserable and fighting.
"Well, I'm not taking your bed, that's just impolite. I'll take the couch, if you're being so generous as to let me stay." He had a cheeky smile on his lips as he said it, both of you dancing around the fact that in any other circumstance James wouldn't have been allowed within fifteen feet of your flat.
"That couch? No way." You pointed at the teensy vintage sofa sitting in front of the boxy television. It had space for maybe two and a half arses to sit on it, maybe horizontally extended legs if you were short-ish, but there was no way the goliath James Potter was getting any decent sleep on it. "You take the bed. I'll survive the couch tonight."
"Don't be stupid, I can't sleep in your bed. If not the couch I'll take the floor."
"Speaking from a purely medical standpoint, I haven't cleaned these floors recently enough for it to be safe to have your face in such close proximity. Take the bed, Potter."
You bickered for a few long minutes, both of you trying to outdo each other's respect as host and guest, respectively. You didn't miss the irony that even when you and James were getting along you were fighting.
"I'm not letting you go without, that's final." You turned away to go fetch a pillow for your night on the couch when James said something you never ever thought you'd hear from him.
"Then sleep with me."
"Excuse me?" You all but shrieked, immediately cringing as you thought about your poor neighbours.
"Look, it's basically morning, we're both shattered and I'm sure your bed is much comfier than whatever alternative you're planning. We can even go full pillow-wall if it'll make you feel better." You stared at him for several moments, lips actually agape. Never in your life did you think James Potter would be asking you to share a bed with him, and never in your life did you think you'd be considering it.
"Fine."
Twenty minutes later and you were both ready for bed. You'd found James an old pair of an ex-boyfriend's long abandoned pyjamas, stuffed in a bottom drawer. They were slightly too small to accommodate all his muscles, the t-shirt sitting a few inches above the pants' waistband, giving him a very '90s crop top and exposing his happy trail.
You were almost definitely more embarrassed than James. You were in a similarly aged pair of pyjamas, a cartoon of Spongebob over your chest. You couldn't tell if you'd prefer to be in the lame pair that you were wearing or a cute pair -- no, it would probably look like you were trying too hard. Which you weren't. You didn't care about looking cute in front of James Potter, why would you?
He was already in bed when you'd returned from your skincare routine, face fresh and moisturised, and though you knew he was going to be there, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of James Potter in your bed. Tucked up to the chin under your frilly floral grandma sheets, he looked the picture of cozy.
"Don't bloody touch me, I mean it. I want to feel alone in my own bed," You snapped, sliding under the covers, pulling the doona similarly high up to your chin. You turned over to the centre of the bed to find James already on his side looking at you. You let it be for a moment, surprisingly enjoying the sleepover vibes you'd created.
"Okay this is weird now, the pillow's going up." You slammed a long decorative cushion in between the both of you, secretly smiling at the sleepy giggle James let out.
The first time you awoke it was hazy, still early in the morning with golden sunbeams streaming through your curtains. Warmth enveloped you, keeping you cozy despite the winter morning outside. You shifted to burrow deeper into your blankets when a groan came from behind you, startling you more awake as you recognised the feeling of muscular arms wrapped around your middle. It suddenly all came back to you, James walking you home, the paparazzi, you making an absolute fool of yourself. However, James was a portable heat source and extremely comfortable so you let yourself ignore everything that had led up to it, allowing yourself another few hours of blissful sleep.
The second time you woke up James was gone. That wasn't surprising given he definitely had early morning training, but you would reluctantly admit that it was a little lonelier in your bed than it usually was.
You didn't leave the house for the rest of the day, finally cleaning your apartment after much too long. Turns out all you needed was to be embarrassed in front of a guest to get you motivated.
Monday morning you weren't hungover anymore, but you were mourning the weekend that had passed much too quickly. Still, things were running smoothly enough; you didn't miss the tube and had snagged a seat, and your makeup was looking absolutely grand. You were absolutely thriving.
That was, until you crossed the threshold of the Sunday People offices and the jerks from the politics columns started bothering you, as if a Monday morning wasn't punishment enough.
"Meet anyone nice over the weekend, sweetheart?" One crowed from his desk chair, looking positively dickhead-ish in his too-small button-up.
"Or still on the clock maybe? We know you're always hunting for a good story." The combination of both remarks confused you, but you strutted past them with a quick glare in their general direction, your clicking heels producing enough attitude that you didn't need to say anything.
As you approached your own desk area, you had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that everyone was looking at you. You couldn't think of why, but subtly wiped the edge of your lips in case it was foolishly smudged lipstick.
You even swore you heard one of the royal writers -- an awful woman maybe twenty years older than you -- say something about your 'promiscuity' and 'unprofessionalism'. You didn't know where it was coming from. You weren't friends by any means but you usually just stayed out of each other's way, you didn't throw around insults at your workplace. You glanced down at your outfit but nothing seemed especially revealing, the same button-up and pencil skirt you always wore if you weren't doing field work.
You were really starting to wonder why everyone was looking at you when even Lily was sending you pitiful glances. You had just made up your mind to say something about it when your boss came striding towards you, anger emanating in a way which only middle-aged men can do.
"What is this?" He slammed a Daily Mail tabloid down on your desk. The office was dead silent. You looked down at it, wholly confused as to what it could be -- your last article was approved without any troubles.
THE 'INSIDE' SCOOP? POTTER GETS COZY WITH REPORTER ON NIGHT OUT
And there, right under the brazen headline, was the stupid picture that Peter Pettigrew took. The two of you out on the street, you tucked into James' side with his arm around you. Your face wasn't totally visible, but anyone who already knew you would recognise the figure and fashion.
You could feel your face drop as you read the article, a barrage of slut-shamey insults and reports of how intimate you and James were out on the streets of London -- all entirely false, of course. When you'd finished reading the piece the whole office was staring at you, waiting to see how you'd react.
"It's a lie," You said quietly, trying to stop your hands from shaking as they rested on your lap. There was a pregnant pause as your boss processed what you were saying, clearly confused. None of your coworkers dared to speak.
"Bullshit," He replied, face blooming red as he decided you weren't being truthful. "That's you and that's James, there's no denying that. The whole bloody country will be able to see you two getting cozy on the street. How do you reckon this reflects on me, having your name and workplace published alongside your completely unprofessional affair?"
"I understand that it looks bad, but it's not what you think at all. J- uh, Potter was just helping me get home after a chance encounter because I wasn't feeling well, then he hid at my place because of all the paparazzi. Nothing happened." It was a weak explanation, even you could tell, even though it was completely true.
The arseholes over in Politics were already sniggering to themselves and you wished you could have ripped them a new one. Instead, you were cowering underneath your brutish boss.
"It's your word against Pettigrew's, and only one of you's been printed. You've been publicly humiliated and we're getting bad press for it."
Your boss had left you with the threatening promise that the issue would be brought up with your superiors and the whispered opinions of every single person you worked with. You choked out an excuse to get out of the office, taking the lift up to the rooftop to cry.
You had peace for a few minutes, getting the most embarrassing of the sobs out alone.
"Did you actually sleep with him?" If it was anyone else you probably would have snapped, yelling at them for being so insensitive. Marlene said it with such earnest curiosity and sympathy that you turned to face her instead. You were met with her and Lily, your very best friends who you were feeling especially lucky to work with at that moment.
"No!" You told them the full story, about getting sick at the club, James just being polite and walking you home, and Peter Pettigrew's terrible betrayal. Both women listened attentively, taking it all in.
"I thought you hated Potter," Lily said finally, "How'd it get that far in the first place? Usually you'd have ditched him in the first five minutes of being in his presence."
"I don't hate him." You studied your hands intently, observing the peeling red nail polish you should have reapplied yesterday. "I think he's annoying and obnoxious and I've always hated that he's never believed I could be a serious writer, but I don't hate him. He has his moments. Besides, why would I waste energy on hating Potter when I could hate Pettigrew with all my heart?"
"What a snake," Marlene spat, lighting a cigarette as she got comfy next to you. You and Lily both nodded. Peter was not only now a backstabber, but he'd been becoming increasingly insufferable over the years you'd all been writing.
He started out quite nice and was in your periphery of friends in the same way Remus and even James were, but as he'd gotten the job at his shitty tabloid magazine he'd become downright intolerable, always twisting what you'd said both in official articles and when gossiping with other friends. You had all had enough a few years ago and stopped inviting him places. Clearly, he'd held onto the grudge.
At his own work, James was facing the same rumours, though not nearly to the same peril. As he rocked up to his home pitch for the morning training session he was received with catcalls and high fives which made him nervous. No one was ever that happy to be working out on a Monday morning.
"Thought you hated her, mate."
"Maybe all she needed was a good shag to get the stick out of her arse."
"Woah! Can we take it back a few steps and not talk about women that way?" James sent a look over to one of his teammates.
"Sorry bud," He held his hands up in surrender, "Thought you wouldn't mind since you're always moaning about her." James' eyebrows knit together as he tried to piece together what the men were talking about, finally giving up and asking for a plain explanation.
He was met with a copy of Peter's article, outlining the flirty touches and 'electric chemistry' the two of you shared. Scanning it quickly James felt his face screwing up in disgust. Never mind that it obviously wasn't true, what a disgusting violation of privacy. He'd only recently launched into the spotlight, working his way up into the Premier League and then team captain in the last few years. He still didn't know how to handle the fame, especially invasive press like this.
His first priority was setting the ruth straight for his team, explaining exactly what happened and outlining strict instructions not to bring it up the next time they saw you.
"This is going to be a lot worse for her than me," He said, ending the conversation there.
He was correct. Rumours only spiralled from Peter's article. You'd stupidly created Google Alerts for your name; as a journalist, it made sense to keep track of where your writing was being shared. One day of this nonsense and you had all alerts silenced, not wanting to ever visit the internet ever again.
Apparently, this alleged affair was the most interesting thing young British people had ever experienced. The football star and the sports journalist. As you packed up to leave at the end of the day you were feeling sick to your stomach, already overwhelmed by the attention you never wanted on you.
Your face blanched as you approached the dizzying glass windows, a mass of reporters swarming the door. You didn't have to think hard to know they were waiting for you. You retreated to the restroom where they couldn't see you to rearrange your exit appearance. Pulling your coat tight against you and scarf up to cover the bottom half of your face, you plugged your iPod nano in to appear busy (and touched up your eye makeup for the inevitable photos that would make it back into the news cycle).
Physically and emotionally prepared you braved the crowd again, moving through with a polite but firm shove, making yourself a path down to the tube. You only snapped at one particularly rude paparazzi, giving him an instruction of where to 'stick it' as you hopped down the stairs to your station.
You ate a haphazard dinner by your computer, obsessively clicking through the various articles (and now personal blog posts) that had mentioned you. Every link made you feel worse about yourself.
The articles themselves were bad, most of them degrading you and congratulating James. Some had even produced old school photos of the both of you, even a few from your uni days when James was just starting out professionally and you were attending similar parties.
The articles were one thing, at least they usually had to be somewhat impartial. The blog posts by James' fangirls were downright cruel, calling you a slag based on a singular photograph and dragging your name through the mud.
You were drawn from your doom-scrolling by your cellphone ringing, Britney ringtone at least drawing a smile from you.
"Hello?"
"Get off the internet," Sirius Black said from the other end of the line.
"How'd you know?" You exited the webpage dutifully, already feeling the weight of the world's ugly words lifting from your shoulders.
"I figured. First time being written about isn't easy."
"It's certainly making me grateful I've never been so bitchy in my articles," You produced a hollow laugh, "I don't know how people can say these things about someone they've never met."
"That's why we like you," He said, "Mostly, at least. You stick to the sport and not our personal lives."
"Don't inflate my ego, Black, it's just because I don't like you guys," You joked, your mood already blooming back to somewhat more chipper.
"That's what I've been telling him!" You heard Remus call from further away, probably the other side of their living room. Sirius made an offended noise.
"Is Potter there?" You changed the topic, swirling your mouse around the window aimlessly, too afraid to check your work or personal notifications.
"He's out right now, calling someone official -- a publicist or lawyer friend. He's tearing his hair out about this, he feels awful for you." Both men explained, bickering about who exactly he was talking to.
"Yeah, I'm noticing only one of us is getting called a slut." You rolled your eyes even though they couldn't see you, balancing your cell between your shoulder and ear as you made a cup of tea. Sirius' barking laughter crackled through the speaker.
"Don't worry about it, love, everyone knows The Daily Mail is full of shite. Besides, I got that all the time."
"Yeah, in school! Not when you have a grown-up job to save face at!" Sirius conceded, apologising lightly. You shrugged him off; he was not the target of your anger at all.
"James'll be back soon, do you want to stay on the phone?" Remus asked and you answered without hesitation.
"No. I don't want to talk to him right now. We'll just find something to fight about, it's not worth it."
"He wants to make things better," Sirius offered, "He feels terrible."
"Maybe when I'm not so angry at the world." You left them with the offered compromise, hanging up to pity yourself for a few more hours before bed.
You didn't end up being fired over the incident, your bosses couldn't find a good reason to cite, but everyone in the office knew you were on thin ice. Most weren't afraid to highlight that fact. You were really starting to hate the Politics guys.
You just tried to keep your head down, diving into your articles and trying to keep in the higher-ups good graces. Amidst the drama though you'd been taken off all football coverage for the time being, banished to the irrelevant 'sports' you never even knew existed.
The week had taken you out of London to cover bizarre rural events like cheese rolling and bog snorkelling; not uninteresting but a big change of pace to the Premier League drama you were used to.
It did take your mind off of James and the media shitstorm for a day or two though. Being in a small town was much preferable to London, at least for the moment. The paparazzi weren't going to make the drive to find you for a single day when there were plenty more interesting figures to find in the city.
Plus, you were meeting the most interesting people. Though it was no Premier League final, everyone around was so wholly invested and excited by the competition that you couldn't help feeling the same, despite your initial hesitation.
Throughout the day it was just you, your notepad, your camera and the few thousand people who came to participate and observe. You'd already met and interviewed the woman who made the cheese, the previous year's winner and you were waiting impatiently to see who'd prevail now.
The paper was paying for you to stay overnight so you could chronicle the post-event celebrations, and you'd never been so glad to be working late. The key players in the day, organisers and competitors had all convened in the town's old pub, basically heaving under the weight of you all.
You held up your beer with the others despite hating the taste, grateful to be included in their toast to the day. You laughed as you tried to down it quickly, wanting the taste out of your mouth as soon as possible without refusing such a kind gift. Holding the pint up in the air victoriously you accepted the cheers of those around you, including the lovely middle-aged lady who made the ceremonial cheese and the man only a year or two older than you who'd won earlier.
"Finally letting your hair down!" He laughed and you smiled back, trying to remember his name. A glance down at your notepad said Drew. "Can I get you another?" You hoped he didn't notice your eyes widen, not expecting attention like that, not when you were allegedly working no less. You opened your mouth to agree when someone else answered for you.
"She doesn't like beer, thinks it tastes like piss." You whipped your neck around at the familiar voice, mouth dropping open at the sight of James Potter.
"What the hell are you doing here?" You asked, jovial politeness abandoned.
"You didn't remember that my family comes to watch every year?"
"Respectfully, why the fuck would I remember something like that?" You snapped, moving to leave and follow the much nicer Drew to the bar. James grabbed your hand lightly, stopping you from leaving.
"Wait, can we talk please?" You just looked at him for a long time, considering how much patience you had after a full day of work, then shrugged half-heartedly.
He led you outside and away from the crowd, both of you letting out a huff as you noticed the change in temperature.
"I liked your story on the bog snorkelling -- interesting stuff," James broke the awkward silence and you rolled your eyes aggressively.
"As if you read my pieces."
"I do!" He insisted, silently refusing the cigarette you offered. "I've read all your pieces, honest."
"But... huh? You're the one who always said I'd be a shit writer, I've spent years trying to get the negative internal James out of my head! You absolute dickhead!" You shoved his chest, turning back towards the door to return inside.
"Are you thick? I only said that because I fancied you!"
James' words rang heavy in the air, the street otherwise silent. You stared straight ahead of you for a moment, his words settling on top of you as you focused on the orange street lamp.
This whole time, this whole time, you'd been fighting the image you believed James had of you, striving to be better, never being satisfied, for nothing. This whole time you and James had been bickering and trading insults for nothing? And all his flirting... James' annoying charm and ironic compliments and innuendo-filled teasing were all genuine, after all this time? Suddenly your whole world had turned on its axis.
"What do you mean you said it because you fancied me? That is not normal!" You whirled around, accusatory finger pointed his way.
"I don't know! I thought I was supposed to! It wasn't cool to be a sap!" James argued back, running a hand through his already tousled curls.
"Jesus Christ," You muttered, "So what, you thought all my arguing back was just flirting?" James' silence told you all you needed to know.
"Come on, don't act like you didn't like it a little bit! As I recall you were always up for the fight, weren't you? You never avoided me or ignored me. Let's face it, you enjoyed it as much as I did." He stepped closer to you, breath visible in the cool air.
"I didn't enjoy it, what the hell are you talking about? Why would I enjoy trading schoolyard insults with some arrogant, idiotic football player who discredited the one thing I wanted most in my life?" Suddenly you were inches apart, heat emanating from both of you as you fought.
"Like you never said I was stupid for wanting to be a footballer? Face it, love, you're just as bad as me."
And suddenly, despite all your better judgement and every bit of sense in your head, you were kissing him. You didn't know exactly how it had happened, and if anyone were to ever ask you you would absolutely pin the blame on James but there you were, out in the middle of the street without a care in the world.
Every one of your senses was on fire, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his soft curls under your fingers. Everything about James felt like he was made for you, like all the years of you revolving around each other, playing off the other's insult was just a lead-up, preparation for the very moment you kissed for the first time.
James' arms around you were warm, strong from years of working out and protective like a weighted blanket. One hand wrapped around your midsection and the other firmly on your neck you felt wholly surrounded by him, isolated in your own bubble of James.
It was probably a bad idea, but you weren't overly concerned with addressing that fact in any rush. It didn't come as you tilted your head to bring him even closer, it didn't come as you said hurried goodbyes in the pub and collected your coat, it didn't even come as you closed the door to your hotel room, undoing the buttons to James' shirt like they had a personal vendetta against you.
The admittance only came as you lay entangled with him, faces millimetres apart.
"Was that a bad idea?" You asked, genuine self-consciousness mixing with pragmatic anxiety.
"I mean, I quite enjoyed myself, love. Did you not?" James' cheeky smile made you snort out a giggle but you sobered up quickly, hitting him lightly on his toned chest.
"Don't turn this into a joke!" You ordered, "Have we just fucked everything up?" James just looked at you for a minute, taking in the sincerity in your voice and the depth of your eyes.
"Of course we haven't," He assured you. "Do you like me?"
"But--"
"Ah! Do you like me?" He reiterated and you paused, nodding shyly. "See? You like me and I like you. We'll figure everything else out. Start slow; baby steps."
"Baby steps," You agreed, sharing his smile. It really only hit you how much you actually liked James once you'd said it, finally noticing how he might've been looking at you the whole time.
You sent James off early in the morning, both of you needing to make it back to London quickly. You had to get your article written up and James had training. Thankfully there was no awkwardness in your goodbye; James had to rush to meet his parents to drive back by car and you had a train to catch. The only moment of hesitance came as you said goodbye, waving at each other with a giggle as James hopped down the steps. He hesitated halfway, turning to look at you with the glint of mischief in his eye that you'd become very well acquainted with.
In a moment he was at the top of the steps again, swooping in to steal another kiss. You rolled your eyes to hide an embarrassing smile, pushing him back in the direction he came.
"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" You asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. James mimed twisting a knife in his chest but continued down the stairs nonetheless, giving you one last smile before he turned a corner and disappeared from your sight. You sighed like a schoolgirl then laughed at yourself, packing the last of your things to get home.
As you sat on the train, green landscapes passed you through the window and you felt your cell phone buzz from the minuscule pocket of your work trousers.
thinking of u :P <3
You grinned, looking out at the scenery so the people around you wouldn't be able to figure out your embarrassing secret. You felt like a teenage girl again, blushing over a text from the guy you had a crush on.
Everything turned to shit in a matter of hours after returning to London.
First, James' publicist made his statement. It wasn't necessarily terrible, but it really had no regard for you. No statement declaring you both on good terms, no coming to your defence or asking for the press to respect you. James looked like the hero saving a stupid drunk girl, and you still looked desperate for the most popular footballer in the country. You were decently sure it wasn't James' fault, but it did significantly dampen your lovesick giddiness.
The office was half-empty when you arrived, kitten heels clicking against the ground. You said a quick hello to Lily, still dutifully typing away at her computer. You followed her lead, exporting your notes to your desktop computer, formatting the piece and going through edits to have it ready for the next paper.
The sun was setting, sending orange and pink streaks through the sky when the door to your boss' office slammed open, echoing above the cubicles.
"You kissed him?" He yelled and you paled, knowing exactly what he was talking about but not how he knew. That problem was solved when he slammed the magazine down in front of you, no doubt just delivered by the skittery young receptionist running back to the elevator.
FACT OR FICTION? POTTER AND REPORTER CAUGHT SNOGGING AMIDST PUBLIC DENIAL
Fuck. That could not be worse.
The whole piece was essentially dragging your name through the absolute mud now that they had the confirmation there was something going on between you and James. The whole world thought you were sleeping to the top, or for the best scoop, and everyone hated you for it.
You looked up at your boss, words dying on your tongue.
"Please tell me that's not you," He said, grasping at the thinning hair on his head. You couldn't deny it.
"I..." You trailed off, searching for anything you could say to make it better. "I didn't mean to. And I'm being completely honest when I say that the first article was all bullshit. Things have... happened since then." You were already on the verge of tears. Even on an optimistic day, you couldn't have denied that this was utterly shit.
"Jesus." Your boss muttered, beginning to pace. "Look, I like you, you know? You do good work and you're never outta line, but I reckon the higher-ups are gonna be done with you. They wanted you out over the first article but I convinced them it was all speculation. This is proof and makes us all look bad that you're sleeping with someone you interview every other bloody week. Look, I'll do what I can in damage control, but I'd be bringing your stuff home tonight. I'm sorry."
How could he have just left you with that absolute bombshell? Effectively firing you, just like that? The tears had made their way up to your waterline, sitting there mocking you as you refused to let them fall. You submitted your piece and shut off your laptop, angrily stuffing your sparse personal decorations into your shoulder bag to get the fuck out of the building as fast as possible.
The paparazzi were waiting again, of course, like that was what you really needed. You pushed past them, making sure to land an extra hard stomp on Peter's foot, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smile as you heard him curse.
You sat on the tube, staring intently at your feet and trying desperately to think of anything but your current situation. You'd already been approached by someone who'd coughed out "Skank," which really hadn't done anything for your sour mood. All you wanted was to crawl into your bed and never emerge.
You wandered down the street between the metro station and your flat, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.
"Hey!" Someone called and you glanced over on instinct, senses drawn by the interruption of an otherwise quiet evening. "You're the girl who kissed James Potter, yeah?" It was a girl still in her school uniform, probably sixteen or seventeen. You thought through your options quickly and shrugged.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Wicked. How was it?" She asked, chewing on pink gum. There was an aura about her that you liked, not judgemental like everyone else you'd met. If you were still in school you thought you might've been friends with her.
"Pretty good, I'd do it again." A cheeky almost-joke between the two of you, ironic given the shit that it had caused for you.
"We were talking about it at school. Pretty shit how they've treated you. Like they all wouldn't jump at a chance to get close to 'im." You liked the way that she didn't get any closer. Just the two of you standing face to face, divided by the empty road.
"Exactly what I've been saying," You agreed, tucking your hair behind your ears.
"If it was the other way around, if you were the famous one, James would be getting congratulated for getting with you, not ridiculed by the mindless gossip columns. All my friends think it's utter bullshit, stopped buyin' 'em and everything." You could have kissed her if that wasn't tremendously creepy. In five minutes, this schoolgirl had vindicated everything you'd been saying for the past week in a way no one else had.
"Thank you," You said, with more sincerity than you probably should have had for a complete stranger. The girl just shrugged with a smile, nodding before continuing down the street, the sound of her leather school shoes growing quieter with every step.
You felt it in your whole body every time you thought of the interaction for the next few hours, warmth spreading through your chest as you were reminded there were still good people around.
Your other reminder of that fact came with the sound of your buzzer, the laughing of Lily and Marlene echoing off the stone of your building. As you let them in curiously they presented armfuls of takeout, the smell of Chinese food immediately floating through your flat.
Lily took the responsibility of setting out the food while Marlene took control of your little television, flipping between channels until she found a suitable romcom starting.
You didn't speak about what had happened, no one mentioned James Potter or the bloody Sunday People. Yet, there was an air of tenderness that let you know the girls knew exactly what was happening and how you were feeling about it.
Still, there was something bothering you. You couldn't give it a name immediately, only a tugging in your stomach while the girls were entertaining you, but persistent nonetheless.
It wasn't until you were all crammed into your bed, the other two peacefully asleep, that you could identify the sensation. It was an overwhelming desire, a need to write that you hadn't felt in ages. It was the same feeling that had pushed you to be a journalist in the first place, an inspiration you typically only felt watching a magical soccer final.
You crept out of your bedroom, switching on your computer at the kitchen table, squinting at the aggressive blue light. And when a blank Word document appeared before you, you started writing. Obsessively, feverishly, words poured out of you at a rate that hadn't happened since you'd started at Sunday People.
The words of the school girl fresh in your mind, you started an article vastly different from your usual kind. Instead of strategies and highlights you dissected your own experience of the past week, saying everything you hadn't let yourself unload to the paparazzi outside your office (though with fewer curse words than they would have received). It could have been minutes or hours that you were writing and you wouldn't have noticed, eyes glued on the screen in front of you.
You didn't realise you'd fallen asleep until Lily woke you gently with a hand on your shoulder, offering a steaming mug of tea. It was light outside, the world already up and awake. You were glad it was a weekend as the girls didn't need to rush off to work, cooking a simple breakfast for you all to share.
"What've you written?" Marlene asked, the second part of her sentence unnecessary: since you don't have a job to write for. You shrugged, taking a bite of some eggs.
"Just something I had to get off my chest. Might see if I can sell it to someone to tide me over 'til I figure out what I'm doing with my life."
"Can we read?" You made a 'go ahead' gesture, the computer already open to the screen.
A WOMAN'S UNWILLING WEEK IN THE PUBLIC EYE:
How a woman always loses.
You sat in mild discomfort as Lily and Marlene read your piece in silence, anxiously awaiting their reactions. They weren't what you were expecting.
When they turned back to face you, Lily had tears in her eyes, red tones brought out in her skin. Even Marlene looked uncharacteristically moved, not at all the reaction you were expecting. Firstly, it was completely unedited so you suspected it was somewhat of a mess from your midnight haze. Secondly, it was more of a vent than anything, getting your hatred for invasive paparazzi off your chest. You thought you'd all laugh about it then move on with your days.
"Lils, what's wrong?" You didn't mean to laugh, it was more out of surprise than anything else.
"It's just, it's so raw and real. It's so unfair," She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her sweater.
"Jesus, you don't have to cry," You said lightly, "I'm fine! I hated that bloody place anyway."
"That's not the point," Marlene pointed out, "And Lily's right, this is really confronting stuff. It's great."
"Thanks," You mumbled, studying a lamp for something to do.
"Can we talk about James?" Your head snapped back to look at her.
"What about him?"
"Clearly there's been some... developments in your relationship, which we don't have to talk about--"
"Yet," Marlene interrupted.
"The point is that it looks like there's feelings involved now. What are you doing about them? Because if you publish that, it's putting everything out there, and even I can't tell how you feel about James right now," Lily finished.
"I don't want to talk to him," You said quickly, "I know it's not his fault but I can't think about him without getting mad. It's like I wrote; he ends up fine while I lose my job over one kiss."
"Understandable," Marlene nodded, "But if I know James at all, he'll be going crazy every minute that you ignore him."
You had much to consider when the girls left. The state of your career, your feelings for James, everything felt too big and overwhelming to make any decisions about. So, you took a nap.
The rest of your weekend was spent sending your then-edited article to as many newspapers and blogs as you could and hiding out in your flat, dodging James' calls.
Unfortunately, you liked him. You'd figured out that much. More unfortunately, he hadn't done anything to help you out in all this mess, benefiting from the press in a way that only England's favourite footballer could.
On Monday morning your piece was published. Not the biggest or most reputable newspaper, if your name hadn't still been trending it probably would have gone largely noticed. Instead, it blew up.
It had mixed reviews, of course, a tell-all so blatantly feminist would always attract its haters, but you were floored by the support it was receiving. Women were validating your experiences in a way you hadn't expected even a few days ago. It made you not so scared to leave the house anymore.
On Tuesday morning, Remus called you. You had the thought that it might have been James calling to grovel on Remus' phone, but you thought it was a smart enough idea you'd indulge anyway. If it was Sirius you wouldn't have picked up.
Instead, it was actually Remus.
"Come to the media room this afternoon," He said, evidently not wasting time with pleasantries.
"What?" You asked, caught off-guard.
"Just do it. Two o'clock."
"Remus, you know I don't have a job anymore, right?"
"Come off it, you know anyone on the team would let you in. You've got quite a name for yourself," He chanced a joke and you rolled your eyes.
"What, whore?" You retorted, only a little worried it would be true.
"I'm hanging up," Was all he said before the line went dead. You huffed, snapping your phone closed with all the attitude of a spoiled private schoolgirl.
Yet, at two o'clock you were standing in front of the media room at James' team's stadium, questioning all of your life choices.
The room seemingly went silent when you entered, dozens of pairs of eyes staring you down as you nervously stuck to the wall. You felt the derogatory, leering stares from all the sleazy men who'd been accusing you of sleeping with players since you first started in the field. It made you want to drop dead.
James made his way to the lectern up the front of the room with a cough, quieting down the chaos.
"Afternoon, everyone. I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here, I've got some things I'd like to address.
"As you all well know, I've been a frequent face in the papers lately, and not for my brilliant playing as it usually is. I recently got followed down a street after a night out looking after an old friend who happened to be a colleague of yours. Now I know that my godly good looks lead you to believe that I don't feel the same as all of you, but I do. And I'd like you all to consider how you'd feel if a man with a camera followed you all the way home after you'd been out for a night with your friends and a few cheeky drinks. It's pretty invasive if you can't imagine.
"Now, all this press hasn't really affected me. However, my dear friend has been subject to misogynistic articles, slut-shaming and harassment all because we were seen out together and a few hateful words from someone I used to consider a mate." You had no idea where this was going, but you were absolutely fascinated. James was more well-spoken, more mature and solemn than you'd ever seen him, though he still had his audience in the palm of his hand with his casual jokes. It was a masterclass in public speaking.
"If you haven't read any of my friend's pieces I would highly recommend them; she's got a brilliant voice and I personally read everything she publishes. However, I'm not here to talk about her work; I'd actually like to talk about her if you all don't mind."
What the hell was happening?
"In the midst of all these articles over the last week, I know you've all seen various pictures of us, including from secondary school. A few come to my mind, our graduation picture is a highlight, but I'd really like to talk about this one." James brandished a printed-out photo you recognised instantly.
"This photo was taken when we were twelve or thirteen years old at someone's party. That night, as you tend to do when you're young and bored, we played spin the bottle and ended up being each other's first kiss. I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm telling this story now, and it's because ever since that night as I have recently realised, almost a decade later, I have been embarrassingly, stupidly in love with her."
Your life wasn't real, it absolutely could not be.
"And though I've done some incredibly dumb things over the years, somehow she's managed to like me back -- at least a little. So I'm setting the record straight right now, she is not 'sleeping to the top' or trying to get a secret scoop out of me because I'm the one who's been chasing after her for twelve years.
"I know I've been rambling on for far too long so I'll wrap it up here, but I just wanted to end this little conference with a warning that if I see any more disgusting, hateful articles about her, you won't be getting another comment from me again. So nice to see you all!"
The room started to trickle out but you were stuck to your spot against the wall, frozen in absolute shock. You hardly even noticed the dirty looks you got from some of the people you'd been working alongside for years.
You spotted James in another corner, drinking out of a plastic water bottle and messing with his hair. A nervous tell.
The room was almost completely empty when you approached him, heels muffled by the carpeted floor.
"Hey stranger," You said softly, feeling way out of your depth. He turned in an instant, smile lighting up his face then melting away as it was replaced with an insecure frown.
"Was that okay? I didn't want to embarrass you but I wanted to step up and do something and protect you and--"
"Have you really loved me since we were twelve?" You cut him off bluntly.
"Every day since, as I've figured out," He agreed with a slight nod, glasses slipping down his nose slightly.
"What about all the flirting with Lily? The other girls over the years?"
"So obviously fake. Distractions. It's never been anyone but you, love."
You could only stare at him for a moment, your whole world shifting beneath your feet. James' face became increasingly worried, brow furrowing more the longer you remained unresponsive.
"If you don't feel the same that's totally alright, I still stand by what I did and I don't want you being harassed for--"
You'd always thought that cutting someone off with a kiss was ridiculously cheesy, reserved for shitty Hallmark movies with grown-up child actors who never got their big break. Turns out though, when you realise that your girlish crush on the star footballer has actually been a complicated love of twelve years, you don't really want to waste any more time.
When you woke up on Wednesday morning with James next to you, body heat keeping you cozy, you were convinced you had to be dreaming. When you eventually got up to check your emails and start your day the hypothesis was only solidified by the impossible email waiting in your inbox.
The fucking BBC wanted to hire you as a football commentator and sports writer. Your dream job at your dream company. If you let out an embarrassing squeal then that was none of your business.
You were still convinced you were hallucinating the whole thing until James came in with his biggest smile and that look in his eyes that told you he probably had a hand in getting your name on the BBC desks.
Even a few weeks ago you would have been mad at him, assuming it was mocking or he had ulterior motives. But it wasn't a few weeks ago anymore, and James Potter's whole, endless heart belonged to you. You weren't letting that go anytime soon.
#giasficsË ŕźâĄ âď˝ĄË â#fluff#love#marauders fanfiction#the marauders era#marauders era#the marauders#marauders#james potter#james potter x reader#james potter x you#james potter x y/n#james potter imagine#hp marauders#dead gay wizards#dead gay witches#james potter fluff#james potter fanfiction#james potter fic#marauders fandom#marauders imagine#marauders fic#marauders fanfic#james potter oneshot#footballer!james potter#footballer!james#enemies to lovers#friends to lovers
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When I was a teenage girl in a British school, boys always wanted to upset me and get a rise out of me. One used to walk behind me with all his friends and sniff my hair. Another liled to ask me personal questions such as: "how often do you shit", and other equally inappropriate things. Some liked to call me by the wrong name and get upset when I didn't answer or snapped back. Once, a group of them snuck up on me and hung a man-kini around my neck.
And interestingly this was all in my science classes. I think that waa because we could move around the classroom more, and maybe because it was the more advanced science group. And they didn't think I belonged there. Although I never saw them harassing the other girls like they harassed me. Maybe I was a more satisfying target. Maybe it was because likely autistic. But idk.
So yeah, teenage boys fucking suck sometimes. It's not all of them, but it's the loudest ones
Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Hereâs the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)
"The report, by the Childrenâs Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.
British girls aged 10-15 are âsignificantly less happyâ with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy â and their happiness is still declining.
Boysâ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (âŚ)
But I still didnât have an âaha!â moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until⌠I talked to some teenage girls.
It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.
âDuh â itâs the boys,â one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.
âThe boys?â I asked.
My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. Iâd spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.
âYeah, well, who do you think theyâre taking out their unhappiness on? Itâs us,â another girl said.
âOne boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,â a third girl said. âEvery day for two years.â
âTheyâve all got âRate The Girlsâ polls on their WhatsApps,â the first said. âThey mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.â
âBut then, if youâre hot, itâs just as bad, in a different way, because theyâll be talking about how they want to f*** you.â
The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.
âThe only way you can stop them is if you become âone of the boysâ and hang out with them. But then,â the second girl said with a sigh, âall the other girls call you a slut. Because youâve gone over to the boysâ side.â
âSurely itâs not all the boys?â I said. âThere must be some nice boys?â
âOh, yeah,â one girl said. âBut they keep their heads down. Because⌠well, look.â
She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself â smiling in a new dress; with her dog â dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.
âFat.â âSlut.â âYou gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?â
âTheyâre all boys from her school,â she said. âAnd look, this one boy tried to defend her.â
I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, âYouâre all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.â
As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was âwhite knightingâ this girl: âYou wanna f*** her, bro?â
âSo,â I asked, âyou donât think itâs social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, thatâs making girls so sad?â
âWell, yeah, them too,â the first girl said. âBut, Monday-Friday, 9-3, Iâm not on social media. Iâm not⌠in the economy. Iâm just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.â
I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.
I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers â and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.
And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."
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ËË°â˘*ââˇđˇcontent warning: smut, innocence corruption, praise, mommy kink, thigh riding, oral (m!receiving), glasses kink, loss of virginity, sub!virgin!matt, dom!reader, friends to lovers
ËË°â˘*ââˇđˇsummary: you and matt are best friends and share everything with one another - except for what you each sound like in bed - that is, until now.
this fic was requested/inspired by this ask đ
never lose me
"I have a question," you told your best friend Matt over dinner, leaning in closer to him and peeking up at him before you took a big bite of your pasta. You'd invited him out to celebrate a promotion you'd gotten at work, and you also wanted to ask for boy advice.
"What's up?" He asked, tearing off a piece of garlic bread and popping it into his mouth. He pushed up the bridge of his glasses as he made eye contact with you. "When you're having sex with a girl, does it bother you when she's loud?" You giggled, kind of embarrassed to ask.
"Why would that bother me?" Matt asked, his blue eyes darting around while he thought about how to answer your questions without confessing to you that he was a virgin. "I don't know. It's just this new guy I've been casually seeing. He's like, really quiet in bed. Almost makes me feel weird for being as loud as I am," you admitted.
He nodded to let you know he was listening, but behind his glazed over stare, he was thoroughly imagining all the naughty words you'd say and all the ways you'd scream whilst in the throes of ecstasy.
"He doesn't say much. He doesn't moan very much. I can't tell if I'm not satisfying him or if he's just shy," you confided in him, smoothing out your crimson dress that hugged your curves so snugly. "Well, have you tried asking him?" Matt timidly responded, studying the way your pretty red lipstick looked.
"Well, kind of. I mean, when I'm giving him head or stroking it for him, I'll ask, 'Do you like that, baby?'" You said in a seductive tone. Matt found it difficult to look you in the eye as he felt blood rushing to his appendage below his waist at the tone of voice you used. He took his napkin and subtly placed it on his lap to hide his growing erection.
"Mhmm," Matt nodded, halfway reassuring you that he was listening and halfway answering the question you'd just asked. "And he'll say it just like that, 'mhmm,' but even the way you said it sounded more convincing than when he says it. I just feel like he's not into it."
You took a sip of your red wine, your third glass of the night, leaving a lipstick print behind on the glassware. "Well, he's probably just nervous. I can't imagine he wouldn't like it when you.. do that stuff to him," Matt struggled to get out, twisting his ring like he always did when he was thinking about something.
"Are you shy in bed? I get the feeling you want to be loud, but you hold back," you lowered your volume, smirking at him. "That's none of your business!" He widened his eyes and smiled at you while he blushed. "See? You're already getting all shy on me," you laughed, taking another drink.
He nibbled on his lip and fiddled with his ring some more, and you noticed it had been a while since he touched his food. "Matty, are you okay? I didn't mean to get too personal with you or anything. I just get curious about what you're like in bed sometimes," you chuckled, reaching over and brushing your thumb against the back of Matt's hand.
Matt's gaze flickered up at yours and he raised his eyebrows in a surprised expression. "What!? You don't ever think about that kind of thing?" You replied, your cheeks turning pink. "I mean, of course I do," he laughed, hiding his face behind his hands.
"Why don't you satisfy my curiosity then and tell me how you sound?" You playfully flirted with him, slipping off your high heel and running your foot up Matt's pant leg, which turned Matt on even more. "Listen. I would have told you by now if I knew," Matt timidly replied, looking up at you for your reaction. "What do you mean?" You asked, gathering and twisting your noodles with your fork.
"I mean, I've never had sex," Matt said quietly, bracing for your reaction. He knew you weren't the type to tease him about it, but he was just so used to it by now that he was already prepared for it. You accidentally lost your grip on your fork and it fell against your plate with a loud clatter as you peered up at him once more.
"Never?" You asked with a bit of pity resounding in your voice. "Never," he innocently shook his head. "But surely you've done other stuff," you insinuated, picking your fork back up and picking at your food. "Nope," Matt softly answered, picking up his glass of water. "Why not, Matty? There's no way you haven't had any offers," you answered.
You knew Matt never talked about his sex life with you, but you always assumed it was just because he was being a gentleman and respecting the privacy of his sexual partners. It's not like Matt wasn't good-looking, and even though he was a bit dorky, you always found that endearing about him.
"I mean, girls are interested in me, and I can usually tell when they are, but all the girls who have ever been interested are so indirect, and all they do is drop hints like they want me to make the first move. I'm just not really into that. I want a woman who pursues me for once," Matt shrugged, adjusting his glasses again.
"So, you're saving your virginity for a dominatrix?" You raised an eyebrow at him, teasing him and giving him a sly smirk. You watched as Matt got all flustered and started running his fingers through his brown hair. "Well, I wouldn't word it like that. I just want a woman who's in charge and knows what she wants," Matt replied, blushing.
"Yeah? You want her to boss you around a little in bed, baby?" You cooed through your seductive smile. Matt rolled his eyes and let out a nervous giggle, but he neither confirmed nor denied your allegation.
You knew that your friendship with Matt was unconventional. You guys often did things together and talked about topics that most people would consider to be inappropriate for friends to engage in, but neither one of you minded how close you were. After all, you were just friends.
The waitress approached your table, offered you some boxes to take the rest of your food to go, and dropped off the check. Matt started to reach for his wallet, but you stopped him. "No, no, no. I invited you out, baby. I'll pay for your dinner," you grinned at him, reaching for your purse.
"Twisted my arm," Matt jokingly scoffed at you and acted like it was the biggest inconvenience to put his wallet back into his pocket, but he secretly loved that you always insisted on covering his bill. After you'd paid and left a generous tip, you went to get up from your chair.
"You ready, Matt?" You asked, standing up and grabbing your purse and your coat. "Uh, wait. You think we could sit here for a few more minutes?" Matt latched onto your arm, stopping you from leaving the table. There was an urgency in his voice.
"Yeah, of course. Why? What's up?" You tilted your head at him and softly caressed his face. "Please. You're gonna make it worse. Need just a few minutes. That's all," he said, batting your hand away. Your eyes traveled to the napkin placed over his lap, and you picked up on what the problem was.
"Oh, don't worry. We'll wait here until it goes away," you smirked at Matt, biting your lip. He blushed and let out a nervous laugh at how easily turned on he was, but you secretly loved it.
Once Matt's hard on had subsided, the two of you made your way back out into the parking lot, your red heels clicking against the pavement beneath you. You threw your arm around his shoulder, steadying yourself on him and towering over him. He reciprocated your gesture, hooking his arm around your waist.
"So, do you really think about what I sound like in bed?" He teased you, unable to let go of that tidbit of information you'd shared earlier. "Oh, from time to time," you snickered. You pulled your keys out of your bag and went to unlock your car, but Matt reached for them. "Hey, how about I drive? You've had a few drinks."
"Yeah, just a few," you rolled your eyes, holding your keys out of his reach. "Come on. I know that you're careful. But what if someone else causes an accident? Then you'd automatically be at fault because you had three glasses of wine tonight," Matt looked at you with his big, blue eyes.
He knew you were stubborn, but he always knew how to reason with you. "Fine," you smiled at him, handing him your keys and hopping into the passenger seat.
Matt started up your car, tilted the rearview mirror down, and moved the seat forward a bit to adjust to how much shorter he was than you. "It's so weird seeing you in the driver's seat. You're always my passenger princess," you teased him, connecting your phone to bluetooth and throwing on one of your playlists. He playfully side-eyed you as you serenaded him from the passenger seat.
When he pulled up to your house, he lowered the volume on your car speakers. "Hey, you mind if I crash here tonight? I kind of didn't think about the fact that I don't have a ride home unless I take your car," he innocently asked, giving you his puppy dog eyes.
"Of course you can stay here, Matt. You're always welcome to stay the night with me," you ran your thumb over the back of his hand again, a gesture you did often because you knew how much Matt valued physical touch. You stepped out of your car and grabbed your purse and your coat, slinging both over your shoulder. Matt, who still had your keys, unlocked your front door, letting the two of you inside.
You steadied yourself using Matt's shoulder as you stepped out of your heels, one foot at a time, still towering over the boy by a few inches. "You know, Matt. I don't think you should be self-conscious about being a virgin. I think it's really hot," you giggled into his ear, unable to stop thinking about how pure and innocent he was.
"Well, I was never insecure about it until people laughed at me when I told them," Matt responded, looking down and pushing up his glasses. "That's because other people are insecure and convinced that everything is a race. Don't worry about them," you drunkenly responded. "Thanks for saying that," Matt shrugged and gave you a smile.
"Come up to my room with me, Matty," you cooed, running your stiletto nails through his hair. He glanced up at you with a submissive expression and nodded, following you up the stairs. His gaze landed on your legs, and he silently appreciated every curve as you led him up to your bed in a calculated manner.
"I wanna shower before bed. Will you help me with my zipper?" You asked him once the two of you were standing in your master bedroom outside your bathroom. "Sure," Matt replied, feeling the tension in the air as you spun around, peeking over your shoulder.
He took the zipper between his two shaky fingers and slowly pulled it down, revealing your back to him. "Come hang out with me while I shower so I don't get bored?" You invited him in, batting your lashes in his direction. "Yeah," he replied in a soft tone.
You turned the dial on your tub and began running the water while you grabbed your makeup wipes and started washing the lipstick from your mouth. Matt sat on the edge of your bathroom counter, watching you remove the pigmented color from your face.
"Matty, I know you don't know what you sound like during sex, but indulge me for a second. How do you sound when you touch yourself?" You softly asked him, looking into his blue eyes. His cheeks started to turn bring red, and his face grew warm. "Um, I guess I'm not super loud, but I make some noise, and I definitely have to try to stay quiet," Matt disclosed to you.
"Yeah? I bet you whimper," you smirked at Matt. "Why are you thinking about that?" Matt wondered, teasing you and purposely ignoring your accusation. "Just a little curious. That's all," you seductively replied, still buzzing from the wine. "Well, just for the record, I think I would like it if a girl were loud in bed," Matt smirked at you. "Oh, really?" You asked, licking your lips. "Mhmm," he quietly answered you.
"No peeking," you ordered Matt as you started to slip out of your dress. He covered his eyes and shut them until you'd disappeared behind the shower curtain. "You can look now," you said to Matt as you tilted your head back, allowing the hot water to drench your hair.
He let his eyes adjust back to the bathroom lighting, and he watched as the steam in the air began to fill the space in front of him. He took off his glasses, wiping the condensation that was in the air from them before placing them back on his face.
"Thank you for driving me home and for being such good company," you thanked Matt from the other side of the curtain. "That's what friends are for," he responded, but the word friends started to lose its meaning and began to seem more like a strange sound than an actual term the longer it tumbled around in Matt's head.
"So this guy you've been seeing," Matt started off with a twinge of jealousy in his voice. "What about him?" You peeked your head out from behind the curtain with shampoo in your hair. "Do you think you'll end up dating him?" Matt asked, his eyes flickering up at you from his ring he was fidgeting with again.
"I don't know. I don't want to sound superficial, but the fact that he's so quiet during sex and doesn't give me any reassurance that I'm doing a good job is kind of a dealbreaker. It really kills the mood for me," you admitted, removing your detachable shower head and rinsing out your hair with it.
"What kinds of things would you want him to say?" Matt casually wondered out loud. "It's kind of embarrassing," you started to say, scrubbing your body. "You can tell me. I won't laugh," Matt assured you. "Well, I'd want him to moan really loud for me and not hold back," you started to say, letting your imagination take over.
"I'd want him to tell me how good I'm making him feel," you said, your hand dipping between your legs and softly running it along your folds while you pictured it was Matt under your control, saying this all to you.
"I'd want him to say something like, 'just like that mommy' when I'm doing something with my tongue that he really likes," you hissed through your teeth as you spread your lips open with two fingers, letting the warm water from the shower head hit your most sensitive place.
Matt quietly listened, his lips falling slightly open and his eyes subtly widening as he pictured you doing unspeakable things. His erection started to strain against his pants.
"And I'd want him to tell me when I'm about to make him cum," you said right before an obvious whimper escaped your lips as you kept the shower head pointed at your clit. Matt started to giggle. "Hey, you said you wouldn't laugh," you peeked out from behind the shower curtain, giving Matt a pouty face.
"I'm sorry. I'm not laughing because I think it's funny or anything. I just laugh when I'm nervous," Matt replied, sighing and fidgeting with his hair. "Awh. Do I make you nervous, baby?" You cooed, and Matt blushed and nervously chuckled in response.
"Another reason he and I probably won't ever date is that he doesn't really like how close we are," you admitted to Matt. "You and me?" He asked, sounding surprised. "Mhmm," you hummed from the shower. "He knows we're just friends, right?" Matt asked, unfogging his glasses once more.
"Yeah, but he thinks something's going on between us," you replied, shutting off the water after you'd rinse all your bodywash off of you. Matt was caught off-guard by this, but the more he silently mulled over the dynamic the two of you shared, the more he realized how often the two of you toed of the line of being just friends and being more than friends.
"Well, he doesn't have anything to worry about. I'm a virgin," he laughed and shrugged, putting his glasses back on. He watched as you leaned out of the shower to grab your towel, exposing your breast to him while you held eye contact and smirked when you watched his gaze drop to your chest.
"I'm sure you'll lose your virginity before you know it," you responded, wrapping the towel around yourself and stepping out of the shower. "You think so?" Matt asked, chewing on his lip. "I know so. There's no way a cute little submissive thing like you isn't going to draw in the attention of a girl who's bold enough to make a move," you cooed, licking your lips as your eye caught a glimpse of his hard on. "I hope so," he whispered.
You sauntered off into your room, and Matt followed behind like a lost puppy dog. You dropped your towel and started changing in front of him, and in an attempt to be as respectful as possible, he turned his gaze away from you.
"I'm gonna go get set up in the guestroom, and I'll see you in the morning," Matt told you, getting ready to leave the room as you slipped into a pair of underwear and a tank top. "Oh, come on, Matty. Stay. What's the fun of a sleepover if we don't get to hang out all night until we fall asleep in the same bed like we always do?" You asked, pouting at him.
He slowly nodded, sitting on the edge of your bed. "You don't mind if I sleep in just this, do you?" You wondered, presenting your pretty, black lace panties and black camisole. "I don't mind," Matt answered, staring at you in awe.
You dried off your hair and started brushing through it, and after a few more moments of silence, you brought up the original topic of discussion, the same one you and Matt had been dancing around and circling back to all night.
"Could I actually just show you how loud I am?" You shifted your eyes up at Matt as you caught your lip between your teeth. "Show me how loud you are?" He naively wondered. "How loud I can get during sex? I really feel self-conscious about it, and I need your opinion," you batted your lashes again. "Uh, sure. Why not?" Matt said, trying to keep his cool. "This is purely for science," you raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded.
He felt like he was in a dream, watching as you put each of your legs on either side of his knee. You lowered your weight down onto it until your clothed pussy was resting right on his thigh, the increase in pressure creating a wonderful sensation for you. He could feel your heat and the soft thump thump of your throbbing clit through your panties. You leaned in and locked your soft lips onto his.
It wasn't the first kiss you'd shared. You'd kissed each other a handful of times when you were younger, under the guise that you were just practicing, but this was definitely the most passionate one.
His whole body started buzzing as your tongue begged for entrance, swirling around in his mouth. He could taste the red wine on your breath. You let out a loud moan against Matt's lips as you started rocking back and forth on his leg.
He immediately felt the fabric of his jeans strain against his hard cock as he studied the way your lips fell open and your eyes fell shut once you'd pulled back from the kiss. "Oh, Matt," the words escaped your lips loudly as you picked up the pace. He loved hearing you say his name in such an intimate manner and seeing you in such a vulnerable state.
Your hands made their way to Matt's chest, curling your fingers and latching onto the his jacket as you rode his thigh, and you slowly started to push the fabric off over his shoulders. Your involuntary sensual sounds filled the room, and you started grinding on his knee a little harder.
Matt held his breath as you reached for the bulge in his jeans and started palming it through the denim. "Oh," he quietly whimpered at your touch.
He could feel how wet you were getting, rhythmically rolling your hips forward as you humped his thigh. Your moans resounded, reaching their crescendo as you fell apart on Matt's knee. "That's it. Gonna cum," you cried out.
You held him in an embrace as you finished, falling limp against him and nearly screaming in his ear. He wrapped his arms around your waist to steady you, your wet hair tickling his forearms and your chest pressing against his cheek as it rose and fell while you caught your breath. You were both blushing.
"Did you think I was too loud?" You quietly whispered just above his ear. "You were loud, but I liked it a lot," Matt said after a short pause. You let out a laugh. Matt's cock was aching. "Oops. Sorry about the mess," you mumbled as you climbed off his knee, revealing a wet spot you'd left behind on his jeans. "I don't mind," he replied quietly, staring up at you.
Maybe the two of you were too close, and maybe it was inappropriate to grind on your best friend's thigh, but why stop now? His breath hitched in his throat as you descended to a kneeling position in front of him. "Now it's your turn," you seductively relayed, your fingers crawling across his lap, making their way to his zipper.
"My turn? For what?" Matt naively asked, wide-eyed. "To show me how you sound in bed. Please, Matty. I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight unless I know," you pouted at him, undoing the button on his jeans. "Wait. What if this complicates our friendship?" Matt wondered out loud. "Oh, come on, Matty. We're basically already dating. We do everything a couple would do except have sex. Maybe it'll actually make things less complicated," you smirked at him.
Deep down, he knew you might be right. "O-okay," Matt stammered, peering down at the way the teeth of his zipper came undone between your fingers. He went to take off his glasses, but you stopped him. "Matty, please. Keep them on," you requested, and he nodded.
You gave him a lustful and devious expression as you pulled his pants down just enough to access his throbbing dick. He lifted his hips as he looked into your hypnotic eyes. You reveled in the fact that you were going to be the first to make him make those sounds that were about to pour from his mouth. You reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock, mesmerized by the sight.
His tip was the same shade as his parted lips, and it was shiny with pre-cum already. You started to curl your fingers around its thickness and gently stroke it up and down. "Look at that," you gasped while you observed more clear liquid drool out of it, admiring how sensitive it was. Matt softly whimpered as it quivered in your hand.
You ran your palm up his shaft, grazing the head and spreading the fluid around, using it as lubricant while you pumped it back and forth. He let out a soft whine as you stimulated him. "Good boy," you praised him in a low, seductive tone.
He started gently bucking his hips up, driving his sensitive dick further into your hand while he let out a few stifled moans. "Don't hold back, baby," you cooed, picking up speed. "Mmm. It feels so good, mommy," he cried out, sending blood straight to your clit.
"That's it. Let me hear you," you responded, slowly closing the distance between his aggravated tip and your soothing lips, latching onto his most sensitive nerve endings. He gasped at the sensation. It was impossible for him to stay quiet.
Fervent noises filled the room while he watched as you made the head disappear behind your lips, then his shaft, and then you slid all the way down until your nose was pressed up against his lower tummy. "Yes, yes, yes," he whimpered, holding your wet hair out of your face.
You loved how responsive and interactive he was, doing everything you would have wanted a boy to do while giving him head. You bobbed your head up and down a few times, coaxing more pleasant sounds from Matt while he savored the soft, wet, warm feeling of your mouth.
You slid all the way down on his shaft again until the tip was in your throat, this time holding still while you hummed against his dick. "Please. Please keep going," Matt begged, trying to buck hip hips again, but you held them down, keeping him from being able to move. You were driving him crazy.
"Mommy, please move your mouth. I'll do anything," he implored, his voice cracking with desperation. You teased him, moving your head up and down but just slightly and at a painfully slow pace. "Faster, mommy," he begged you.
After a few more minutes of his pleading, you finally gave in, sloppily drooling all over his cock while you moved in a steady, calculated rhythm, stimulating every nerve ending on his rod while he inched closer to the finish line. "Feels so good. Gonna make such a mess for you, mommy," Matt desperately whined.
The words leaving his mouth suddenly had you aware of how empty you were feeling between your legs.
You moved back up his length with your mouth, but this time, when you reached the tip, you slipped it out of your mouth and smirked up at Matt. "Please. No. Why'd you stop?" He wondered, sounding distressed by the way his pleasure came to an end suddenly before he was done.
You stood up. "Be a good boy and wait," you responded lustfully, dropping your panties and pulling off your top. Matt fell silent as he admired your body, his eyes following every curve.
The shape of your body drew in his stare to your most intimate parts, the way your thighs came together in a v shape, practically directing his eyes towards your pussy. His eyes wandered up towards your breasts that he'd only ever seen for seconds at a time when you'd changed in front of him.
"Be a good boy and let mommy cum one more time, and then it'll be your turn. Got it?" You asked, slowly stepping towards him again. "Anything you want, mommy," he obediently nodded.
You climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, taking his dick into your grip and guiding it towards your hole. "Oh my god," Matt gutturally moaned with his eyes rolling back as you slowly descended onto him, taking it inch by inch. He couldn't believe you were taking his virginity.
"Don't you dare cum yet," you smirked at him as you lowered all the way down and started bouncing on his cock. He nodded at you with his glazed over eyes and his jaw hanging open as you picked up speed, your tits bouncing in his face while he admired them.
You started rubbing your clit while you rode Matt, and more urgent whimpers poured from both of your lips. "How's it feel, Matty?" You cooed. "Best feeling ever," he moaned, peering into your eyes. "You're so big. You fill me up so good!" You exclaimed as his dick rutted into your g-spot. He swooned at your compliment, placing both his hands on your waist.
You rocked your hips forward, your pussy gliding up and down his length, and you felt your legs behind to shake. You could feel Matt's dick throbbing in your hole as he whimpered for you and looked up at you with his most desperate expression, which sent you past the point of no return.
Your pussy spasmed around his sensitive cock, and he could feel every contraction as you called out his name loudly over and over. You rubbed your clit in tighter, faster circles. He felt your whole body tighten while you shook and loudly squealed as you finished onto him, leaving behind the milky evidence of how much fun you'd had leaking down his shaft.
"Please," he begged, staring down at the mess you made on his cock and knowing he'd done that to you had him right on the edge of his climax. "Please what, baby?" You bit your lip, still riding him. "Please, mommy. Don't stop. Need a warm place to cum inside," he cried out.
"Of course, baby. Of course you can cum inside," you assured him, cradling his head and pushing your breasts into his face. Your rose-scented bodywash filled his senses. He peered up at you with his pretty blue eyes that were filled with lust and desire. His eyebrows were furrowed together in an expression of sheer pleasure.
Goosebumps arose all over his flesh as an orgasmic rush coursed through his body. He whimpered fervently against your chest, his cock twitching and draining inside of you. You loved watching him come undone underneath you. You continued to bounce up and down on his dick until he started hissing through his teeth about how sensitive it was.
You brought your movements to a stop, tilted Matt's chin up with your hand, and kissed him while he was still inside of you. He looked up at you wide-eyed and panting. "Wow, I never knew sex could be that intense," he innocently shook his head. "I made you feel good, didn't I?" You asked, nibbling on your lip. "So good," he replied, pushing up his glasses.
"That was so hot. I knew you'd be a whimperer."
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i love you, in every time ŕżâ§â 1900 - with you i'm free
chapter summary: Logan meets you again in a small town in Pennsylvania. Only this time, you are married to another man, but your marriage is far from perfect.
word count: 11.4k+
pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader
notes: this is a bit darker than the other chapters, past and future, so this'll probably be a 'one off'. please read the tags! the domestic violence isn't described too heavily, but there are still some descriptions and scenes involving it. you've been warned!
warnings/tags: angst, mentions of brushing hair, outdated mindsets on women, domestic violence, bruises, cheating, blood, character death
series masterlist - chapter 2 â chapter 4
Logan found himself in a small town in Pennsylvania 20 years later. Victor was doing who knows what, he wasnât sure if he even cared, so he was alone, once again.
Coal mining was the primary job in this town, so he found himself doing just that. After work, the guys would go to a nearby bar and get drunk, go back home, and repeat it all over again.
This was his second week here, and the guys finally learned that he only came along to do one thing- drink.
You walked into the dimly lit bar, the smell of tobacco and cheap liquor hanging heavy in the air. The men, mostly miners from the town, were crowded around tables, drinking and laughing loudly after a long day of work. The sound of clinking glasses and rough voices filled the room, but your eyes were drawn to the man sitting at the bar, quiet and distant.
He didnât look like the othersâhe wasnât laughing, wasnât part of the group. He just sat there, nursing a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes focused on the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions he wasnât ready to ask. Something about him felt familiar, though you couldnât place why.
You hadnât intended to come inside. George was already drunk somewhere in the back, and you knew what that would mean when he got home. But something pulled you toward the bar, toward him. You made your way over, hesitating for just a moment before slipping onto the stool beside him.
âYou new in town?â you asked, your voice soft but cutting through the noise around you.
The man didnât look at you right away, but his hand tightened slightly around the glass. His jaw clenched, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deep inside him. Slowly, he turned his head, and when his eyes met yours, the world seemed to tilt for a moment.
It was like a punch to the gut, a shock that ran through both of you, though you couldnât understand why. You had never met him before, but his eyes... those eyes. Dark, haunted, and yet filled with something familiar, something you couldnât explain.
Logan stared at you, his mind racing. It couldnât be. But it was. You were here, sitting right next to him, alive. Different, yet the same. His chest tightened, the memories flooding backâyour face, your smile, your laugh. The way you had slipped away from him, twice now.
He hadnât expected to see you again. Not after the last time. But here you were, as real as the glass in his hand.
âYeah,â he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. âJust passing through.â
You tilted your head slightly, curious about the stranger beside you. âPassing through? Not many people come here unless theyâre looking to stay a while.â
Loganâs eyes flicked to you again, lingering this time. It was you, all right. Same voice, same damn spark. He could feel his heart pounding, and for a moment, he wasnât sure if he should just get up and walk away. He didnât know if he could handle thisâlosing you again.
âIâm not lookinâ to stay,â he said, taking a long sip of his drink, hoping it would calm the storm inside him.
You smiled faintly, noticing how closed-off he seemed. âSeems like youâre fitting in already, though,â you joked, nodding toward the men in the back. âThatâs my husband back there, George. One of the miners.â
Loganâs jaw tightened at the word âhusband,â though he didnât know why it hit him so hard. Of course, youâd have a life. It was always like this. But that didnât make it any easier.
âIs that right?â he replied, not really asking. He glanced toward the group of men, catching sight of George, loud and drunk, waving his glass around like he owned the place. A man like that didnât deserve you. But Logan stayed silent.
âYeah,â you said softly, looking down at your hands. âHeâs⌠something.â
There was a heaviness in your voice, something that told Logan more than your words ever could. He recognized that toneâthe one you used when you were trying to hide the truth, trying to make things seem better than they were.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Logan just stared at his drink, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. You were married. You had a life. He didnât belong here. But he couldnât just walk away. Not again.
âY/N.â The sound of your name from his lips was barely a whisper, but it felt like it echoed through the bar. Your head snapped up, eyes wide.
âHow⌠how do you know my name?â you asked, frowning in confusion. He hadnât asked, and you hadnât introduced yourself.
Logan cursed inwardly, realizing his slip. He hadnât meant to say it, but your name had come so naturally, like it always did. âI, uh⌠heard someone call you that when I came in,â he lied, quickly looking away. âDidnât mean to surprise you.â
You blinked, but before you could question him further, Georgeâs booming voice interrupted.
âY/N!â he shouted, stumbling toward you. âWhatâre you doinâ at the bar? Get over here!â
You flinched slightly, your body tensing at the sound of his voice. Logan noticed immediately, his eyes darkening as he glanced between you and the drunk man. He didnât like the way George looked at you, the way he called for you like he owned you.
âI should go,â you muttered, standing up quickly, the warmth between you and Logan fading as you stepped away. âIt was nice meeting youâŚ?â
âLogan,â he said, his voice low. âNameâs Logan.â
You smiled faintly again, nodding. âLogan. Well, take care.â
He watched you walk away, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldnât put into words. This wasnât fair. Not to him, not to you. But life had never been fair, had it?
As George draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the group with a roughness that made Loganâs blood boil, he clenched his fists under the bar. He wanted to stand up, walk over there, and tear that manâs arm off. But he stayed where he was, the ring in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. The ring he never got to give you.
You were gone again, and Logan was left with the bitter taste of whiskey and the familiar ache of loss.
---
George never really allowed you to do much, he wanted you to be the âperfect wifeâ and the âperfect motherâ, but he always said that last part to you with such hatred.
Some nights, while you silently cried yourself to sleep, you wondered if you were broken, and that maybe you deserved it. Not ever getting pregnant, having an abusive husband- not that it was rare, most of the guysâ wives went through the same things too.
One day, you were out doing errands, getting some things to make George his favorite dinner in hopes you wouldnât end up with another bruise on your wrist like yesterday, when you saw him. Logan, from a few nights ago.
He was smoking a cigar against a brick building; he should be at work with the rest of the men.
You paused, your breath catching for a moment as you saw him. Logan. He looked out of place, leaning against the wall like he didnât belong in this time or this town. His eyes, sharp even from a distance, locked onto yours the second you stepped out of the store. It was like he knew youâd be there, as if he had been waiting.
You hesitated, then made your way toward him, the worn handle of the basket digging into your palm as you gripped it tightly.
âShouldnât you be at work?â you asked softly, your voice carrying just enough over the sound of the bustling street.
Logan took a long drag from the cigar, his eyes narrowing slightly, and shrugged. âTook a break. Figured I needed some air.â
You shifted awkwardly, glancing around before lowering your voice. âIf George finds out youâre not workingâŚâ
He scoffed, the sound rough, almost amused. âGeorge ainât my boss.â
His words hung in the air, and you knew he was right. George might run things at home, but out here, Logan didnât answer to anyone. You, on the other hand⌠your life was different.
Loganâs eyes flicked down to your wrist, where the bruise from yesterdayâs outburst was still visible, even though youâd tried to hide it with long sleeves. His expression darkened instantly, the casual air gone in an instant.
âHe do that?â His voice was low, almost a growl.
You swallowed, tugging the sleeve down further. âItâs nothing,â you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. âI justâGeorge gets frustrated sometimes.â
Logan pushed off the wall, stepping closer, the smell of smoke and leather surrounding you. He was close now, too close, and you felt your heart quickenânot in fear, but in something else entirely.
âFrustrated?â Logan repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. âThat what you call it?â
You didnât answer. Couldnât, really. What were you supposed to say? That it was normal? That the other wives had it worse? The words died in your throat, and instead, you turned your head, focusing on the basket in your hand. âI should get going.â
But Logan didnât move, didnât let you slip away that easily. âYou donât have to put up with that, Y/N,â he muttered, his voice softer now. His hand brushed your arm, barely a touch, but you felt it. Felt it everywhere.
Your breath hitched, and you looked up at him, finding those dark, intense eyes watching you closely. âI⌠I should get home,â you said again, but the words lacked conviction this time.
Logan didnât argue, but the look on his face told you that he wasnât letting this go. âIâll walk with you,â he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
You didnât protest as he fell into step beside you. The two of you walked in silence for a while, your steps in sync, even though neither of you said a word. It was like that night in the barâthe unspoken connection, the weight of something you couldnât quite name hanging between you. But this time, there was no crowd, no drunken laughter. Just you and him, and the quiet tension that seemed to grow with every step.
When you reached the edge of your street, you stopped. âYou donât have to walk me the whole way,â you murmured, glancing toward your house, where Georgeâs silhouette was already moving around inside.
Logan didnât respond right away. Instead, he looked at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise again before his eyes met yours. âYou ever need someone to talk to,â he said quietly, âyou know where to find me.â
Your heart clenched at the offer, at the way he said it like he meant it. You nodded, unsure of what else to do, and turned to leave.
But as you stepped away, his hand brushed yours again, just for a second. It was fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder that there was something hereâsomething neither of you fully understood but couldnât deny.
You walked inside, feeling his presence behind you even after the door closed, knowing that things had just shifted, that something had begun. And it scared you. Not because of George, not because of what it might mean if you were caughtâbut because of how much you wanted it. How much you wanted him.
---
Over the next few days, Logan stayed close. You saw him more oftenâsometimes at the store, sometimes on the streetâbut always watching, always aware. He didnât push, didnât say much. But his presence was a constant, a quiet offer of protection that you hadnât asked for but found yourself relying on.
It was late one evening when it finally happened. George had been out drinking again, and when he came home, it was worse than usual. You flinched as his hand caught your wrist, yanking you toward him as he slurred something about dinner not being ready on time.
You wouldâve left the house if you could, but you couldnât. Not when George was glaring at you like that, his drunken eyes wild with the sort of rage that had become all too familiar. You knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. It wasnât newâthis quiet dread that wrapped itself around your throat, choking off your breath. Running had never worked before, and by now, you had learned there was no use in trying.
George's grip on your wrist tightened painfully as he muttered something under his breath. The way he yanked you close made your heart race, not out of fear, but from the exhaustion of enduring it. He wasnât done with his tiradeâhis words slurred together, complaining about dinner, the house, everything. It didnât matter. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.
As his fist balled around the fabric of your dress, you stared blankly at the floor, your mind drifting elsewhere, anywhere but here. To the street outside, to the market, to Logan. The quiet man whoâd appeared in your life without explanation. You didnât know why, but when you thought of him, you felt something differentâsomething dangerous but soothing all the same. A flicker of rebellion, of hope, that you hadnât felt in so long.
George shoved you toward the kitchen table, grumbling about the cold food, about you being lazy, about anything he could think of. You stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the table, but didnât say a word. You never did, not when it got like this.
But Logan⌠he had noticed. He had noticed the bruises, the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the way you avoided eye contact. He wasnât like the other men in town. He wasnât one to turn a blind eye. You remembered his intense gaze lingering on your wrist, the bruise that you couldnât quite hide. You remembered the way he had spoken to you softly, almost like he cared.
That thought gave you strength now, as George barked another order, telling you to clean up the dishes. Your body moved mechanically, but your mind stayed somewhere else. You could almost feel Loganâs hand brushing against yours again, the briefest touch when heâd walked you home the other night. It had been so subtle, but it had sent a jolt through youâa reminder that there were still things you could feel, still things you could want.
The night dragged on, just as it always did, but when George finally passed out in his chair, snoring heavily, you slipped outside. The cool night air hit your skin, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing it in. You werenât going far. Just a few minutes of peace. Just enough to remind yourself that you were still alive.
You walked slowly down the empty street, your eyes scanning the shadows. You didnât mean to, but your feet led you toward the alley where Logan had been smoking that day. It was a habit now, searching for him, even when you knew you shouldnât.
And then, there he was. Leaning against the same wall, his broad figure half-hidden by the dim light of the streetlamp. His cigar glowed faintly in the dark, and as soon as he saw you, he straightened, eyes narrowing with concern.
âY/N,â Logan said softly, stepping toward you. His voice was rough but gentle in the stillness of the night. âWhatâre you doinâ out here?â
You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your throat felt tight, and your chest ached with all the things you wanted to say but couldnât. Instead, you just walked closer, until you were standing right in front of him, your head tipped back slightly to meet his gaze.
Loganâs eyes flickered over your face, taking in every detailâthe bruise that had started to fade but was still visible on your wrist, the exhaustion that weighed down your every movement. He didnât ask any questions. He didnât need to. He knew.
Without a word, Logan reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck in a way that was more comforting than anything youâd felt in years. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment.
âY/N, you donât have to stay there,â he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. âNot with him.â
You squeezed your eyes shut, the truth of his words cutting deeper than anything else. You didnât want to stay, you didnât. But leaving wasnât as easy as it sounded. George was⌠dangerous. You didnât know what he would do if you tried to leave him. And besides, where would you even go? You had nothing. No money, no family. Just an empty house that felt more like a prison with every passing day.
âI donât have anywhere else to go,â you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own admission.
Loganâs grip tightened slightly, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to help, wanted to tear you away from that life, but he was fighting something inside himself too.
âYou always got me,â Logan said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldnât quite name. âAlways.â
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and full of meaning. You didnât know what to say. The part of you that was practical screamed that you couldnât rely on him, that you shouldnât get attached. But the other part, the part that had been buried deep beneath years of heartache, wanted to believe him. Wanted to fall into him, to take whatever comfort he could offer.
Before you could stop yourself, you reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you rested it on his chest. You felt his heart beating under your palm, steady and strong. Loganâs breath hitched at the contact, but he didnât pull away. He never did.
âLogan,â you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet street. âI donât know what to do.â
He let out a slow breath, his forehead resting against yours now, his warm breath mingling with yours. His free hand came up, his thumb brushing your cheek softly, tracing the path of an unshed tear.
âYou donât have to decide tonight,â he said gently, his lips so close to yours that it took everything in you not to close the distance. âBut whatever you decide⌠Iâm not lettinâ you go through this alone. Not again.â
Your heart ached at his wordsâhis promise. The unspoken connection between you felt stronger than ever, and before you knew it, you were closing that distance, your lips brushing against his in a hesitant, tender kiss.
Logan froze for half a second, but then his arms were around you, pulling you closer as if heâd been waiting for this moment for longer than he could remember. His lips were rough, but his kiss was gentle, full of restraint. You could feel the years of longing behind it, the pain of lifetimes lived and lost, but also the desireâthe need that neither of you could ignore any longer.
When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Loganâs eyes were darker than youâd ever seen them. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
âY/NâŚâ he whispered, his voice ragged, his forehead still resting against yours. âThis ainât right. Youâre⌠youâre married.â
âI know,â you said, your voice barely more than a breath. âBut I⌠I donât care anymore.â
Loganâs grip on you tightened for a moment, like he was trying to fight it, but then he cursed softly under his breath and kissed you again, this time with more desperation, more need. His hands tangled in your hair, his lips claiming yours in a way that made it clear this wasnât something either of you could stop now.
And for the first time in a long time, you didnât want to.
---
The next few days blurred together, a dangerous mix of stolen moments and whispered promises. Logan was always there, watching over you, his touch lingering on your skin long after you parted. You knew it was wrong, knew that it would only lead to more heartache, but you couldnât stop. He had become your anchor, your escape from a life you couldnât bear anymore.
It wasnât long before you were meeting him after dark, slipping out of the house when George was too drunk to notice. The kisses became longer, the touches more urgent.
Soon, it wasnât just nights you were seeing him. It was after George left for work, during Loganâs lunch breaks, or anytime he could sneak away from the mine. Youâd meet in the same alley, or sometimes heâd find you waiting in a small park just outside town. The secrecy of it allâthe sneaking around, the stolen momentsâit was reckless, but neither of you could stop.
Logan wasnât the kind of man who talked much, but the way he looked at you, the way he held youâlike you were the only thing keeping him groundedâit said enough. His hands were always gentle, so different from Georgeâs, even though you could feel the strength behind them. That raw, unyielding strength that was so uniquely his.
One afternoon, Logan met you in the small clearing just past the main street. It was a rare moment when George was working late, giving you a little more time than usual. You leaned against the large oak tree, your back pressed into the rough bark, and waited. It wasnât long before Loganâs figure appeared in the distance, his broad shoulders tense, eyes scanning the area out of habit.
As soon as he spotted you, his shoulders seemed to relax, and he made his way over, his footsteps heavy but quiet in the dirt. When he got close enough, you smiled softly, your fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress, a nervous habit youâd picked up over the last few weeks.
âThought Iâd lost you for a minute there,â you teased, keeping your voice light, though there was a real fear under the surface. Every time you saw him, there was a tiny part of you that worried it might be the last.
Logan gave a half-smile, though it didnât reach his eyes. âNot that easy to lose me, Y/N.â
You looked up at him, trying to read what was going on in his head. He seemed⌠tense, more so than usual. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
âYou alright?â you asked, your voice softening as you stepped closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to yet.
Loganâs gaze flickered down to you, and for a moment, you saw something in his eyesâsomething old, something heavy. But he shook his head, as if brushing it off, and reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you.
âIâm fine,â he muttered, though you could tell he wasnât. He was never fine.
You reached out, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm. âYou donât have to pretend with me, Logan.â
He stared at you for a long moment, the silence stretching between you, before he finally spoke. âItâs just⌠this,â he said, his voice low, almost pained. âI donât want you gettinâ hurt.â
You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. âIâm already hurt,â you whispered, and for the first time, you felt the full weight of those words. The bruises, the fear, the nights spent lying awake, wondering if George would snapâit had become your normal, and you hated it.
Loganâs expression didnât change much, but his jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark flashing behind his eyes. He stood still, his hands loose at his sides, and for a second you thought maybe youâd gone too farâthat maybe admitting this would scare him away, make him walk off into the night and leave you standing there alone.
But he didnât. He never did.
Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but loaded with restrained anger, like a simmering fire just barely held in check. His handârough and warmâreached out to settle on your arm, fingers curling gently around your elbow. It was a simple touch, but it grounded you in a way that nothing else did.
âIâll handle it,â Logan said, voice low, rough. His words were more than a statementâthey were a promise, weighted with meaning you couldnât quite untangle.
Your heart skipped at the way he said it, quiet but firm, like the solution was already decided, and there was no point in questioning it.
âYou canât,â you whispered, not because you didnât believe him, but because you knew how dangerous George could be. And if Logan went to himâif George found out about the two of youâŚ
Loganâs thumb brushed once along your forearm, slow and deliberate. âIâve handled worse,â he muttered, gaze never leaving yours. There was a sharpness in his eyes now, something fierce. You didnât know what heâd been through in his lifeâjust that it was far more than you could imagine.
A part of you wanted to tell him not to get involved, but the other partâthe part of you that had been breaking under Georgeâs hand for yearsâwanted to let Logan do exactly what he was offering.
You bit your lip. âIf he finds outâŚâ You trailed off, but Logan understood. Of course he did.
He stepped in closer, so close that the rough wool of his shirt brushed against your dress. His hand shifted from your arm to the back of your neck, his fingers resting there firmly, possessively, but with the same strange tenderness he always showed you. âI wonât let him hurt you again,â Logan murmured, voice steady.
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. And when you looked into his eyesâdark and steady and filled with something raw and unyieldingâyou thought maybe you could.
Your hand rested flat against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the worn fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat strong beneath your palm, steady and unrelenting.
âHe wonât stop, Logan.â Your voice cracked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. âHeâll justâheâll come after me, after us.â
Loganâs lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. âLet him try,â he said, the words edged with a quiet menace that sent a chill down your spine.
It should have scared you, the way he said itâlike violence was something inevitable, something he didnât shy away from. But instead, it made you feel⌠safe. Safer than youâd felt in years.
The night air around you was cool, but standing this close to Logan, you felt none of it. His hand slipped from your neck down to the small of your back, his touch warm and steady through the fabric of your dress.
âI shouldnât be here,â you whispered, but even as you said it, you didnât move away.
Loganâs gaze softened, just a fraction. âI ainât gonna pretend this is right,â he said, voice rough but quiet. âBut I ainât gonna pretend I donât want you, either.â
His words hit you hard, sinking deep into your chest. You hadnât realized how starved you wereâhow badly you needed someone to see you, to want you. And Logan⌠he saw everything. The bruises, the fear, the exhaustion. And still, he looked at you like you were worth something.
You swallowed thickly. âWhat happens if he finds out?â
Loganâs expression darkened. âHe wonât.â
The finality in his tone left no room for doubt, and for a moment, all the fear that had been building inside you loosened, just enough to let you breathe.
Without thinking, you reached up, fingertips brushing along the edge of his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. Loganâs eyes closed briefly, like the small touch was something he hadnât let himself feel in a long time. When his eyes opened again, they were darker, filled with a need that mirrored your own.
He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didnât. You couldnât.
His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, like a man starved for something he couldnât name. His hand cupped the back of your head, holding you to him as if he was afraid youâd disappear if he let go.
You melted into him, the fear and exhaustion slipping away, at least for now. His kiss was everythingâan escape, a promise, a lifeline.
When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan rested his forehead against yours. His hand lingered on your waist, as if letting go wasnât an option.
âJust say the word, Y/N,â Logan whispered, his voice rough with emotion. âSay the word, and weâll leave. Tonight.â
Your heart ached at the offerâat the thought of running away with him, leaving everything behind. But it wasnât that simple, and you both knew it.
âI canât,â you whispered, hating yourself for the truth of it.
Loganâs grip on you tightened briefly, as if trying to hold onto something he couldnât keep. But when he spoke again, his voice was steady.
âThen Iâll stay,â he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. âUntil you can.â
You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. For the first time in years, you felt like you werenât alone.
And thatâjust thatâwas enough to keep you going. For now.
---
One of the local churches was having a retreat set up for the women in town. Clara had been talking your ear off about it at Sunday church, spouting how excited she was to get out of the house.
You listened half-heartedly, but really you were thinking about what a perfect excuse it was to flip this into a lie for George.
You told Logan you couldnât run away with him, but that didnât include spending these few days with him, maybe off somewhere in a nearby town.
Most of the women in town were very religious, and at times you felt like an outsider. You didnât believe like they did, but you kept up a perfect front to make them believe you felt the same way.
âMaybe weâll have another sewing circle this time. Whaddya think?â Clara asked, a wide grin splitting her face as she held her hat against the October breeze.
You gave a noncommittal hum, tugging the sleeves of your dress down to cover the faint bruises on your wrists. âMaybe,â you murmured, though your thoughts were far from sewing circles and prayer sessions.
The retreat was perfect. It would get you out of Georgeâs reachâat least for a couple of daysâand give you the time you so desperately craved. More than anything, it meant time with Logan.
Clara didnât seem to notice your distraction. âItâs always good to get away, you know? Some of these girls say the Holy Spirit really speaks to âem up there.â She gave you a knowing look. âSometimes, you just gotta leave it all behind for a bit.â
You forced a smile. "Maybe that's what I need."
Clara squeezed your arm, oblivious to how you tensed. âSee? Thatâs the spirit! Now you just gotta convince your husband.â
You swallowed thickly. George wouldnât care about a church retreat if it kept up appearances. He didnât pay much mind to you unless you were standing in his wayâor if dinner wasnât on time. A couple of days without you underfoot? Heâd probably welcome the peace.
Later that night, after George had his fill of supper and slumped into his chair with a bottle, you tested the waters.
âYou remember Clara?â you asked, keeping your tone light. âShe mentioned a church retreat this weekend. Thought Iâd go.â
George barely glanced up. âWhat for?â
âSome of the other women are going too.â You folded your hands together tightly, hiding your nervous fidgeting. âItâs just a few days. Theyâll be praying and sewing... nothing much.â
George grunted, shifting in his chair. âYou ainât skippin' out on Sunday dinner.â
You bit your lip, nodding quickly. âNo. Iâll be back before then.â
He waved you off with a lazy flick of his hand. âFine. Just be sure you ainât runnin' off to waste money.â
Relief washed over you so fast your knees felt weak. You ducked your head, murmuring a quiet, âThank you,â before slipping into the next room. It had been easier than you expectedâmaybe too easy. But you werenât about to second-guess it.
---
The next day, you told Logan.
You found him where you always didâleaning against the brick wall near the alley, a cigar pinched between his teeth. He straightened the second he saw you, his sharp gaze sweeping over you like it always did, searching for signs of hurt.
âI told George Iâm going to the church retreat,â you said quietly, stepping close enough that the warmth of him reached you. âItâs this weekend. Iâll have a couple of days...â You let the words hang between you, heart pounding as you waited for him to understand what you were really saying.
Loganâs jaw ticked, his expression hard to read. âYou sure?â His voice was low, the sound of it like gravel underfoot.
You gave a small nod. âItâs the only way I can get away.â
He exhaled through his nose, looking past you for a second before his eyes settled back on yours. âWhereâs the retreat supposed to be?â
âAbout an hour north,â you said. âBut... Iâm not going there.â
Loganâs lips twitched, something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. âThat right?â
âYeah.â Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. âI wanna be with you, Logan. Just for a couple of days. Somewhere... away from here.â
The smirk faded, replaced by something heavier, something that settled deep in his eyes. âYou know what you're askinâ, darlinâ?â
You nodded. âI know.â
He didnât move for a long moment, just stood there watching you with those steady, knowing eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for youâhis hand slipping under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb brushed along your jaw, and the touch made your breath catch.
âWhere do you wanna go?â Logan asked, his voice rough but gentle.
âAnywhere.â The word slipped out before you could stop it, and you hated how desperate it sounded. âJust... not here.â
Logan gave a slow, deliberate nod. âAlright,â he muttered, the barest flicker of emotion crossing his face. âMeet me at the train station Friday night. Iâll take care of the rest.â
---
Friday came quicker than you expected.
The afternoon dragged, tension curling in your stomach as you packed a small bag. You kept everything simpleâa couple of plain dresses, your brush, and the few coins youâd stashed away in a tin under the floorboards. You told yourself it wasnât permanent. Youâd be back in a few days, and everything would go back to how it was.
At least thatâs what you kept telling yourself.
When the sun began to set, you told George you were leaving. He didnât even look up from his whiskey. âJust donât come back actin' all high and holy,â he muttered.
You gave a quick nod, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
---
The train station was quiet when you arrived, your breath fogging in the cold night air. You spotted Logan almost immediately, standing near the platform with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He wore the same tired expression he always did, but when his eyes found yours, something softened in his gaze.
âYou made it,â he murmured, stepping closer. His hand found yours, rough fingers wrapping around yours like they belonged there.
âYeah,â you whispered, squeezing his hand.
Logan gave a small nod toward the waiting train. âCâmon. Letâs get outta here.â
You boarded without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind you as the train rumbled to life beneath your feet. Logan led you to a quiet corner of the car, his hand never leaving yours.
As the train pulled away from the station, you glanced out the window. The town grew smaller, the lights fading into the distance until there was nothing but the dark, open night stretching out ahead of you.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself breathe.
Loganâs arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. His warmth bled into you, steady and unyielding, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.
âYou alright?â Logan asked quietly, his lips brushing against the top of your head.
You nodded, leaning into him. âYeah. I am.â
Logan didnât say anything for a moment, but you could feel the tension in his body slowly ease as you settled against him. His arm was solid and steady around you, a quiet strength that made you feel secure. The train rocked beneath you, the rhythmic clattering on the tracks filling the silence. You closed your eyes, letting the sound and the warmth of Logan's presence wash over you.
For the first time in what felt like years, you could relaxâif only for a little while.
"You got enough for a few days?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but soft, as if he was trying not to push too much too soon.
You nodded, pulling your small bag closer to you. "Yeah. Just the basics."
Logan gave a small grunt of approval. "We'll stop by a place I know, out of the way. Youâll be safe there."
"Safe..." The word hung in the air between you, heavier than you meant it to be. It felt like a luxury you hadn't been allowed for a long time, and the thought of it made your chest tighten.
Loganâs thumb stroked absently along your arm, a small gesture that grounded you. He didnât press you for more, didnât ask questions you werenât ready to answer. That was the thing about Loganâhe didnât pry, didnât demand anything from you. He just was. It was one of the reasons you felt drawn to him, why you kept finding yourself in his orbit.
But there was still so much you didnât know about him. Heâd never mentioned a family, never talked about where heâd come from or how he ended up here. There was a deep well of mystery around Logan, and sometimes you could feel it, the weight of something unspoken between the two of you. But you didnât push him for answers either.
You shifted slightly, resting your head against his shoulder, the scent of cigar smoke and pine surrounding you. âWhere are we going?â
"There's a place, up in the hills," Logan said quietly. "A cabin. No one's been there in a while. We'll be alone."
Alone. Just the two of you. The thought sent a ripple of excitement and fear through you, your heart skipping a beat. The idea of leaving everything behindâeven if just for a few daysâfelt like a risk. But wasnât that what you wanted? A break from George, from the town, from the suffocating weight of a life you never really chose.
âYou sure about this?â Logan asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. âAbout⌠us?â
His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your decision settle in your chest. It wasnât just about getting away anymore. It was about choosing him, even if it was only for a little while. A choice that could never be undone.
âIâm sure,â you whispered, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, dark and searching, like he was looking for any hint of doubt.
Loganâs expression softened, just a fraction, and he gave a slow nod. âAlright.â
The train continued its steady rhythm, carrying you further away from the life you knew and into something unknown. You couldnât think about what would come afterâabout George, about the retreat, about the women who would notice your absence. All you could think about was Logan, and the way his hand held yours, like he didnât want to let go.
---
The cabin was quiet, nestled deep in the woods where no one could find you. Logan hadnât been lying when he said it was out of the way. You hadnât passed another soul on the journey here, and the solitude felt like a blanket wrapping around you, warm and comforting.
Logan pushed the door open, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. The inside was simpleârough wooden furniture, a stone fireplace, and a bed in the corner, covered in a faded quilt. It wasnât much, but it felt safe, isolated from the rest of the world.
âYou can get some rest,â Logan said, setting your bag down near the bed. âFireplace works, and thereâs wood out back if it gets cold.â
You nodded, glancing around the room before your eyes settled on him. âThank you.â
Loganâs gaze flickered, something unreadable passing across his face before he nodded. âDonât gotta thank me.â
There was a silence between you, not uncomfortable but full of things unsaid. You wanted to ask him moreâabout why he was helping you, about what he really wanted from all thisâbut the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand brushing against his arm.
âLoganâŚâ you started, unsure of where you were going with it.
He turned to face you fully, his eyes locked on yours. âYeah?â
You hesitated, then closed the distance between you, your hands reaching up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
âI just⌠I needed to be with you,â you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Loganâs hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. âYou got me,â he murmured, his voice rough but sincere. âFor as long as you need.â
Your breath hitched, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. It wasnât soft or tentative like you thought it might beâit was hungry, desperate, like youâd been holding back for too long.
Loganâs arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and the world outside the cabin seemed to disappear. There was no George, no town, no expectations. Just you and Logan, and the fire that burned between you.
---
Later, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the two of you lay tangled in each otherâs arms, you stared up at the ceiling, your mind racing with everything that had happened.
Loganâs hand trailed idly along your arm, his fingers brushing over the faint bruises youâd tried so hard to hide. His touch was gentle, but you could feel the tension in him, the quiet anger simmering beneath the surface.
âIâll kill him,â Logan muttered, his voice low and dangerous. âIf he ever touches you again.â
You tensed, your breath catching in your throat. âLoganââ
âI mean it,â he growled, his grip on you tightening slightly. âHe doesnât deserve you.â
You turned to face him, your hand resting on his chest. âItâs not that simpleâŚâ
Loganâs eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something raw and painful in his gaze, something you couldnât quite understand. But then he shook his head, exhaling slowly. âI just donât wanna lose you. Not again.â
His words sent a chill down your spine, but before you could ask what he meant, Logan leaned down and kissed you again, silencing your questions.
The kiss was rough, full of unspoken thingsâpromises, regrets, desires that neither of you could fully articulate. His lips moved against yours like they were trying to drown out the past, to focus only on the here and now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers digging into his skin, wanting to hold on to this moment for as long as possible.
For now, you didnât want to think about George. You didnât want to think about the bruises you were hiding, the lies you had to keep telling to survive. You wanted to focus on Loganâthe way his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath, the way he made you feel alive.
When you finally broke apart, your breathing heavy, Logan stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed your cheek, and for a moment, the roughness of him softened, like he was letting his guard down.
"You should rest," he murmured, his voice low, but there was a strain in it, like he was trying to hold something back.
You shook your head slightly. "I donât want to rest. I want to stay here with you."
Loganâs eyes searched yours, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your skin for just a second longer than necessary.
âYou know this canât last,â he said quietly, the weight of the truth settling between you both.
You nodded, the ache in your chest growing. âI know.â
You had always known it couldnât last. This was just a moment stolen from the real worldâa fantasy that couldnât survive the harshness of the life waiting for you back home. But that didnât stop you from wanting it. It didnât stop you from wanting him.
Loganâs hand found yours again, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that felt almost protective. He hadnât let go since youâd arrived at the cabin, as if he feared you might slip away if he did.
âI wish it could be different,â you whispered, staring down at your intertwined hands.
Logan was silent for a long time before he spoke. âMe too.â
The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but there was still a chill in the air, an unspoken tension lingering between the two of you. You could feel it in the way Loganâs thumb stroked absentmindedly across your knuckles, like he was trying to ground himselfâtrying to ground you.
âWhy are you doing this?â you asked, your voice softer now. âHelping me, I mean.â
Loganâs gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly. When he looked back at you, his eyes were hard to read. âBecause you deserve better than him.â
It wasnât a full answer, but it was the closest heâd come to telling you why. You werenât sure if he was holding something back or if he just didnât know how to say it. Logan wasnât the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and youâd never pushed him for more than he was willing to give.
You nodded, accepting his answer for now. âThank you.â
Loganâs eyes softened at your words, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. âYou donât gotta thank me, Y/N.â
You closed your eyes, letting yourself lean into him. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to just be. No pretending, no worrying about what came next. Just thisâjust him.
---
The morning light filtered through the small windows of the cabin, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor. You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside and the comforting warmth of Loganâs body beside you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to stay like this, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You couldnât remember the last time you felt this peaceful.
Logan stirred beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he woke. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable.
âMorninâ,â he murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
You smiled, the corners of your lips tugging up. âMorning.â
Logan gave a quiet grunt in response, shifting slightly beneath you. His hand was still draped over your waist, his fingers rough but warm against your skin. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light, like he was trying to figure out if this moment was real.
âYou sleep alright?â he asked, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
You nodded, brushing your fingers absently along his collarbone. âBetter than I have in a long time.â
Logan gave a small hum, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. For a moment, the two of you just stayed like thatâyour body curled into his, the outside world forgotten.
It felt fragile, like if you moved too quickly or said the wrong thing, it might all shatter.
âGotta admit,â you murmured, âit feels strange waking up like this.â
âYeah?â Logan's lips twitched, just barely. âStrange good, or strange bad?â
A soft laugh slipped out of you. âGood,â you whispered. âStrange in a good way.â
He held your gaze, something flickering in his eyesâsomething like relief. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same quiet intensity youâd come to expect from him. Logan wasnât a man who wasted words, and that suited you just fine.
The clock on the mantle ticked steadily, marking the minutes passing in this stolen moment. You let out a soft breath and rested your chin on his chest, tracing invisible patterns on his skin with your fingertip.
âWhat time do you think it is?â you asked, though you didnât really care about the answer.
Logan turned his head slightly toward the window, where the early morning sun was just beginning to peek through the trees. âStill early.â
âGood.â You nestled closer, unwilling to let the morning slip away just yet.
He didnât say anything for a while, just ran his hand up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. The motion was soothingâso different from anything youâd known in your marriage. With George, everything felt like an obligation, a duty. With Logan... it felt like choice.
Loganâs breath stirred your hair as he spoke again, his voice low. âYou thinkin' about goin' back?â
The question hit you like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out in every direction.
You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his chest. âI donât know.â
Loganâs jaw flexed, and you could feel the tension creep back into him. âIf you donât want to... you donât gotta.â
âItâs not that simple.â
Logan gave a quiet grunt, his hand still resting against your back, though his grip tightened slightly. âIt could be.â
You shook your head. âHeâs my husband, Logan.â
Logan exhaled hard through his nose, and you felt the anger simmering just beneath the surface. âThat donât mean you owe him anything.â
The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and it tugged at something deep inside youâsomething that made you want to stay, to never go back to the life youâd left behind.
But it wasnât that easy. It never was.
âI have to,â you whispered. âAt least for now.â
Logan was silent for a long time, his hand resting heavily on your back. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost reluctant. âYou know where to find me if things get bad.â
It wasnât a promise, not exactlyâbut it felt like one.
âI know,â you murmured, brushing a soft kiss against his shoulder.
Loganâs hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your skin. âYou got somethinâ to say, darlinâ, just say it.â
You closed your eyes, trying to find the words. âI just... I donât want this to end.â
The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. Loganâs grip on you tightened, his expression darkening.
âIt wonât,â he said quietly, and there was a fierceness in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. âNot if I have anything to say about it.â
His words sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you let yourself believeâjust for a momentâthat maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.
You pressed your forehead against his, your fingers tangling in his hair. âPromise?â
Loganâs breath was warm against your skin. âI ainât goinâ anywhere, Y/N. Not this time.â
Something about the way he said itâlike there was more weight behind those words than you could fully understandâmade your chest ache. But you didnât push for more.
Instead, you kissed him.
It was slow this time, tender in a way that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. Logan kissed you back just as softly, his hands cradling you like you were something precious.
And for a little while longer, you let yourself believe in the possibility of happiness.
---
The days you spent at the cabin away from everything with Logan were the closest you think youâd ever get to heaven.
But of course, it had to come to an end. Logan walked you back to your house, keeping to the shadows where the trees thickened along the road. Luckily, George wasnât home yet, but you knew heâd be back soon. On Sundays, the men from the mines always went to the bar after church, spending what little money they had on whiskey before heading home for dinner.
Logan stopped a few steps short of the porch, his expression unreadable. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, and he tilted his head, listening for signs of anyone nearby. It was quietâjust the soft rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a crow.
âLooks clear,â he muttered, glancing toward the road. Then his eyes were back on youâsharp, like he was committing every detail of this moment to memory.
You stood there, one hand gripping the hem of your plain cotton dress, the other clutching the shawl draped over your shoulders. It was getting colder, October creeping in around the edges.
Loganâs jaw tightened, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest. âYou sure youâre good?â His voice was low, rough as gravel.
âIâll be fine,â you whispered, but the words felt thin, like paper stretched too tight.
His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the bruise near your jaw that hadnât quite faded. You saw itâthe way his knuckles twitched like he wanted to tear something apart, or maybe someone. But Logan knew better than to push this conversation again. Youâd had it more times than either of you cared to count.
âI mean it, Y/N,â he said, quieter this time, but no less serious. âIf things getââ
âI know.â You cut him off gently, giving a small nod. âI know where to find you.â
Loganâs lips pressed into a thin line, but he didnât argue. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you climbed them slowly, heart heavy in your chest. You reached for the door, but before your fingers touched the worn wood, you felt his hand wrap gently around your wrist.
You turned, meeting his gaze.
âYou ainât alone in this,â he said softly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist. It was the kind of touch that made your knees weakâsteady, solid, full of unspoken promises.
âI know,â you whispered, holding his gaze a second longer than you should have. Then you pulled your hand free, feeling the cold settle in the space where his warmth had been.
The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing you inside.
---
It was well into the afternoon by the time George came home. Youâd set the table with what little you hadâa pot of boiled potatoes, bread that was more crust than loaf, and a pan of cold pork youâd managed to stretch out since Friday.
George slammed the door behind him, the stench of sweat and beer clinging to his clothes. He tossed his flat cap onto the chair and grunted as he sat down heavily at the table.
âWhereâs the roast?â he asked, eyeing the measly spread with disapproval.
âThere wasnât any.â You kept your voice even, steady, though your hands trembled slightly as you placed the food in front of him.
George gave you a hard look, his lip curling in disgust. âUseless,â he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.
You clenched your jaw, swallowing the sharp retort that burned on your tongue. Fighting him would only make it worse.
He ate in silence, the scrape of his knife against the plate the only sound in the small kitchen. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape.
âGoinâ to bed,â he grumbled, already halfway out of the room before you could respond.
The knot in your stomach tightened, but you stayed still, standing in the middle of the kitchen long after the sound of his boots thudding down the hallway faded.
It was always like this. A dull, suffocating acheâday after day, night after night. And the worst part? You werenât sure if you had the strength to keep pretending.
---
It was well past midnight when you slipped out the back door. The cold bit at your skin, and you pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you made your way down the dirt path leading into the woods. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light across the clearing where Logan was waiting, his broad frame leaning against a tree trunk.
He looked up as you approached, his keen eyes catching the moonlight.
âFigured youâd come.â There was no smugness in his toneâjust quiet understanding, like heâd known all along that you wouldnât be able to stay away.
You stopped a few feet from him, your breath clouding in the crisp night air. âI couldnât do it,â you admitted, your voice small.
Logan pushed off the tree and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, firm and grounding. âYou ainât gotta explain.â
You looked up at him, heart aching with everything you wanted to say but couldnât. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest.
His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet strength in the way he held youâlike heâd fight the whole world just to keep you safe.
âI missed you,â you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
Loganâs grip tightened. âI know,â he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The night stretched on around you, silent and still, as Loganâs hands roamed up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes.
âYou stayinâ tonight?â he asked quietly, his breath warm against your hair.
You nodded, letting out a shaky breath. âJust tonight.â
Logan didnât argue. He never did.
He took your hand, lacing his rough fingers through yours, and led you deeper into the woodsâaway from the house, away from the life you were supposed to live.
And for one stolen night, you let yourself believe it was enough.
---
When you got home later that night, around 3 in the morning, everything looked normal. The lights in the house were all off, and it was quiet.
You hung your shawl on the hook by the door when you heard the clink of a bottle. Your heart sank. George was awake.
The small kitchen was dim, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. George sat slouched at the table, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His eyes were dark, glazed over with drunken fury. You could tell by the set of his jaw, by the way his knuckles gripped the bottle too tight, that this wasnât going to end well.
âWhereâve you been?â His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, his steps heavy as he moved toward you.
âI went to clear my head,â you said softly, keeping your voice calm, steady, though your heart pounded in your chest. âThe air helps me sleep.â
George narrowed his eyes. âThat so? 'Cause Johnnyâs wife told me somethin' different. Said she didnât see you at the church retreat.â
You froze. You had been at the retreatâbrieflyâbut it was a cover for your meeting with Logan, and Johnnyâs wife mustâve been one of the few people you didnât see. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words stuck in your throat.
âI was there,â you managed, though you knew it wouldnât matter.
George took another step toward you, his voice rising. âDonât lie to me!â His breath stank of alcohol as he spat the words at you, the anger radiating off him like heat. âWhat were you really doinâ, Y/N? Who were you with?â
Your stomach twisted in fear as his hand shot out, grabbing your arm hard enough to make you wince. âGeorge, pleaseââ you started, but he cut you off.
âI know you werenât there. Where the hell were you?â He shook you, his grip tightening painfully around your arm.
You winced, biting back a cry. âI told you, I was there.â
But George wasnât listening anymore. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, and a dangerous look settled across his face. âYou been sneakinâ around on me, havenât you?â His voice was low, deadly now. He released your arm with a shove, sending you stumbling back a step. âYou think Iâm stupid?â
âGeorge, Iâm not sneaking around,â you said, trying to keep your voice calm even though your pulse was racing. âI just needed some air. Iââ
His hand moved faster than you expected, backhanding you hard across the face. Pain exploded through your cheek, and you stumbled, clutching the side of your face as tears sprang to your eyes.
âYou think I donât know?â George hissed, his face twisted with fury. âYouâve been leavinâ me here, goinâ off, God knows where. You ainât foolinâ me, Y/N.â
You took a shaky breath, tasting blood where your teeth had cut your lip. âGeorge, pleaseââ
But he was already moving, crossing the small kitchen in two heavy steps. You saw the glint of metal before he pulled the shotgun from the corner near the door. Panic seized you.
âGeorge, noââ Your voice broke as you held up your hands, trying to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The small kitchen felt like a cage, the walls closing in around you.
George leveled the shotgun at you, his hands shaking slightly but his eyes wild with rage. âYou think you can just leave? You think you can just run off whenever you please?â
You felt like you were drowning, your heart pounding so hard in your chest it hurt. âI wasnât leaving,â you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. âI wasnâtâGeorge, please, put the gun down.â
âShut up!â he snarled, taking a step toward you. âYouâre lyinâ! Youâve always been lyinâ, and Iâm done with it.â
You were shaking, trying to think of something, anything that would get through to him. âIâm your wife,â you said quietly, desperately. âIâve never wanted to hurt you. Iââ
But the words didnât matter. Nothing you said would stop this. You could see it in his eyesâthe cold, determined look of a man who had already made up his mind.
For a moment, everything felt frozen. The ticking of the old clock on the wall, the crackling of the dying fireâit all seemed too loud, too slow. Georgeâs finger twitched on the trigger.
And then, in an instant, the world shattered.
The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound tearing through the small kitchen like thunder. You didnât even feel the impact at firstâjust a sharp, searing pain that spread through your chest, knocking the air from your lungs.
You stumbled, your legs giving out beneath you as you hit the floor hard, the cold tiles pressing against your cheek. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, blood pooling around you.
The room swam, your vision dimming as you tried to focus, but all you could see was the dark shape of George standing over you, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.
---
Logan heard the shot before he smelled the blood.
His body reacted instinctively, his enhanced senses kicking into overdrive. Heâd been lying awake, his thoughts consumed by you, when the sound echoed through the still night. There was no mistaking it.
His heart lurched in his chest, and without thinking, Logan bolted to his feet, running toward your house, his mind racing with fear. He knew. He knew it was you.
The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as he neared the house. Loganâs breath caught in his throat when he saw the door slightly ajar, the soft light spilling out into the dark.
He pushed the door open, his claws already unsheathed.
The sight that greeted him froze him in place.
You were lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out around you, your breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. And standing over you, his face twisted with something like confusion, was George.
Loganâs vision blurred with red.
He didnât thinkâhe just moved. In a blur, he was on George, his claws slashing through the air. There was a sickening crunch as the bone tore through flesh and bone, and then George was on the ground, lifeless.
Logan didnât care. His only focus was you.
He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your body, desperate to stop the bleeding, but there was too much. The wound was too deep. âY/N,â he whispered, his voice rough, desperate. âStay with me.â
Your eyes fluttered open, but it was hard to focus. Everything felt distant, like you were floating just out of reach of the world. You tried to speak, but the words wouldnât come. Blood bubbled at your lips.
Loganâs face hovered above yours, his expression shattered. âPlease, darlinâ, hold on. Just hold on.â
You coughed, the pain in your chest unbearable, and for a brief moment, your eyes met his. The world was fading fast now, slipping away like sand through your fingers.
âLogan...â you managed, your voice barely a whisper.
His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears you didnât even realize had fallen. âIâm here,â he choked out. âIâm here.â
You smiled weakly, even as the darkness closed in around you. âI⌠I love you.â
Loganâs breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he could somehow hold you to this world. But you knew, just as he did, that this was the end.
âI love you too,â he whispered, his voice breaking.
Your chest ached, not just from the pain but from the weight of those wordsâthe weight of knowing this was goodbye.
And then, everything went still.
You felt Loganâs hand in yours, the warmth of his touch lingering even as the world around you faded into darkness.
You werenât afraid. Not anymore.
You were free.
Logan knelt there, holding you long after the last breath left your body, his heart breaking all over again.
in this chapter logan is 68 years old and reader is around 21-24 years old.
just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.
#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#wolverine x reader#wolverine x you#james howlett x reader#james howlett x you#logan howlett#logan howlett fanfiction#logan howlett x fem!reader#logan howlett fic#i love you in every time
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You know what, yeah, that bell hooks quotation wasn't appropriate, it doesn't say what the person who added it think it says.
But I don't think it's fair to say that that man who everyone is pissing on somehow claimed we had to "hold his hand" or "coddle" him or whatever. Or even that women had to do it.
He never once even mentioned the word 'woman' in that post. I'm not excluding that that what he was implying - it's very possible! - but what he said was "the left", and let's be clear, this is his understanding of what the left is. I saw people saying that a "self-proclaimed leftist" should understand that his answer was still drenched in patriarchal thinking. But he never once proclaimed he was a leftist. Perhaps he thinks he is, but all he said was that he got "out" of the "alt-right". For all we know, that means he voted for the Democratic Party and we, who are on the left, all know that's not the fucking left.
The question that was posed was how do we keep young men from turning right wing, and he offered an explanation. An explanation! Not an excuse! Again something that a lot of people just assumed.
And yes, it was a flawed explanation, and yes he has some things to learn, and yes it was uncritical and terribly phrased.
But can we recognise that not everyone has the necessary critical thinking skills to completely dig their way out of the overarching ideology that fucking rules our lives? Critical thinking skills aren't something that we are born with. It's something that is learned, something that you have to train. It's a never-ending project. And from what I know of the educational system in the US? That's not where you get it.
Speaking of bell hooks, at least she understands this. In that book (The Will to Change) she writes that "most men never think about patriarchy - what it means, how it is created and sustained." She writes how the patriarchy sees men's violence and the one emotion they're allowed to have, anger, as "natural". Understanding the patriarchy is something that has to be learned, and you either figure it out yourself by reading, but most of us probably had someone in our lives who talked to us about it, taught us about it, and then we might have started reading more about it.
What if you don't have someone like that? What if all you hear is that the things feminists tell you is bad is what was imprinted on you as "natural" to you?
Here's bell hooks:
Yet no one talks about the role patriarchal notions of manhood play in teaching boys that it is their nature to kill, then teaching them that they can do nothing to change this natureânothing, that is, that will leave their masculinity intact.
Here's what she says of her own brother:
As patriarchal thinking and action claimed him in adolescence, he learned to mask his loving feelings. He entered that space of alienation and antisocial behavior deemed ânaturalâ for adolescent boys.
She clearly pinpoints the moment of these patriarchal ideas taking hold to be in adolescent, and the question that was posed was, what can we do to stop that from happening? I've seen people say that nothing can be done until we change the material conditions that make it so that men systematically have power over women. And yeah, undoubtedly that is a fight we need to have. But is that truly the only way we can keep (some) boys from falling into the grasp of the (alt-)right? Is there no hope in at least reaching them in the meantime?
I've seen a post saying, "omg of course he goes for misandry" and while misandry isn't real in that men are not systematically oppressed, that doesn't mean that there aren't some out there who express hatred or disgust of men. That's not what the left stands for, obviously, but it is not absent. Here are some comments from the notes on some of these reaction posts (and presumably these are all people who consider themselves leftists):
"you should be hunted for sport"
"makes me want to commit homocide"
"kys right now"
"'leftists constantly said i should die' yeah fucking right"
"we need to double male loneliness and I'm not even kidding"
"I HATE MEN AND THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. THEY HATE US MORE AND THEY HAVE ALL THE POWER TO DO ACTUAL HARM TO US. Misandry is NOT FUCKING REAL but I wish it was"
"we should kill people who don't get it"
Is that hatred of men (non-systematically)? Not all of it, but some of it definitely or possibly qualifies. And it sure does look like some people (who probably think themselves leftists) think this man (or men in general) are the "scum of the earth" and that they want him/them dead. How else do you interpret some of these phrases?
Now imagine that this is something that you encounter online, and with the help of the stranglehold of the patriarchy, whispers of right wing ideology, confirmation bias, and negativity bias? I can imagine you might end up concluding they "hate you for your immutable traits" (remember patriarchy teaches boys that violence and anger is natural to them) and that they "blame you for everything that's wrong in the world".
Is that the right conclusion? No. But as much as being able to use reason is part of being human, so is not being immune to ideology and propaganda. We wouldn't fucking be where we are right now if that wasn't the case.
How do we teach boys that anger and violence aren't "immutable traits"? How do we educate them about the power of the patriarchy? Well, where does it have to come from if not from the fucking left?
Does it have to be you? No. Does it have to be women? Also no. It's probably good if it's men, and especially men who themselves walked with the right at some point (if someone has already been pulled into the right, rather than catching them before).
It can be a woman though, if there's someone who wants to do it. I don't mind doing it if someone wants to talk about it. Will I be nice? No, I won't hold back and I will tell them if what they're saying is wrong. Will I coddle them? Fuck no. Will I keep trying if someone clearly isn't listening? No. Will I be compassionate? Yeah, I think I will.
Because compassion is really important when you're trying to keep people from falling into the far-right, or even if you're trying to get them out of it (which again, isn't what we were talking about in the first place).
Here's Pete Simi, professor of Sociology, talking about Life After Hate, an American non-profit that tries to help people leave the far-right:
The organization was started by former hate group members who have been doing a lot of outreach in terms of providing testimonials and trainings to schools and law enforcement and other community groups across the country. The focus of their message is the importance of using compassion to inform prevention and intervention efforts and aftercare for individuals who want to change their lives but may need various types of support. I think LAH is a very promising development and I hope it will continue to find the resources that it needs to expand the services it provides.
Being compassionate doesn't mean coddling. It doesn't mean holding their hands and it doesn't even mean being nice to them. It doesn't exclude holding people accountable for their views. It does require patience, though. And I understand that if someone is holding the belief that you are not allowed to exist, that isn't something you can do. And that's fine. It doesn't have to be you.
But somebody has to do it, and it has to be someone on the left.
Now none of that means that the suffering of men under patriarchy, and the fact that this has to be addressed loud and clear, are more important than the suffering that women, and especially women whose oppression intersects with other levels of oppression. I've seen some tags on reaction posts that stated "omg of course centring men in discussions of gender" - but the post was about men. That was the whole starting point!
Because men do suffer under the patriarchy. And it's pushing them to the right, towards misogyny and racism, unless they develop the necessary critical thinking skills to understand their own suffering. And you know who thinks so too? bell hooks.
Often men, to speak the pain, first turn to the women in their lives and are refused a hearing. In many ways women have bought into the patriarchal masculine mystique. Asked to witness a male expressing feelings, to listen to those feelings and respond, they may simply turn away.
Since men have yet to organize a feminist menâs movement that would proclaim the rights of men to emotional awareness and expression, we will not know how many men have indeed tried to express feelings, only to have the women in their lives tune out or be turned off.
It is a form of abuse that this culture continues to deny. Boys socialized to become patriarchs are being abused. As victims of child abuse via socialization in the direction of the patriarchal ideal, boys learn that they are unlovable.
The patriarchal model that tells men that they must be in control at all times is at odds with cultivating the capacity to be responsible, which requires knowing when to control and when to surrender and let go. Responsible men are capable of self-criticism. If more men were doing the work of self-critique, then they would not be wounded, hurt, or chagrined when critiqued by others, especially women with whom they are intimate. Engaging in self-critique empowers responsible males to admit mistakes. When they have wronged others, they are willing to acknowledge wrongdoing and make amends. When others have wronged them, they are able to forgive. The ability to be forgiving is part of letting go of perfectionism and accepting vulnerability. At the same time, constructive criticism works only when it is linked to a process of affirmation. Giving affirmation is an act of emotional care. Wounded men are not often able to say anything positive. They are the grump-and-groan guys; cloaked in cynicism, they stand at an emotional distance from themselves and others. Affirmation brings us closer together. It is the highest realization of compassion and empathy with others. One of the negative aspects of antimale feminist critiques of masculinity was the absence of any affirmation of that which is positive and potentially positive in male being. When individuals, including myself, wrote about the necessity of affirming men and identifying them as comrades in struggle, we were often labeled male-identified. The women who attacked us did not understand that it was possible to critique patriarchy without hating men. Indeed, recognizing all the ways that males have been victimized by patriarchy (even though they received rewards) was a way of including men in feminist movement, welcoming their presence and honoring their contribution.
âin order to create loving males we need to love malesâ means teach boys that they can be themselves without being less of a man. it means being encouraging and nurturing of their emotions so they donât become cold and hateful. it means showing boys, early in their lives, that they have value outside of what our society deems proper masculinity. what it doesnât mean is that itâs our job to handhold men who see women as walking sex toys through the concept of empathy, and maybe if weâre really really nice to them and donât say things that hurt their feelings theyâll stop killing us for saying no
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Bucky is high-key appalled by the lack of chivalry and politeness exhibited by the men of the twenty first century. Can't fathom that men ignore women on the train or bus who need seats, that doors aren't being opened for women, seats aren't being pulled out, space isn't made for women as they pass packs of men on the sidewalk. There are many things in this new age world that Bucky can't wrap his head around, but the disregard for women is something he'll never understand, so he opens doors for ladies if they are both going in the same building, vacates seats when there is a woman around in need of space. He can't help it, having grown up in a world entirely different to the one he is now. It is second nature and comes as quickly as breathing, but it stuns you a little the first time you get treated like that. You swoon at the fact Bucky holds the door for you, lets you pass before him, makes sure you walk on the safer side of the pavement, holds your hand when you cross the road, makes sure you get the food and drinks first, offers to drive and pay for date nights, the list is endless. Still, for once in your adult dating life, you don't question the sincerity of his words as they are backed up by actions.
"Did something happen to men while I was gone?" Bucky's confused voice floats down the hall of your apartment as he strides in, kicking his shoes off and placing them neatly on the rack by the bathroom door.
"What do you mean?" You look up from your spot on the couch, laptop sitting on your raised legs. "Like, did they go extinct and come back?"
Bucky reaches the living room and shucks off his jacket and gloves to hang over the chair before coming to the couch and plopping beside you. A soft kiss is pressed to your cheek, stubble grazing your skin as he mumbles a greeting before settling into the plush sofa.
"I mean, did they lose all manners?" he shakes his head in disbelief, hands splaying out in frustrated emphasis. "Do men not open doors for women? Or move out of the way for them on the side walk?"
You close the laptop and stow it away on the small shelf of the coffee table, no longer focusing on the information packets Tony had sent you early this morning.
"What happened?" You ask, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair, enjoying how he melts into your touch.
"I just watched a bucnh'a men in suits practically push a woman out of the way to get through the door." he sighs, clearly exasperated at the lack of respect for other humans. "And then they didn't even hold the door for her! They just let it swing closed. How do they act on dates? I doubt they pay."
You hum, letting his rant continue.
"And I was on the line."
"Online." you correct gently, spiking his hair up with your fingers, the shorter strands finally obeying you.
"I was online," he rectifies. "and I saw this video of a woman talking about a man getting angry that she wasn't gonna go home with him after the first date."
"Please tell me that never happened to you." His attention shifts to you now, genuine distress simmering in his blue eyes, and when you don't answer, he becomes distraught.
"Doll, no," Bucky shakes his head as if you confessed to the murder of his beloved stuffed animal. "Come on, you gotta be joking."
"It was years ago! I was young and stupid and didn't know my worth." You shrug, obviously not as upset as your counterpart. âI've learnt my lesson. I know I am worth at least two dinners now." The joke falls flat as Bucky stares, not amused.
"It's a joke, Buck."
"I know, but I don't like it." He grumbles, folding his arms across his chest like a child. "Don't like that you were treated like that."
"Well, good thing I've got you now, huh?" you abandon his hair, stroking the back of your fingers over his stubbly cheek.
Bucky pouts. "Still don't like it. You deserved better."
You kiss his cheek, feeling his cheeks round as he smiles. "You're too good to me, Mr. Barnes." another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Even if we did sleep together on the first date."
"Hey! That wasn't the same. We knew each other before that." Bucky protests as you stand from the couch, walking to the kitchen to start on dinner. "At least I paid!"
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have you ever been in love? - choi seungcheol
warnings: none
pairings: choi seungcheol x reader
genre: friends to ???
wc: 900
check out my masterlist!
"have you ever been in love?" you ask, your eyes still fixated on the carefree clouds drifting lazily through the night sky, illuminated by the city lights.
seungcheol chuckles softly, the sound getting caught in the cool breeze that surrounds you both. he takes another sip of his beer, masking the way his heart races. how much more obvious could he be? are you really that oblivious?
"i suppose i have," he answers, his voice steady and calm even as his eyes can't help but trace the outline of your face, the way your features soften in the moonlight.
"what's it like?" you turn your head slightly, curiosity written in your expression. he's not sure how he should feel about your question.
seungcheol pauses, thinking about the feeling heâs harbored for you for so long. "itâs... terrifying and exhilarating at the same time," he says, a wistful smile playing at his lips. "it feels like wanting to be someone's everything, wanting to make them smile even when the world feels too heavy for myself. itâs being so scared of losing them that itâs all you think about. but at the same time, it makes everything brighter. love changes the way you see things, you know?"
you take a moment to process his words, letting them sink in, before you say quietly, âi guess..i dont know.â
âhave you ever been in love?â he asks carefully, its a past tense question so it shouldnt hurtâŚ.right?
"i'm...not sure if iâve ever been in love before.. but lately, iâve started feeling things iâve never felt before, and i wonder if itâs love. that's why im asking you.â
seungcheolâs heart stops, breaking a little at the thought of you loving someone else. his voice comes out smaller, almost vulnerable. "does what youâre feelinâŚm-match what i said?"
you think for a moment and then nod slowly. "yeah," you admit, a soft blush spreading across your cheeks.
his breath catches & he feels his stomach churning. this isn't a past tense situation, this is present tense, NOW. "who is it?" he asks as his voice trembles. the 4 years he's spent pinning over you seems to have made him timid tonight, he's not usually like this, but still, he braces himself for an answer that he knows will shatter him.
you hesitate, your eyes finding his, sparkling with adoration. "you," you whisper, your voice firm with sincerity.
seungcheolâs eyes widen, and for a moment, the world stills. and then, without thinking, heâs reaching for you, the biggest smile breaking out on his face. "me?" he repeats, as if he canât quite believe it.
you nod, "you...you like me too right?"
"like?" seungcheol laughs, finding humour in your choice of words, his laugh holds a hint of disbelief, his eyes crinkling with pure joy. "like?" he repeats, his voice still colored with amusement. "i don't just like you," he confesses, his voice growing softer, more sincere. "i've been completely, ridiculously in love with you."
you feel your heart skip a beat, disbelief and hope swirling in your chest. "really?" you whisper, your voice small, almost afraid that this moment could shatter like a delicate glass figurine.
his gaze softens as he reaches for your hand, his warm fingers intertwining with yours. "really," he says, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"did you really not notice?" he asks, "i almost started to think you knew but just didnt have the heart to reject me."
your cheeks flushes as you think about all the little moments you'd noticedâthe small ways he always seemed to look out for you, the way he'd remember the tiniest details about your life, and how his eyes would light up every time you entered a room. "i just... i always thought it was wishful thinking...like the time you carried extra snacks just because you knew i'd forget to eat, or when you'd always find an excuse to walk me home, even when you lived in the opposite direction. or how youâd get so quiet and protective whenever you thought someone was being unfair to me."
seungcheol's eyes widen with a mix of surprise and endearment, a fond smile spreading across his lips. "so you noticed all that?" he asks, his voice warm with a hint of embarrassment.
"i did," you say, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "but it just seemed too good to be true."
he pulls you a little closer, his eyes searching yours, filled with a mixture of adoration and relief. "it wasnât too good to be true," he whispers, and then, with the most tender of touches, he leans in.
when his lips meet yours, it's everything and more. it's gentle, sweet, and filled with all the love that has been building between you two, unspoken but always there, waiting for the right moment.
when you finally pull away, you're both breathless, cheeks flushed. seungcheol's smile is still there, brighter than ever.
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