#the flashbacks and how he speaks about him

[sahkuna]

TO YOU SOMEDAY — GOJO SATORU

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

synopsis: time makes the heart grow fonder... you think. from your early childhood years to navigating life as adults, there are key moments that gojo satoru holds near and dear. there are so many things he wants and hopes to say to you, someday. but for now, the memories and things he keeps will suffice.

series content warning(s): afab reader, 18+ so mdni, modern au/canon divergence, childhood friends, frienemies to lovers, slow-ish burn, flashback(s) used a lil to drive plot, fluff & domestic fluff, pining, small angst if you squint sorry, eventual smut/smut → resolved sexual tension, #MMC BEING SO IN 🤍 WITH FMC IT'S PATHETIC (WE ALL CHEERED).

word count: 3k :3 | series masterlist

THEN

You’re about eight years old on the wet, gloomy April morning you first met him. 

His arrival was unexpected, especially considering he entered the school year about two weeks after it had started. 

“Everyone,” your third-grade teacher, Ms. Ayase, stood at the front of the classroom with her hands clasped together. Beside her was a child, a boy, no taller than the middle half of her torso. “Today we have a new student joining our class!”

This news sparked excited whispers and chatter that floated through the rows of desks and chairs in the room. You sat a little taller in your seat, your eyes zeroed in on the new kid who stood motionless beside your teacher. 

Ms. Ayase thumped her palm loudly against the chalkboard— twice, then three times— to regain her class’s attention. Pleased once everyone had fallen silent, she opened her mouth to speak again. “I’d like you all to meet Gojo. Gojo Satoru.”

Young, curious eyes around the room took turns peeking at their new classmate with prolonged stares. Sharp blue eyes matched their curiosity with an uninterested gaze. His little fists jammed tight into his pockets as he stared straight toward the back of the room as if he’d rather be elsewhere.

“I trust that you all will make him feel welcome today and going forward,” Ms. Ayase continued. 

You’d seen most kids cry and buckle under the sudden weight of attention thrown onto them while being introduced to 20-something pairs of eyes staring right back at them. In contrast, other kids basked in the spotlight with glee, quick to spew fun facts about themselves or whatever cool interests they were dying to share with the class.

But this kid? Gojo? 

He didn’t even crack the smallest of smiles. Not even when your fellow classmate and friend, Momo, waved a cheerful hand at him.

For a split second, large, bright blue eyes landed on you and settled there for a fleeting moment before he shifted his attention away.

The harsh, bright light from the class’s luminescent bulbs glinted against the rims of Ms. Ayase’s red rectangular glasses when she glanced down at her new student. “We’re having one of our custodians bring you a new desk, Gojo. So for the time being I’ll have you sit tight right next to…”

Your teacher’s warm brown eyes scanned the room of third graders as many enthusiastic arms shot up in the air paired with piercing “Me!”s and “Choose me!”s chorused all around you.

You felt relieved when you saw everyone throwing their hat into the ring to have Gojo Satoru sit beside them because now you wouldn’t have to worry about making small talk, especially with a boy.

Content with the many options Ms. Ayase now had to choose from, you drifted your attention outside the window toward the school campus courtyard. With all the commotion now drowned out, you took the time to ponder about what games you’d play with your friends during the next recess.

Seconds slipped by with you lost in your thoughts, oblivious to how classmates' antics had stopped and the sudden hush that blanketed the classroom. It was so unnatural and it dawned on you that Ms. Ayase must have already made her choice. So, when you snap your focus back to the front of the room, you’re jolted at the fact that everyone is now looking at you. 

It took a moment for reality to sink in that your teacher had called your name until she repeated it, shaking you from your daze. A few more students turned in their seats and cast mixed looks of envy and surprise.

Out of everyone who had raised their hands, of course, she had to have chosen you to be Gojo’s temporary seatmate. Of. Course.

“Huh?” you squawked in bewilderment, taken aback by her impromptu choice. “Me!?” Suddenly nervous under the scrutiny of your classmates, you shrunk into your seat in a weak attempt to lessen the heat of their stares. 

Judging by the looks of it, he doesn’t look all too thrilled about her decision either. As if he were sizing you up, Gojo gives you a jaded once-over before hauling his navy blue backpack from the floor with a quipped, “Sure.”

Fortunately enough for Ms. Ayase, your desk wasn’t far from the front, so it took her only a minute or so to take an extra chair from the corner of her room and drag it aaall the way over to you. 

Once at your desk, she plopped the chair beside you with a resounding thud. She flapped her hand a few times as if to signal you to scooch over and make some room. So, you did. And not far behind her, Gojo walked over to your desk and dropped into the chair next to you, without sparing you a glance.

Great!

You hadn’t even spoken a word to the boy and he was already giving you the cold shoulder. 

Either oblivious to Gojo’s distant nature or blatantly choosing to overlook it, Ms. Ayase—pleased with her seating arrangements—gave you an approving nod before she walked back to the front of the classroom to begin her lesson.

Amid her teaching, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Gojo inconspicuously. He was an odd case, and you wanted to take a crack at breaking down his stony exterior. You don’t mind being the first to extend an olive branch to kickstart the beginning of a hopefully new friendship.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so you wouldn’t disturb the flow of other students who tried to learn. First-day jitters get the best of everyone and you had wanted to give this Gojo Satoru kid a chance to at least be acquainted with you before you start to form your own opinions on him. 

You were doing a good thing. You were being a friend, a great one at that. That’s what any new transfer would want on their first day at a new school, right?

Well...

It came as a shock to you that upon hearing your voice, you caught how Gojo’s gaze slowly shifted from his scattered notes and childish cartoon-like sketches to forcefully land on you as if you were doing him a disservice at trying to be friendly.

The kind smile that had graced your lips before his unrelenting stare now turned sour and awkward. 

His expression wasn’t mean, but it certainly wasn’t friendly either. Just… blank. And the more he stared, surveying you, probably looking down on you and your attempts to befriend him, the more annoyed you became.

Yeah, never mind.

What was his damage?!

Never have you ever met a child so strange.

With your lips twisted into a faint sneer and your brows bunched tightly together, you exhaled a vexed hmph at Gojo’s less-than-pleasant attitude and shot your eyes back to Ms. Ayase— who was now scribbling a bunch of numbers and diagrams onto the blackboard. You even shunt your seat a few spaces away from him to show your disfavour.

You simply concluded that getting to know let alone, befriending Gojo Satoru may not be in the cards for you… ever.

Every day you thanked your lucky stars for the handy dandy custodian, Mr. Taro, who had fast-tracked the delivery of your sworn enemy’s (which was one-sided)  desk within the next few days after his arrival.

You no longer had to worry yourself sick every morning on the walk to school about brushing shoulders and sharing textbooks with your classmate, Gojo Satoru. 

That had been a whole five months ago, though, and you now only had a week left of your summer break before your second semester would begin. Since the very first day you met him, you’ve watched Gojo grow into the role of your class’s star student. 

He was everyone’s first choice for P.E. if there were teams for the games you’d play, and he was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Anyone who managed to prompt a conversation that lasted more than a few minutes with Gojo was determined to be one of the lucky ones. It was a known fact that everyone at school wanted to be his friend.

Well… almost everyone.

Tired of swinging on the swings, you launched yourself off the play set and into a pile of woodchips that cushioned the land onto your feet. The sun crept lower on the horizon, painting the sky with warm oranges and blues. You remembered your mom having told you that you were expected to come home before dinner. 

Your buddy, Momo, had walked home from the neighbourhood park long before you, and seeing that you had nothing else to do, you decided to start your short trek home.

“Time to go,” you said to no one in particular. You walked over to your bag that was thrown haphazardly on one of the picnic tables and swung it over to slink your arms through each strap.

Unbeknownst to you, you must’ve forgotten to zip up your backpack completely earlier, prompting most of your bag’s contents to spill across the pavement.

You grunted in aggravation. “Jeez,” you growled to yourself, as you scooped up the scattered pencils and trading cards you had packed into your hands in a crabby fashion. There must’ve been at least 15 of these cards that you needed to gather.

After spending maybe a good two minutes picking up your things and wiping the dirt off them, right as you reached for your last trading card a huge gust of wind accosted you and blew the cards up and into the air. 

“Hey!” you exclaimed in shock. With great dread and an air of urgency, you shoved the rest of your belongings into your bag and chased after your runaway card.

You yelled and hollered down the sidewalks of your quiet neighbourhood thankful for the most part that it was vacant. God forbid if someone you knew from school saw you running and screaming bloody murder over a damn trading card. “Stop!” 

This was the kind of chase scene you’d seen play out in a children’s TV show with the obnoxious laugh track faintly playing in the back. To say you were mortified at your predicament would be an understatement.

The card having a mind of its own took a sharp turn around a corner, and you not far behind followed it. Unfortunately, unaware that there could be another being behind that very corner, your sharp turn wound you to bump into someone’s back. Hard.

You let out an audible oomph right as you tumbled onto the ground. 

Well, there goes one of your most prized possessions. You knew it was a bad idea to bring your high-ranking cards to the park, but nooo, Momo wanted to see them before her family trip to Hakone before school started.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

You groaned and swiped a frustrated hand against your eyes as that nipping, uncomfortable feeling that you just lost your favourite card. 

Do not cry. You scolded yourself, as you pressed your fist harder against your eyes as the familiar heat of tears began to prick at your waterline. Not over a card. Especially in front of a stranger.

Reminded that you had company, you quickly rose to your feet again and dusted yourself off as if nothing had happened. “Sorry,” you said with your head down.

You sidestepped around the person, ready to make your dejected walk home with now 14 cards in tow.

Things couldn’t have gotten any worse is what you thought until you heard the “stranger” behind you make their presence known.

“You like Digimon?”

Oh God. 

When you turned to see your worst-case scenario personified, there in his hand, was your only Skullgreymon Digimon collector’s edition card in all its glory.

You’re half happy— because your card managed to be saved— and half-mortified— because your card managed to be saved by public enemy number one, Gojo Satoru.

Immediately, you decided to skip the formalities and extended your arm to snatch your card away from your hero-turned-villain. But you’re not quick enough.

“You like Digimon?” Gojo repeated, this time with more volume in his voice. The hand that held your dear Skullgreymon swivelled behind his back to keep it far from your range.

This was the most you’ve heard him speak (to you, that is). You tried not to let the wonderment of this event cloud over the fact that Gojo had something that belonged to you and kept you from taking it. 

“Yes,” you grunted and took one step forward in an attempt to grab your card again to no avail. “I do.”

Gojo blinked at you, his snowy white lashes fluttered with thoughtful consideration. When Gojo isn’t giving you blank stares or expressions that practically screamed he was judging you, you think he could be quite nice. You think.

 “Me too,” he finally said.

“... Okay.” you said, because what else are you supposed to say!?

Gauging that Gojo was in no hurry to give you back Skullgreymon anytime soon, your arm fell limp at your side and you huffed in defeat. 

You expected him to follow his confession with something else, but instead, the two of you stood on the side of the sidewalk in silence. This went on far longer than you would have liked for it to have gone. 

Gojo’s blue eyes bore into your soul with a look of expectation that stretched across his features, as he thumbed the back of your sparkly card behind him.

Your gaze diverted away from him and glanced at the slow start of a darkening sky, which was your indicator that you really needed to get home soon. But you’d be damned if you left without Skullgreymon!

Chancing a glimpse back at Gojo, his face is unreadable and serious in all its intensity. His eyebrows you were so used to seeing in straight impassive lines were now creased tight with confusion and… annoyance?

That’s when it struck you that he was waiting for you to say something!

Oh, so now he wanted you to extend the olive branch? Funny! Hilarious, even! 

No shot.

You snorted and answered his unspoken open invitation and question to play with a curt shake of your head, “Give me back my—”

“I don’t have any training lessons with my tutor tomorrow,” Gojo replied, cutting you off. You watched with horror as he tucked your card into the front pocket of his black khakis. He even tucked his hands into them to intercede any chance of you swiping it back from him. “Bring more of your cards here in the afternoon and I’ll show you some of mine.”

Without even bothering to wait for your response, let alone agreement, Gojo Satoru turned on his heel and walked his merry self home.

And that very next day you waited at the park, just like he had ordered you to do, brewed to the brim with indignation that Gojo managed to swindle you into leaving your house to meet/play/whatever it was that he wanted to see you for… with him.

Arms crossed tightly against your chest as you pressed yourself against the swingset beam, you waited for Gojo to make his arrival. Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re here.” 

Behind you, you spotted Gojo. Today he wore a different set of khakis, all-too-expensive sneakers that were not park material and… a dark blue Digimon tee. Stowed between his arm and side, he carried a black binder, probably decked out with all his Digimon cards.

Just as he had said.

Oh.

There’s a creeping sensation of guilt that bullies your conscience. Maybe you were a tad bit mean yesterday in not being open to meeting up with Gojo because today it seemed like he wanted to make a fair impression on you. 

Maybe today would be the one shot for you guys to get to know each other better.

Noticing your silence that drawled on for too long, you quickly countered with a clipped, “Of course I am!” You nodded your chin at him. “You stole my card!” 

You thought you spotted a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips, but it disappeared as quickly as you must have imagined it.

Gojo flung his binder—you swallowed the urge to tell him to be careful— and sat on the ground.

When you hadn’t immediately followed his lead, Gojo looked up at you incredulously.  “Aren’t you going to sit?”

So, you do. 

You would have been silly to pass up the rare opportunity of talking to Gojo like a normal human being rather than sworn enemies (once again, one-sided on your part).

From that day onward, there was a miraculous shift in the way you interact with your classmates. The shell of the bratty, blunt, and sometimes abrasive nature of Gojo Satoru you once knew him to have was no more.

After summer break when school was back and in session, when Ms. Ayase revealed the new seating chart for the classroom and you discovered you’d only be a desk away from Gojo, you caught the white tuft of his hair whirl to find across the class before he shot you a thumbs up.

But it didn’t stop there. 

No longer did Gojo roll his eyes when you were picked to be on the same team as him during P.E. Instead, if he were captain for one of the games, much to the class’s (and your) surprise, you were almost always chosen first.

He also intruded on the many recess sessions you’d have to play with your friends to urge you to ditch them and start a match of DCG with him. 

This spurred you to learn that Gojo had a grand fixation and bountiful admiration for Digimon— he was (and still) is a class-A nerd when it comes to all things in the Digimon franchise, more so than you.

Things had changed from where it all started in April of 1997. Gojo had changed, and you’d like to say you had to.

Satoru never wound up giving you that card back. But you no longer seemed to care about that, nor his antics. 

Not anymore.

OKAYYYY SHE (me) FINALLY DELIVERED. thank you for reading until the end! if you liked it, please yell at me about it will yell (/pos) right back <333 I HOPE YOU GUYS WILL STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT PARTS OF THIS MINI-SERIES! as it will come soon :) until then DUECES STINKIES!

*EDIT: you know, i think this will be more so a prologue/chapter "0" rather than it being chapter 1...? this is just the bones of this series. nonetheless eeeee, childhood friends to lover trope on TOP. WHO ELSE CHEERED

[joelsgoldrush]

➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this. 

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?” 

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it. 

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends. 

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

 “Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds. 

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—” 

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does. 

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you. 

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.” 

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

 “That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that. 

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking’.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[rose24207]

Shattered trust

Summary: Lando dumps you for another woman, but soon regrets it and tries to win you back.

Genre: Angst

TW: break up, leading on, tears

A/N: feeling angsty today! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

Lando didn’t know what had gotten into him. He couldn’t think straight. The weight of the past few weeks felt like a suffocating blanket, pressing down on him as if it would crush him. His chest ached with a kind of emptiness that he couldn’t escape, and yet, he had no one to blame but himself.

He had done it. He had actually ended it with you. The woman who had always been there for him, who had always supported him, who had never wavered in her loyalty and love. And for what? For some fleeting infatuation. A new, exciting person who made him feel desired in a way that you never had to. A person who, in the end, had only led him on.

Lando ran a hand through his hair, the frustration and guilt eating him up inside. He could still remember the day he walked out of your life.

Flashback

The moment he told you those words, his world had come crashing down.

Lando had always been honest with himself, but in that moment, he had become a stranger to his own feelings. When he looked at you, something in him told him that this wasn’t right, but his pride had been louder than the truth. It was selfishness. Pure and simple.

"I think we should end this," Lando had said, his voice strained as though the words were being dragged out of him.

You had looked at him, your face filled with disbelief. "What are you talking about?" you asked softly, your eyes searching his, trying to understand.

"I'm not happy," he lied, even though deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He had been happy. He was content with you, with everything you had built together. But he had convinced himself that he needed more.

The guilt had started to gnaw at him as you stood in front of him, visibly stunned, as if trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

"You’re not happy?" You swallowed hard, your voice cracking with emotion. "What does that even mean, Lando? What happened? We’ve been good… haven’t we?"

Lando wanted to take it all back. He wanted to hold you, to tell you that none of this was true, that he loved you and always would. But he couldn’t. He had already said it. He had already made his choice, and there was no going back.

“I’m sorry. But I’ve met someone else,” Lando had murmured, not looking you in the eyes. “I think… I think she’s the one for me.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a ton of bricks. “You met someone else?”

It was a punch to the gut, a blow he had never prepared for. His heart ached at the look of devastation that crossed your face. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “I’m sorry, but it’s true,” he repeated, his words faltering now. “I need to be with her.”

You took a step back, the hurt in your eyes now replaced with confusion and anger. “Are you serious right now?” Your voice rose, and Lando could feel the sting of your words cutting deeper than anything else. “You’re choosing her over me? After everything?”

Lando opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. How could he explain it? How could he explain that he had been feeling an emptiness he couldn’t define, that Elena had come into his life and made him feel alive, made him feel wanted in a way that you never had to?

"I’m sorry," Lando had said again, though his words seemed hollow, empty in the face of your pain.

You had turned away then, shaking your head in disbelief. "No, you’re not."

——

Lando’s head was spinning. A few days after breaking up with you, he found himself standing in front of Elena’s apartment, his mind full of questions. Elena had made him feel wanted, desired in ways that had been intoxicating. She was bold, confident, everything he had convinced himself he needed.

At first, he thought she was just fun, just a distraction. But the more time he spent with her, the more it seemed like she was everything he wanted. Everything he told himself you weren’t.

But the deeper he got into it, the more Lando started to see the cracks. Elena wasn’t who he thought she was. She had been manipulating him, using him to feed her ego, to make herself feel powerful. Every time they hung out, she would flirt with him, making him feel like he was the center of her world. But in the quiet moments when the fun and games died down, he could feel the distance. He could sense that she wasn’t in this for the long haul.

Still, he pushed those feelings aside, clinging to the idea of something new, something exciting.

It wasn’t until that fateful night that the mask finally slipped. He had shown up at Elena’s apartment unannounced, eager to see her, to prove that he had made the right decision in leaving you. But what he saw when he walked through the door shattered him.

Elena was sitting on the couch, her legs draped over another guy. The laughter in the room was sharp, cutting through the silence between them. Lando felt his blood run cold.

She looked up at him, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "Oh, you’re here. I was just telling Ryan about how I met someone who thought he could have it all." She laughed again, the sound light and airy, as if the weight of his presence meant nothing.

Lando’s heart sank. His legs felt weak. "What… what is this?" he demanded, his voice trembling with disbelief.

Ryan, the guy on the couch, glanced at Lando with mild curiosity. "Oh, she didn’t tell you? Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. I thought she’d mention it, but she’s been kind of busy with you lately."

Lando stood frozen in the doorway, his fists clenching at his sides. His whole body was screaming in fury, in betrayal. Elena had never cared for him at all. She had used him—used him to fill a void, to make her feel more powerful. He had been just another pawn in her game.

Elena looked at him, her expression cold and indifferent. "You were fun for a while, Lando. But you’re not really what I’m looking for. You’re too predictable, too safe. I need something more exciting, something spontaneous. You’re not that guy. You never were."

Lando’s breath caught in his throat. He had left everything—you, the only person who had ever truly loved him—because he thought he had found something better. But now he saw the truth. He saw how foolish he had been.

Elena had no real interest in him. She had only wanted a temporary distraction.

Present

Sitting in his car now, Lando clenched his jaw, his fists trembling with a mixture of regret and anger. He had ruined everything. He had thrown away the one good thing in his life—the one person who had always been there for him, who had made him feel complete.

He had told himself that he needed someone else, someone exciting, someone who made him feel wanted. But now, Elena was gone, and he was left with nothing. He had destroyed his relationship with you, and there was no way to fix it.

The silence in the car was deafening as he glanced at your building. He had tried to move on, but every time he closed his eyes, your face haunted him. The memory of your smile, the warmth of your touch, the way you loved him so unconditionally. It had all been real. But he had let it slip through his fingers.

Lando took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hands. He had to face the truth. He had to face the fact that he was the one who had made this mess.

He had to try to fix it.

Lando’s mind was racing as he stepped out of the car. His legs felt heavy as he walked toward your building, every step feeling like it was pulling him deeper into the dark reality he had created. His thoughts kept cycling back to you—the way you had looked at him that day, eyes full of confusion and pain.

He had left you without a second thought, convinced that he needed something more, something new, something that would make him feel like he was alive again. But now that he had everything he thought he wanted, he realized it had been nothing more than a hollow illusion.

With each step toward your apartment, his guilt grew heavier. He had broken your heart, betrayed your trust. He had sacrificed the love of the one person who had never let him down, for someone who had used him. Elena’s smile, the way she had taunted him with her laughter, still haunted him. It made him sick.

Lando reached the door to your apartment and hesitated for a moment. His hand trembled slightly as he knocked, the sound of his knuckles tapping against the wood almost too loud in the quiet hallway.

There was no answer at first, and for a moment, he thought about walking away. But he couldn't. Not now. Not after everything he had done. He needed to face the consequences of his actions. He needed you to know that he was sorry, that he had made a terrible mistake.

He knocked again, this time louder, his patience wearing thin. A moment later, the door opened, and there you stood. Your face was a mixture of shock and anger, but there was something else in your eyes—a vulnerability, an ache that Lando could see but was too afraid to acknowledge.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched on, suffocating. Lando opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

"I didn’t think you’d come back," you finally said, your voice tight with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” Lando whispered, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard and stepped closer, his heart pounding. “I know I don’t deserve it, but please… just hear me out.”

You crossed your arms, still standing in the doorway, but you didn’t push him away. There was an edge of caution in your stance, but beneath that, a flicker of something that made him believe there was still a chance.

“You left me, Lando,” you said softly, the words feeling like a slap in the face. “You didn’t even give me a chance to fix things. You just… walked away without any explanation.”

Lando closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the tears that threatened to surface. “I was an idiot. I thought… I thought I needed something new. I thought she was different. But she wasn’t. She never cared about me, not like you do.” His voice cracked again, raw with emotion. “I made a mistake, and now I’ve lost you.”

You let out a shaky breath, your expression unreadable. “And what exactly do you think you can do now?” you asked, your voice trembling. “You think you can just show up here and fix everything? After what you did? After what you said to me?”

“I know I can’t fix it,” Lando said, his voice low and full of regret. “But I need to try. I need you to know how sorry I am. I was stupid, selfish, and I let the wrong person into my life. But the truth is… you were always the one. You were always the person I should have been with. And I was too blind to see it.”

You shook your head, your lips trembling. “You don’t understand, do you? You betrayed me. You made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, like everything we had didn’t matter. You broke me, Lando.”

The tears that Lando had been holding back finally spilled over. He wiped his face with his hands, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to know that I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I was a fool for thinking that anything could be better than what we had.”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign that he was telling the truth. There was pain in your gaze, but there was also something else—something that Lando dared to hope was forgiveness.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said quietly, your voice full of sorrow. “But I can’t just forget everything. You can’t just walk away and expect me to be waiting for you with open arms.”

“I don’t want you to just forgive me,” Lando whispered. “I want to earn your trust back. I want to show you that I can be the man you always deserved. And I’ll spend every single day proving it to you.”

There was a long pause as you stared at him, your expression softening ever so slightly. It wasn’t forgiveness yet, but Lando saw the flicker of something—the smallest glimmer of hope.

“You’ve hurt me, Lando,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I don’t know if I can just let that go. You’ve taken everything from me.”

“I know,” Lando replied, his voice shaking with regret. “And I’m so sorry. I never should have done that to you. But please… I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Just give me a chance.”

Another long pause passed between you, and Lando held his breath, waiting. His heart was hammering in his chest, praying that you would give him another chance.

Finally, you spoke, your voice soft but resolute. “I need time. I need to think about it.”

Lando nodded, relief flooding him even though he knew this was only the beginning. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

You stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come inside,” you said, your voice tinged with something Lando couldn’t quite place. He hesitated for a moment before stepping into the apartment, his heart pounding in his chest.

As the door closed behind him, Lando felt a flicker of hope. He had a long road ahead of him, but for the first time since the day he walked away, he felt like there was a chance to make things right. A chance to prove to you that he could be the man you deserved.

And that, for now, was enough.

Thank you for reading!

[warblogs17282]

Have some more reasons why I think Moxxie and Stolas have the potential to become friends at some point.

Daddy Issues - Having your life already be decided for you.

Moxxie was the child of the leader of the mob family, Crimson.

From when Moxxie was young, Crimson made sure to show Moxxie that if he ever disobeyed him, that he would kill Moxxie, effectively forcing Moxxie into the mob life, forcing Moxxie into the life he has planned out for him.

And well, the episode makes it pretty clear for multiple reasons why Moxxie hated being forced into the mob life, but I think the moment in the prison is the best example I can show you all. The scene where Moxxie is happy and grateful towards Blitz because Blitz is saving him from Crimson, because Blitz is saving him from being thrown right back into the mob life once again.

"Once I got out, I never looked back."

Moxxie never looked back in the direction of the mob life.

As for Stolas, he's the son of the king Paimon, born into the Goetia family as a prince.

"it is finally your day of becoming a true part of the Goetia family."

"Would that distract you enough from your non-negotiable future marriage?"

"Also, son, you are destined to sire a precautionary addition to the Goetia family. So, you are now engaged."

Paimon's usage of the word destined can tell us that this was planned out in advance, and the usage of 'true part of the Goetia family' makes me feel like Stolas wouldn't be considered a 'true part of the Goetia family' if he refused to marry Stella, if he refused to sire a precautionary addition to the Goetia family. We don't exactly know what consequences that would entail for Stolas, but I can only imagine that the consequences would be quite bad.

Which in turn, effectively puts Stolas under metaphorical gunpoint to do his duties, marry Stella and sire a precautionary addition to the Goetia family. Therefore, having his life already decided for him, and his father forcing him into this life he's planned out as well, especially considering Paimon literally says that the future marriage is non-negotiable.

And well, it's very clear that Stolas doesn't want to marry Stella, just look at how Stolas reacts to seeing the picture of Stella.

Which gets me nicely onto my next section,

Daddy Issues part 2 - Arranged/Forced Marriages.

Now sure while the forced marriage to Chaz ended up falling through big time, and that Moxxie is married to the person he loves, Moxxie still had a brush with an arranged/forced marriage in s2 e3.

Crimson is quite literally physically forcing Moxxie to marry Chaz here, because at this point, Crimson still thinks the marriage will benefit him and the mob he runs.

And well, I just explained that Paimon put Stolas under a metaphorical gunpoint to marry Stella, aka, forcing Stolas to marry Stella, to go through with the arranged marriage to be a 'true part of the Goetia family'. With the benefit to the Goetia family and Paimon being the birth of a precautionary heir.

Again, this line from Paimon.

"Would that distract you enough from your non-negotiable future marriage?"

Daddy Issues Part 3 - Physical Abuse

It's pretty clear that Moxxie was most likely physically abused by Crimson, mainly because as both a child and an adult, Crimson just straight up grabs Moxxie's face to force Moxxie to look at him while he's speaking, there's other things that point to Moxxie likely being a victim of physical abuse, but this and the thing I'm about to show you are the bests examples I have.

There's also Crimson threatening to kill Moxxie if he disobeys him, but that's something I've already talked about in this post, so let's head to my next example.

In the flashback, we see Crimson literally committing domestic violence against Moxxie's mother, and Moxxie also witnesses this as well. With this further showing that Crimson is very much willing to commit physical abuse in order to make people stay in line.

While we don't exactly know how present Paimon was in Stolas' life (although everything points to him being almost never present in Stolas' life so far), what we do know is that Paimon is also quick to hit Stolas to keep him in line, with Paimon hitting Stolas on his head because he bowed to an imp, someone much lower than him in the hierarchy.

Plus, it's been made quite clear to us that Stolas was also the victim of domestic violence at the hands of Stella for years upon years, with Stella's reaction to Stolas catching her hand during this scene being all the proof we need of that claim.

Generally Absent Mothers.

Moxxie used to have his mother in his life as a child, but other than a few flashbacks and a painting, the show makes no mention of her, and I believe this is because she was murdered by Crimson.

I want you to look at her shoes during this scene.

And at a later point of the flashback sequence, a shoe floats up that appears to match (although the black lines on the bowtie of the shoe are different between these two scenes, but that's probably just an animation thing) pretty much perfectly, making the theory that Crimson killed Moxxie's mother pretty likely to me.

As for Stolas, we don't exactly know anything about Stolas' mother yet, but she hasn't been seen or been mentioned at all, so at this point in time I'm guessing she was just never in Stolas' life.

Finally, we have,

Gaining the courage to stand up to their abusers.

So in conclusion, while Moxxie and Stolas have had very different lives and upbringings, I do believe that there's quite a few common points between Moxxie and Stolas that I've just mentioned they could relate to each other about, which could be a factor in Moxxie and Stolas becoming friends at some point down the line, if the show chooses to go down that route.

Of course there's also the fact that Moxxie likes musicals and Stolas would be likely to also enjoy musicals as well, giving them an activity they could both enjoy together, but I've mentioned that plenty of times before so I'm not mentioning it here.

[xxotothedeathx]

Introducing...

Royal Life - ROYAL!CHRIS STURNIOLO X ROYAL!READER

PART 1

warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, size kink, arranged marriage, unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap), daddy issues, angst, petnames (babh, princess, slut, my girl, ect), use of y/n, homophobia (NOT FROM READER), cussing, oral (f recieving), no aftercare, taken virginity, degrading, NOT PROOF READ,

details: ROYAL!READER will be using SHE/HER!! in which y/ns father has arranged her to marry chris, the prince of the rival kingdom. little does he know his daughter has met him before.

a/n: hi guys! hope you enjoy this one, i absolutely LOVED writing it. i am a BIG chris girl, so i love writing for him! lmk what other scenarios i should write!!

"Mom, you can't let him do this!"

You shout, turning to your mom with an angered look.

"Honey, its no lady like to yell."

Is her only response. You stare at her dumbfounded.

"Your mother has no say in this"

Your father snarls, stepping in between you and your mother.

"The king of Halker has two other sons, why does it have to be Chris!?"

"Because, Matt is married."

"What about Nick?"

"He has been exiled from the kingdom. He is no longer a prince."

Your face drops at your fathers words. Flashback of the kind soul running through your head. Times you two hid from the war together, or snuck to the river seperating your kingdoms to talk to each other. What could such a sweet man do to be exiled?

"Why...?"

Your voice breaks unwillingly as you speak.

"He was caught having intercourse...with a man. Disgusting. If he were not exiled, I would've forbid you from seeing him anyway."

Anger bubbles in your throat at your fathers word, tears swell in your eyes. You lower your gaze to the ground, your head following.

"You must despise love."

You mumble, but your father catches on.

"What do you speak of? Love is the most beautiful thing in the world."

"Then why must you tear it from other people!?"

You snap your head back up as you speak, gritting your teeth and yelling.

"What are you talking about!?"

Your father screams, his fists tightening into a ball.

"Your forcing me to marry a man I do not wish to! And you find someone disgusting for loving the same gender? How is it disgusting, it is just love!"

Your father slaps you hard, causing you to gasp as your hand flies to your quickly reddening cheek.

Tears finally fall from your eyes and onto your face, like a waterfall breaking past a beaver dam at last.

"You will not speak to me like that! You will marry Chris Sturniolo tomorrow, end of the discussion. I do not understand why you are upset. You've never even met the man!"

Your father sighs, turning and walking towards your mother. You can only stare at him in disbelief as memories flood your mind.

~beginning of flashback~

You let out a sob as you fall onto the dirty forest floor. Snapping your head back to see if you lost him.

You hadnt.

He was standing over you, a rock in hand.

"Please... Chris..."

You plead, but he just scoffed.

"You fucking slut."

He snarled, throwing the rock at your face. You lifted your arm up, protecting your face. The rock hit your arm hard, bruising and gashing it open.

He stared and watched you bleed before walking away and leaving you there.

Your father never knew about this because one of your maids had cleaned you up, and you paid her to keep her mouth shut.

~end of flashback~

You wipe your eyes before speaking.

"I hate you!"

The words leave your mouth in a scream, and before your father turns to hit you again, you run to your room.

You rush into your room, falling into your personal maids arms, sobbing.

She comforts you, helps you change into your nighttime robes, and tucks you into bed.

You lay there, thinking about how pathetic this is. A 20 year old princess getting tucked in by her maid.

You sigh as the maid walks out, and you slowly fall asleep.

———

You wake up to someone poking your cheek, assuming it was the maid you swat their hand away.

"Leave me alone.."

You groan, rolling around.

"Get up."

Your eyes shoot open as you hear the familar voice, and you quicky sit up, wrapping the blanket around you to cover yourself. You look at him. Chris.

"Why are you here?"

You speak, tensing up.

"We're getting married today, what do you mean?"

He scoffs, sitting down on the bed edge next to you. On instinct, you scoot away slightly, squezzing the blanket to cover more.

He notices and rolls his eyes.

"Are you still shaken up by that time in the forest? That was 2 years ago."

He mocks you, but you don't respond and just stare at him. Eventually, he sighs and stands up.

"Your father said to dress in a white gown and meet us downstairs. The preacher is here and waiting."

He walks out, and you can feel tears. You really dont wanna get married.

~time skip~

You step into Chris's. Well, now yours and his. It's quite large, bigger than yours at your home.

You look around, sitting on the edge of bed. Your night gown in hand.

Your personal maid is dropping all your stuff by tomorrow. You look at chris, who is looking through his wardrobe.

"Chris, I uh, I need to change."

"Then change. We're married, it doesn't matter."

You nod, standing up and placing your night gown on the bed as you quickly take off your dress.

As you're laying your dress on the bed, you reach for your night gown. But before you can grab it, you feel two hands on your waist.

You quickly stand up straight, tensing skightly. You feel a head nuzzle into the crook of your neck, and Chris's hair tickles as it falls against you.

"You smell good..."

He mumbles against your neck. You feel a small, open mouthed, kiss on your neck. The sensation makes you gasp softly.

"Mm, my girl is so pretty."

He speaks as if you've been together for years, and you feel his hips grinding into yours, his buldge rubbing against your most intimate area.

You squeeze your lips together, trying to surpress your moans. When he bites your neck, your head falls back against his shoulder as a quiet whimper falls from your mouth

"Lay down for me, baby..."

He speaks, lifting his head and taking his hands off your waist. You do as he says, climbing into bed and laying on your back. Your movements cause the gown and dress to fall off the bed.

He follows shortly after you, hovering above your body. He stares into your eyes, almost as if he's trying to read your mind.

Then, he starts moving down, kissing your chest. At the feeling of his lips on your skin, you let out a breath that you didn't realize you were holding.

His hand sneaks under you, unclasping your bra. He gently kisses each breast, licking your nipples before kissing a trail down your body.

You gasps as he kisses the most intimate place on you through your panties. This causes him to smirk.

"Aw, princess, never done this before, hm?"

You shake your head, staring down at him as he drags your panties down with his teeth.

He crawls back up to your pussy, licking it once. You throw your head back and whimper and the new feeling.

He smirks at this, massaging your clit with his thumb while his tongue teases your folds.

You let out a loud yelp as you feel his tongue enter into your folds, swirlling around the inside of your pussy.

He curls his tongue up, hitting a certain spot that sends a sensatiom you've never felt throughout your body. Your head throws itself back as your hips involuntarily buck up into Chris's face.

His thumb presses down on your clit as his tongue swirls around. You can feel yourself becoming close.

"Chris, I...I think im gonna-"

You cut yourself off with a load moan, almost a scream as you feel yourself release all over Chris's face.

He pulls away, licking up any mess before wiping his face off with his shirt.

He quickly discards his own clothes, leaving you staring at his hardened cock. It's much bigger than you thought.

"Big, right?"

You look back up to Chris, who is staring at you.

Without leaving his gaze, you prop yourself up on your elbows and nod slowly. He slowly lays down on top of you, supporting himself with his own elbows.

"You can take it anyway, cant you?"

His cock brushes against your pussy, cause your elbows to give in and a moan to eacape your lips.

Now, laying flat on your back, you wrap your arms around Chris's neck and pull him into a kiss.

He kisses you back aggressively while simultaneously lining himself up with your entrance.

He pulls away momentarily,

"Ready?"

You nod eagerly.

"Use your words, princess."

"Yes."

And with that, you can feel him entering you. You let out a yelp from the initial pain. He kisses you again, slowly pushing in.

When he finally bottoms out, he lays still for a minute, still kissing you. He pulls away, looking at you.

"Tell me when it doesn't hurt anymore."

You squeeze your eyes shut, adjusting to his size.

"...it doesn't hurt anymore.."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Chris is thrusting in and out of you. You throw your head back, loud whines and moans leaving your mouth.

Chris groans, but it sounds almost like a whimper. He leans down, attacking your neck with kisses and bites.

You feel him speed up, and words leave your mouth before you even think.

"Fuck, Chris...your so big.."

You can feel his cock twitch inside you, and his thrusts speed up.

"Hell yeah I am, and your gonna take it like the slut you are."

You thought you would be hurt by his words, but for some reason it made your back arch into him and your nails dig into his skin.

Chris obviously noticed.

"You like that? Like it when I call you a slut while my big cock slams into you? Hmm?"

His words mixed with the sensation of his cock hitting the perfect spot, made your eyes roll back as you let out a loud whine.

"Fuck, Y/N Im gonna cum. Cum with me, okay?"

You nod eagerly at his words, already feeling yourself on the edge.

His thrusts become sloppy and fast, which causes your nails to dig even further into his skin.

"Come one, princess. Be a good slut and cum all over this big cock."

His words send you over the edge, and you feel yourself release all over him.

Soon after, you feel strings of warmth shoot into your pussy. He thrusts a couple times after he's done before pulling out.

He sits on his knees, looking down at you. You open your eyes to see cold, emotionless ones staring right back at you.

"Still the same slut you've always been."

He scoffs before getting up and walking towards the bathroom.

You sigh. You knew it was too good to be true.

You wrap yourself up in the blankets, closing your eyes.

A single tear rolls down your face as you wonder if he meant anything he said. You eventually fall asleep before he comes back.

is this good? do yall like it? cant wait to write pt.2!!

[forerussake]

Many-Coated Mayhem #3

In the wake of coat post #1 and #2 I promised I had more still, and I do, because lo and behold: Wu Xie is not the only one in TSF who wears nice coats. There are SO MANY nice coats in this show. Here's some of my personal favourites:

Coat 24

I've mentioned her before! One of the most glorious coats in this many-coated show: Pangzi's floofy, leather-and-fur wintercoat. He starts wearing this at the Retreat in episode 9, and he wears it for some time after that.

It's beautiful and amazing and gorgeous and it looks spectacular on him, and I WANT IT. (Or maybe I just want him to hug me?)

Coat 25

This is the robey coaty situation Xiaoge wears in the flashbacks of him visiting the Yinshaluo Shrine in episodes 20-21. It has furr lining the hood, and nice patches on the elbows and a red belt/sash to secure it around his waist.

It looks soft in a way his modern-day attire rarely does and it's an allround LOOK. Especially when paired with his fingerless gloves.

Coat 26

It's Yinshaluo and Second Bronze Door trip winter coat time!

First up: Zhang Haike. I grabbed this shot from episode 31, when he goes to the Spiritual Retreat to take on the position of Deren, because most of the other scenes it appears in were either too dark, too muted in colour, too snowy, or too fast-paced to get a decent screenshot at 720p, and maybe also because I only decided to include it at all when I realized by the end that I had nothing yet for ZHK for this post and I thought that was a little bit sad. He does have nice fashion, but rarely did this show allow me to screenshot it.

Anyway, it's grey and darker grey, and it's exactly the kind of coat you'd expect this brooding old man to wear on his secret missions into the mountains.

Coat 27

Zhang Haixing's white wintercoat! It's a white wintercoat. It looks good on her. She's ready to go skiing with the girls. Idk what else to say about it. It has furr and pockets!

She manages to keep it clean for a surprisingly long time... until she doesn't anymore.

Coat 28

THE MOMENT WE HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! It's Feng's incredibly in character and on point bright orange wintercoat. Just look at it, isn't it amazing? (See also ZHK in the only other clear shot I managed to get of his grey coat.)

Anyway, Feng's fashion sense has been on point for the whole show, and he proves it again by pairing this orange monstrosity with a babyblue jumpsuit, which you can see here as he is standing there thinking 'well, damn, if it isn't the consequences to my own actions...' Can you tell I have come to love him deeply as the show went on?

Feng is also clearly the only person in this godforsaken party who wants to be saved should an avalanche occur, wearing a bright colour that will not camouflage him right into the backdrop of the mountain, a strategy that is almost undone in the first episode that all of these coats appear in, when they collectively decide to take them all off.

So, kids, what have we learned from episode 21? Keep your plot-relevant coats on!

Coat 29

This is baby!Zhang Haixing's incredible blue trenchcoat. She wears this in the sad flashback in episode 27.

Look, I don't have anything to say about this other than OMG LOOK AT HER SHE IS SO PRETTY. It deserves to be said okay.

"Coat" 30

Speaking of pretty, remember how I said I love Feng? Because I love him. He is ridiculous, a surprisingly compelling character despite also being this DMBJ installment's #1 resident white guy, and a walking model. Which brings me to: his blue robes from episode 28 at the Yinshaluo village.

"But Eru," you say, "none of these shots actually show his outfit." And yeah, I couldn't get a good shot of it, sorry, but it looks good okay. Trust me. These pictures of him being stupidly pretty and apparently a horse-whisperer will just have to suffice.

Coat 31

This is ridiculous leather coat Zhang Haixing wears when she goes to visit her big brother at the Spiritual Retreat in episode 31.

This monstrosity with its straps and lines and incredibly not functional off-the-shoulder slab of furr should not be allowed to look good on anyone and yet somehow she makes it work. Kudos ma'am. Also I am so sorry that your brother didn't hug you. He should've fucking hugged you, the absolute bastard. You deserved that much from him. Alas it wasn't meant to be.

Coat 32

Now we are getting towards the end. I've shown you in coat post #1 what Wu Xie wears on the trip to Yucun in episode 32. Now it's Pangzi's turn:

He wears something that is maybe technically also a shirt, but it's got a green pattern and I don't care I just wanted you to see him once more. Look at him. Isn't your heart healed now? I thought as much.

Coat 33

Xiaoge's Blue Coat™️ Is it really THE blue coat? Is this the one Wu Xie nabs off the statue and wears in a thematically meaningful way for a couple episodes? Is it THE blue coat returned to its rightful owner??? I don't know. The show doesn't allow me to look at it too closely. But it may well be.

I'm choosing to interpret it as such. If you want a closer look: see the final screenshot in this post, and decide for yourself.

Coat 34

Another Xiaoge coat. This the black one he wears on the mountain hike where they find the fisherman, and also when he steals a chicken from their poor neighbour. Oopsie.

Is it a coat? Is it a vest? Does it really matter? He looks soft and warm and happy, and isn't that all we ever wanted for him? The black is a nice return to his roots, though I personally have LOVED the visual shift to blue as his primary coat colour since Reboot came out.

I know for a fact he wears multiple different blue coats during the show, and maybe one day I will piece together another post in which I try to figure out how many different blue Xiaoge coats show up in this show.

For now though, I am leaving you with the Iron Triangle in Yucun, alive and happy and together. Who knows what (coats) the future still has in stall for them? (Sssst, don't tell them yet.)

[raddagher]

Arcane is over (😭) and I have some criticisms so here are my lists of who Won and who Lost in no particular order

LOST SEASON 2

1. Isha

Literally wasn't even mentioned after she died, like wtf was that

We couldn't have a memorial or anything? Come on

Her sacrifice was ultimately meaningless because Warwick got brought back anyway

2. Sevika

Didn't get a single line through all of Act 3

Where is my wife

At least she didn't die?

3. The entire Undercity, to be honest

Where did the independence thread go

Giving Sevika a council seat wasn't enough

I don't like that so many of them had to fight in Enforcer uniforms, that felt wrong

That was the MAIN CONFLICT for most of the show. It felt so weird to gloss over it at the end

4. Vander/Warwick

Gonna be real I wasn't super crazy about most of his presence here, I don't feel like it actually contributed much to anyone's development, except MAYBE Viktor's

We would not have lost anything if they didn't have the flashback scene with their mom

Super didn't like Jinx's ending as it pertained to him

5. Jinx

Hey I super don't like that every character who had a moment of suicide ideation or attempt ended up dead or "dead"

I don't like the way she "died" it didn't feel earned

I don't feel like the ending she got aligned well with her character at all. She spiraled and then just. stayed at the bottom of the spiral :(

They put a TON of family stuff in act 1 and 2 that didn't get resolution in 3

I think they kinda did my girl dirty I'm sorry

6. Loris

Clearly would have had more of a role if they didn't have to cut him for time

NEITHER WON NOR LOST SEASON 2

1. Vi

I want to say she won because she got to bang her cop girlfriend in a prison cell and the sex scene was good as hell but

She also was just taking massive L's the whole time

Like it never felt like she ever had any real wins other than that and that bummed me out

Didn't get enough time to be a dumbfuck with Jayce :(

Caitlyn

Didn't get enough proper resolution for her wonderful fascist arc

She felt a little dropped in Act 3 as well

Glad she got that Vussy tho, good for her

And I did like the vs Ambessa fight, that was also good

I honestly feel like Viktor and Jayce's romance was written better than her and Vi's, and as a gay woman who is constantly watching mlm relationships get so much more attention, it rubs me the wrong way

WON SEASON 2

1. Viktor (OBVIOUSLY)

The fucked up robot army. The religious imagery. The body horror. His robot alien design is scary as fuck. Absolutely incredible work

Got to be taller and stronger than Jayce hooray

They're canon. That was the gayest shit I've ever seen in my life

I do wish they had spent more time overall fleshing out more of the disability commentary, I feel like it was a little lacking in the end

Nevertheless BEAUTIFUL and HORRIFYING and TRAGIC

2. Jayce

See above

Yeah he also got to be a big hero and got to be resolved really well

Did NOT see his death coming that was crazy

They Magnus 200'd his ass, damn

He chose Viktor over everything I'm emo

They made a heart when they touched their foreheads together fuck OFF

3. Heimerdinger

Literally just living his best life

Love that he didn't tell Ekko he can't die, he just let the poor boy think he got fuckin atomized, king shit, that's hilarious

I would have stayed in that universe too tbh

4. Ambessa

The single tear over Kino. Her love for her children at direct odds with her need for control. Her arc was explored so well

Died a warrior's death at the hands of her brilliant daughter, I know that's how she would have wanted to go

Also was very hot in every scene. Good for her (and good for me)

She just got a lot of love from the writers and I'm very happy to see that effort put into an older Black woman character

5. Mel

Speaking of gorgeous Black women

I was so worried she was going to get dropped but her ending was SO good

Her glow up with the gold is fantastic, she looks amazing in the white hood

Love that they gave her abilities that would inherently change her priorities AND gave her the throne of Noxus, I have high hopes that she'll be prominent in another show in the future

They made her such a powerful badass but still let her be merciful and forgiving. Absolutely amazing. She is the wolf

6. Ekko (?)

On the fence about him

LOVED the au scene. Perfect

And I loved that our boy savior got to be the one that set off the bomb that stopped Viktor

But he was kind of dropped otherwise? Like what happened with his tree?

Generally wish he had more development and screentime in this season

But I'm happy he was so pivotal to the climax

AND I'm happy he got to kiss Powder. He and Jinx would never have worked out

7. Maddie

Haha I never liked you. Get fucked you horrible little bootlicker. Typical cop

8. Singed

How come YOU get everything you want?

Fuck you.

Basically all my criticisms boil down to it feeling rushed overall. It's clear that they intended to have more time, and that breaks my heart. We all know Netflix's reputation for cancelling stuff out of the blue, and I've heard that maybe certain parties were unhappy with the depictions of gay romance and realistic social revolution. Whatever the reasons, I wish they had a third season, because I think they could have solved every problem I have with it. Regardless, it's an incredible work of art and very likely one of if not THE best animated series ever made.

[beanghostprincess]

"Trisha is Fma's death wif-" no. I mean- Yes. But also never forget Hughes and the way Mustang thinks about him like they were married for 20 years before his death.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

You made her cry, time to die.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[turtleblogatlast]

Small but significant character moments that I actually really adore are from both the times we see the boys as tots. There is a reoccurrence that happens in both of them that I find so incredibly interesting.

For the turtle tot short, Splinter leaves the boys with weapons. In the short, Raph is the one who suggests they do “what Lou Jitsu would do” and Leo is the one who takes point when Splinter comes back to reprimand them. Leo, in taking point, is the one to defend them and get Splinter off their tails.

And then, in the flashback regarding the Kuroi Yōroi helmet, Raph is the one who grabs and throws “Skully” as a way to replace their missing ball which breaks it into pieces, but Leo is the one who speaks for the group and rushes into action to fix the teapot.

I love this for multiple reasons, but the biggest are how it shows that Raph has always been inclined toward the bold and fun and making the plans to include his brothers in what he loves and believes they’d love, whereas Leo has always been inclined to be the “Face” of the group and shoulder the attention even if it’s potentially negative all while coming up with on the spot attempts to fix the situation.

[buttercupshands]

welcome back, Todoroki family arc! in both anime AND manga

[lecliss]

I'll never be able to take the theory that Vincent is Sephiroth's real father seriously cuz I cannot stress enough how important I think it is to the plot that Vincent wanted to fuck Lucrecia and did not get to.

[stuworbutwithchipmunks]

I think we should talk more about how CGI Brittany has the career 80's Brittany always wanted.

[s0fter-sin]

i need leon who can’t stand people being near his neck bc of all the times zombies bit him there, it’s just become a huge trigger zone for him

[jakeperalta]

whenever swifties think one of jack antonoff's silly little jokes or bleachers related references are taylor easter eggs it makes me severely cringe

[aggressionbread]

i think the thing i loved about rebirth was going "part 1 cloud would've never done that"

like he's really getting into his odd jobs/mercenary role, and even enjoying himself? and showing that? and he translates a chocobo's little beeps and kwehs?