#thank you for reading and taking this into consideration ....

[haoboutyou]

jeon wonwoo + “is there something you want to tell me?”

If there is one thing Jeon Wonwoo loves more than you—and family, and his friends—it has to be gaming. So much so that he manages to convince you to turn the spare study room into his very own little gaming nook, fully equipped with everything a gamer could possibly need to play in peace: large monitor, custom PC, a comfy gaming chair, state-of-the-art headphones—you name it, he already has it set up.

Having you hang out with him in his gaming room is nothing new too. He even added an additional chair so you can comfortably sit next to him whenever you want. It is something you really appreciate; most times, you are content just sitting in each other’s presence while occupied with something else. Too many nights were spent curled up in your chair while reading or scrolling through your phone, the sounds of Wonwoo talking with his friends over Discord, the clicks of his keyboard, and the game’s music serving as familiar white noise.

Wonwoo even develops a habit of wearing only one side of his headphones—just so he can hear if you are talking to him. Nevertheless, you still always make it a point to gently tap on his shoulder for attention, so as to not disrupt his playing.

This time, it takes only an hour since you entered the room for Wonwoo to realise you were in there with him. You gently pry the door open, tiptoeing into the room as quietly as you can. It works: Wonwoo hasn’t registered your presence. He is fully engrossed in the game that’s blown up on his screen, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he strategizes with his teammates over their call.

He only notices you when you tug on his sleeve. Almost immediately, he pushes his chair away, lifting one side of his headphones and opening his arms wide. You shoot him a grateful smile as you climb into his lap. He makes sure you are comfortable straddling him, cheek resting on his shoulder before he pushes the chair back towards the table, resuming his game while hugging you.

You have never been more thankful for Wonwoo’s large arms; they’re long enough to comfortably reach around you for the keyboard without struggle.

Wonwoo is considerate enough of his teammates to move his mic out of the way before addressing you. “Is there something you want to tell me, love?”

“Missed you. I can’t sleep.” Your voice is muffled as you speak into his hoodie.

“Really?” You nod sleepily. Chuckling, he presses a kiss on the crown of your head. “I’ll be a little noisy. Is that okay with you?”

You hum in acknowledgement, but Wonwoo already knows he is losing you to dreamland. “Sleep well, love.”

His teammates online try to mock him by mimicking him in high-pitched voices, but he doesn’t even care. “At least I have a girlfriend, you lonely losers.” It prompts a stifled laugh from his hold, and squeaks of retaliation through the headphones.

Yeah. That shut them up real quick.

divider by @saradika

[maxbanshees]

hi everyone, commissions are open... you can read more about them on this info page. [edit: when more slots open up, i'll put a link to the form here.]

they'll be completed between now and december 31. i'm taking on about 3 at a time, and once i finish those, i'll send out another set of confirmation emails.

thank you for your consideration!

[if you want to send some support but commissions are out of your budget, you can check out my print shop or process videos on patreon.]

[creatingblackcharacters]

Some of my thoughts for your conversation about inaction towards antiBlack/racist behavior in shared online spaces (particularly fandom).

1. "I dont see it / I dont go here" - this was my first thought/defensive reaction and in reading others responses I think its a shared one.

Tumblr is perhaps unique in how purposely you can shape your experience and limit what you interact with. Blocking someone just cause is fully acceptable and expected here.

So, when Ive seen depictions of 'Black' characters that made me go, "Mmm idk man" its been my policy to just block and move on. Less chance of seeing a racist in the tags I like in the future *shrug*

Now on other sites perhaps there is some consideration that could be given to not wanting to boost something racist via interaction...but that's not how Tumblr works. Furthermore your reminder that seeing things go unopposed is the problem hit me like a frying pan to the face. Because...yeah duh.

We know the 'social rules' of this platform, you report/block the porn bots, you dont spam tags for engagement (or report if you see it), add image descriptions, reblog things you like etc. Would it be so hard to leave a simple comment on the things you want to see be changed?

2. "What if I do it wrong/I dont know this fandom/Not my place to speak?" - I firmly believe the main reasons people dont meaningfully engage with posts here or on other platforms is two fold: Responses and Outting.

If you were to post a mild comment saying for example, "Hey, feels kinda weird how you're only talking about this Black character being violent in this show. Why dont you check out this blog post by CBC, a Black artist who really digs into this topic more?"

Now you are expected to 1. 'deal' with whatever that persons response is and 2. Anyone an see and respond to what you said.

I think we generally expect random stranger interactions on the Internet to be unpleasant but, like if we are putting the focus on caring about Black people in out spaces...shits already 'unpleasant' for them.

Its time to start firing fireworks off in our neighborhoods to keep the rents low so to speak. You, non-Black folk (i.e me), dont have to wage endless comment battles with someone who wont listen. Just stating what you are seeing is enough, its marking that post for other people coming along. Forcing the question, "Y'all are we cool with this?"

As for messing up/having a record of things you said someone else might take issue with later on. Yeah but thats already happening whenever you reblog anything.

If you actually spoke out of turn just say, "Im sorry thanks for letting me know" and move on with your life. Otherwise folks on here will actually harass you over your shipping preferences so your rolling those dice already. Why not do it for something better worth it?

3. A Note - Genuinely thank you for posing these thoughtful question and just honestly expressing your frustration/hurt. It helped me think more deeply about some old habits.

Thank you!

Hm. And you're welcome

[1920sladydectective]

Saw you taking prompts after the slaughter that was arcane. I too need a life saver.

Ambessa x reader , bathing washing after a battle. Like she doesn't mind a soak, but this is absolute tenderness and body worship. Reader reassuring themself that ambessa came back from battle safe and sound.

Hellooooo

I loooved this one. Thank you for asking my love

It is not long at all I'm afraid. I am happy to make a NSFW version if you'd like, let me know, but for now it is short and sweet and SFW

Without further ado, It's Bathtime Bitches:

This fight had not gone too poorly, a shallow wound on her arm the only sign of her battle. They had won, of course, and had taken what they desired as if browsing from a traders catalogue. All she had really wished for was you, curled up in her arms reading a book she had bought you. You would smile and giggle, then she would feed you nice chocolates. Or perhaps you would worship at her feet, telling her of everything you’d done and begging her to touch and use you. 

Instead Ambessa had been home for all of twenty minutes and you were already shoving her towards a bubbly, scented bath. Already naked yourself, you stripped her with such a tenderness that she found herself rolling her eyes. 

“I am well,” Ambessa muttered. 

Your finger found her lips, silencing her as you lowered her into the bath. It was almost comical, though you were no small woman you lacked the agility to do this gracefully and it made her snort. Agile fingers placed a bubble in her mouth to shush her once again, dimples forming at her sudden disgust. 

“Let me care for you,” Your voice almost trembled, “Please,” 

Sweat, blood and dirt were caressed from her skin, rhythmic considerate motions polishing her ornate body. Your fingers dug into every twinge and ache, tugging them away from your love so that she might sink further into the warm embrace. Slurred, kind words slipped from you. She was such a marvel, protecting you at every turn. You ached and yearned for her whilst she was gone, driven mad by desire and worry. 

Rubbing products against your hands, you spent nearly an hour cleaning each lock of her hair, letting her curls rest and reform, finally free from their braided cage. Her airy grunts and heavy eyes pushed you further. Her back received sharp, repetitive scratches against the sensitive itching skin. 

Her arm no longer ached, gash hidden under gauze, but you frowned all the same.

You were hers totally and you proved it with each kiss, each stroke, each lick as you surveyed every inch of her. Gazing up at her blissful expression from between her legs, you nuzzled onto her firm, muscular stomach and gently played with her skin. 

“Thank you, Little one,” She said, taking your face in her hand, “For caring for me so diligently,” 

“Always my Lady,”

[andorology]

Sanguinity: Chapter 5 a rebelcaptain regency au

An unexpected arrival of an equally unexpected letter. With no intention to prolong the curiosity it had stirred in her, Jyn hurried to pluck the wax seal and unfold the paper.

Whatever she felt just moments ago, it seemed to now have doubled, if not tripled.

______

Jyn receives a letter from out of the blue, and her relationship with the Andors is about to take a turn. Will it be for better or for worse?

Read Chapter 5 of Sanguinity below the cut, or check it out on ao3! Rating T.

When the day of Jyn’s first expedition around the estates with Kerri came, the heavens, to her delight, endowed its favor for their endeavor; the sun filtered through the cloudy canopy like tendrils of warmth, animating everything it touched with vigored life. From her window Jyn witnessed the daisies’ and cowslips’ slow bloom, the cool air moving through their quietude in whispers of the gentlest kind. The birds sang, and along with it Jyn’s spirits; she was ready for the day.

She was to expect Kerri’s arrival to Vallt Park by mid-morning. During the wait she spent some time writing about her new interest—a short history of Spanish hardwood species, for which she had made considerable progress, and in such a state of concentration that she hadn’t noticed how much it had eaten away at the hours before the anticipated activity. 

She found, however, even as the clock had already struck the awaited hour, that her companion still had not arrived. She decided to give her some more time, and wait by milling about the gardens. 

She let the petals of various flowers brush past her hand as she passed by them, their pleasant smells tickling her nose in a harmony of scents. When she reached a corner in the path, she knelt by a trimmed rose bush to examine one of its flowers being crushed under the weight of heavy, entangled brambles. 

As she began to gently pull on its stem, a movement towards the house caught her eye. 

There, through the foliage, she saw one of her household’s footmen walk towards the staff’s door, the day’s letters stuffed in a satchel that hung around his body. He was unassuming in stature; Jyn paid him no mind—she did not currently expect correspondence from anybody. When she returned to her attempt to break the rose free, she had even already forgotten about him. 

At that point the sun now radiated warmer, and Jyn’s doubt for Kerri’s arrival, which still did not happen, had now also grown more certain. She looked at the horizon and hoped to see her friend’s figure emerge somewhere along it. It didn’t.

Just then, the very same footman from a while ago appeared out of the door yet again. Jyn watched him head towards her direction, a tray in his hand, a lone piece of paper on its surface. 

“Miss Erso,” he called out as he descended the stone steps towards where she was on the pebbled path. “A letter.”

“For me?” asked Jyn. With hesitation she received the folded and sealed parchment from its vessel. Flipped over, it bore a delicate penmanship that spelled out her name and nothing more. Confused, she looked at the footman. “Where is it from?”

“Lah’mu Hall, Miss.”

Jyn frowned. “The Andors?” 

“Yes, Miss.”

Sweat began forming on Jyn’s palms, for a reason she did not really know. “I see,” she said. “Thank you.” 

An unexpected arrival of an equally unexpected letter. With no intention to prolong the curiosity it had stirred in her, Jyn hurried to pluck the wax seal and unfold the paper. 

Whatever she felt just moments ago, it seemed to now have doubled, if not tripled.

It was a letter from Kerri herself, and it read:

Dear Ms. Jyn Erso,

I am sorry to write to you that I cannot come today and join you in your walk. I know that we have entered, with utmost excitement, into this undertaking of ours—you keeping a record of every plant species you could possibly find, and I sketching them for your journals—which must make this news disappointing for you to read, as much as it has been for me to write it. 

But, as things would have it, I feel even more regret to impart something that I am now to do, and which, I am afraid, you may not forgive me for. 

From this point on, I am withdrawing myself entirely, not only from our activities, but from your company now as well. I am truly sorry to say this, Ms. Erso, but we can no longer be friends.

I know—some questions must go through your head at this moment; I understand the suddenness, and even the shock, with which this information has reached you, and for this, I at least owe you an explanation:

Ever since our calling upon you and your family a couple of days ago, my brother Cassian has been in a state of quiet unrest. He had already been somewhat sullen prior, ever since our attendance at Mr. Rook’s ball, but it seems to be our visit at Vallt Park which has finally aggravated it to the degree which I now speak of.

The most notable attribute of this unrest was his near-constant questioning of how I have been treated by you; in times more than I would normally expect him to, he asked about your character, Ms. Erso, and if you are a worthy friend. It struck me as odd. When I finally assured him of your goodwill towards me, however, he told me that he was not convinced, and nor should I be. 

I had nothing but endless questions. Here he finally expressed to me the nature of his feelings, which in turn, informed his strange disposition for the past fortnight. And I found out, to my extreme surprise, that you, Ms. Erso, have been their source and object! 

I asked him to clarify; obligingly and unhesitatingly, he listed out, to the most emphatic degree, the reasons why you seem to bother him. I have debated whether I should even mention what these specific reasons are to you, but I find that I must if I am to fully explain myself, so now I will: 

Cassian thinks you arrogant, spoiled, and, in his own words, “possess a spirit of the most feeble and vacillating nature.” I have expressed my indignation when he first conveyed these to me, and still to this moment I think these accusations to be baseless and untrue—you have witnessed how much I have enjoyed our friendship so far, have you not, Ms. Erso? So imagine how much it came to me as a surprise to hear them come out from my brother’s mouth, which I had hoped, from the first, would only speak well of you!

I have stated my reasons against this belief of his; but he is forthright and insistent in promoting them to me, upon the accounts of the encounters we both have had with you. He has argued against my disinclinations with the strongest conviction; he is so sure of it, Ms. Erso, and has appealed for my acquiescence to his reason. 

This has become a point of disagreement for the both of us within the last few days. Though I cannot fully grasp the sense with which he has put forth his argument, I have begun, nonetheless, to feel compelled to see it. For it struck me with such shock to see him so earnestly desperate, and so desperately earnest in his manner. He has shown a kind of acute temperament which, if I may say so, he has so rarely shown to me; I have only witnessed it so few times in my life. 

Whenever it occurred, I would know in an instant that he was absolutely serious about it. And so I have grown to believe that his reasons for whatever he feels now—they are motivated by true concern and no hidden malice. 

Here I must now appeal to you , Ms. Erso. I hope you do not see this decision of mine as a result of me just blindly agreeing to my brother, nor do I hope, upon my taking his side, that you view this as my neglect of the kindness I have so far received from you. I acknowledge all of it, and am grateful you have chosen to make a friend out of me—truly. 

But I implore you to know that I make this choice because my brother and I have been through thick and thin our entire lives—just him and me. He trusts me as much as I trust him, and where I know he would, on the first chance, seek my advice and heed it, I know that I can also do the same to his. 

I only truly regret what it is at the expense of. 

Please accept my deepest apologies, and I wish you well. 

Yours kindly, Kerri Andor

The feelings that entered Jyn’s heart as she read through the contents of this letter budded to a strong anger, and she felt her grip slowly tighten on the paper—a thing she did not realize she was doing until the edges had finally crumpled into her fist. 

It was true, the pain of this letter’s injury seemed to come from Kerri’s choice to forsake her, but she realized, as she later reflected on it in the privacy of her bedchamber, that she ultimately did not find too much fault in her. Kerri had been nothing but kind, first for extending the courtesy of letting her know of the termination of their acquaintance, and, more notably, for even making excuses on behalf of her brother’s antagonistic behaviors.

So no, the anger Jyn felt now was not in any way directed towards Kerri, but towards the influence under which she felt compelled to make the decision. The nerve of her brother—the absolute nerve! Jyn had no other way of putting it; she truly disliked Cassian Andor now. First for reproaching her character, which on its own, was already a grievous offense, and now for reproaching it again more injuriously in front of her friend, his sister! 

He was absolutely and irredeemably contemptible.

These thoughts and feelings cycled themselves anew at every possible moment, and yet Jyn’s turmoil, she realized, was not so fully fixed on her adversary; Jyn felt its intensity to be even greater whenever she thought of the most unfortunate consequence of their hostilities: the loss of a potential friend. 

In lieu of this adverse turn of events, her current spirits for her studies were now effectively extinguished. All around her too, the scene had turned sour; the breeze felt too cold, the sun too hot, the birdsong too loud. None of it tempted her to inquiry and exploration; instead, she spent the rest of the day in her bedchamber, lying limp on her bed. 

But even doing nothing would soon not help her restlessness, either. So by the time the afternoon approached twilight, Jyn put on her riding gown, strapped on her muddied boots, and hurried to the stables to ride out on her horse. 

For a while the movement did her spirits good. She momentarily let her mare run off to its own will, allowing the freedom to thrill her to a state of elation. 

She did not notice, however, that during all this, her horse had led her to the crest of the low hill that separated Vallt Park and Lah’mu’s lands. She only realized it until her childhood home came into distant view, at which she yanked the reins in a sudden panic, forcefully putting her horse to a halt.

Once still, she sighed in relief. As she gathered her breath in a quick repose, she found herself looking at the house again, standing tall yet lonely across the empty grassy field. A timid melancholy gripped her soul as she beheld its sight.

A movement from its side caught her attention, and she found, after squinting, that it was undoubtedly the figure of Cassian Andor himself, walking along the side path towards the courtyard out front. 

Jyn again felt her anger rise; and yet, she found herself staring.

That was when Cassian seemed to have noticed Jyn herself, for he stopped in his tracks and faced himself towards her direction. 

It was a strange moment—for a while it would seem that they were both just staring at each other. 

But a wind blew past Jyn, effectively stirring her out of it. In an instant, she urged her horse back into motion again.

From where he stood in front of Lah’mu Hall, Cassian looked at her still. He did not stop, even after she had already descended to the cover of the hills.

A couple of days passed since, during which Jyn had begun to do her best to continue the life she had lived before the Andors came into it. It was not much different, she realized, for she still did the same things—read, write, and explore.

Writing, however, was something she had begun doing more—she continued to work on her piece on her history of hardwoods.

Today Mr. and Mrs. Erso had to leave to make some arrangements to one of their farms, up in the north of the country. This left Vallt Park entirely to Jyn’s whim, though she did not do anything much to do this advantage; she was too engrossed in her writing to do anything else. 

By the waiting room window where she usually sat, she had been scribbling in solitude, her back and neck hunched over a stack of papers, when suddenly a footman (coincidentally, the same one who had delivered her the letter a few days ago) entered to inform her of the quick, unplanned arrival of a visitor. 

Soon the visitor in question appeared through the doorway, the sight of whom made Jyn’s skin crawl. 

“Mr. Cassian Andor, Miss,” announced the footman, before leaving them alone.

Cassian scanned the place, his eyes widening at the sight of only Jyn being there.

Jyn gave her unwelcome visitor a glare. She put her papers aside and stood up. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Cassian kept a straight face. “I was expecting to see your father, but I shall come back when he is here. Good day, Miss Erso.”

He was already turning on his heel when Jyn said, “I see your family’s quest for avoiding me is still very well in place.”

Cassian stared at her silently for a few seconds too long. “I do not know what you are talking about.” 

 Jyn scoffed. “Spare yourself this charade—I already know what you did. Your sister told me—she sent me a letter. Or did you not know?” 

Cassian did not respond.

A dry chuckle escaped Jyn’s mouth. “Miss Andor. I truly feel bad for her. It is clear to me that she really values your opinion, and here you’ve gone and disused it against me.” 

Cassian looked at her questioningly, his gaze sharp as a dagger. “Is that how you really see it, Miss Erso?”

The provocation compelled Jyn to step around the table and towards the middle of the room. Her voice raised, she answered, “Yes, Mr. Andor. You have deprived me of friendship—deprived her of friendship. And for what?” 

“It is not so much deprivation,” replied Cassian, “as it is an escape from her doomed affections for you.”

A quiet gasp left Jyn’s mouth. “You astound me. You know, I would have been able to live with your animosity, but what you’ve done—involving your sister into it—it signifies your cowardice. And for that I do not think I can forgive you.”

Cassian’s face formed into a sharp grimace.

“If you truly hate me,” said Jyn, her eyes piercing his, “do it yourself.”

Taking long, swift strides, Cassian met her in the middle of the room. “I merely told her what she ought to know,” he said in a quiet but intense manner, “and done as she ought with that knowledge she did.” 

“That I am arrogant, spoiled, and spineless? What fantasies you must have concocted in your own head to truly believe those things about me, Mr. Andor. And you’ve discerned that from what, our quick introduction and our subsequent meeting? From that you have gravely misjudged my character, and it baffles me so that you are so assured of its truth, when you do not even know me!” 

Cassian scoffed. “I know you well enough, all right. The things you said to my sister during our visit in this very same room were enough, notwithstanding the rest. Yes,” he added when he noticed the stunned look on Jyn’s face, “I heard all of it, and not with any effort of trying, for you were not being as discreet as you thought you were.” 

Jyn put her chin up in defiance. “That is a useless charge, for I did not say anything wrong.” 

“Really?” challenged Cassian. “What about the fact that you wish to marry Mr. Krennic merely for the advantage of his wealth?” He laughed dryly. “I suppose I should not be surprised that you are indifferent to the folly of it, for you are just like every other person of your station.”

“My station?” It took Jyn a few seconds to truly register the accusation being made against her. She blinked rapidly. “Am I right in hearing that you are reproaching me for entering a marriage for what it commonly is among women like me, an economic proposition? Why should I be exempt from this? This is preposterous—you’re a solicitor, you should know better!”

“Oh I couldn't care less that you would marry for that reason, Miss Erso!” Cassian matched her volume. “But you have done so in abandon of a long-held principle.”

Jyn frowned. “What—”

“For someone who wishes to staunchly excuse herself from the institution for her education and freedom, you certainly resigned yourself to Mr. Krennic willingly the moment it promised monetary benefit for you.”

Jyn tried to speak again—

“Your inconstancy to your principles suggests to me that you have never truly adhered to them in the first place. I can never witness my sister, or anybody I care for really, to maintain friendships with the sort of people.”

Jyn’s mouth hung open, feeling the censure hit her harder than she would have liked it to. She heard it echo all the way through the back of her head, traveling down to the hollows of her gut, making her squeamish. She felt her pulse quicken. 

She clenched her body to discipline, fighting the urge to show any sign of her current emotion. 

“You do not know me,” she said. “You do not know why I do not want to get married, or why I do . Frankly, it is none of your business. What do you know of my situation to quickly deduce the issue as a matter of my inconstancy, of my poor character? Here is my question to you, Mr. Andor: do you think we all have the privilege to do as we wish to?” 

Cassian shook his head disapprovingly. “Do not speak to me of privilege, Miss Erso.” 

“Oh I will,” said Jyn, “for it is the very thing that gives you leave to speak over me as you now do. Did it never occur to you that I have no other choice but to marry for wealth?”

Cassian’s expression did not change.

“Is this what it is?” Jyn proceeded. “You scorn me for choosing to not die a destitute? Must I suffer through life to prove myself worthy of your regard? This is incredibly high levels of self-importance, Mr. Andor. I do not need your esteem.”

Cassian’s face contorted in disgust. “Nor I am not trying to give it. And do not attempt to garner my pity because you feel like you do not have a choice but to marry a powerful Krennic, Miss Erso, a baron to be with 12,000 pounds a year.”

“And I am not trying to! It would take the last person on earth to perish before I would even begin to seek yours .” Jyn shook her head. “And what is your issue with Mr. Krennic? Why does it matter to you that it is him whom I choose to marry?”

She searched Cassian’s face; his expression did not falter under her scrutiny. It only seemed to glower more intensely upon her asking the question—a question which he did not respond to.

“You can’t answer me, can you?” said Jyn. “For you have no good reason—for any of it.” 

Cassian took a step closer towards her. “Why, Miss Erso?” he challenged. “Will it even matter to you if I did?”

A shaky breath suddenly escaped Jyn’s mouth. She blinked.

Then she shook her head and attempted to walk away in her frustration, but soon found herself facing him back. “I had supposed you could stand to reason, Mr. Andor. Of all things, I at least hoped your hostility would grant me that grace. But it is clear to me now that you are averse to it, not because you do not have the ability, but because you do , and yet you refuse to. That is all the worse to me! And you say I’m just like every other person of my class? Have you looked at yourself? You’re practically the same—you are just like every other genteel person that has ever been, especially the ones you detest.”

Cassian stepped even closer. “Am I, Miss Erso?”

“You are,” Jyn replied. “You may not have not been born into your status and wealth, but that does not make much of a difference now to me.” She cocked her head in mock inquisitiveness. “Is that not why you bought a part of my father’s estate, and are now even considering retiring from your occupation—to become a part of all of this?”

Cassian’s expression took on a look of indignance. 

“For all I know, Mr. Andor,” Jyn said, finding satisfaction in it, “you already are. You are now a part of the same brood which you criticize me for. You are just like everyone else—just like me. Gentlemen and ladies who play and scheme and make alliances to build their own wealth.”

Cassian’s expression hardened, his sharp gaze boring into Jyn’s eyes. She steeled herself. 

“Clearly, Miss Erso,” he said quietly, “the books you read haven’t done you justice. Such a shame—all that reading, and yet no amount of knowledge has yet to cure your narrow view of the world. You attempt to insult me, that much is clear, but you do not even know what you are saying.”

Jyn relented with a lethargic shrug. “I suppose that makes both of us, when you first insulted me.” 

The lines of Cassian’s scowl deepened. Jyn’s heart raced. They both watched each other silently, unable to get a read of what went in each other’s minds. 

After a few moments, she finally said, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me about my character, Mr. Andor, in my own home?” 

She stepped closer to look up at Cassian’s face. His expression slightly faltered at this move, but in only such a brief moment in time. After a few seconds of their stewing in this heated silence, the solicitor finally stepped back.

“Good day, madam.”

Jyn did not reply to this and only averted her gaze. Cassian began to walk away. 

When he disappeared out of the door, Jyn finally let out the guttural and shaky sigh that had been building up in her chest since he’d arrived. 

As she shut her eyes in the middle of the room, she felt her heart sink to depths she hadn’t known existed before. Her soul wore heavy upon her body, and yet the fiery tongues of her anger burned it so hot she felt it surface to her face.

Gathering her wits, she finally walked back to the window where she had left her papers. Soon enough, through the glass pane, she saw Cassian emerge from the house below, his steps quick and light as he hurried back to his carriage. 

Jyn did not watch him leave this time; before the carriage door even closed on him, she had already twisted on her heel and walked to her bedchamber.

[royalarchivist]

Richarlyson: You're skinny sir, are you eating well these days?

Pac: Not really. To tell you the truth, I've been eating... I stole, together with my son, we stole some cupcakes from the Federation. I ate some, but I know chocolate isn't the best thing to eat, right?

Richarlyson: 12 kilos D:

Pac: 12 kilos?!? No– what? My god. My god... Am I malnourished, Doctovo? Am I- Am I malnourished?

Richarlyson: You weigh less than a pitbull, sir.

Pac: Less than the singer? Damn... [Laughs]

Richarlyson: [Hits Pac]

[ahalliance]

how do i turn qantoine’s spontaneous marriage proposal to qetoiles into evidence of his early-days fear of qfrench drifing away and keeping secrets from one another

[rainingincale]

you take your phone INSIDE THE SHOWER ??? like i get the songs thing but thats why they invented bathroom sink outside the shower so you can turn your phone on full volume and leave it there !!

My reading comprehension skills = NONE

This is what i do. I was understanding the question as just listening to music while in the shower, not actually taking the phone INTO the shower with you 🤣😭

*in reference to this poll*

[solalunar-eclipse]

Sonic Boom - S3E13

Chapter title: Schrödinger's Hedgehog, Part 2

Summary: The truth about Shadow is revealed, and some problems are solved…while others are made worse. Will a team of five emotionally inexperienced people be able to do what needs to be done?

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[This episode begins without any kind of a cold open, jumping directly into the introductory sequence.]

[Shadow is not present in the part with the rest of the heroes, but their team shot is still structured as if he were there, making the absence very noticeable.]

[Instead, he appears in his old villain intro, with just his stripes and angry eyes visible. However, after a second or two, his eyes change into a much more nervous expression, and dart around briefly.]

[Then, the rest of the sequence continues, complete with the episode title at the end.]

…

When Tails had called the others, they’d all rushed into his workshop immediately, fearing the worst. “What’s wrong, Tails?” Amy had cried. Sonic, somehow, didn’t say a thing. Instead, he darted over to Shadow, clearly concerned for his rival-turned-friend.

What they found, however, was something far stranger than what they had expected.

At Sonic’s gasp, all five teammates gathered around Shadow, staring at his exposed hand. It didn’t look like anything they’d seen before—in fact, it barely resembled any of their own, except in general shape.

Starting from the middle of Shadow’s forearm, his black coloration ended and a strange silicone material began. It was a dull and semi-transparent grey (except for his arm stripe, which was pale red), with wires threaded throughout it, weaving around a central piston that extended up into the rest of his arm. His hand was made of the same silicone, and contained five segmented metal bars that extended through each of his fingers in place of the usual hand structure. They ended in five wickedly sharp steel claws that looked as though they could slice through Eggman’s badniks like they were made of warm butter.

Everyone stared until Sticks broke the silence. “He’s been replaced by a robot!” she screamed. “Who knows who they’ll come for next?!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Sticks. What I want to know is, since when has Shadow had a prosthetic hand?” Amy asked, confused.

Tails frowned. “I don’t know, but however he got it, this is a seriously advanced piece of machinery. It almost perfectly mimics a real hand!”

While Amy and Tails discussed this revelation, Sonic eyed the way the piston in Shadow’s arm seemed to extend past what he could see somewhat suspiciously. Sure, maybe that was how prosthetics worked and he just didn’t know it, but something wasn’t quite adding up to him.

Running on that gut feeling, he pulled off Shadow’s other glove…

…to reveal a second synthetic hand underneath.

A momentary silence fell as everyone stared again.

Knuckles blinked. “So was Sticks right about him being replaced by a robot?”

“I don’t know about replaced, that just doesn’t feel right, but maybe…aha!” Tails exclaimed. “My scanners were calibrated to organic material, not inorganic! Let me try again.”

The entire team waited with bated breath as Tails’s machinery began to analyze Shadow one last time. The loading bar on the screen seemed almost excruciatingly slow as it ticked upwards a centimeter at a time.

And then, there was a map of Shadow’s insides for everyone to see. 

It still didn’t make perfect sense, since there were large parts of Shadow simply listed as “unidentifiable material”, but now it was perfectly clear that he didn’t have one (or even two) prosthetic arms. Shadow was, somehow, an android. An android with Ancient markings on some of his frame, to boot.

Tails looked torn between freaking out in shock and freaking out in excitement. “Chaos, that actually makes perfect sense!” 

“Uh…what makes perfect sense, bud?” Sonic asked.

“You guys remember how Shadow knew all this stuff about the Ancients—like with your mech, Sonic? Well, a while back,  Amy and I discovered that Mighton and Bolts are actually Ancient robots with ridiculously advanced AIs.”

“Oh yeah! Plus, now that I think about it, he seemed kinda awkward earlier when we were all talking about our opinions on robots.” Sonic added.

“So what I think is, since the robots of Roboken are so…lifelike, mentally, why couldn’t the Ancients have made a robot that looks like us as well as thinks like us?” the engineer finished.

“Why would they want to do that?” Amy asked. 

Tails shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe just because they could?”

“But how does any of this help us fix him?” Knuckles said, looking upset.

“Because…” the fox said proudly. “I may not know how to fix people, but I sure know how to fix robots!”

The entire team cheered at that, even Sticks.

“Alright!” Tails declared. “Guys, I need all of you to go back to Shadow’s cave and find anything that might help me fix him. Meanwhile, I’m going to hook him up to my computers and see what else I can figure out.”

“On it!” Sonic said, saluting. He rushed out the door with everybody else in tow, leaving Tails alone in the lab.

With an unconscious, highly advanced robot who also just happened to be his semi-friend. 

“This is one of the best days of my life.” he whispered.

Fifteen minutes later, once he’d managed to access Shadow’s brain wirelessly, his computer crashed.

(And so did his mood. At least temporarily.)

Tails sighed, rewiring some ports in the back so that all of his various devices could share processing power. Then, he tried rebooting it and reconnecting it to Shadow. 

Immediately, he received about twenty different error messages, including a [Files Incompatible: Open anyway?] request. 

He selected [Yes] hesitantly, and then gasped as row after row of files filled his screen. Most of them were names he didn’t even understand…because they were all written in Ancient. 

Tails scrambled for the original and translated copies of the robot manuscript that Amy had made him, hoping that he could use them as a sort of decoding mechanism for what he saw on screen. Thankfully, they did indeed make it a little easier to understand the writing—and the parts he could read were all incredible.

Shadow had an absolutely insane amount of files just for his sense of smell, let alone his optics and auditory sensors. And that wasn’t even touching his actual cognitive programming. 

Once he’d finished geeking out, Tails ran a full diagnostic of Shadow’s body, and discovered the problem. The house had fallen on him in the right position to somehow…disconnect some of his processing capability? It didn’t entirely make sense, and Tails spent the next few minutes deep in thought.

Suddenly, he came to a realization. Very slowly, he clicked on the file labeled with what he hoped was the Ancients’ version of ‘opacity’, and crossing his fingers, he turned the slider contained within most of the way down.

And with that, the entirety of Shadow’s ‘fur’ faded to the same dull, transparent grey and pale red. 

Beneath the rest of his silicone body, endless wires and metal framing lay. Even his eyelids were transparent (and Tails thought it was slightly creepy to see him staring blankly through them, if he was being entirely honest). And in the center of his body pulsed a bright blue crystal.

Looking closely, Tails could see that one of the clamps attaching a wire to the crystal had completely broken, leaving the wire detached. He knew at a glance that it wouldn’t match any of the clamp types he had—it was a completely unique make.

Unfortunately, that meant that all he could do now was wait for his friends to come back.

…

The other four were all busy searching through the boxes in Shadow’s cave, hoping to find something that matched what their engineer friend had seen inside him. Nothing seemed to fit the picture Tails had sent, though, and they were all starting to lose hope.

Sonic wandered throughout the cave, past the place where they’d found the mech. Only a little farther along, a rough bedroom was set up, and it made Sonic a little sad to see how poorly Shadow was living even compared to Knuckles these days.

Then, he noticed the corner of another cardboard box poking out from underneath the bed. Scrambling forward, he pulled it out, barely noting the carefully lettered label: Emergency Parts.

“Guys!” he yelled, already digging through the electronics. “Guys, I think I found it!” The others gathered around him just as he held up a clamp triumphantly, and Amy quickly matched it to the picture Tails had sent.

It was perfect.

Immediately, they all raced back to Tails’s workshop, the blue hedgehog making no effort to be gentle as he slammed the entire box down on the table. “Can you fix him?” Sonic asked, looking over at the android nervously. 

“I think so?” Tails said hesitantly. “I spent some time searching through his command files and found a couple things that might help.”

He pressed a button, and a section of Shadow’s silicone covering pulled back to reveal his internal wiring. Carefully, Tails pulled out the broken clamp with his fingers (since there was no tool that matched the ones the Ancients had used) and replaced it with the new one. Then, the engineer pulled out some of his most delicate tools and gently reset the wire in its housing. 

After a moment of careful inspection to make sure nothing was out of alignment, as well as a quick voltage check, Tails set the silicone covering back in place and sat back with a sigh. “We’ll just have to hope that he’ll be able to fix the rest on his own from here.” he said quietly, watching Shadow’s still body along with the others.

…

>>System malfunction: Corrected_

>>Rebooting_

Shadow gasped, sitting bolt upright. 

He took a trembling breath, out of habit more than anything else. Looking around, he saw that he was in Tails’s (currently empty) lab. He relaxed marginally at that—so he was among friends. Good. 

…Immediately afterwards, he remembered to feel embarrassed about how easy it was for him to feel safe around the other five these days.

Now then, what was he doing here? The last thing he remembered was saving that little girl from the house, and then everything went dark. As he looked around, however, he suddenly found that feeling of safety ripped right out of his head—

—when he noticed that his coloration had been dialed down to only twenty-five percent opacity. No matter whether it had happened during his injury, or afterwards here in the lab, it meant that the team knew.

As Shadow looked around with increasing terror, automatically running a self-diagnostic, he noticed that one of his clamps was registered as having been recently replaced. That must’ve been what knocked me out, he noted faintly. The most terrible part of all of it, though, was the fact that there were files filling up the entirety of Tails’s screen.

His files. The files that made up the personality of the creation named Shadow.

How long had they been looking through his head?!

Shadow terminated the connection instantly, his eyes flashing with a mixture of hurt and fury. And here he’d thought he could trust these heroes. They’d called him their friend. He scoffed to himself furiously, ignoring the betrayed pain building up inside him. He had been a fool. 

And it was then that Tails appeared at the door.

The android bared his teeth defensively, leaping off the table and into a fighting stance.

“Guys?” Tails squeaked. “I…I don’t think Shadow’s happy with me…”

Suddenly, the rest of the team piled into the room, making Shadow take a sudden step backwards. 

“You okay, Shads?” Sonic asked worriedly.

“Do you need anything?” Amy added.

Shadow snarled at them, his shoulders hunching. “Liars. Traitors! Don’t bother pretending you all still like me.”

“What?” Tails said, his eyes widening.

“You heard what I said!” he barked. “I know you all rifled through my head like a—a storage cabinet! Did you like what you saw? Was it fun?”

“No! No, Shads, we didn’t look at anything, except what we needed to fix you! We’d never!” Sonic cried, visibly taken aback.

“Sure.” he scoffed. “As if I’d believe that now.”

And with that, he vanished.

…

The team scoured the entire island in search of Shadow, but he was always one step ahead of them. After several hours of searching, they were forced to take a break, regrouping at Amy’s house.

“How does he keep on escaping?” Knuckles sighed, currently collapsed on the couch.

Tails frowned. “As long as his power source doesn’t die, he can theoretically keep going at the same pace for as long as he wants. We just can’t match up to that kind of persistence.”

Sonic began to type on his communicator even more quickly than usual, belying his stress. “Well, we might not be able to, but I know someone a little more experienced than us who could find him.”

“Nobody’s a better tracker than me!” Sticks cried.

“You are the best tracker we have…but you’re tired right now, and we need more people with different skills to find him.” Amy pointed out.

“Fine.” the badger huffed. “So who’s he calling?”

Sonic watched his communicator intently as three flashing dots appeared on the messaging app. “Someone who owes me a favor.”

Several minutes later, Vector kicked the door open. “Never fear, the Chaotix Detective Agency is here!” he cried.

“Agency?” Amy asked skeptically. “There’s only one of you.”

Vector smirked. “Well, sure. Last time you saw me, there was! But I’ve been asking around, putting up some ads on ConnectIn, and I managed to find these guys!” He stepped aside to reveal a chameleon dressed in stereotypical goth clothing and a hyperactive bee.

“He didn’t actually find either of us on ConnectIn.” the chameleon added. “I sought him out, and he just stumbled upon Charmy over there by pure chance.”

“Ohhhh wow, are you guys the heroes Vector told me about?” Charmy gasped, flying all around them excitedly. 

“Yeah, they are. But right now we’re on the job, got it, pal?” Vector said, gently pulling the kid back to his side.

“Got it!” Charmy chirped (and then immediately grinned at the team the moment Vector looked away).

“Yeah, so this is Charmy, our resident scout, air support, and mascot,” Vector explained, “and this here is Espio. He’s got some cool ninja skills, so he helps me out too. A lot, if I’m being honest.”

The chameleon promptly turned invisible, making the other five gasp. “So cool…” Knuckles whispered. 

Espio then reappeared, now with a slight blush on his face. “Thanks.” he said quietly.

“Now then, just sit back and relax!” Vector said cheerfully. “We’ll find your guy in no time, I promise!”

…

‘No time’ turned out to be exactly three hours and twenty-two minutes. During that time period, Amy managed to stress-bake two batches of banana muffins, Tails and Knuckles half-heartedly played a board game, Sticks was busy hiding the banana muffins in various ‘apocalypse caches’, and Sonic wore a circular hole in the rug.

All five of them nearly hit the roof when the Chaotix called Sonic’s communicator.

“Hey, Sonic!” Vector said. “Listen, we found your guy, but we have one tiny problem.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Sonic asked, his foot tapping rapidly.

Espio appeared in the picture. “He’s camped out in an old Ancient ruin, and he’s switched all of the defenses on. I was the only one who could get within forty feet without laser cannons trying to blast me to bits.”

“And we didn’t sign up to get blasted to bits!” Charmy chimed in.

“I, uh, I hope this won’t affect our payment?” Vector added hopefully.

“No way!” Sonic said hurriedly, eager to get on with things already. “I called you guys in to find him, not to bring him back here. Just send us the coordinates and we’ll call it all square, okay?”

Vector grinned. “It’s been great doin’ business with ya, Sonic! If you ever need something found again, just remember us and we’ll help you out!”

In the background, they could hear Charmy singing something that sounded an awful lot like “Team Chaotix! They’re detectives you want on your side!”

“Thanks so much, Vec. See ya!” Sonic said, signing off.

“Alright.” Amy said, punching a fist into her other hand. “Now all we have to do is get Shadow back.”

“That’s easier said than done.” Tails said, looking nervous. “I just got the coordinates, and this is a temple nobody’s even discovered before. It could be really dangerous.”

“Oh yeah? We can handle dangerous!” Knuckles said cheerfully.

A montage ensues in which the team prepares for the ordeal ahead. Tails gathers up all of his equipment, while Sticks does the same with their homemade monitoring devices. Amy smashes a few targets with her hammer, Knuckles practices his burrowing form, and Sonic adds some extra sports tape to his ankles.

Then, the scene cuts to the team approaching the ruins. They smile confidently and begin to charge in an epic slow motion shot—only to end up screaming and running back in the other direction when the laser cannons start firing.

“Alright, scrap the ‘Epic Hero Entrance’ plan.” Sonic wheezed. “Tails, you go ahead and disable the cannons. The rest of us can wait until you’re done.”

The fox dashed across the field, his tails whirring at top speed. After a few tense minutes, in which he was forced to work while plastered against the wall to stay in the cannons’ blind spots, he stuck out his hand with a thumbs-up as the machinery deactivated.

Knuckles inched out onto the field carefully, and when he wasn’t immediately turned into a scorch mark, the others followed behind him. Tails managed to open the doors not long after they reached his position, and they all braced themselves for the trials ahead. 

Next up was a…completely empty hallway?

At least, it seemed that way until Sticks held up their hand, sniffing the air warily. After a moment, they blew chalk dust into the hall, revealing the laser beams that crisscrossed the way forward. Carefully, the badger dodged each and every beam until they made it to the other side, their foot automatically pressing a panel that deactivated the beams.

After that, there was a memory matching puzzle that ended up being solved by Amy, which took her a few tries to get right. As soon as she finished, she did a quick celebratory dance—before remembering that she was supposed to be the serious one, and if any of you think about mentioning that ever again, first remember the ten out of ten targets I hit with my hammer earlier. 

Then, they were faced with a few riddles that Knuckles got right with his oddly specific riddling skills, and then (of course) a giant labyrinth with about twenty different hallways spiraling off it in every direction imaginable. Yes, that did include one pointing directly upwards. Sonic sped through each and every path until he found an exit that didn’t lead to a pit of flames, a pit of snakes, a spike trap, a pit of piranhas, or any other kind of murder-inclined pits. Then, he shot off a guided flare that Tails had provided to show the way, and the rest simply followed the glowing trail directly to him.

Carefully, they all lined up, staring down into the darkness ahead. A faint light emanated from the end of the hall, showing them the way they hoped would lead to their missing friend.

[screen fades to black]

[This time it’s Tails complaining. “Aw, come on! Another cliffhanger? We’re almost to the best part!”]

[roll credits]

[flyingspicerack]

hey guys, this is very hard for me to talk about and bring up, but ive talked to a few people about it in priv already, and I think im ready to publicly talk about it...

When i joined the ososan fandom back in March, it was a bit... dead? And i was trying to grasp at straws, trying to find people to connect to, trying to make some friends, and came upon one person who I seemed to mesh with really well. She posted a lot about a big server she had full of people to talk about her content with and I was at first wary to join (i dont like big servers) but did so anyway. However, as I was wary, the two of us stayed in DMs for quite a while, in addition to me being in the big server as well. This person was equally reciprocating conversation with me, with equal excitement, with equal interest to the subject matter. I believe everything is going fine, them and I, i think, are becoming closer friends, she invited me to a smaller group run by someone else, things are good for a couple weeks. Im showing up and watching art streams, sure, im a little awkward, its a new group of people and I have adhd and am very neurodivergent (to which she claims she is as well) so i'm a bit... weird or whatever, but who isnt??

Then, I'm pulled aside, im pulled into a smaller group chat with this person and two 'mediators' to which this person proceeds to tear into me, telling me that i make her uncomfortable, that im being codependent with her (bitch the 'co' in 'codependency' implies ur reciprocating but claimed i was the only problem), i put her up on a pedestal, says our age gap is weird, etc. (I have screenshots of the whole 'confrontation' if ppl want to see it) and i was terrified... She never indicated prior to this that I was making her uncomfortable... I thought i was doing everything correctly, i thought i was being a friend, i thought we were equally excited to hang out with one another?

So, from this, because of this, this bitch fucking traumatized me. She had me believing, and still trying to unlearn, that i am annoying, that i am a nuisance, that im a bother to everyone that i come around, she destroyed my self esteem and destroyed how i try to make friendships because i am SO SCARED all the time now... that one of you is going to turn around and tell me that I put you on some kind of pedestal, that im being annoying and bothering you all too much, its why i disappeared the other day because i got scared i was posting too much, that i got scared that i was ... doing something wrong...

So... ok now that im in it, writing this, excuse my lack of composure for the rest of this post, i tried to hold it but now im getting angry

SO FUCKING MEANWHILE THIS BITCH, talking about codependency and age gaps in friendships, her two 'lackeys' apparently were her ONLY friends during like 4 years of her life (codependent hippocracy) AND she was into ososan from the beginning when she was like fucking 14, and one of her lakeys is OLDER than me at 29 AND WAS FRIENDS WITH HER WHEN SHE WAS 22 AND THIS BITCH WAS 14 SO you're gonna sit here and tell me that OUR age gap is weird when THAT SHIT is going on????????????????????? And fucking- PUTTING you on a fucking PEDESTAL?? when YOU are the one who is the OVERLORD of this fucking server you have with like 50+ peons, AND you have this nasty ass notification in the server to alert EVERYONE when someone leaves to which is kinda creepy and controlling??

Anyway i responded scared out of my mind and backed off... she didnt want to cut me out, just limit conversation and take me out of the smaller knit circle and we could still be friends, but obviously this freaked me out and i didnt talk to her much after that.... ANYWAY so this person THEN has the audacity to reach out to me a month or so later and is like 'hey... we haven't talked much and i think something might have happened between us? are we ok? you're really distant" and then i fucking laid into her cause i had the month to think on it...

If any of this behavior sounds familiar to you, its bc the person 'in charge' is known as Ava, or pinklemonfruit here on tumblr, and one of her lackeys? Lovenu, who im pretty sure a lot of you already know of... theres another one, her name is emmy, her username here i believe is lichenqueen and was the other 'mediator' i have been told by one source that they potentially could be lying about their age, but take this with a grain of salt bc i have no proof of this

I unfortunately dove right into this when i came into the fandom bc i didn't know any better, i didn't know that these people were bad and caused problems back in the day... but now im aware and i need everyone else who may interact with them to know that they are not good people and have hurt me personally. They have caused me trauma that I am trying really hard to get over but i fear its going to take a long time...

This is MY personal story and account of interactions with these people and I will continue to believe what I know from personal experience. If you come to me, trying to defend any of these people or try to make light of this situation, you will no longer be allowed to associate with me. This fucked me up, and I will not compromise on this, you will no longer feel safe to be around if you condone how these people treated me. If you do not believe my words, then fine, but i will no longer desire company from people who will condone this type of treatment that I had to endure and have been suffering through the aftereffects of.

Thank you for taking the time to read about my story and im sorry if it ended up too personal at all. But, I really hope those that read this will... understand my timid behavior? Why im ALWAYS saying sorry? Why im always so scared in group setting like aggies, why im always so apprehensive and timid and keep thinking people are lying to me about really liking having me around? Its because of this, this is truly and horribly messed up to do to someone... making them feel so low and horrible about their existence ...

if you have any questions, i am willing to answer them...

[piedoesnotequalpi]

Fake Fic Title:

From The Ladder’s Last Rung

Hello! I am fairly sure (after some googling) that your title is a reference to a Noah Kahan song!

Anyway, to me "last rung" can mean either the highest or the lowest point on a ladder, depending on your perspective, and that is the premise of this fic concept!

Race goes through elementary/middle/high school with a reputation of being both the class clown and one of the smartest people in his grade. What most people don't know, though, is that he uses the class clown part of his personality to deflect from the fact that he is not doing as well, grades-wise, as people might think--sure, he takes AP history when it's available, but he never gets higher than a B- on his report card for it. So when senior year rolls around, the combination of good grades in most other subjects and extracurriculars that make him seem interesting means he is able to get into one of his reach schools.

Anyway, Race goes off to school and he's very excited about the whole thing. He can finally put history, which is his least favorite subject, in the metaphorical rearview mirror; he's going to major in math and minor in dance; he's going to join all the clubs that weren't available to him in high school. During course registration, he ignores the suggestion from his RA that he should perhaps consider only taking one math class his first semester and registers for honors calculus (yes, this is a thing at some colleges) and an upper-level math class that only has a prerequisite of calc 1 and 2.

The problem with college, especially the first semester, is that it is often a big adjustment from high school no matter what your high school was like. Classes that really should not be taught lecture-style are taught that way, you're (sometimes) in a new city/town and even if you aren't you probably don't know a ton of people, and suddenly you have a much higher degree of independence. So Race is dealing with the general first semester freshman woes of making new friends and having a roommate and balancing time and navigating dining halls, but he's also dealing with the fact that for the first time in his life, he's struggling in his math classes. And that makes everything worse for him, because if he can't even do the one thing he's supposed to be really really good at, then how can he get through the rest of college? Does he even deserve to be there? Clearly his college made a mistake when they accepted him despite his less-than-perfect history grades. (those are his thoughts, not mine; he does deserve to be there)

As I mentioned earlier, he's used to using his class clown-esque personality to deflect from what's actually going on in his life, so almost no one knows how stressed he is. He still talks to his high school friends a lot, but so many of them are at their colleges having (as far as he's aware) a much easier time adjusting, so he doesn't want to talk about it with most of them. He goes to office hours sometimes, but he is very careful about which problems he gets help with to keep up the illusion that he knows what's going on. This would be less of a problem if he met up with his classmates to do homework, but he's worried he won't be useful enough to them. And obviously he would rather die than tell his new college acquaintances how overwhelmed he's feeling. The semester goes by in a blur of homework stress and club meetings and conversations where he just barely manages to convince everyone that he's doing okay (it's a lot harder than it used to be), all overlaid by the feeling that he's not good enough.

Being a college student gets easier, but not easy enough that he's able to turn everything around by the end of the semester. He withdraws from one of his math classes, and doesn't do great in the other, and he does...okay in his other classes. It's not the end of the world, but it does mean he has to drop out of the honors calculus sequence and possibly retake the class he withdrew from. But that doesn't stop Race from feeling like a failure, even though the only people who see his grades are him and his parent(s) (I haven't decided what his parent situation is in this), and they're understanding. It'll be easy to make up the credits he lost from the course withdrawal by taking some lower credit electives in later semesters, and he has seven more semesters to raise his GPA and figure things out.

And then we come back to the title and my (mis)interpretation of it (I wasn't just rambling pointlessly this whole time): To Race's parent(s), he's fallen off the bottom rung of the metaphorical ladder, so it's pretty manageable to get back up and keep going. But to Race, he's fallen off the top rung, because he can't stop thinking that he peaked in high school.

Things do get better for him, and later on he'll probably experience stuff that's way worse and wish it were just a rough first semester of undergrad, but in the moment, it really sucks!

[morganaspendragonss]

hate working in translation sometimes, i had a client come back to me today like ‘ummm sweaty i think you need to check this translation, it says the child is male when it’s not specified in english’

bestie…….thats literally just how portuguese (and spanish and arabic etc etc) works

[taexual]

hey not to sound rude or anything it’s just a critic that i would like to share with you bc i feel like you write too much detail about other things that aren’t really how do i say it not important to the storyline. for example you wrote almost a whole chapter of jk and his friends doing absolutely nothing other than bicker for 30mins while drinking beer and what not so while it’s cool and very important for us readers to know about some details and information about the characters in the story it’s just too much and you did it again in chapter 7 too it’s like we never get to see him interact with oc more than 5 mins and the next moment he’s with his friends or idk she has to work on this and that like i get it she has to work but i don’t need to know the equipments. again im not trying to be rude or discredit you i love your story it’s very interesting i just want to let you know what you might do better next time if you would allow us to criticize you :)

hii, thank you so much for your insight!! i really appreciate it, although i am sorry those scenes felt excessive for you. they're meant to visualise the atmosphere, introduce you to the characters, build on their personalities, and strengthen the storyline, so it isn't just two-dimensional cardboard cut-outs interacting with each other in a vacuum. i'm hoping for full immersion into this universe with the way i write, but i understand if you're mainly interested in the two main characters interacting -- that's obviously totally fine! thank you for reading so far, anyway! 🥰❤️

[mejomonster]

Every time a tarot reading for me says divine timing/universe has a plan I'm like dhjdjd

OK universe you can just say you don't wanna tell me and don't think it's any of my fucking business even though it's My Life shdhjd ToT

[icantalk710]

📱😪

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin’ you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)