#Reasons to Study in Canada

[urprofsqueermenace]

my phd supervisor: you can think about submitting your paper to this important conference in Canada as well :)

me: I don't want to go to Canada!! >:c

supervisor: you know the following years this conference will probably be in the US

me: consider the abstract submitted

[reasonsforhope]

"In a new study, University of British Columbia researchers set out to answer the following question: Would you rather have 10 cents in your pocket or a 1-in-10,000 shot at $1,000?

Their findings indicate that they may have figured out a way to get people to recycle more. 

The researchers, whose work was just published in the journal “Waste Management,” tested the idea of offering people who return used bottles a small chance to win a big cash prize, instead of the standard 5- or 10-cent deposit earnings.

The result? Participants recycled 47% more bottles for the chance at a $1,000 prize.

“This small change in how we reward recycling made a big difference. People were more excited, more engaged, and they brought in more bottles,” Dr. Jiaying Zhao, associate professor in the department of psychology and senior author of the study, said in a statement for the university.

“It turns out that the thrill of possibly winning a big prize is more motivating than a small guaranteed reward. It’s the same reason people buy lottery tickets; That tiny chance of a big win is exciting.”

The researchers ran three experiments in British Columbia and Alberta, where bottle deposit systems already exist. Despite the fact that these deposit stations give people a small refund when they return their recyclables, many bottles still end up in the trash.

In the first two experiments, people could choose between a guaranteed 10-cent refund or a chance to win a larger amount, ranging from $1 to $1,000. Even though the odds of winning were low, many people chose the lottery-style offer.

In the third experiment, participants were randomly assigned to either the guaranteed refund or the lottery-style refund. Those given the lottery-style option brought in almost three bottles for every two returned by the control group. 

The researchers found that people even felt happier when they had a shot at the big prize, even if they didn’t actually win — a feeling called “anticipatory happiness” — that made the act of recycling more enjoyable. 

All of this is modeled after an existing scheme in Norway.

“Norway is the only country in the world that has a similar recycling lottery, and their bottle return rate is close to 100%,” Dr. Zhao said. “The probabilistic refund could be their secret sauce. We hope Canada can adopt this innovative idea as well.”

In Norway, the bottle recycling lottery was implemented over a decade ago, and now, approximately 97% of all plastic beverage containers are returned across the country. 

Here, the model is choice-driven, giving people the option to choose between the guaranteed refund or the chance to win anywhere from 5 to 100,000 euros.

“The system also doesn’t encourage gambling,” Fast Company reported, “because there’s no way to enter with cash, and there are no ‘near misses’ like with other kinds of gambling.”

Norway has also implemented a program where some of the lottery’s proceeds go to the Norwegian Red Cross.

“Instead of 10 cents back to you, what if the proceeds go to a food bank or charity?” Dr. Zhao asked Fast Company. This is also part of her team’s research, with results soon to be published. 

It’s important to note that the lottery-style refund wouldn’t cost more than the traditional system, with both options sharing the same average payout. Cities could adopt this approach without spending an extra dime.

Additionally, Dr. Zhao mentioned that it’s important for cities to consider the choice-based model, giving people the option to get the regular 5- or 10-cent returns, alongside the new lottery initiative, to help canners and binners who rely on this kind of income.

“We don’t want to take the short gain option away,” she told Fast Company. “Instead, we want to give people the option to choose.” 

Aside from the valuable psychological insights of the study, Dr. Zhao and her colleagues are optimistic about a future in which more people are engaged in recycling. 

“Creating new bottles comes with a lot of carbon emissions, and not recycling bottles also comes with a lot of pollution,” Jade Radke, a lead author on the study, said. “So it can be a meaningful way to decrease all of those things.”

According to the UBC press release, if this approach is widely adopted, it could help recycle millions more bottles and reduce greenhouse gas emissions equal to taking one million cars off the road each year."

-via GoodGoodGood, June 25, 2025

[drdemonprince]

It’s true that America has one of the lowest voter turnout rates in the industrialized world, with only 62% of eligible adults turning up to the polls on a good year, and about 50% on a typical one. But if we really dive into the social science data, we can see that non-voters aren’t a bunch of nihilistic commie layabouts who’d prefer to die in a bridge collapse or of an untreated listeria infection than vote for someone who isn’t Vladimir Lenin. No, if we really study it carefully, we can see that the American electoral system has a series of unique features that easily account for why we find voting more cumbersome, confusing, and unrewarding than almost any other voters in the world.

Let’s take a look at the many reasons why Americans don’t vote:

1. We Have the Most Frequent Elections of Any Country

Most other democratic countries only hold major elections once every four or five years, with the occasional local election in between. This is in sharp contrast with the U.S., where we have some smattering of primaries, regional elections, state elections, ballot measures, midterm elections, and national elections basically every single year, often multiple times per year. We have elections more frequently than any other nation in the world — but just as swallowing mountains of vitamin C tablets doesn’t guarantee better health, voting more and harder hasn’t given us more democracy.

2. We Don’t Make Election Day a Holiday

The United States also does far less than most other democracies to facilitate its voters getting to the polls. In 22 countries, voting is legally mandated, and turnout is consequently very high; most countries instead make election day a national holiday, or hold elections on weekends. The United States, in contrast, typically holds elections on weekdays, during work hours, with minimal legal protections for employees whose only option to vote is on the clock.

3. We Make Registration as Hard as Possible

From Denmark, to Sweden, to Iceland, Belgium, and Iraq, all eligible voters in most democracies are automatically registered to vote upon reaching legal adulthood. Voting is typically regarded as a rite of passage one takes part in alongside their classmates and neighbors, made part of the natural flow of the country’s bureaucratic processes.

In the United States, in contrast, voter registration is a process that the individual must seek out — or more recently, be goaded into by their doctor. Here voting is not a communal event, it’s a personal choice, and failing to make the correct choice at the correct time can be penalized. In most other countries, there are no restrictions on when a voter can register, but in much of the United States, registering too early can mean you get stricken from the voter rolls by the time the election rolls around, and registering too late means you’re barred from voting at all.

4. We Make Voters Re-Register Far Too Often

In countries like Canada, Germany, and the Netherlands, voter registration updates automatically when a person moves. In the United State, any time a person changes addresses they must go out of their way to register to vote all over again. This policy disadvantages poorer and younger voters, who move frequently because of job and schooling changes, or landlords who have decided to farm black mold colonies in their kitchens.

Even if a voter does not change their address, in the United States it’s quite common for their registrations to be removed anyway— due to name changes, marriages, data breaches, or simply because the voter rolls from the previous election year have been purged to “prevent fraud” (read: eliminate Black, brown, poor, and left-leaning members from the electorate).

5. We Limit Access to Polling Places & Mail-in Ballots

In many countries, voters can show up to any number of polling places on election day, and showing identification is not always necessary. Here in the United States, the ability to vote is typically restricted to a single polling place. Voter ID laws have been used since before the Jim Crow era to make political participation more difficult for Black, brown, and impoverished voters, as well as for those for whom English is not their first language. Early and absentee voting options are also pretty firmly restricted. About a quarter of democracies worldwide rely on mail-in ballots to make voting more accessible for everyone; here, a mail-in ballot must be requested in advance.

All of these structural barriers help explain why just over 50% of non-voters in the United States are people of color, and a majority of non-voters have been repeatedly found to be impoverished and otherwise marginalized. But these populations don’t only feel excluded from the political process on a practical level: they also report feeling completely unrepresented by the available political options.

6. We Have the Longest, Most Expensive Campaign Seasons

Americans have some of the longest campaign seasons in the world, with Presidential elections lasting about 565 days on average. For reference, the UK’s campaign season is 139 days, Mexico’s is 147, and Canada’s is just 50. We also do not have publicly funded campaigns: our politicians rely upon donors almost entirely.

Because our elections are so frequent and our campaigns are so long and expensive, many American elected officials are in a nearly constant state of fundraising and campaigning. When you take into account the time devoted to organizing rallies, meeting with donors, courting lobbyists, knocking on doors, recording advertisements, and traveling the campaign trail, most federally elected politicians spend more time trying to win their seat than actually doing their jobs.

Imagine how much work you’d get done if you had to interview for your job every day. And now imagine that the person actually paying your wage didn’t want you to do that job at all:

7. Our Elected Officials Do Very Little

Elected officials who spend the majority of their hours campaigning and courting donors don’t have much time to get work done. Nor do they have much incentive to — in practice, their role is to represent the large corporations, weapons manufacturers, Silicon Valley start-ups, and investors who pay their bills, and serve as a stopgap when the public’s demands run afoul of those groups’ interests.

Perhaps that is why, as campaign seasons have gotten longer and more expensive and income inequality has grown more stark, our elected officials have become lean-out quiet quitters of historic proportions. The 118th Congress has so far been the least productive session on record, with only 82 laws having been passed in last two years out of the over 11,000 brought to the floor.

The Biden Administration has moved at a similarly glacial pace; aside from leaping for the phone when Israel calls requesting checking account transfers every two or three weeks, the executive-in-chief has done little but fumble at student loan relief and abortion protections, and bandied about banning TikTok.

The average age of American elected officials has been on a steady rise for some time now, with the obvious senility of figures like Biden, Mitch McConnell, and the late Diane Feinstein serving as the most obvious markers of the government’s stagnancy. Carting around a confused, ailing elderly person’s body around the halls of power like a decommissioned animatronic requires a depth of indifference to human suffering that few of us outside Washington can fathom. But more than that, it reflects a desperation for both parties to cling to what sources of influence and wealth they have. These aged figures are/were reliable simps for Blackstone, General Dynamics, Disney, and AIPAC, and their loyalty is worth far more than their cognitive capacity, or legislative productivity. Their job, in a very real sense, is to not do their job, and a beating-heart cadaver can do that just fine.

You can read the rest of the list for free (or have it narrated to you on the Substack app) at drdevonprice.substack.com!

[lonelywretchjervistetch]

Life-List Series #9: WODU

Common Name: Wood Duck Scientific Name: Aix sponsa

Description: A very colorful duck found in trees and near rivers Motto: Joseph's Technicolor Dreamduck

Conservation: Least Concern, increasing Range: Across the USA year-round, migrating to southern Canada in the breeding season, and down to central Mexico in the nonbreeding season Habitat: Riparian habitats, wetlands, marshes, and beaver ponds; forested wetlands with high amounts of vegetative cover and trees for nesting are priorities during the breeding season

Diet: Acorns and tree seeds, aquatic plants and grasses, berries, nuts, beetles, flies, caterpillars, bugs, isopods, and other aquatic and terrestrial insects Breeding: Annually monogamous double-brood cavity-nesters with strictly maternal care of 10-13 eggs per brood Sound (F): oo-EEP oo-EEP oo-EEP Sound (M): zeeeeEEEEET zeeeeEEEEEET

Ornithologist's Notes: What exactly is up with that iconic whistle? Wood Ducks, already iconic in their appearance, have an equally iconic call, divided by gender into those recognizable whoops and whistles. In the '70s, the female's whooping call was well-studied for its recognizability not to us, but to wood duck ducklings, which have a lot more diversity in their vocalizations than the adults, and seem to easily be able to recognize individuals. Not an unusual thing in birds by any means, but still a manner of focus in early study. One 1972 study suggests that this discrimination begins with the embryo in the egg, although that seems somewhat uncertain, if interesting. Also, both species have a unique nonvocal sound feature: their wings whistle when they fly! Allegedly; they aren't the only duck with this trait, though.

Oh, also, closest relative is the Asian (and introduced European) Aix galericulata, AKA the Mandarin Duck! But, if you've seen the Mandarin Duck, that shouldn't come at a surprise. Lastly, they're the only North American duck that regularly double-broods, meaning they have two clutches per year, every year! Those broods are in high trees, and if you know these guys, you've probably seen videos of duckling raining from the sky as they leave the nest. They bounce!

Life-Life Notes: Man, if there's a North American duck more handsome than the Wood Duck, I don't know what it is. These were my most anticipated duck as a kid moving to the mainland States, and for good reason! Beautiful males and females (note the iridescent blue speculum on the wing there), and still one of my favorites to see and hear. To be honest, I don't think I did this duck much justice with the drawing style, especially in terms of the iridescence. And obviously, I only have the male posted here. I'm considering doing something with these drawings, as I've hinted in my tags up to now, so I may also be adding making alternate designs for those I've already posted, including the females where sexual dimorphism is apparent, like here and in the rest of the ducks. We'll see...and lemme know if that's something people would be interested in. Again, only considering it for now. On to the next duck!

Previous: MUDU

Next: AMWI

[bunny-jpeg]

hi bunny!

I’ve been wanting to try the bakery and finally got around to it!

Could I get savory pastry(norris!reader), pull-apart bread, and root beer with carlos sainz!

the menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! it's still open (yay)! and i working away on orders, so please feel free to submit your own! we're open 6 days a week! i hope you love this order, anon! thank you for submitting it! i hope you're okay with me making the reader have.. big titties... i wanted to yearn for big titties tonight..

savory pastry ("let your brother find out.") + pull-apart bread ("i love you") + root beer (filming/recording) served by carlos sainz jr. (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, norris!reader, possessive behavior, mean!carlos, filming, ditzy!reader, soft!reader, implied mid to plus size!reader, sorry lando, unprotected sex, breast worship

rivals come and go. if carlos really hated someone however, he wouldn't fuck their sibling. carlos wasn't out fucking max's sister or one of charles' brothers, that was stupid and childish. it was a mind game reserved for people who thought they were smart

but that was until he saw your knelt down in the paddock trying the laces of your pretty pink sneakers and when you stood back up a slight breeze pushed up your skirt. and carlos caught the briefest glimpse of your panties. cotton, pink with little flowers on it. carlos stopped in his tracks, he hadn't realized the can of celcius he had was now on the floor.

you didn't notice his leering gaze, but instead burst into smiles when you went over and wrapped your arms around lando. he held you not like a lover, but like a sibling. oh, you were lando's fabled sister, the one who went to school in the middle of nowhere. was it canada? not that it mattered.

you could've been studying pottery in utah for all carlos cared, because he wanted one thing. those full breasts in his hands.

he remembered the first time he held them in his hands. the weight to them made his eyes bug out a little bit. it was about three months into the season and carlos was starting to feel the itch for sex. a lot of drivers got it, that was a lot of the reason why significant others would fly out for that weekend. but carlos has his right hand, something his left hand if he was feeling adventurous.

and one thing led to another and he ended up in your hotel room for the night. and then you were in his the next weekend, then followed by you in the ferrari motor home. eventually your behind was as red as the ferrari shirt that carlos got for you. he liked how the long was a little stretched across your pretty tits.

the rational thing would've been to tell your brother, lando. drivers dated other driver's siblings all the time! sometimes drivers dated other drivers, but carlos wouldn't get into those details. but something kept him reserved by telling the other driver.

you on the other hand were nervous about telling him. lando had scared off every boyfriend you had since your teens. you remembered when he chased a guy who had a crush on you off your family's front lawn with a hose. if lando found out about carlos....

"what if he finds out?" you squeak when he pulled you to ferrari's side of the paddock, you almost falling over yourself as you tried to keep up with him.

he shrugged, "let your brother find out."

your ferrari t-shirt (a gift from carlos) made you fit in nicely with the others on that side of the paddock. and carlos made sure that no one was looking when he got you into the driver's room. when he got the door closed and locked, he flipped up your pretty skirt. something a little more muted to go with the ferrari shirt, but short and carlos wanted to get his hands on you.

you ended up on the couch with carlos not even taking off the thing, only your panties underneath. he could feel the excitement in his blood stream. your knees up to your chest and your ankles in the air. carlos got his phone out after he got his cock out of his tight jeans.

"sorry, we're in a bit of a hurry." he said as he angled the phone towards your sweet cunt. it felt so good to be balls deep inside of you. even if it was messy quick sex.

carlos liked to film your encounters together. he liked to record your little noises, even if it was just recording your noises together. something to play back when he was alone. sadly, you couldn't be at every race. but carlos was hoping in a few years that would change.

he got his cock into you with ease. one hand on your clothed breast and the other on the phone. he got good shots of your pussy and face. he watched it change on the screen as he moved against you.

you tensed up for a moment then relaxed and carlos felt the cotton in his brain grow. he got addicted to your fast. he continued to grope your breasts as he moved against your achy slit. your legs kicked out a little and carlos pushed himself closer to you. he pointed the camera at the both of you and chuckled at the lenses.

"future carlos, remember this?" then started to lazily make out with you. you giggled as well. you knew those videos were often safe on his phone.

you squirmed a little bit and carlos put his face between your clothes breasts and rubbed his face up against them. he groaned against your heartbeat before he pulled away and got the camera right in your face before he leaned back a little bit to film your beautiful cunt taking him so well.

you yelped but quickly covered your mouth with your hands. he pout the camera in your face as he asked quietly, "so pretty. so good for me. i think about you all the time." he said almost sweetly.

you looked up at the camera, finding a moment to compose yourself before you said, "i love you."

he smiled down at you, the camera angled at your sweet cunt as he responded, "i love you too." he loved the feeling of your sweet cunt against him. he loved it so much. it made his heart leap in his chest at the idea of being able to fuck you.

usually he liked to tease his cock between your heavy breasts, but that would have to wait for another night. for now he just got a good shot of them bouncing as he fucked you. a half-assed mating press just to get to your pussy.

he could feel the heat burning in your core as he fucked you. you felt so good, were you always this good for him. or maybe the rush of today's race was what kept you bouncing on his cock like a good girl.

it wasn't long before you covered your mouth once more and shakily exhaled against your trembling hands. it all felt so good and it made you run hot all over. it was so sweet, it was so good.

carlos almost dropped his phone from the mere pace that he was fucking you in. his heavy breathing heard on the camera paired with your sweet little moans. it was hot, it made carlos' brain run a mile a minute.

with a few more bucks of his hips, he pushed himself all the way inside of you to finish. your voice got high pitched as you came as well, but kept your hands over your mouth to keep yourself quieter.

"there. you'll be having this again soon." carlos said to the camera. to his future self. he ended the video and like a gentleman he helped you start to get yourself dressed.

carlos gave one last squeeze to your breasts and said softly when he sat next to you on the couch. curled up at your side, "we'll tell lando soon." then placed a kiss on your cheek.

-

that night after carlos' grand weekend he was out drinking with the rest of ferrari and mclaren. you had left early because the you were very tried from the day. carlos had suspicion that it might have been from your escapade earlier that day plus the race.

it was a lot for you. carlos didn't mind, even though he missed you.

he was talking to lando, treating him like a friend more so than a rival (he'd eventually be his brother-in-law, might as well get on his good side). they had a few drinks and carlos mentioned that he had something to send the other man.

"yeah, just message it to me, mate!"

carlos laughed and with his thick thumbs he didn't send the right video. what was supposed to be a stupid tiktok, was instead the 10 minute uncut video of carlos fucking you. lando's sister. before he realized what he had done, lando's eyes were the size of dinner plates on the screen.

"uh... mate... carlos." lando said when he was able to find the words. he turned his screen to the other driver. the thumbnail wasn't the stupid meme, but rather a shot of your pussy on full display.

carlos' eyes went wide, realizing that he sent the wrong video. he chuckled nervously and said, "let me explain myself, mate!" he knew he'd be hearing about this for months from both norris siblings.

but, at least you didn't have to keep it a secret anymore. <3

[erismourn]

evacuation fundraisers in CAD

for whatever reason my bank won't let me donate any money to fundraisers that aren't in Canadian dollars so I've collected a small and surely incomplete list of fundraisers in CAD for those of us in so-called canada. please feel free to add to this list if you know of any more fundraisers in Canadian dollars and I'll boost to the best of my ability. these should all be coming from sources that have verified every fundraiser, but I am not perfect and may have mistaken some.

Help Basel Abughaben's family evacuate Gaza: Basel left Gaza four years ago to look for work outside of Palestine, and now needs to evacuate his wife and four children from Gaza. the fund seeks to get evacuation money as well as funds to keep his family housed and fed in Egypt.

Bring Najlaa's family to safety in Canada: Najlaa moved to Canada to complete her studies, and was unable to go back to Palestine due to Israeli border restrictions. Najlaa is trying to evacuate her mother, sisters, brothers, and their spouses and children.

Help Sanaa Abu Ghaiben's family evacuate Gaza: Sanaa's family consists of three brothers, two sisters, their partners and children, and Sanaa's elderly parents. His family consists of 25 people.

Help Sujoud reunite with her family: Sujoud left her husband and three sons to seek treatment for her son, Abdullah, who has had health problems since infancy. Her family is still trapped in Gaza.

Help Mahmoud evacuate and continue his education: Mahmoud Abu Hamam is a 20 year-old engineering student seeking to evacuate to Egypt and continue his studies.

I have donated $10 each to these campaigns. if you can match that for even one of these, I would be so grateful. please share widely, and do not give up hope.

[criticallyacclaimedstranger]

You Need Only Ask [professor!Marcus Pike x librarian!reader]

Read on Ao3

Pairing: History of Art professor Marcus Pike x art library reader/you (cishet female)

Tags/Warnings: Kind of pining idiots but only one is pining, everyone is being professional but it's clear that Marcus is a pining idiot, implied coworkers to lovers.

Summary: Professor Marcus Pike is one of those cliché absent-minded professors - or so you think, but maybe there's another reason why this brilliant academic is acting a dumb fool around you?

Words: 3,534

A/N: This was inspired by an ask sent to me by @just-here-for-the-moment for a fic ask game thingy. Here's the original ask and my reply. I didn't write it exactly like that (main difference is my fic is set in modern times), but I hope y'all still like it!

”Good morning.”

Your customer service smile in place, you look over your shoulder.

”Morning, Professor. Just give me a second and I will be right with you.”

He hums, and you turn back to the bookcase where you were just about to finish re-shelving returns. Once done, you join Marcus Pike, Professor of Art History, at the desk. He’s tapping his fingers, almost impercievably, against the surface of the old solid wood desk, and you stifle a sigh. He didn’t have to wait that long.

”What can I do for you?” you ask politely. Professor Pike is never rude, but he is the typical professor type: absent-minded, a little awkward, his research always the number one priority.

“I looked for this book in the online catalog, but as I suspected, you don’t have it. It’s probably sold out, too.” He gives you a piece of paper before both his hands disappear into his pockets.

“Another inter-library loan, then?” you state, looking at the title. It’s in French, and you know immediately that your library doesn’t have it. Professor Pike is not the most computer-skilled person, so you usually double-check every book he asks for in the database, but this one you know you don’t have.

“Might have to go international for this one,” you tell him. “Canada or Europe. That’s coming out of your department’s budget, you know that.”

“I’ll make room,” he shrugs, looking towards the door, like he can’t wait to get back to the comfort of his own office. “And could you please give me more time with the last one you got for me? I need it for a bit longer.”

“I’ll contact the lending library,” you nod. “I’ll let you know.”

“Great. Thank you.”

The “Sure thing” has barely left your mouth before Pike is out the door, the sound of his steps against the stone floor quickly disappearing down the hall. You shake your head before sitting down to look up the book for him.

As you work, you once again wonder how people like Marcus Pike get jobs at all. Someone as introverted as that would never have a real shot at getting a library job, which requires people skills, patience, and the ability to stand in front of people. But when it comes to academia, it seems like all you need is credentials and a good research profile, and you’re hired. Unlike you, who had to fight tooth and nail for this position. You have Master’s degrees in art and library science, educational and language studies, job experience, and it was still almost impossible to get this job. People who have these jobs never seem to retire but just sit there, year after year, until they eventually sprout roots that fasten them to their chairs.

But you’re here now, since five years, and while Pike’s predecessor never showed his face in the library but sometimes sent you cryptical emails requests that took you half a day to decipher, it’s nice to see that the much younger professor actually frequents the university’s special arts library.

Finally locating Pike’s book in a university library in France, you quickly find the instructions for ILL’s, and send a loan request. After that, you apply for more time for Pike’s previous book, and by afternoon, you have confirmation for both books: one will be mailed out later during the day in Europe, the other has been renewed. You let Pike know through an email, before performing closing duties in the library. Your computer pings just as you’re about to turn it off, and you see that it’s a reply from Pike. Clicking it up, you see the very unlikely response:

>>Amazing, what a service. Just bill the department, I’ve got it covered. Thank you so much 😊 <<

Shaking your head in disbelief at the informal tone, you turn off the computer, clock out, and go home.

Professor Pike is back two days later, now asking for a book that’s available. When you tell him so, he clears his throat, gaze flickering away from you.

“Could you maybe show me where it is?”

“Sure.” You’re curt, because this isn’t the first time. It’s an easy enough book to find, and every item in the library is labeled, and the database even has an interactive feature where you can click on the item’s call number to open up a layout of the stacks, showing the correct shelf in red. It has freed you up a lot now that most patrons can easily find their literature themselves, but some people just want you to do everything for them.

“You know, Professor, you could maybe my start of term library tour useful,” you dare to tease him as you walk before him to the right case. “Most freshmen find it very helpful, and they can usually manage their own information retrieval after.”

“I think maybe a little touch-up course would do me good,” he replies, voice a little tight. “But I like personal service.”

You find the book, pull it out, and hand it to him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you tell him easily. “Anything else I can do for you?”

He swallows visibly.

“No, thank you.”

He uses the self check-out this time, and leaves quickly without saying goodbye. You shake your head, and catch the eye of Mandy, a Master’s student who works on her thesis in the library almost every day.

“Strange fellow, that one, isn’t he?”

She gives you a peculiar look. “I guess so.”

One thing that you appreciate a lot about your job is the building itself. The campus was built in Collegiate Gothic style in the middle of the 19th century, and compared to the nearby city library with its white surfaces, glass walls, and modern design furniture, the much quieter arts library still seems more alive. The library houses more books than one would think when first seeing it, and it has the charming nooks and crannies that are so common for old houses.

You’re standing in one of those nooks one day; an alcove that houses folios, a cart of tall books parked next to the step stool that you’re standing on. You hear someone enter the library, shout out a “Hello!” as you usually do to let patrons know that you’re in the stacks, and receive a low answer. Mindful not to hurt your wrists, you pick up another folio from the cart, and put it back in its place.

The sound of footsteps stops at the desk, and you pick up the next book.

“Be right with you!”

The patron moves again, slowly walking towards the corner where you are, as if looking for you. You turn your head just as you see Professor Pike come around the corner of a bookcase.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” you nod, picking up the next book. “Almost done.”

“I got your email about the book from France. They sent it rather fast.”

“I was surprised, too,” you admit. There’s one book left, and you really should get down from the stool, move it, and get up again, but you’re lazy. You reach, getting up on your toes, just barely getting the book into place when you feel the stool slip from under you. You gasp, a thousand thoughts rushing through your head during the split second you’re in free fall, and then you land softly, not on the floor, but against a corduroy chest, strong arms holding you.

“Shit, that was close!”

You’re tongue-tied, wide-eyed with shock, heart in your throat and going a mile a minute to make up for the missed beats.

“Are you okay?”

You slowly start to realize that you’re in the arms of Marcus Pike, who caught you when you fell from the stool. And he’s still holding you.

“Yeah, I, yeah, fine, I’m good.” You babble, moving uncomfortably to let him know to let you down, which he does with the utmost care. Your legs are wobbly, and Pike keeps a hand on your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you now giggle, embarrassed but simultaneously exhilarated by the rush of adrenaline. “That wasn’t stupid at all, was it? I’ve been thinking about having that stool replaced, but I never got around to it, haha. I guess it takes an accident for me to get my thumb out of my a-, I mean, to get it done.”

Your cheeks are heating up, your hands are shaking as you grab the handles of the cart, kicking the accursed stool to the side.

“That was really scary, though,” Pike tells you in a low voice. “You could’ve really injured yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks, I mean, thanks for catching me.” You bite your lower lip and force yourself to look at him. “I’m so embarrassed. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Just glad I was here,” he shrugs, slowly following you as you march to the desk. “Although one could argue that had I not been here, you wouldn’t have tried to restack that heavy book without moving your stool. Sorry if I stressed you.”

“You didn’t,” you tell him lightly. “I sometimes cut corners like that. It’s fine, no harm done.”

You park the cart in its spot behind the desk, and turn to the shelf of reserved books.

“Here’s your inter-library loan. Due date four weeks from now, if you need it for longer, you know the drill.”

“I do,” he replies quietly and accepts the book from you. Holding it in one hand, he carefully opens it with the other, and thoughtfully browses through it. You sit down, flustered and still a little shaky, hoping that he’ll leave so that you can nurse your wounded pride, and maybe have a drink of water.

“It’s about these eighteenth-century art frauds in Europe – “

“I know. I read the title,” you cut him off, more curt than you meant to. Pike closes the book and nervously fingers the paper slip in it.

“You read French?”

“I even speak it.”

A smile breaks out on his face. “Of course you do.”

You stare at him, frowning as you try to understand what his deal is, and why he’s suddenly smiling like that. It’s never happened before.

And you’ve never noticed what a charming smile he has. It reveals a dimple in his right cheek that makes him look younger than he is – not that he’s old in any way, he must be around your age, somewhere between forty and fifty. The smile makes you even more shaky, and you can’t stop staring at him. He eventually notices, the smile dies down, and he lowers his eyes.

“Well, thanks,” he mumbles, turning around and walking away briskly, leaving you to stare after him, wondering what the hell happened.

Mandy comes in from her lunch break, waves a hello, then stops when she sees you.

“Is everything okay?”

You nod dismissively. “I’m fine, Mandy. I just… almost fell from a stool. But no harm done.”

She expresses her sympathies before going to the study area. You take a deep breath, and disappear into the back room for a glass of water.

There’s tittling in the stacks, but you don’t pay it any mind: it’s part of library life, especially on a campus filled with hormonal young adults. It’s not until your hear Professor Pike’s name mentioned that you stop writing on your keyboard, and strain to hear better.

“He’s the best lecturer here.”

“And he’s so fucking hot, don’t you think?”

“Cara! He’s a million years old!”

“No, he’s not, he’s like the youngest of the faculty, except for Langley, but she’s a woman.”

“Well, I’m bi, and she’s fine too.”

Shameless giggling ensues, and you have to stifle one as well.

“Wouldn’t mind doing some extra credit for Professor Pike…”

“That’s so tacky, Mindy.”

“Come on, like you haven’t thought about it.”

The girls appear from the stacks, carrying literature over to the self service check-out.

“I just think that his lectures are amazing. He can explain literally anything so that I get it. And he knows so much.”

You stare at your screen, but you’re listening to the students.

“He should lecture more, why doesn’t he have any classes?”

“Duh, because he’s a professor, he has other things to do.”

“I’d give him something to do…”

More giggling.

“I’m serious! I ended upw atching that Youtube lecture twice just because he’s so good!”

The girls borrow their books while talking, then nod good-bye to you as they leave. You nod back, then hit up Youtube, and type in Professor Marcus Pike.

You find a video of him giving a lecture on the history of art, and open it. And your jaw drops.

The man in the video is confident without being cocky, talkative, engaging, contact-seeking. He speaks clearly, even drops a couple of jokes, and he walks around the podium in the auditorium. If it wasn’t for that corduroy jacket with the leather patches at the shoulders, the one that you had enveloped around yourself last week, you wouldn’t have recognized the man.

You close the video and chew your lower lip. You always thought Pike was this nutty professor who didn’t know how to behave around people and preferred books to socializing. But the man in the video is nothing like that. So what is his problem when talking to you?

Navigating to Facebook, you search his name, finding him easily enough. He doesn’t seem to be very active, but his professional profile is listed.

His status is set to “single”, which surprises you, but you think no further of it. You click on to photos, finding only a few, most of them outdated.

“Good afternoon.”

You look up, startled at the familiar voice. Seeing Marcus Pike’s face, you close the browser window quickly.

“Sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No worries, I was just… working.”

He clears his throat. “I’d like to return this.”

You accept the book from him, recognizing it as one of his previous ILL’s.

“Thank you.”

A couple of students come in, saying hello to both of you before disappearing into the stacks, phones in hand, library catalog probably open in their mobile browsers. Marcus looks after them, moving his weight from one foot to the other. You put the book to the side.

“Anything else I can do for you, Professor?”

He almost jumps at the sound of your voice.

“Um, no, thank you, I have to get back to work, grad student coming to see me, um, thanks, I’ll let your know if I need anything.”

He leaves the library, and you’re almost laughing. What the hell was that?

As soon as the students have found and borrowed their books, and you’re alone in the library with Mandy, she gets up and comes over to the desk. You smile your mild customer service smile at her, but she returns it with a wry grin.

“You know that he likes you right?”

You blink, not understanding. “Excuse me?”

“Professor Pike. He likes you.”

You shake your head to show her that you have no idea what she’s talking about, and she laughs.

“Oh, come on! The way he stutters and stumbles when he’s here. And he talks about you all the time, every chance he gets.”

“He what?” Your voice goes up, and you clamp your mouth shut. Mandy nods.

“He always tells us to use the library, and ask you for help. The librarian there is really competent, we’re lucky to have such a professional at our service, that sort of thing.”

“Why do you think that means he likes me?” you ask, cheeks heating up. This is stupid, this girl is half your age, and you’re talking like both of you are in middle school.

“Because he’s super confident in class, in meetings, whenever he talks to anyone, except you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Hello!” Mandy rolls her eyes. “Earth to librarian lady! He’s like a flustered cinnamon bun whenever he’s around you – “

“Cinnamon bun?” you interrupt her, incredulously.

“Cutie patootie in old folk speech,” Mandy smirks at you, and you scoff.

“I know what a cinnamon bun is.”

“Whatever. He comes here constantly, doesn’t he? I sit here most days, and no other faculty member visits as much. He’s here practically every day, asking you the simplest questions. He’s into you.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about, Mandy,” you mumble, hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Alright, if you say so,” she smirks. “But I know what I’d do if I were you.”

Later, when she leaves the library, wishing you a good weekend, you open up the browser window again, Pike smiling charmingly at you from his profile picture. You look at it for a long time before logging out, and getting up to reshelf returns.

Friday afternoon in the library makes for slow hours. It’s usually empty – even Mandy has left – and while it gives you the opportunity to prepare for next week, there are Fridays when you’d rather just close up, if you could, and go home early.

A quarter to four, when you’re impatiently tapping your foot for closing time, Marcus Pike shows up again. Mandy’s words echo in your head, making you nervous for the first time, but you manage to suppress that, instead turning on your professional persona.

“Back so soon?” you ask him lightly

“Yeah, I need a book.” He seems to understand himself how stupid that sounded.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

He tells you the title, and you look it up.

“It’s in, call number N5198-5299,” you inform him, then looking up at his hesitant expression. “It’s in the corner over there.”

“Um, could you show me? I’m not good at this.”

“Okay.” You get up and walk around the desk. “But it’s a class that you use a lot, Professor, you should be accustomed to it by now.”

“Marcus.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me Marcus. I don’t much like titles anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

You take him to the right stacks, walking in between the heavy cases. It’s a tight squeeze, this one, and the book is located further in. You pick it out, and turn around, only to find Marcus standing right behind you.

You’ve been in this situation before, many times even. Worst times were when you worked in the city library, and creeps would crowd you between the stacks, not trying anything but coming closer than necessary.

Your heart misses a beat, but you’re not uncomfortable. Instead, you smell something familiar and comforting, something besides old paper, leather covers, and ink. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s Marcus’s cologne, the corduroy, his shampoo: earthy but fresh, a little like the forest after rain, but with an undertone of old leather armchair.

You wet your lips, and hold up the book he asked for.

“Your book.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t take it, so you lower your hand. He clears his throat, but this time, he doesn’t look away, but straight into your eyes.

“I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“There’s this classic movie festival this weekend, and I was wondering…”

“If I wanted to go with you?” you finish his sentence for him, as he takes too long for you to wait. He blinks, then smiles that sweet smile again.

“Exactly. Yes. Would you?”

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” The smile seems to broaden even more.

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect. I can pick you up, if you want to. At six?”

“Perfect,” you echo, now smiling widely yourself. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath this entirely time.

“Perfect.”

The desk phone rings, startling both of you. The book falls from your hand, and you look down at it, then up at Marcus.

“I need to get that.”

“Of course,” he nods. You make a little movement with your head.

“I need to get past you, Marcus?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sorry.”

He backs out from between the cases, letting you out as well. His cologne seems to rub off on your arm when you brush past him, hurrying to the desk. You answer the phone and try to focus on the person calling, take a couple of notes, and end the call just as Marcus comes walking to the desk, book in hand. You check it out for him, give him your number, and he smiles again as he thanks you. You follow him to the door so that you can close up after him.

“I’ll call,” he promises as he steps out. You nod, hand on the door handle.

“Looking forward to it.”

He raises the book as a farewell, then starts walking down the corridor. You’re about to close the door when you suddenly step out, calling his name.

“Marcus!”

He turns around immediately, and now that he’s standing with his back straight, instead of hunched over, you notice how tall and broad-shouldered he is.

“Yes?”

“For the record… you’re into me, right?”

He chuckles, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, I’m into you.”

“Just checking,” you grin. “See you tomorrow.”

[whoyacallinyellow]

To The Fallen

Charles Smith x F! reader

Spoilers: major RDR2 events Content: 18+ mdni, m/f smut, drunk sex, angst, tension, possessive, canon typical events / violence, possible unintentional spelling mistakes Type: second pov (wc - 3693) / pc: pinterest

Summary: After the gang’s downfall, you join Charles on his endeavors. While roughing it in the woods, you convince him to share a drink with you…

“C’mon Charles, live a little.” 

You encouraged the man, sat upon a log as he tended to the small campfire you shared. He sighed at your relentless begging, gazing at you over the orange flames. Truly torn, he hated to turn you down, but your safety was more important than your idea of a good time. 

“What if something happens?— besides, someone needs to take care of you.” 

The man reasoned with your buzzed mind, gesturing towards the half empty glass you cradled on your knee. 

Your eyes followed him as he joined you, carefully studying his every step before he sat next to you, tobacco leeching off his clothes and filling the air. 

“It’ll be fine.” You reassured softly, watching him glance longingly into the flames once again. His eyes carried a certain sorrow that did not leave since Beaver Hollow. Apathy had stuck to Charles like a ball and chain, burying his friends was a pastime he did not favor, with Arthur being the final nail in the coffin. 

After the fallout of the gang, the two of you spent your time roughing it in sticks, you reckoned somewhere between Canada and northern United States. You felt as if it were the smartest move to be as far away as possible, while Charles was a man who did not like running. He was fully aware the severity of his actions came with a big price— but he was willing to compromise for you. 

Charles always seemed to know what to do, and where to go. He found refuge in your company and trust, the close bond you shared only flourished after being by your lonesome. The man wouldn’t want it any other way, sometimes pondering where he would be, or what he would be doing without you. The doubts he kept quiet and buried deep often resurfaced the moments he was reminded how sweet on you he was. 

“You could use one.” You continued, placing a small hand on his knee with the attempt to break his trance. You so desperately wished to lend him a penny for a thought, but your attempts usually went nowhere. 

The man huffed in defeat, encapsulating his hand over yours tenderly. 

“Maybe just one.” 

Charles reluctantly agreed, his words barely finished before you filled his unused glass with a much needed relaxation aid. 

You scooted closer as a Canadian breeze whipped past, which made his grasp slip politely around you. The man’s arm alone somehow carried more warmth than any blanket could give you. Or perhaps it was the security he offered with each touch.  

“Uh— to the fallen.” 

You propose awkwardly, raising your glass lazily to the man who met you with a stupid smirk. 

With your tipsy state being more than amusing to the outlaw, your words would be teased and mocked in the morning, in addition to gentle kisses as compensation— if you were lucky. 

“To good health, my girl.”  

He compromised huskily, his words presenting a much more giddy side which had been long erased with time. Charles lounged in the moment, the drink would allow a disconnect from his thoughts, unwilling to think about the gang under the grip of a bottle. 

You took his offer with a small clink, the contents of his glass sloshing and spilling into yours. 

Charles always knew you had his best interest in mind, the same he held for you. And with everything that happened in the past year, maybe he’s been too uptight and miserable. He reasoned that self reflection would come after a night of fun, maybe he did need this. 

The night seemed to slip from his grasp after that point. His incoherent banter blew through the trees and vacant wilderness, undoubtedly scaring any animal or man for miles. Charles would often lean against you for temporary support, his hand sneaking through your inner thigh, and lingering for a moment to prop himself upright before continuing his casual slurs. The bottle loosened his tongue more than you expected, allowing him to exaggerate a memory or two. 

You have not seen the man wear such a toothy grin since Sean was rescued, a celebration where he took the liberty of more than one drink. As you walked past the rowdy group by the fire, he would match Sean and Karen by pulling you onto his lap. A drunken stunt he would never dare pull sober in front of the others, denying every bit of the scandal once teased the day after. His leg would bounce effortlessly to the music beneath you, wobbling you tightly to his chest. All you could think about was the stubble of his chin digging into your shoulder, the way his fingertips treaded dangerously close to your waist—as if he was taunting you. His hard bulge you rested on would go unacknowledged by the man as he bounced his leg, but not you.

It was a sick game he played and perhaps enjoyed a little too much, testing your willpower for him every moment available.  

Charles’ one ended up being your three, his glass being long retired in favor of the bottle, swaying between his fingers as he nursed it sporadically. 

As the man went over the deep end you just spectated, you figured the least you could do was take care of him for one night, as he does for you every other. One night off was the very least he deserved. 

“S’enough now, reckon you oughta sleep.” 

Your words interrupted Charles, an unmistakable hum rattling through his chest. It hurts you how much the gang lived within the man, even while blackout drunk, Javier’s rhythms that played years ago flowed through him. 

You arose stiffly to your feet, which the man unsteadily followed, his arms swaying and outstretched to recoup some balance. 

The fire had died down along with his energy, Charles’ half-lidded eyes wandered, barely illuminating off the flame. 

Your unexpected touch at the man’s nether region triggered his reflex with a stagger as you unclasped his taut gun belt. Relieving him of today's responsibilities. 

“Oh hush,” 

You murmured, your concentration ignoring his sudden silence. 

Glancing up at the man who towered over you was now stiff as a board, arms hung by his sides as he stared back directly into your soul. 

His lips parted ever so slightly, but nothing came out besides a sigh, the bottle dulling his expression, but emphasizing fervency. 

All Charles could do was stare, his mind clouding over his better judgment— the thought of you seemed to do that often. 

He remembered a particularly sunny day at Clemons Point, a job gone not to plan. You tended to the man’s wounds as he recovered in a cot. Your eyes heavy and looming over each part of his injured body, a sense of worship you held for his temple he simply did not. White bandages decorated his torso and bicep, a familiarity with his body and scars that only you held. The sacredness and safety your touch gave him made his pride not allow anyone else to see him in such a way, not that he would ever tell you. 

You would not speak while focusing on him, not even to ask for an explanation of the wounds. But your vibrant presence would keep him company in the midst of your silence. 

The feeling would eventually leave him as you wandered off, he would watch your figure lingering in the distance, pondering while gazing off the beautiful lands camp offered you. Your apprehensive mannerisms worried the man, which he mistook as forlornness. Charles would justify the scenarios, a double edged sword he deemed to be second nature— you knew what type of man he was. 

You would bide your time against a nearby tree in eyeshot of the cot, ensuring his peace. But would return before too long, your eyes slightly uplifted in spirit. Once again presenting Charles with the same feeling he had before you left the tent. 

Perched up on the barrel level with the cot, the back of your delicate hand would linger on his forehead before caressing down his scuffed cheek, the same touches his mother would give him as a boy. 

Your silence was louder than any words you could have said, you loved him and he always knew.

—

“M’sorry.”

The man uttered after a needy kiss. Insincerity snuck upon his lips, unsure of what exactly he was apologizing for— was it to you? Or was it guilt of the broken man he’s become?— when exactly did he dismiss the morals he subscribed to? 

Now laying in the tent you shared, your lust for him kept him far from his drunken mind, his pants you had undone tempted his desires over redemption. Charles somehow held no recollection of your hands working down there.

Once again your silence was louder than words, fingertips tracing gingerly over his bulge. Subtly begging him to give into his desires, give into you. Charles always had different plans for your first time together, but the past years haven’t been kind, making the time never right— he never once considered taking you while a drunken idiot. 

But your body would soon be consumed by that very same desire, he would only leave your lips momentarily while clothes were kicked off. 

The unsuitable lighting made the man rely on his hands, touches that were a test of how well he knew your body, by now considering it an extension of himself. 

“Charles,” 

His name deliciously exhaled from your lips at the slightest feel of him. Your voice saying his name in such a manner forever burnt a mark into his mind. You molded into every touch of his, which only encouraged his high. His calloused fingertips ran from your hip bones to your breasts, touching the off guard parts of you to everyone but him. 

“Yeah?” 

Charles eventually answered, his gruff voice lowly exiting his chest with an unforeseen force. 

Stroking himself, the man positioned at your entrance, his tip preparing you extensively. Charles’ neck craned back as pleasure began to soar through him, a sharp sigh being exerted at the slightest feel of himself in you. 

“Think you can take me?”

Less of a question, the man wondered out loud through a slur. The syllables lazily slid off his tongue as he teased his head back and forth through your heat. His jaw had gone slack from a combination of ecstasy and concentration, your wetness and anticipation only grew with each of his strokes. 

He hoped to get more noise from you. So desperately wanting you to be loud for him, no camp, no one to worry about— just you. You were his one and only focus, as it should have been from the start. 

Your silence was temporary, captivated by your lover teasing you between your legs. 

“Go on then,” 

Your voice came out as a pitiful whine, a beg of yours he would not take lightly. 

The large man hummed through his amusement and pleasure, his hands covering every area of skin he could on you. Scooting you closer to his preference came with ease, his pull on your hips united your thighs to his. With how light and sweet Charles’ casual touches were, you sometimes forgot how strong the man really was. 

“Charles!”

Your frustrated moan was music to his ears, it broke through the man’s clouded brain like the sound of a gunshot. A distracted hand was still placed on the base of his cock, threading it through your lips in awe. 

“Okay— ok, sweet girl, don’t know if I’ll fit s’all.”

He contemplated out loud, his voice remained low and primal, glossed over drunken eyes lustfully staring into yours, a hint of playfulness being held within the brown wells.

It was the same look they held the day of your hunting trip for Mr. Pearson. You insisted on joining Charles, less to assist and more to loiter and encourage the man. A simple and innocent request he would never refuse. You held onto his torso as he rode Taima, to his dismay your hands would wander further, and further down, until resting prettily on either side of his groin. You would see the man headbob towards the saddle, infatuated with both your boldness and touch— needless to say, you both returned to camp empty handed that day. 

—

The wind that rippled through the tent canvas sent chills through your bones, your naked frame being consumed by goosebumps which the man took humor in. His rough fingertips wasted no time fiddling with your nipples before covering you with his body. Finally exchanging his body heat with yours that would not be needed for long. 

Now fixated on your upper body, it did not take him long to cover you in his hungry mouth, his shaft still grinding against your lips as he eagerly thrusted, barely touching your entrance with each movement. 

Taking matters into your own hands, your patience grew thin, reaching down and directing the man where you needed him. 

The abrupt contact caused spots to flood in vision, Charles’ pleasure and whiskey filling his palette in a way he did not know possible. A part of him wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop after taking you, afraid he would accidentally hurt you in his drunken stupor. His lack of control over his dire state only showed the desperateness Charles usually hid from you. 

Your fingers laced around the man’s bare chest, little nothings you would mumble as you took his length. Charles still doesn’t know what got into him, all the pent up desire for you finally being spent with a slow and powerful thrust that swooped to your core. Despite his eagerness and your moans, he somehow mustered up enough composure to allow you to get used to his size. 

“So tight for me,”

Was all the man grunted through his drunken lust, he thought you took his size so well for him, almost as if you were made for him as a lover. 

Your fingernails that dragged along his back earned you some groans and abrupt movements that were particularly passionate.  

Hearing him in such a worked up manner only made you tighter around him. It was enough to nearly make the man lightheaded as pleasure roamed throughout the tent. 

Words weren’t needed for Charles to understand that your desperation was mutual to his. Your walls continued to grow wet and clench around him with every adjustment and word of his, making a mess of the bedrolls beneath you both. 

“You should’ve took me that night— at Shady Belle.”

Your unsteady words momentarily stopped the man in his tracks. His body frozen atop of yours as he mentally mapped out just how long you’ve been wanting him this way. 

Charles remembered the look you gave him as he peeled off the layers of his bank heist clothing, gun belt falling to his ankles with a clank. He was the only man to return from Saint Denis that night. You followed him around camp like a lost dog, eyes glued to him, silently begging for an ounce of him. You always knew if any man were to return from a botched heist, it would be Charles Smith. 

Your need for him then would go unfulfilled, his large hands lingered lovingly on your waist everytime he rushed past you to assist what was left of the gang, as if he silently acknowledged your desperation. Charles always carried that sense of urgency and composure you did not— he was the last man with a lick of leadership, afterall. 

You wore a similar look now, needy and willing.  

A lazy chuckle filled the tent before he planted a sloppy kiss on your lips, feeling your breath quiver against him was a reminder to continue. 

“Should’ve said, my girl.” 

Charles rebutted simply, allowing your moans to once again fill his ears as he moved swiftly but rhythmically. 

After all this time Charles knew what kind of lover he wanted to be for you, in his mind he earned you and your desire to be with him in such a way. Which meant you deserved to experience your importance and much more. 

Sensual and with purpose—at least for the first time. Each of his actions would show how much you meant to him. Charles thought about it more than he would like to admit, the days you would patch him up only encouraged the back door thoughts of showering your body in his devotion, your lingering touch merely drove those thoughts further. 

But the whiskey consumed his prior plans of reverence, only to reveal how badly he needed this— how badly he needed you. 

Every last bit of his self-control was thrown out the tent along with your clothes, discarded in the dirt by the fire.  

His hands gripping whatever skin of yours he could, small marks of his fingertips peppered on you, further demonstrating the long overdue tension he held prior to taking you. 

Lips and tongue that traveled on your breasts occasionally came with teeth, his excitement winning and the principals he usually held washed away with the prior drinks you shared. 

These marks the man would notice in the morning, guilt and embarrassment surging through him while planting soft kisses upon the possessive marks— Did he hurt you? Was he too rough?— Was he foolish?— he doesn’t remember, his head hurts. Your words of praise would feel just as genuine as it did the night prior, reassuring the man you enjoyed him just fine.

Your touch ghosted down his chest and to his bucking hips, tracing the muscles that flexed with each thrust. Both of your thighs now sopping, Charles let out a low moan, his stomach knotting and quivering under your spell. He guided your hands back up, not wanting to reach his peak quite yet, and your excessive touch would overstimulate him to that point. 

“Easy now.” 

Charles whispered, his voice gravelly and hoarse, a vague warning which slipped from his lips as smooth as the booze went down. The man knew you were close under his control, and how malleable you were only drove him closer to the edge. 

His braided hair had gracefully come undone from the intimacy, loose strands both dangling over your bare skin and sticking to his shoulders. 

Your body quivered beneath him, sensing your climax was near with excessive moans and breaths you gave him. Hearing you moan his name fully unleashed would replay in his mind for days to come, your pretty lips trembling was a sight for sore eyes. Hoisting himself back to his knees, his bottom lip slid between his teeth, rubbing your clit while he admired how you gripped his cock. So trusting, so excited, so wet, and it was all for him? 

His thrusts became more attentive, each one pressing and lingering deep within you, his back arching to meet your pelvis, ensuring no part of his length went neglected. 

If Charles didn’t know any better, he would have lingered in you a moment longer before finishing, basking in the pleasure your high presented him with. The same high he has been subconsciously chasing since Clemons Point. But instead his shaft planted onto your stomach as he climaxed, animalistic groans exiting the man as he marked you. 

Your lover’s chest heaved, lingering momentarily as he finished. Both soaked and relieved, he weakly lowered for yet another soft kiss. His necklace and hair tickling your collarbone as he recovered from his high. 

The mind fog prevented any sort of disruption of his focus on you. Charles studied your torso as you recovered yourself, the small faded scar he stitched up for you back in Colter now glistened under his love for you, it seemed so long ago to the man. He never once thought in this lifetime the girl he saved from a seemingly fatal stomach wound would be the same stomach covered in his seed. 

“‘Look real sweet like that.” 

He hummed, pride and satisfaction littering his tone. His voice rumbled in his chest, presenting signs of sobering up after his chase. 

“Oh?” Your lips formed into an amused grin, staring at your tired lover laying beside you, his toned figure barely visible in the tent besides the glossy formations of sweat beading down his chest. His dark eyes still hooked onto the mess he created on you.  

“Real sweet.” 

The man affirmed gently, figuring he would put you out of your misery and clean you off. 

How whipped was Charles? He could not tell. Every kiss you would give him later that night threw him over the moon. Your fingertips soothingly outlined the scar on his jaw as he held you tightly, your frame curled within his, thighs that pressed against him unknowingly gave him a certain friction that begged him for another round. 

But he decided you needed the rest, as he felt there would be more where tonight came from. He would make it up to you then. 

The embers cracked in front of your tent, with the trees swaying the distance, the white noise was enough to lull you to a slumber. But the man forced himself awake just moments longer to experience you. Relishing in a feeling he never wanted to leave him. Charles wished the night lasted a little longer, as he did with most good things he was fortunate enough to have come his way. He always wondered what he did to deserve those things, especially with all the sins under his belt. 

He felt as if he were sinking, or spinning, maybe it was spinning, his fingertips tapped rhythmically down your spine in his subconscious state, gaining your attention. 

“Sleep with me.” 

You cooed against his chest, words he could barely make out from your state of delirium. 

The man kissed your forehead in response, his mind that tried running off into the night was anchored back to you. Like most things were.  

Your wish was Charles' command, and he knew it would be the beginning of many more.   

~

[donjuaninhell]

(I Will Soon Be Offering) Private Guitar Lessons

A few months ago one of my followers asked if I had ever thought about offering guitar lessons online via webcam. I replied that it was indeed something I had thought about but that I would need to give it more thought as to how I would approach teaching online, whether or not I had the proper equipment to provide a professional experience, how many students I could take on, and what exactly I could offer as a teacher. I also noted that I would have to create a suitable space in my apartment for hosting students. This last part took care of itself when my roommate moved out and I am presently converting his old bedroom into an office. As for the rest? Well I gave it some thought and I've hacked together reasonable solutions for most of those other issues, so I would like to announce that beginning later this winter/this spring I will be offering private one-on-one guitar lessons via webcam.

My Qualifications:

While I graduated with a degree in Classics and attended graduate school in that field, I was initially accepted into university as a music major on the basis of my guitar playing. It was only after a few years that I switched majors into Classics. In the end I still managed enough credits to claim a minor in music.

Before attending university I spent a year studying jazz theory/jazz improvisation at the college level.

Both prior to and concurrent with my college/university music education I studied classical guitar privately with a teacher for a little over a decade; through him I can claim teaching lineage back to Francisco Tárrega.

I have played in a few garage bands that never really went anywhere, performed with friends at house parties, jammed around as much as I could, and performed live as a solo guitarist.

I previously taught guitar while in university; this is not my first rodeo.

I have been playing guitar for a little over twenty three years.

What I Can Offer:

If you're a beginner I can happily guide your playing to a level where you would feel comfortable learning songs on your own, and we would start with learning basic chords, basic technique, and putting it all together into learning a few songs.

If you're past the beginner stage, I can take your playing to a level where you would be able to convincingly improvise a solo over a song, play more advanced songs, and sit in with a jam session.

If learning to read sheet music is a goal am able to assist with that.

If you're interested in beginner classical guitar I would feel comfortable teaching repertoire and technique to the level of Royal Conservatory of Music Grade Five examinations. Grade Five repertoire is typically the minimum requirement when auditioning on guitar for a university level music program in Canada. I have several guitar methods at my disposal for teaching technique, and access to a wide array of repertoire sheet music.

I am also able to teach theory as it pertains to playing the guitar and point you towards texts that from beginner levels up to basic harmonic analysis. I can teach you how chords are constructed, how they fit together into a progression, and the basic grammar of music.

Lessons, Pricing, What to Expect, What a Prospective Student Will Require:

The going rate for private music lessons is $40-$50 per hour and ranges up to well over $100 for some in demand teachers. My fee operates on a sliding scale with a floor of $20USD/$25CAD per hour. If you are comfortable paying the typical going rate, wonderful, if you are unable to afford that, we can work something out, no questions asked. Payment should be sent through PayPal or Interac e-transfer.

Due to chronic illness I can't take on more than five students a week. They needn't necessarily be the same five students every week; if a bi-weekly lesson schedule works better for a number of people, they can alternate. In the rare event that there is more demand than that mutuals and longtime followers will have priority.

What you need as a student: A guitar; a webcam; a microphone; a way of letting me hear your playing. This could mean having your microphone positioned so that I can hear your amplifier clearly, or by using a direct input. Feel free to shoot me a message if you want some recommendations for inexpensive DI-boxes and audio interfaces. Headphones would be a good idea too.

If you commit to more than one lesson the first will be free of charge. Your first lesson with me will look something like this: we'll talk about your goals and intentions i.e. what it is you hope to get out of taking guitar lessons and how far you want to take your playing. As we chat about that we can chart out a course to get you there, and then we'll just generally see where you're at. The rest of the lesson will be taken up with some pointers on properly caring for and tuning your instrument, and then we'll put some thought towards the way our bodies are posed, how we have the guitar positioned in relation to our bodies, exercising good hand ergonomics, and finding a playing position that is both comfortable and which allows for optimal freedom of movement.

I live in Toronto which is UTC -5 keep this in mind if you're interested in taking lessons and are located elsewhere.

I intend to do my best at being a trooper and toughing it out, and I will aim to not cancel lessons without fair warning, but the nature of my illness means that I may need to resort to this occasionally. You will need to be alright with this.

If you're interested, you can contact me here or at brendanpalangio@gmail.com. Hopefully I can get enough people interested that I can go about figuring out everyone's availability and drawing up a schedule.

[howlett-n-morgan]

More Than Words

3. An Advantageous Journey

Logan Howlett x OC!Reader

Series Summary: Having lived for over two hundred years and never having the privilege of human touch is the biggest burden imaginable... until someone comes along with the healing ability to withstand the touch of death.

Chapter Warnings: mild language, mentions of scars and blood, a few traumatic events and ptsd symptoms, mostly fluff in this one guys… but LOGAN IS A WARNING. Oh and also I’m not from Canada and only have one Canadian friend so my apologies if Canada is depicted poorly… she was like ‘it’s just like America except there’s more snow and some people speak French’

Chapter Summary: Going back to Canada is supposed to be a quick trip that benefits Logan’s memory, but upon arriving, he seems to think that a fews days need be spent on diversions.

Word Count: 15.3k (God help me-)

“Then how were they able to cut you up?”  Poor phrasing, but he was never one for a gentle touch in his wording.  “Same way you were able to,” you reminded him, rolling up your sleeve to show where his claw marks had almost completely healed over. “Adamantium.” “Adamantium? You’re kidding,” he almost found it funny, the irony of it all. He’s the only one who can touch you, but he’s also the only one who can hurt you. “How’d they figure that out?”

The professor was the first one to speak to Logan the morning you both planned on leaving the mansion. Everyone was made aware of this, but few people understood why it was so necessary. Even Scott, who had endured some of the same treatment as you and Logan, did not know how to justify such a spontaneous trip in the midst of all the chaos surrounding mutants. Especially after the recent situation with Magneto.

It could be dangerous, but above all things, it could also bring answers. And Logan needed answers. About who he was, what he did, and where he’s supposed to go, now. The pain from his nightmares has subsided only a small bit while being here with everyone. He wants to make them go away for good. 

When Charles sits him down in the study that morning, he thinks he understands why. You’re a very important member of the team. He wants to make sure you return, and without a scratch. It makes sense in his mind… but the professor has other ideas for the conversation. 

“How long do you both plan on being away?” He asks, keeping a tether on Logan’s mind in case he is even the slightest bit dishonest. 

“Not sure,” he began with a sigh, sitting back into the seat he’d been given. “I guess it depends.”

“On what, exactly?” Charles kept his questioning thorough, but not for the reason of interrogating him. 

“On what we find.” Logan shrugged his shoulders and raised a brow. He really had no idea what he was going into when you said you’d take him to Stryker’s old bunker. “Guessing from the nightmares I’ve had, it’s not really a nice place.”

“Well, I assure you,” Charles began, turning his chair to the side and reaching for some documents on his desk. “You are in the best of hands. The very best. I just hope you know how lucky you really are.”

“Lucky? How so?” Logan’s curiosity wandered. He knew you were a valuable member of the team, and he was grateful that you would offer him such a strenuous task on your own shoulders, but he caught on that there was more that Charles hadn’t spoken. 

“Alice is a rare mutant. Like you, she can stand the tests of time, and never waiver. She is nearly immortal, and takes her job of protecting others very seriously.” 

“I picked that up,” Logan nodded in agreement. “She cares a lot about saving people.”

“She cares even more for those who are close to her,” the old man warned, his expression becoming more solemn and serious. “She will go to incredible lengths to keep her loved ones out of harm’s way.”

Logan was beginning to wonder where the point was in all of this. He knew you were the type to look out for others above yourself. You were an X-man, it kind of came as a job requirement… but more than that, he knew you were kinder than most people were, and the help you extended to him was not just a simple favor. 

“She has never experienced a bond like she has with you… with human touch.”

He understands now. Your powers, and the impact they have had on you is immense. You have to keep everyone at arm’s length, except for him. He can be let in, and he can do the things that others can’t.

“What exactly are you telling me?” Logan pondered, gruffly. Even with the professor’s point being made, he was still curious as to why he would bring this all up.

“I’m telling you to be careful. She’s already grown strongly attached to you for the sake of your touch, and will likely become fonder in these days to come. I ask you to think about and consider her feelings when you take her with you… If you hurt her, the consequences would be unimaginable.”

Logan does consider them, for a split second he considers them. He knows you’re fond of him, otherwise this escapade would not even be happening… but he also knows that his ability to touch you is the defining factor. His feelings for someone else block out any signs that your interest in him could further develop, at least past what it is already. Even with all this in mind, Logan is a smartass, and wants to tempt the man in charge by challenging his threat. 

“I can imagine quite a bit,” he smirked, nodding his head side to side. 

Charles did not take that comedically whatsoever, and Logan didn’t really expect him to. It was probably a bad idea to open his mouth in the first place. 

“You mock me when I’m trying to help you?” 

“No sir,” he let out with a breath. 

“The consequences I speak of would not be dealt by I or any of her colleagues…”

“Then by who?” Logan asked, his voice not raised, but becoming more prominent as the conversation became more pointed than it was before. “Is there some big bad monster I should be worried about?” 

Charles sighed. He wasn’t getting anywhere, and Logan only seemed to become irritated the more he spoke. He took a glance into the man’s mind, and found that a beautiful woman with long red hair rested among his thoughts, though he should not be thinking about the woman that is most definitely taken. 

“I can see that your mind is clouded by thoughts of someone else,” Xavier changed the subject, tapping into the specific thoughts and trying to gather more details. It appears this conversation was mostly for nothing. Charles sighs, “Do not hurt Alice, Logan. If you do, her pain will become yours.”

“I won’t hurt her,” Logan stood up, assuming this was the last of the professor’s advisory words. He was becoming quickly annoyed with how little the man trusted him, and how intrusive he’d been this whole time. 

He wouldn’t lead you on, but he wouldn’t shut you out, either. You’d been so helpful to him, he wasn’t going to push away the one piece of his past that just might bring everything together. That would be foolish of him. 

“Logan,” The professor stopped him one more time, and he turned to look at the man, sitting straight and with a firm gaze from his wheelchair. “When the time is right, ask her about a man named Charlie.”

Logan sighed, filing that thought away in his mind before heading back upstairs to pack some of his belongings together. 

-

You never wanted to go back to Canada. 

You swore after you got out the first time that nothing good could ever come out of Canada and you stuck to that belief. 

But you’d met Logan in Canada, and he wasn’t so bad. Scott, too… although he’d been a teenager at the time and was much more annoying back then.

“On your way already?” Ororo was leaning in your doorway when you looked up, watching you stuff your travel backpack until it could barely zip up on the side. 

“About to be,” you heaved it up onto your back, adjusting your posture to hold it correctly, then walked to meet her at the door. “I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye.”

She grabbed your hand, covered in your little green gloves. “Keep in touch, will you?” 

“I will, I promise,” you nodded gently. “I won’t stay away for long.”

“You say that now,” she crossed her arms and shook her head jokingly. “But going away with a guy that looks like that? And he’s the only man in the world that can touch you? Baby, I’ll be lucky if I ever see you again.”

You laughed along with her, giving a warm smile and a nod. “He’s something…”

“He’s ready to go,” Logan teased, coming up behind Ororo.

You blushed, knowing he probably heard the conversation while leaving his room. You avoided making eye contact with him yet, just gave a thin lip smile while looking back to your dear friend and saying your last goodbyes. You only wished you could hug her close to you, for all the years she’s spent in your corner. 

“I guess I’ll see you around, Ro.” 

“Don’t be a stranger… Call me when you can.” She gave you a strong look, indicating that she was serious, and not just playing along for the sake of goodbyes.

“You know I will…” you trailed, giving her one more squeeze of the hand before walking behind Logan towards the stairs. 

Once at the bottom, there was just a slight obstacle. Rogue caught you both leaving, and had a few words to say. 

You’d admit, you felt bad leaving her here, especially when you’d been so adamant to her before that you were going to teach her about her powers and how to get used to them without the fear of hurting others. It’s only now that you realize you won’t be able to help in the most detrimental stages of her mutant education… but you would return. You knew you would. 

You had to help Logan, first. He was the priority. He saved your life once, and it was time to pay that debt forward. 

Logan had left his dog tags with Rogue, along with a promise that he would be back. Of course he would… Or maybe he wouldn’t. You never thought about what could happen if he should find his memories and remember who he is. He might have loved ones and a family to return to…

“She’s got a crush on you,” you mentioned to him once you were out of the house. You looked at him, and he seemed unsurprised. “And she trusts you…”

“I figured that much,” he smirked, walking towards the main garage around the side of the large house. 

“Did you mean it?” 

“Did I mean what?” He turned to ask you, his features twisted in confusion. 

You sighed, stopping at the garage door but making no motion to use the lock pad to open it. 

“When you said you were going to come back…” you trailed, scanning your thumb print on the pad so the door would fold up. State of the art technology for the lock, but the same old door from the seventies. 

It took him longer than you expected to answer the question, but you figured since it held some weight, it was good that he thought it out clearly. 

“Yeah, I meant it.”

You looked to him, the decision he made was worn on his face and it was easy to see he was telling the truth. 

“Good,” you nodded, walking inside first and grabbing your keys from your pocket. Logan immediately gave you a glance of mischief, and walked in the other direction. 

“Logan, no…”

“Logan, yes,” he taunted, going over to sit on the motorcycle that belonged to Scott. You weren’t going to play this game with him.

“We are not going all the way to Canada on a bike.” You were trying to be the reasonable one here, but he was so damn stubborn. Two could play that game, you were stubborn, too. “Get in the car.”

“Get on the bike,” he nodded behind him, the open seat looking appealing for only a moment. “I know you want to…”

“No, I don’t…” you opened the driver’s side door, and climbed in, shutting it behind you… but he didn’t budge from the damn motorcycle. 

When he turned it on, the engine roaring to life and revving from the motions of his hand, you closed your eyes for a split second before doing the worst thing you could have possibly done. You climbed out of the car and went to the motorcycle, swinging a leg over and holding onto him with a big huff. He knew you did it for show, not because you were actually upset. 

“Comfy?” He threw a smirk over his shoulder, and you huffed again for emphasis. 

“No.”

He just laughed, pulling out of the garage and onto the road. 

You would admit, the wind in your hair, and the lovely smell of the pine trees lining the streets was wonderful. All the sights on the way to your destination were quite lovely, and though you could see them from your car just the same, it wouldn’t feel like this. 

This feels like flying, almost, with the breeze beneath your wings, and the sounds of nature as you pass through. 

Logan can almost sense your smile when you drive by a particular area full of color changing aspens, the scenery surrounding you felt almost like a dream, something from out of a movie. 

He never said anything to taunt you about being right, or made a comment about how much you seemed to be enjoying yourself. It was silent between you both for hours, until the sun began had set, and you’d finally crossed the border into Canada. 

“We’re gonna have to stop soon for the night,” he mentioned when you’d pulled off the road to get something to eat. Just a little rest-stop… gas stations, fast food, the works. You’d spotted a sign a few miles back for a motel, but weren’t sure where to go in order to get there. 

“Fill up the tank, I’ll go inside and ask about directions,” you told him, swinging your leg off of the bike and walking away. 

He was certain that this dynamic between the two of you was working well already, and that he didn’t need to heed Charle’s words as much as he originally intended. You seemed to go with the flow of things, and were rather easy to get along with… and you didn’t seem to be super into him like the professor said you would be. You cared about him, sure… but he cared about you too, and without crossing any lines. 

Filling up the bike, he leaned against the metal machinery, his head dozing back and forth from his tired state. It wasn’t until you returned, holding a map and a bag of gas station pastries that he was fully aware again. 

“The guy marked that motel out for me on the map,” you said, unfolding the paper and showing it to him, the red marker lining the road and the turn off. “It’s two exits down.”

“Easy enough.” He took a look at the marked location for himself, waiting for the gas pump to finish topping off the tank.

“I got you a donut,” you said, handing him a paper bag like your own. You’d pulled a maple donut from yours, so he was appalled to find that his was not also a maple donut. 

“Chocolate?” His eyebrows raised, only teasing you, but still just slightly butthurt about the donut. 

“You don’t like chocolate?” You furrowed your eyebrows, talking with your mouth full of the first bite you took.

“Did they not have any other maple glazed?” he nodded to yours, the joking nature still filling his tone. 

“This was the last one.” You reasoned. You found it a little funny, but felt a little bad at the same time. 

He huffed, shaking his head, but then you smiled sweetly, holding out the donut with a single bite taken to him. 

“I’ll trade you,” you offered, knowing that in the end, it was just a donut compared to the grand scheme of things. 

“Thanks,” he muttered gratefully, a sideways smile spreading on his cheeks. He’ll admit, it was a sweet gesture, no matter how small. He handed you the chocolate donut, and took a bite out of the one you gave him. “Maple donuts are for real Canadians.”

“You’re Canadian?” you asked, a bit of surprise coming from you. You met him in Canada, but it was somehow still a shock to you. He seemed very American when you first met him, and even now. 

“S’one of the only things I can remember,” he nodded, his demeanor livening up quickly, and all because of a donut.

“Huh,” you stared off, wondering if he’d known Stryker for long before his memory faltered. Clearly he’d been abused by the man, but to what extent, you weren’t sure. You have bits and pieces of memories from that era, and most were just feelings of the energy around you.

“You didn’t know?” 

“You didn’t tell me…” you trailed, enjoying the chocolate donut, despite maple donuts being better. Him enjoying it was satisfying enough.

“We should get out of here,” he yawned, crumpling up the paper bag and tossing it into a nearby trash can. “Road is dark, and I’m tired.”

“Big, strong, manly… but gets tired on a little road trip?” You teased, finishing up the pastry before throwing away the trash and getting back on the bike with him.

“You try steering this thing all day.” He threw a smirk over his shoulder, revving the engine. 

“I would, if you’d let me,” you chided, another taunt that you knew wouldn’t end in your favor. He’d never be caught dead on the back of a motorcycle like this with someone else behind the handles.

“Not a chance…” 

-

Having checked into the small motel, you ached for a shower, but given that Logan was practically falling asleep already, you let him go first. 

Maybe it was a mistake, he’d been in there for a while, and you thought maybe all the hot water would be gone by the time it was your turn. You just hoped he hadn’t fallen asleep in there, propped against the shower wall. 

You might just shower tomorrow at this point, unwilling to wait for the water to heat back up. 

With a sigh, you changed into something a little more comfortable, the pair of sweatpants and sweater that were shoved to the bottom of your giant backpack. It was wrinkled as all hell from the journey, but you knew that didn’t matter. It was cozy, and warm, and being in Canada as late fall was setting in meant you needed to be as warm as possible. 

You curled up on the queen bed closest to the heater with your book, which you’d deemed necessity enough to bring on this escapade to another country.

When Logan finally emerged, he’d adorned a pair of flannel pants, and a gray t-shirt, which was admittedly a bit small for him. The fabric hugged his body a bit tighter than he was used to, but good lord almighty… this man looked stunning. 

The dim light from the bathroom, mixed with the warm glow from your bedside lamp while you read, it made him look like he glistened. The stray water drops on his face and neck, and the quickly curling upwards strands of his damp hair. You never guessed that his hair just did that naturally. You found yourself staring a little too long, and as soon as Logan picked up on it, dropping the towel he used to dry his hair, he chanced a look in your direction. Quickly your eyes found the pages of your book again, and you kept a straight face, hoping nothing would be said about it.

“That a good book?” he smirked, knowing that you could barely even focus on it a second ago. 

“Mhm,” you zoned in on the words, reading them over and over, but none of what they mean stuck in your head. You could only think about what you just saw, and what you still could see if only you turned your gaze. 

“It looks old,” he commented on the bent pages and old fabric cover. It looked worn and well loved. 

“It is old. I got it on the day it was released in nineteen fifty-three.”

He whistled lowly, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “You read it a lot?”

“Once a year,” you mumbled, still acting engrossed with the page you’d been stuck on since he entered the room. “It’s my favorite book.”

“What’s it about?” He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning forward and looking at you tiredly. He was exhausted, wasn’t he? Why didn’t he just say goodnight and go to bed?

“The future… the way the author thinks our societies will begin to crumble,” you explained, turning towards him and letting the book fall on your chest, pages still open. “Books will be outlawed, and a group called the firemen will be required to burn any that are found.”

“Sounds interesting… also sounds a little miserable. Why’s it your favorite?” He grinned, throwing his sheets and blankets up and lying beneath them, keeping his head propped up on his hand so he wouldn’t fall asleep yet. The warm glow of your bedside lamp cast him in such a pretty glow…

“I think it feels very real to me, in a way…”

“You think books are gonna be outlawed?” He laughed slightly, clearly finding himself misunderstanding your meaning. 

“No, but with the way things are playing out, it feels like a projection of what’s to come. Of course, they will make the enemies of the future out to be mutants, not books.”

“And these… firemen,” he put finger quotes around the word, trying to be hypothetical about the situation. “You think there will be groups like that?” 

“Mutant hunters? Absolutely… They’re already out there, just look at what happened to us,” you sighed, the facts of the matter weighing you down, even though it had been a pleasant conversation. You enjoyed talking about your favorite book, but everyone in the mansion had already heard about it a thousand times. It was refreshing to get a new audience to share thoughts with. 

“I never thought about it that way…” he furrowed his brow, his eyes drooping with every second passed. He had to be fighting sleep for his life. 

“Mutants are supposed to be the future… but we’ll never see that future if we have to battle extinction.” 

He didn’t reply, his mind elsewhere. You watched him carefully, his face looking deep in thought. You returned to your book by the time he finally spoke up again. 

“You’ll have to let me borrow that book sometime,” he rolled over as he said it, so when you glanced over at him, his back was facing you. “G’night, Alice.”

“Night, Logan…”

-

In the morning, you woke up later than usual, no alarm clock or imminent threat looming to pull you from your slumber. It was nice, being able to wake up naturally for the first time in years. You felt so well rested that you nearly forgot where you were. The chill air of the morning surrounded you just outside of the thick blankets and sheets you were under, but it wasn’t unpleasant, it was refreshing. 

When you opened your eyes, you began to recall everything slowly. Sitting up, you find that Logan isn’t in the bed across from you, or in the room at all. You furrow your brow and stand to your feet, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when a note catches your eye. 

Placed on a tiny table by the janky minifridge, there’s a paper bag and a torn off napkin with some words scribbled on it. 

Be back soon… got you something.

Inside the paper bag was a maple donut. It looked really good, too. Much better than the fifty-cent one you’d traded to him the night before. 

You smiled and took a bite, eating while going about your morning routine, wanting to shower and  get ready to leave the motel. You weren’t sure what Logan was up to, but with him being Canadian and all, you’re sure he’s just happy to be back. 

He knocked on the door, the latch lock seeming to have been flipped over when he left. 

You dropped your change of clothes back onto your bed, running over to the door and letting him in. He seemed to have a relaxed grin on his face, and looking at his clothing, there was a light sheen of icy water coating his leather jacket. 

“C’mere,” he pulled you along, completely barefoot and still in your pajamas. 

Once outside, you saw that the grounds were covered with just a small dusting of snow. It wasn’t thick, or freezing, but it was still falling around you, and you suddenly didn’t mind getting dragged away from the warm room. 

“It’s snowing already?” You asked in confusion, as if he had the answer. 

“It’s Canada, what did you expect?” 

You just continued to enjoy the pretty sights around you, then realized your feet were still bare and you were likely going to make yourself sick if you didn’t go back inside. 

“Let me go shower and we can check out,” you muttered, looking at him and finding he was just as captured by the beauty of a quickly approaching winter wonderland. 

“I’ll make sure the bike is thawed out,” he joked, nodding to you. 

After you went back inside, he walked around to the front to where the bike was parked in the covered area. It wasn’t too cold, but it would still need some time for the metal to heat up. He’d been able to start the motor not too long after, and pulled it around the side of the motel to be closer to where you had stayed. 

He should have knocked before going inside, and he regrets not doing so, but upon opening the door to you half dressed, having yet to pull up your jeans, he seems to be frozen in place. You don’t notice him at first, and with the second glance he gets, he sees all the scars littered over your legs and hips. He remembers the first night when you’d put all the pieces together, knowing you’d met him before. You knew about his past, and he got a peek into yours. You'd told him a man named Stryker gave you those scars.

“Shit, Logan…” You trailed, yanking up your jeans faster and hopping your feet to speed up the process. When you noticed he’d just been standing there you panicked, and nearly fell down trying to get your pants up. “Don’t you knock?”

“I’m sorry,” he blinked himself out of it, furrowing his brow and dripping his eyes. He had to physically shake himself from the trance. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” you stopped him, grabbing your things and packing them away, sliding your backpack on and walking past him. Your hair was still wet from your shower, but you didn’t want to stay inside and let the moment linger any longer. “Let’s get out of here, we still have a long way to drive.”

-

The hike through the fresh snow had been a little uncomfortable, mostly happening in silence. Since this morning, you’d barely spoken a word to him. You’d ridden miles and miles on the back of the bike without talking. Usually he was the silent type himself, but he’d felt bad for what happened, even after apologizing, so he decided it rested on his shoulders to break the quiet streak.

“I’ve been thinking… those scars,” he tried to broach the subject lightly, looking at you with a careful eye. “You’d said you were bulletproof, and fireproof. I had it in my head that you were impenetrable.”

“I am,” you gave him a flat stare, nodding your head a little.

“Then how were they able to cut you up?” 

Poor phrasing, but he was never one for a gentle touch in his wording. 

“Same way you were able to,” you reminded him, rolling up your sleeve to show where his claw marks had almost completely healed over. “Adamantium.”

“Adamantium? You’re kidding,” he almost found it funny, the irony of it all. He’s the only one who can touch you, but he’s also the only one who can hurt you. “How’d they figure that out?”

You kept on with your trek through the forest, the explanation rolling around in your head before you told him aloud.

“They’d been trying to take me apart for years, and all I’d do is rot in a cell… then they found a mutant called Lava, and she was the only person who could melt the adamantium they’d discovered. I guess they ran out of options with me… so,” you sighed, raising your eyebrows and trying to keep composure while talking about it. Opening up to him did little to help his own memory, but you did so anyway. Because he asked. “They coated a surgical set in adamantium to see what would happen… and it worked. They started taking parts of me wherever I could spare them.”

He had come to a slow stop, but you hadn’t noticed, continuing through the forest on your own, trying to make it to the edge of the lake before it got too dark. You at least wanted to pinpoint the location for tomorrow’s journey through the past. 

You turned around to see him standing dead still, a look on his face the likes of which you couldn’t decipher… What was he thinking behind those pretty eyes? 

“Logan, you okay?” 

He blinked out of his thoughts. You wondered if maybe he was remembering something and you’d stopped him. 

“Yeah, I just,” he shook his head and caught up with you, the solemn look not leaving his face. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

You shrugged, keeping in stride with him, not falling behind or going ahead this time. The conversation helped ease the awkwardness that came before in the silence. “It’s alright. It was a while ago… besides, you were the one who saved me, you don’t need to be the one apologizing.”

The hike kept on in a much more comfortable silence. The sun would be going down soon, and you didn’t want to spend the night out in the woods, especially when it had been starting to snow today. 

When you came across the small stream, leading to the edge of the lake, you picked up speed. 

“Should be right up here,” you told him, leading the way through the mucky ground, moist with melted snow and mud. 

You’d seen it before he did. You stopped in your tracks the second you looked across. 

He caught up, taking a look for himself, but quickly growing concerned with howtense and unmoving you were. Your expression had changed from the relaxed one it had been wearing to a firm yet frightened stare. It was eerily quiet, and you couldn’t move your feet. Your hands balled into fists and one at a time, the memories of this place came rushing back. Just seeing the base, abandoned and covered in rust, was enough to make you want to cry. You felt all the loneliness, all the pain, and all the lost hope that used to plague you in this very place.

“You okay, kid?” Logan came closer, and you nodded, putting on a brave face and turning to him with a forced look of calmness. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you even managed a stiff smile, but you refused to turn back towards the base, letting your shoulder have the pleasure of the view instead. “It’s getting dark, though.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, watching as you were quickly back on the path you came from, trying to keep the composure that you weren’t sure would hold. “Alright.”

He trailed on after you, and just before the sun was all the way below the mountains, you’d managed to get back to the road. The bike was cold again, but thankfully it started without a problem. 

He’d tried too hard to get to a comfortable place with you, but again he felt back at square one, sitting in awkward silence like he did this morning. Your hold on him wasn’t as tight as usual, and you didn’t seem to care how unsteady it was with every turn of the bike. 

You rode down the street about ten miles or so before coming across a small fishing town, with restaurants, bars, neighborhood markets, and even a cozy little motel. Much better looking than the one you’d stayed in the night previous.

He’d been the one to get checked in tonight, getting everything settled and making sure you were comfortable. You still weren’t in a chatty mood, but you’d loosened up just enough to have civil conversation, and answer the questions he would ask you. 

He let you take the first shower tonight, and you were out in only a few minutes, racing to get tucked into bed as quickly as possible. 

He took his time, knowing you were probably just going through the motions of being here, and he needed to let you experience it at your own pace. After all, you remember this place, and he doesn’t. The only thing he recalls are the torturous nightmares that plague his sleep. That alone tells him all he needs to know about the horrors and chaos this place caused.

He’s surprised to find you still awake when he gets out of the shower, towel around his hips and water running over his body. He thought you’d be asleep, so out of habit he didn’t bring his clothes in with him to change. 

He sees you’re reading your book, the one about the future. You’re so engrossed in it, your eyes never leaving the pages. He wonders if it’s a coping tool, a comfort item of sorts. He’d never thought of a book as a security blanket before, being written words on paper.

He didn’t say anything yet, unwilling to interrupt how calm you seemed to be now. Just grabbed his clothes and went back to the bathroom. 

Maybe going back there tomorrow isn’t a good idea. He appreciates the openness of your heart to do such a favor for him, but he doesn't want to cause you distress for his own gain. You’ve shown him where it is. He knows how to find it on his own, now. If he can convince you to stay back here, he’ll go on his own, find the answers himself. 

When he emerges the second time, you’ve laid your book down on the bedside table, placing a bookmark between the worn pages before settling yourself. He sits down on the edge of his own bed, and makes eye contact. You don’t break it first, but you remain silent. A man of few words, but he seemed to be the more chatty one today.

“I didn’t say anything before, but you seemed a little, uh… scared, earlier.”

You didn’t change the expression you wore, but somehow he could feel the shift in your emotions. He just wanted to ask and see if this was too much for you.

“I wasn’t scared, just remembered some stuff is all,” You sighed out, laying down and still looking over at him here and there, but not willing to speak more than what you’d said.

“You wanna talk about it?” 

It was an open offer, but he already knew the answer. For someone who seemed so extroverted and talkative when he met you, you’d somehow turned into a reserved and silent little girl since this morning.

“No…” You trailed, the word coming out soft and gentle.

“Okay,” he nodded, getting comfortable before rolling over and calling out to you as you turned out the light. “Goodnight…”

“Night, Logan.”

-

In the morning, you were already awake, clinging to your knees as you focused very hard on looking out the window by your bed. When he looked at the clock and read six, he figured you must not have slept well. He barely slept most of the time. His regeneration made it easy to stay awake days at a time, and he only needed a few hours to function. Not to mention he was often plagued with nightmares. He hasn’t had them the past few nights, which he finds strange, but at the same time, he isn’t complaining whatsoever. 

He swung his legs out of bed when he saw you were unmoving, just like yesterday at the lake. 

“Hey,” he placed a hand at your shoulder, softly breaking you from your endless stare. “You doin’ alright?” 

“Yeah, I just woke up a little early.”

Your little smile was forced, and he could tell, but didn’t say anything to negate your response. He just sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, looking outside the window where your gaze lingered. There was nothing specific to look at, just a view of the parking lot, and a few trees framed a small log cabin bar next door. 

“I uh… I had an idea last night…” he trailed, gaining your attention as you turned to him. “What if we took a few days.”

“What do you mean?” you furrowed your brows, tilting your head as you laid it on your curled up knees. 

“I mean, what if we don’t go to the base right away?” he suggested with a shrug. It had been a good idea in his head, to straggle behind a few days, and make the journey through the past when you were more settled. “I could tell the way it got to you last night, after you saw it.”

“Logan, I’m fine. Promise,” you nodded your head as if to assure yourself, but even as you were doing it you knew it didn’t look convincing. 

“You weren’t fine,” he corrected, unafraid to voice his concerns by now. “Look, you brought me here, and I’m really grateful… but you were uncomfortable to even look at that place, and I could see that.”

You huffed out a sigh, shaking your head and trying to seem like there was no reason for concern. You didn’t want him to back out after coming all this way just on your account. This was for him, not for you. 

“I’ll be okay,” you put on a more stern face, grabbing his hand. The gesture was more for your own comfort rather than his, but even still, you meant what you said. “I’d spent a long time trying to forget that place, and last night everything just sort of came back… but as long as you’re there, I’ll be okay.”

He listened constantly, the warmth of your touch was always so energizing to him. It made him feel like he was somehow stronger and charged with determination. He figured it had something to do with your mutation, and his ability to survive it. Not just survive, but thrive on it.

“You saved me from Stryker, Logan,” you let your legs fall from their curled position, scooting just a bit closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours, and his hand still lingered around the skin of your own. “I feel safe when I’m with you.”

His chest tightened when he heard those words. He’d realized only now what the professor's words meant a few mornings ago. He recalls exactly how they were said, and why. 

Don’t hurt her, Logan. 

It wasn’t just about the ability to touch, which he would admit was definitely a struggle in itself when he’d thought about how long you’ve been alive, with no one to cling to. Aside from the skin to skin contact, you trusted him. You felt safe in his presence. Most of all, you were doing all of this for him without asking anything in return, and he figured you didn’t even care if you got anything out of it in the long run. 

Charles didn’t want Logan to fall all over you in immediate love and commitment. He just wanted him to take care of you, attend to you and make sure you weren’t without comfort, especially in this terrible place you were headed. 

Her pain will become your own. 

It wasn’t about you becoming vengeful if you got hurt, and it wasn’t about your loved ones making him pay for his actions. He understood that now, too. It was about the guilt and shame he would feel for not having been there to help you should anything happen. Should this very situation happen. He won’t let you go it alone. 

“C’mere,” he sat further back, raising his other arm and beckoning you to sit closer with him. 

You didn’t even hesitate to climb under his wing so to speak, and lean against him as he’d gestured for you to do. He wrapped that arm around you, his head resting over top of your soft and slightly unruly morning hair. His other hand stayed in yours, unbudging for the time you sat there. 

At one point you’d felt so calm you closed your eyes, just absorbing his energy and feeling the comfort from it. It was a rough and hard facade at first, but his energy held layers, and the more you relaxed into him, the better you could feel what lies beneath. You could feel his gentleness, and his soft spirit, willing him to go wherever the wind blows. You could feel the slight sadness and confusion that he seemed to internalize every day. Probably from lacking his past, the memories and the people he used to have before Stryker messed him up. 

“I think taking a few days doesn’t sound so bad, you know?” You said quietly, just loud enough to reach his ears. 

“Yeah?” he smiled, looking down at you when you nodded. Your expression was happier than it had been before, the traces of fear were gone from your eyes. “It’ll be fun. I’ll show you a good time, then maybe you can change your mind about Canada.”

“Unlikely,” you laughed softly, your own smile taking over as you met his eyes. “You’re not so bad, for a Canadian, though.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

He’d stuck to his word. 

He’d shown you a good time around the small town, though he claims he’s never been there before. All the small business families were very kind and embracing, although it got to a point where talking to them was becoming detrimental to the length of your trip. Everywhere you went into, whether it be a shop, a small town bakery, or even an entertainment hub, there were people recommending things to do and see. And of course, you were not one to say no to an Adventure. 

On the back of the motorcycle, you’d gone practically all over the town, meeting people, and always being introduced the same way by Logan. 

‘I’m Canadian, she’s not… She doesn’t like it here much, I wanna change her mind.’

You laughed almost every time at the way the people would react, but would nod gleefully when they made suggestions on activities. You found yourself liking Canada, but only because Logan was here. He was making you laugh, and smile wider than you think you ever have. Not even three days into this endeavor, and already you’ve decided you’re falling for him. 

You don’t know how deeply he reciprocates those feelings, because he’s a flirt with nearly everyone… but the soft and gentle moments, like this morning, lead you to believe there’s something else there. Some part of him that is drawn to you like you are to him. 

His lingering touch on the small of your back when he opens the door and guides you through, or the arm slung around your shoulder to steer you in a different direction when something interesting catches his eye. Even the way he nonchalantly fixes your hair when he’s talking to you and the wind blows it out of place. It’s all so casual in the way it happens, and yet, it means everything to someone like you. Someone who has lived for two centuries without the normalcy of touch and comfort from another person. 

You try not to focus too much on what it means, and decide to live in the moment to enjoy each time those little touches happen. 

By the end of the day, you think maybe he’s taking you back to the ‘Cozy Pine Tree Inn’ that you were rooming at… but instead he pulls into the parking lot across the sidewalk. 

The half-working neon sign over the porch read ‘Jackalope Neighborhood Pub’ and when you looked inside, there must have been about ten people total, including the two bartenders behind the counter. 

It wasn’t a huge place to begin with, and the population of the town was probably less than the amount of students you had each week, but it was cozy, and you appreciated the warmth of it all, even though it was brutally cold. 

“Go on inside, I gotta put this under that covering in case it snows,” he encouraged, letting you hop off with a spring in your step. 

The inside was just as you thought it would be. Cozy, warm, dimly lit. The walls were covered in old pictures and heads of various hunted animals from up in the mountains. Sitting down at the bar, you shed your jacket and let it hang on the back of your low-back stool, keeping your gloves on for safety.

“Hi there, pretty darlin,” a man came up beside you, a smile on his face and a drunken twinkle in his eye. 

“Hi,” you smiled back kindly, nodding to him.

“Never seen you here before, I guess you’re new,” he came a bit closer, and even though he didn’t try anything yet, it made you nervous when people get this close. Your skin is covered, but it still makes you uneasy.

“I’m just visiting, actually… I live in New York.”

No, you didn’t owe him an explanation, but you felt the only way to keep him at bay would be to answer his curiosities as quickly as you could, not giving him room to think about anything else. 

“Why don’t I buy you a drink? A pretty girl in a place like this needs a drink.”

“I’m okay, but thank you. I’m actually here with someone, he’ll be back in a second,” you spoke quicker when the man took another step beside you, leaning up against the bar now and reaching for your hand. 

“Awe, c’mon… m’sure your buddy won’t mind,” he tried to grab at your forearm in a teasing manner, but you pulled your hands from the counter, pulling your sleeves down to cover the skin of your wrist that your gloves didn’t quite shield.

“Don’t touch me,” you rushed out, a panic beginning to pour over your words. “You could get hurt.”

“I could get hurt, huh? You're gonna hurt me, pretty thing?”

“You don’t understand,” you breathed shallow, trying to keep calm to no avail. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“Baby, I think you want me to stay right here,” he again got closer, trying to cage you in by bringing his arms on both sides of you and trapping your stool in front of him. 

Simply trying to get out of the situation without causing a scene, you leaned forward against the bar, pushing at one arm to try and sneak out… but as it turns out, you didn’t even have to.

Logan pulled the man away by his neck, looking him face to face and giving a harsh but somehow unbothered stare. This man was of no real threat to him, clearly.

“Leave my girl alone…” he let out calmly, though it was filled with threat. You knew he’d only added the possession for effective purposes, but you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sound of it. 

The man didn’t even speak another word, rushing off to the other side of the bar. He wasn’t a small man by any means, but Logan, standing at six foot two, with a strong build and a deep temperament was sure to scare anyone off. 

Logan sat down at the bar next to you, ordering a beer for himself, and a whiskey for you. He owed you some payback Jack Daniel’s, if he remembers correctly. 

“Thanks,” you threw him a smile and a nod, which he returned. 

“Guy’s a creep,” he let out, his brows raised and an eager look on his face when the beer bottle was set in front of him. “Hope he didn’t ruin Canada for you.”

You laughed for what had to be the hundredth time today, shaking your head. 

“Of course, not. The only thing that could ruin it is what we actually came here to do,” you joked, sipping on your drink as soon as it was put in front of you. 

There was a beat of silence, before a thought that popped into Logan’s mind turned into a question. 

“So, how long have you been at the school?” 

You gave him a glance, tilting your head and trying to think of an answer that made sense.

“Well that depends, do you mean as it is today? Or when it first started?” You found yourself turning towards him more instead of facing the bar.

“Uh, all of it?” 

He took another swig and chuckled at the strangeness of your insistence for elaboration. It was a long and complicated story, but you had to find a simple and short way to explain it.

“Charles found me by cerebro a long time ago, when I was in New York City studying for my history degree,” you took another drink, eyes watching the ice swirl around the bottom of the glass as you tipped it in different directions. “He snatched me up, and a bunch of other mutants, and we saved the world… Which I guess is a typical Tuesday now, but back then it was a big deal for us. The professor had opened the school, but I left right after some of the others did..”

“You left? Why?” His confusion stemmed from what he’s seen. That place was your home, and those people were your family. He doesn’t know why any mutant would want to leave the walls of that mansion, where it was safe.

You shrugged, a bit hesitant to even try and remember what the real reasoning was. “It was the sixties, everyone wanted their own path of freedom. That was the thing back then, wasn't it? Free love, free drugs, free spirits.”

He raised a brow, looking at you with a bit of surprise, which faded just as fast. 

“I keep forgetting how old you are,” he smirked, huffing a small laugh and shaking his head. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were barely an adult.”

You often thought about that. What you would have looked like if you’d been able to grow older. Would your face have thinned out from its girlish fullness? Would you have formed little crows feet at the corners of your eyes? Would you even resemble the same person you’ve looked in the mirror to see for all these years?

“If you want to be technical, I’m physically twenty.”

“Awe, just a baby,” he teased, giving you a slight elbow to the arm. “So is that part of your mutation, then?” 

“No, actually,” you began, throwing back the rest of your drink before explaining further. “The way my body works is like anyone else’s… I have to have energy and sustenance to survive, all that nonsense…”

He’d been very interested to find out about you, since he’d yet to find anything out about himself. Especially since he’d figured your mutation was the reason for your long life span. 

“But since I’m made up of different kinds of energy, matter, antimatter, and a third substance unknown to science yet, I can draw sustenance from things other than food and rest.”

“Like what?” 

You took your little green glove off one hand, and reached for his forearm, which he was currently leaning on against the bar. You focused on doing what you’d done the night that Rogue had injured him, forcing energy into him instead of taking it. 

“You feel that?” 

His eyes got a bit wider, and he watched your hand, there was just the slightest bit of an iridescent glow around his skin where you touched him. It was vague and unnoticeable if you weren’t really looking, and he was. “Yeah…”

“It’s called energy transference. I absorb energy from everything around me, and I can use it to create things… shields, small detonations, and as I recently found out with you, the ability to restore energy from depletion,” you listed, trying to get to the point, but of course, he didn’t understand how it was all connected. 

“And what, it keeps you from aging?” he asked, like it didn’t make any sense, and to be fair, you didn’t really lead with the cause, so you understood his confusion. 

“Not really, no…” you thought back to the day it all happened, so many years ago and yet you’ll never forget it. “When I absorb energy, it sustains me… but when I turned twenty, I was struck by lightning.”

He let out a low whistle, thinking to himself that it was a wild turn of events in your background that he wasn’t expecting. 

“The professor thinks it caused a power surge in my anatomy. Being able to absorb the strike instead of it killing me, my cells were able to store that energy and prevent me from aging.” 

He understood now, blinking a few times as the process settled into his mind. He wonders what else your powers can do, but doesn’t want to keep pushing you on it. 

“Huh,” he looked to the bar for a minute, eyes going over the spot on his arm that still held just the slightest glow of energy without being easily seen. “I don’t really age all that much either…”

“I heard,” you replied, giving him a once over. He was probably one of the most beautiful men you’d ever come across, and knowing that his aging process was also stunted was nearly a blessing in your eyes. 

“I still do, just real slow,” he explained, running a hand through his hair, the kitty ears becoming more prominent when he did. “Guessing by how little I’ve changed in the last fifteen years, I might be close to your age. Maybe a little younger… I just don’t remember.”

His tone falls into a solemness in the end, and you frown at the change in his energy. He’d been having a good time until now, when he started to think about his past, but there was nothing to find. You again reached out for him, taking his hand like you’d grown accustomed to in the past few days. Touching him would never become dull, or feel any less important. You suspected that years from now you would still feel the same tingly and warm sensation from being able to meet his skin to yours.

“You will,” you promised. Even if it takes you a lifetime, you’ll help him find himself. His past, and who he was. 

-

The next day was Sunday, and it went on like the day before… but one thing was different. Two things, technically. 

One, Logan held your hand whenever there was a long distance of walking to be done. Two, his funny and somewhat playful introductions from the day before had been given a small twist. Instead of just saying, ‘I’m Canadian, she’s not,’ there was an added layer of possession. ‘I’m Canadian, my girl isn’t.’

After last night in the bar, something was different. You couldn’t put your finger on what exactly made him switch up his actions around you, and towards you, but it wasn’t in your direct focus. You were much too busy enjoying the sudden change, and the casualness in which it was implemented. 

You wondered if you should ask him about it, but every time you gained an opportunity to do so, you lost the courage. Maybe he was just doing it because it felt normal to be this way with a traveling companion? Maybe he was just putting up a front for the townspeople, so he didn’t have to try so hard to explain the situation between the two of you. 

He’d been so gentle, so domesticated, it felt like he’d grown fully comfortable with you. You’d been the same with him, squeezing his hand whenever he grabbed yours. 

His touch, his words, and more importantly, the look in his eyes whenever he caught you staring… It all led you to believe there was something lurking, just waiting to be let out. 

When you’d returned to the motel that night, giggling about the state of his hair after a tree branch full of snow collapsed on him, he’d rolled his eyes, giving you a playful shove into your own bed while he mumbled about ‘rinsing the pine needles off’ of himself. 

“I’m gonna go down to the Lobby, I wanna call Ororo,” you said, the wide smile still on your face. 

He nodded, not even waiting for you to leave before he started stripping down his clothes. His jacket first, then his flannel. When he was left in the gray beater he wore beneath it all, he stopped for a moment, throwing a glance over his shoulder at you with a smirk. He knew you’d been watching, and he was too big of a tease to tell you to look away, or to remove himself to the bathroom. 

He turned back around, and pulled the thin fabric over his head, throwing it to his pile by the duffel bag. 

He didn’t need to look at you again to know he would catch you staring. He just went about his business as if you weren’t there. Asshole. 

You almost couldn’t breathe. The only person on this entire planet that can touch you, and you got lucky enough that it was Logan. This man was strongly built, and chiseled as if from marble stone. He wasn’t overly muscular or too big, but just enough that you swore God sent him down from the heavens to roam about the earth as his most glorious creation. The way his back muscles tensed when he reached into his bag for a change of clothes, or the way his abs contracted when he stood back upright, it made your hands fidget. You wanted to stand before him and do the one thing you couldn’t do to anyone else. You wanted to touch his gorgeous, warm toned skin. 

When he was about to head to the bathroom, he finally gave you a glance, his smirk even stronger when he read your expression. 

“You gonna go call her or not?” 

“Right,” you blinked, standing up and rushing around to grab your jacket and gloves. 

You’d rushed down to the lobby as fast as your feet could carry you, the stiff breeze doing nothing to quench your excitement. You loaded two quarters into the payphone in the lobby’s hallway, facing away from the stench of the crappy bathrooms nearby. 

You tapped your leg nervously as you told the operator the correct information and waited for Storm to answer. It wasn’t too late, everyone should still be awake. 

The dial went until the second to last before she picked up. 

“Hello?” Her voice sounded like music to your ears. 

“Ro, it’s me,” you said as gently as you could, having to repress your energy. “I just wanted to check in…”

“Check in? Everything is normal here… what about you, have you found the base yet? How’s Logan?” 

Her rushed questions came out when she realized who she was speaking to. She’d waited days for this call, and honestly, you weren’t one to disappoint. 

“We’ve located it, yeah. We’re hiking out there tomorrow,” you explained, leaving out the part where you took a two day joyride through a small Canadian town with the man you’ve deemed is your favorite Canadian. “And Logan’s good. We’ve been having a great time so far.”

“A great time, huh? So I was right to be afraid that I’d never see you again…” she trailed, only partly joking. In truth, she wants you to be happy, but she also wants you to come home. 

“Oh relax, we’ll be back before you know it.”

You heard a muffled yelling, like she’d covered the phone to reprimand some students, before she was back on the line. 

“Well, tell me everything, what’s Canada like? Is it as bad as you remember?” She teased, figuring by the sound of your voice and the smile she could practically hear coming through the phone, that your opinion had been swayed. 

“Canada itself is fine, but Logan is something else entirely,” you raised a brow, leaning into the phone panel on the wall and twisting the cord in your fingers like a love-struck schoolgirl. “Did you know he was Canadian?”

“I thought he might be, wasn't sure.”

“Well, I take back hating Canada, he’s actually made me like it…” you trailed, fighting yet another wide smile from only thoughts of today. “He’s made me like him… a lot.”

“Baby, it’s only been four days,” she laughed on the other end. You could tell she was debating knocking sense into you, or asking for details. The latter won in the end. “So did he kiss you, or what?” 

“No, he hasn’t kissed me,” you said with a sigh, wishing the statement hadn’t been true. “But he’s been so… different. He holds my hand, he hugs me when I’m cold… he’s been introducing me to everyone we talk to as ‘his girl’.” 

“So what I’m hearing is, I need to be making wedding preparations for when you get back?” She huffed out another laugh, hand on her hip as she leaned into a wall in the mansion. She knew this was going to happen. You got attached to people very easily, but Logan was an entirely different can of worms. He could touch you, he could hold you, and he could be with you in ways no one else would ever be able to. That made him your ideal attachment. If you believed in soulmates, you’d say he was yours. Uniquely created with a mutation that matched your own in the opposite form. 

“See, you think that’s funny,” you laughed along with her through the phone, titling your head and speaking with confidence. “But I’m absolutely gonna marry him someday.”

She rolled her eyes, and you could almost hear it through the phone. “As crazy as you sound, I believe you… but give it more than four days to be sure, yeah?”

“Fine… I’ll give it till the end of the trip,” you taunted. You knew it was crazy to be making these bets now, but you were just so certain that this man would be your endgame. He was the only one who could be… right? 

“That’s all I can ask for from you… Just be safe, and tell him I said hi, okay?” She quickly tried to get off the phone, and you could hear the rowdy children making a ruckus in the background of where she was. 

“I will… tell everyone there that I miss them, and I’ll be back soon.”

“Will do, bye baby…” she rushed out her goodbye before the line went dead. 

You smiled, mumbling a small ‘bye’ under your breath as you hung up the phone and headed back for the room. 

The room was a bit steamy when you first walked in, with the bathroom door having been left open to air out. Logan was reclined in the bed furthest to the wall, nothing but flannel bottoms on while he was kicked back and relaxed. He had one arm behind his head, and his other perched at his side to hold up a book in his hand. Your book… the one you’d finished last night. 

“Hey,” he smiled at you as you walked through the door. “Sorry I didn’t ask, it looks interesting.”

You furrowed your brow with your own surprised smile, shaking your head. “No, it’s okay… I think you’ll like it.”

“So far I do… I promise I’ll be careful with it, I know it’s old,” he defended yet again, even though you would give him that precious copy if it made him happy. 

“It’s fine, what’s mine is yours,” you kept on, laying your coat on the back of a chair for the night. “Besides, you can’t do anymore damage to it that I haven’t already done.”

“I noticed you dogear the pages…” he raised a brow in your direction, as if accusing you of something. 

“I know, it’s terrible…” you trailed, sitting on the edge of his bed and watching him for a moment. He went back to the book, completely engrossed in what was probably still the first chapter. “What part are you on?” 

“Burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes,” he remarked, and you nodded. He seemed to be pretty hooked on only the first few pages. “You were right, y’know? About comparin’ this kinda future to ours. It’s nasty stuff…”

“It only gets worse, keep reading.”

You got up, grabbing your clothes and heading for a shower. He had been considerate enough to save plenty of hot water for you.

-

The weekend was over, and unfortunately it was time to go where this entire journey was meant to lead. Stryker’s base. 

The ride to the bridge was silent, but the second you arrived, Logan turned to you with a look of sincerity. 

“Look, I know that you’re doing this for me,” he began, bringing a hand to your arm in the most gentle way possible. “But if you start feelin’ like you did the other day… I have no problem going in on my own, alright?”

“I’ll be okay, Logan. You’re here with me,” you reminded him, placing your hand over his and giving it a squeeze. “Let’s go…”

He nodded, letting you take the lead, because as was made clear before the trip even began, you were the one who remembered this place, and he was the one trying to regain those memories. 

“When did you come here?” He asked, and it was an innocent question except for the implications.

“I didn't come here, I was taken. I'd just passed the bar exam back in New York, and I was gonna be a lawyer for a while, but Stryker got to me first,” You explained, not taking offense to his wording. You’d known he was a little brash with the things he said, but he could also be gentle and sweet.

“How long were you here?” His voice softened this time.

“About six years, got here near the start of the program, lived to the end of it.”

“And what about me?” He’d begun walking side by wide with you, not straggling behind like before. His curiosity wasn’t the only reason for his questioning, but it was a factor. He mostly just wanted to keep you distracted from looming amongst your own thoughts in silence, getting closer and closer to the base. 

“You came towards the end, but he was planning to have you for years. That mutant I told you about, the one who melted the adamantium? They had her powering the machine long before you even came to the island.”

Your explanation caught him off guard a bit. When he’d asked if you came here, you said you were taken, but now you told him he had come… meaning he made the decision to do it.

“And I… came willingly?” He titled his head with furrowed brows, unsure why anyone would want to come to this place, if it was as bad as you say.

“From what I understand, you did at first. I think you ran away when you knew of Stryker's plans,” You reasoned, not completely remembering everything. Not that you were even apart of those dealings in the first place.

“Did I meet you then?”

You smiled and shook your head. You’d wished you’d been able to catch a glimpse of him the first time, what he’d been like before Stryker tortured him and turned him into a piece of metal.

“No, I never met you the first time. But I could feel you,” you tried your best to describe, nearly failing for how little you could actually say instead of showing him.

He seemed to understand it enough, remembering the way your powers work. He came to a halt beside you, giving you a look and asking the next question. “How did I feel?”

You stopped, too. You looked at his eyes now, and they seemed so full of something you couldn’t explain, but couldn’t look away from, either.

“Sad… Angry.”

“And now?” He asked, a serene expression on his features when he was looking at you.

“You’re still tense, but your emotions are softer, calmer.” You raised a hand to his face, trailing slightly over the facial hair that had slightly grown out the last few days. It suited him, you thought.

After a few moments, you felt a shiver run down your spine from the cold, and snapped out of your daze, continuing on the path ahead, and leading him through an old abandoned tunnel. This tunnel was not full of bad memories, but a rather fond one. The day you had escaped, you followed Scott through this tunnel to meet the Professor on the other side.

He seemed to be taking everything in, noting every intricate detail of the place to try and place it. Nothing sprung from the back of his mind, so he doesn’t know if anything significant enough happened here that he might have a cognitive reset, but he keeps trying, going through each stretch of the base like something might pop up.

You froze still when you got to the edge of the cell block. The cages were just as he’d left them, completely and utterly destroyed by his claws. 

“This is it, huh?” He stood still, too. The weight of the area was easy to feel, and though he didn’t know why, he could almost sense the years of heaviness that was caused here. It was haunting.

“This is it,” you huffed, taking a step forward and treating it like you would any other place you visited. It’s just bricks and concrete and steel, it’s not like it should affect you this way. “The cell on the end is mine, the one three or four down was Scott’s.”

There were motion sensors everywhere. Long since forgotten about, and none were activated, but he could also see the security measures, and some of the poking and prodigy tools they must have used just scattered about. The leftover scenery of a hasty escape, by both the mutants and the inhabitants of this place.

“How did you even survive this?” He asked, the weight settling in on his shoulders even more, pushing him into the floor. 

“Most of us didn't. This entire block had new mutants every year. All except me,” you sighed out, running your fingers over the enclosure that you’d been contained in for so long. It was in the past now, and you stood beside the very testament to your escape. The man who freed you and had given you hope. Nothing bad could happen to you here as long as he was with you, now.

“Because you can't die...” He trailed, a single finger of his looming over the exposed skin of your neck. With him being so close, this little action almost seemed normal, but the cold weather made his hands cold, too, and the feeling of it caused a shiver. You stepped away with a shudder under your breath, but turned around and got close enough again to keep the energy from feeling awkward. No matter how cold his hands were, you still liked when he touched you.

“I wanted to. This was the worst part of my life. I never wanted to come back here.”

“Then why did you?” He crossed his arms, leaning against the cell block and leaning in. He knew the answer, or at least he thought he did. Charles made him clearly aware, not that he didn’t know already. 

“I wanna help you,” you looked down, too scared to meet his eyes and say something else besides what you wanted him to hear. “You saved me from this place, the least I can do is help you remember it.”

He nodded, thinking that maybe he was pushing too hard. Maybe he just needed to focus on himself… but something about this place, it made him feel that strange connection to you again. The one that he didn’t think he felt back at X-Manor. 

He took a few steps towards the frozen doors at the end of the block, likely leading into other parts of the base that were inaccessible. 

“How did it happen?” He turned back, wielding a small smirk.

“What?” you furrowed your brows, unsure of what exactly he meant.

“The rescue, how did it happen? Was I heroic?” He posed jokingly, hands on his hips to draw out a laugh from you, and it worked. Even in this place you were scared of, he could make you feel joy. 

“Yeah, you were…” you closed the distance between you, pushing him into position by the doors to reenact the scene. “It was pretty late at night, the sirens started going off, we all started panicking, we thought we were getting attacked or something. Most of us were weak, and could barely stand. My legs were likely broken and definitely cut apart from the tests they'd been doing… We thought it was the end. And then you came charging down the cellblock with this woman,” you sat back into your cell, feeling no semblance of fear from it now. He ran down to your cell with a cheesy grin, playing along for your amusement. “You both started to set everyone free. But you were the one who tore open my cage, and without thinking, I let you help me up…” you trailed, watching as per your story, he reached in and helped you to your feet just like he had done all those years ago. “That was the first time I touched you.”

You kept your hand in his, the tingling sensation still remaining, even though you’ve probably touched him a hundred times by now. 

“Wow… that uh… doesn’t sound like me…” he looked away from you, his hand pulling back and hanging it at his side. He’d broken the charade to think about how inaccurate this all sounded. Even though you were not a liar, and he could take your word for it, he just couldn’t seem to think of himself how you did. “Guess it's just a lot to take in..”

You’d painted him in such a heroic light, he wasn’t sure that heroic was a word that fit him very well, much less at all. All he knew of himself was a selfish loner, who occasionally did the right thing out of obligation and not duty.

“It is… take your time,” you tried your best to reel in the happiness you’d felt, because even though being here with him made you feel better… he was trying to remember himself, and maybe this wasn’t helping. 

“And the woman I was with, did you know her?” 

You hoped he wouldn’t ask about her, you didn’t want to disappoint him.

“I don't remember. She looked familiar, but I couldn't tell you who she was,” you think you saw her with Stryker a few times, but never by his side, always behind him, following orders. “She died not long after the breakout, the professor found her after he’d come back for the remaining survivors...”

He seemed deep in thought, facing the doors of the cellblock again and clenching his fists… was he remembering something?

“And I was with her, this woman?” the way he said it implied the depth of what he was really asking.

“From what I gathered at the time, yeah… but I wasn't in the best condition, so I could have just made it all up in my head. I definitely remember you, though.”

At this he turned back to face you, coming closer and lifting his lips in the very corners to resemble a not quite smile. It still turned your stomach in the best way.

“I'm just unforgettable, huh?” 

“Completely unforgettable. This is a part of my life that I have worked hard and trained myself to forget, but I remembered you instantly…” you confessed, not daring to look away from him now, when he was so clearly latched onto you. It didn’t matter what you said at this point, you were sure he must have known something of your feelings by now.

“Because I could touch you.”

You shook your head. “It was more than that. I'd never seen anything like you before.”

“Is that a good thing?” He teased, his full smile finally returning once the air felt lighter again.

You thought about that day. He’d come running through like a true action hero, saving everyone in his path. He had been here for something else entirely, you think, but he stopped to save you and the others. He’d been wearing a white beater that night, his shoulders glistening with sweat while his hair bounced with every step he took. It was longer then. The determined look in his eyes was something you also noticed, and the way they softened when he steadied you to your feet, touching your skin as no one had for over two hundred years. Yes, seeing him was a very good thing.

“Oh yeah, trust me.”

-

Having searched for other abandoned entry points of the base, and being unsuccessful, you opted to leave, but it had grown dark out, and there was no way you could hike all the way back to the motorcycle before the cold winds set in. It was too dark to even navigate the grounds, anyways. 

It was decided that you could set up a makeshift camp within the escape tunnel, as it was just slightly warmer than the outside. 

Logan didn’t talk much after leaving the base. He’d been all fun and games until he realized you both had finally made it to the place with the answers, but there were none. He didn’t take his frustrations out on you, but he didn’t exactly ignore them, either. In fact, he took to ignoring you instead. You tried striking up a conversation with him, and found he was in too sour a mood, and every comment you made about little things, like the sleeping bag in your backpack, or the water flask kept in his, he seemed to just grunt out a response to get back to the quiet. 

It wasn’t until the dead cold of the night that you’d been shivering your ass off, that you even dared to speak to him again. 

“This storm's getting worse… I'm gonna freeze to death.” 

He rolled over from his sleeping bag on the ground, a slanted brow on his face and a huff when he saw that you were truly cold. He was not in a good mood, and he didn’t want to deal with more bad situations.

“I thought you couldn’t die…” he grumbled, leaning up on one arm. You were curled up into a ball, all your layers on your body and the sleeping bag, but the snow was falling hard and fast outside, probably sealing you both into this icy tunnel. 

“I can't be killed. I can still technically die,” you explained, furthering the lore on your powers. He mentally added it to the list. Almost immortal, but not really so much in snowstorms.

“Then why are you still alive?” He mumbled sarcastically, trying not to be an asshole to the only person he was dependent on the past few days. 

“Because I'm careful.”

You sat up, and in the dim light he could see how pale you’d gotten, your lips a shade of cold purple instead of the soft pink they normally held.

“Aren't you made of energy? Just warm yourself up…” He suggested, as if you hadn’t thought of that. It wasn’t even in your ability wheel.

“I'm made of matter and antimatter, I don't radiate heat,” you argued, trying to maintain a sense of calm while being cold enough to power a refrigerator. 

“Fine, you know what? I'm not walking you back to the bike, just get over here,” he let out, holding open the sleeping bag for you to scoot into. You’d done so as quickly as possible, letting him drop his arm back over you in an instant. Already you could feel the fiery feeling he gave off into the air. 

“How are you so warm?”

“I don't know,” he shook his head, closing his eyes and trying to go to sleep. He wanted to be up with the sun tomorrow, so he could get back to the motel and get some quality rest.

“You don’t know why you feel like a toaster?” You joked with a sweet smile, but were quickly reminded he wasn’t in the mood.

“Do you ever stop talking?” 

“Sorry.”

In truth, he did feel bad about treating you like that. You’d done so much for him, and all he’d done was snap at you when he realized the answers he was looking for were still locked up. He pulled you tighter in his arms, holding you close as if uttering a physical apology. I’m sorry for being a dick, but thank you for being so kind to me anyways.

-

Having found warmth in you, and another feeling that cannot be described outside of perhaps the simple word: safety, Logan slept better than he had in weeks, months, even. Hell, he doesn’t know if he’s ever slept like this, waking up naturally, well rested and without a nightmare in sight. 

It was late in the afternoon, and he woke up feeling a sense of peace that he didn’t go to bed with. He’d been settled. His anger and annoyance about the failed objective made his skin crawl when the snow had been pouring down, the storm covering the ground with several inches of a white, fluffy covering. 

Knowing it had been very late in the night when you finally were able to sleep, he didn’t want to wake you, but being wrapped around you like a cocoon while you slept would make it very hard to even sit up without causing you to stir. 

He figured he could wake you up, now, take you back to the motel so you could finish resting while he took a walk, or visited the bar. It had approached his mind the night before, that he would probably go and get wasted at the establishment to try and fill the void that had been left empty by the lack of answers. 

Slowly, he unraveled the twisted limbs and sleeping bags, hearing your soft grumbling of discomfort when you came to. You weren’t fully awake, and your arms grabbed at him, trying to pull him back in subconsciously while your moaning and groaning persisted. He let out a small chuckle at the actions, like that of a child grabbing for the security of its mother. 

“Rise and shine, princess,” He joked, trying to maneuver himself away. 

You finally remembered where you were, and realized that Logan was the source of warmth that had been keeping you so still and secure. 

“Hey,” you let out with a furrowed brow, wiping over your eyes to try and dull the ache of opening them too soon. “What time is it?” 

“Not sure, it might be noon,” he guessed, standing on his feet and beginning to collect everything that was still scattered about on the ground of the tunnel. 

You were silent for a minute, nodding your head and beginning to become more coherent with every minute passed. You soon joined him on collecting things that needed packing away, but did so with a sentiment passed along. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t find anything here,” you murmured quietly. 

He almost had to do a double take… Why were you apologizing? You’d done him a great service by coming here to try and help him, no matter the results. 

“S’not your fault,” he furrowed his brow in response. “I’m sorry for treating you like shit last night. Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I have to take it out on you.”

“Don’t be sorry. If I was in your place I’d be angry, too.”

The way you looked at him was astonishing. Like he’d hung every star in the sky. You looked at him and he felt like no matter the atrocities he knows he’s capable of, and the memories he can’t reach, he could do no wrong. Nothing he ever did was bad in your eyes. It was an empowering feeling, but also a curious one. You are far greater of a person than he is, and he knows it… so why do you look at him like this?

The answer is simple, you’re in love with him. He’s the first person you can touch, which is a huge factor, but aside from that, he is kind to you, and genuinely, not just because he has to be.

He remembers what Charles told him before he left. Ask her about a man named Charlie…

“I uh…” he trailed, watching you where you sat, packing away your water flask and flashlight. “I had a talk with the professor before we left a few days ago.”

“About what?” 

“About you, mostly. He told me I was in safe hands,” among other things, but he wouldn’t mention that. “And he told me that when you were ready I could ask you about a man…”

“A man?” You raised your brows in surprise. You weren’t sure if you knew what you were supposed to tell him. 

“Yeah, a man… his name was Charlie?” 

He could see it, the instant the name left his lips. Your face fell and your brain had to work overtime to try and return it to something neutral, and less traumatized. Your silence made him think that maybe he crossed a line. If you hadn’t been ready to talk about this man, then he’d just made a huge mistake. He doesn’t know who this fellow is, but he clearly did something to you. 

“Are you alright?” Logan knelt down, interrupting your blank stare. He could see the memories flashing behind your eyes, the thoughts winding up in your head.

“Yes,” you shook out of it, but your smile didn’t come back. “I’ve been around people that know about him for a long time, I didn’t think I’d ever have to retell the story.”

“You don’t have to,” he shook his head, a hand raising to your arm to try and bring comfort. “I assume it’s a sad story?”

“The worst one I know…” you trailed, finally giving a small quirk of your lip in a smile. Looking at Logan for too long made it impossible to scowl forever. “It’s been a hundred and thirty some years just about.”

He whistled long and low, sitting down across from you to fully pay attention. 

“I started working in a farm house in Virginia in the Eighteen Sixties. I kept to myself as best I could, making beds, doing laundry, washing dishes. Best paying job I’d ever had so I stayed as long as I could…” you trailed, taking a deep breath to introduce the main character of this story. “There was a stable boy there, worked the farm for the family for years before he got promoted to caring for the horses. I hadn’t met him until about two months of being there.”

“He’s Charlie?” Logan lifted a brow inquisitively, fully engrossed in the history you were sharing. You nodded your head to confirm. 

“He’s Charlie. He was only nineteen years old…  he was the only person that I’d barely ever talked to that grew fond of me. I didn’t even have to do anything,” you joked, dipping your head and remembering the way it all went back then. “He used to volunteer to help me hang laundry just so we could talk.”

“Classy guy,” Logan teased, watching your face light up with the way you were recalling everything.

“He was, and so gentlemanly… The day he found out about me being what I am, it was a complete accident. Long story short, I killed a chicken. He took the blame for it, and at the end of the day, the family ate it for dinner.”

“He knew about you?” 

“Mhm,” you nodded, another smile spreading. “He didn’t care. He’d never touched me before, and knowing that he never could… he still didn’t care.”

You sighed, the bliss of the memory fading from view when the next part resurfaced. 

“I fell in love with him, and eventually he asked me to marry him. Obviously, I said yes,” you paused for a moment, heaving a sigh as tears backed your eyes. “The day we left for town to get married, there was an accident… Some drunk men with a gun were messing around like assholes, and one thing led to another. They started firing off rounds in our direction, and I knew I could block the bullets, but I hadn’t told Charlie that. He tried to save me, tried to pull me out of the way…”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence, but Logan already knew. 

“You touched him…” he filled in the blank, watching you blink away the tears that started to fall. Your silent and weak nod was heartbreaking, and in under two seconds flat, Logan had his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to him to feel comforted. He was the only one who could do this, and after hearing your story of a lost love, he knew how much it meant. 

He is grateful to you and owes you a lot. Being your shoulder to cry on is the least he can do in a situation like this, where you seemed like you just needed someone to hold onto. 

“It’s been a long time,” you mumbled, sniffing to try and block more tears from falling. Being in Logan’s embrace made it better. “I thought he was the love of my life… but I’ve lived so much of my life now without him.”

“I’m sorry,” he ran a hand over your hair, tucking your head under his chin. 

“I just wish he'd been something like you…” 

“Something like me?” He asked, unsure of what you could mean. The way you described him, he seemed perfect. A gentleman, a protector, someone who loved you so much that he was willing to go through life without the most basic of relationship necessities. He didn’t feel like he could compare.

“Immune to my mutation.”

Your clarification made him understand, and maybe he shouldn’t have uttered his next words, but he did, fully knowing the answer.

“I’m guessing no one else has been,” he let out, beginning to loosen his hold on you. 

You’d backed away and looked him in the eyes with your teary, puffy red ones. 

“So far, only you.”

“I’m sorry, that sounds lonely.” His embrace didn’t leave, but he dropped your gaze for a moment to try and think about what that must be like. To not only be without that kind of comfort, but to constantly have to avoid it at all costs. 

“S’not so bad anymore. You’re pretty decent company, and you don’t seem to hate being around me... I’d say I lucked out.” You leaned back into his arms, laying your head on his shoulder this time as you took a deep inhale. The scent of him was intoxicating, and the way he was constantly warm felt like an invitation in itself. 

He didn’t move you, or make you go anywhere. He knew that if he’d been stuck here for days that it would have to be endured for your sake. After hearing of the tragedy in your past, he felt you deserved to sit here in silence, safely and securely wrapped in his strong arms.

-

Tags: @ayamenimthiriel l @levislegislation @reidsworld @melsunshine @clairealeehelsing @fries11 @burkayyy @d3ad2you @insanesosciopath @scream4mami @marifilue

[antiterf]

Luckily I haven't seen this study go around but I want to get it out of the way.

Don't Participate in this Study

It's run by Michael Bailey, the main guy who shouts about how autogynephilia is real and still, for some reason, doesn't know that getting participant consent is important when publishing research, and Lisa Littman, who pushes the idea of Rapid Onset Gender Dysphoria. The last researcher, Kenneth Zucker, had his clinic shut down because Canada passed anti-conversion therapy laws regarding trans identity.

Yes, Northwestern is a prestigious University with a health practice that provides gender affirming care. It's also a University I decided to never apply to in undergrad because Michael Bailey works there and is allowed to do research on trans people despite a history of harm.

I have not seen the questions asked in the study, but from reading some of the works of these researchers, it does not exactly matter if your experiences do not align with what they are hoping for. They will find a way to interpret the data in opposition to transgender people. The same researchers who see trans identity as only acceptable for a medical purpose will, at the same time, claim that having clear signs of psychological distress makes someone "'acquire' the idea that they are transgender." You will not win, you are letting bigots voice your experience for you.

So yeah, if you're 13-21, trans, and you or your parents are asked to take this study, I recommend staying the fuck away from it.

[nerdygaymormon]

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs and the Queer Experience

A friend of mine remarked on how different it is to attend church presenting as their trans self or presenting in their closeted cis mode, that it's easier to connect to with the spirit and the talks when she's able to be her authentic self.

I remarked that I think this is tied to when a person's lower needs are met then they can focus on their higher needs. It's hard for a hungry person to ignore their stomach and feel the spirit. I think for queer people who are dealing with basic needs, it's more difficult to enjoy the higher aspects of worship & church.

I based my answer off of Abraham Maslow's psychological theory of a Hierarchy of Needs, which posits that human beings have five levels of needs. As each level of need is met, the person can start thinking about the next level of needs. These can be seen as first needing to meet physical needs, then psychological, and finally spiritual health.

If we use the Riddle Scale to evaluate the LDS Church, it is great, I would say it’s still in the bottom half of the scale but it’s doing better than it was 20 years ago, which is why I think there's more queer folks at church and we may have reached the point where most Latter-day Saints in the United States and Canada know a queer person. However, the church still has much room to improve and I think that's born out by the fact that most queer people leave the church within 2~5 years of coming out. And the reason they leave can be understood by thinking about how well the LDS Church does or does not help them with the Hierarchy of Needs.

Physiological Needs - As an LDS community, are we helping our queer members meet their basic physical needs? One way the church could do this would be to guarantee access to gender-neutral restrooms to help all worshipers feel comfortable and respected. Unfortunately, most LDS church buildings do not have gender-neutral restrooms, these are usually only found in LDS stake centers and even then access to them can be limited. The 2024 policy of not allowing trans individuals to use the restroom unless it has been cleared of all other occupants and that someone has to be posted to keep everyone else out while the trans person uses the facilities is demeaning, so right away the most basic physiological needs are not being met for most trans people who come to our church.

Studies show that trans and nonbinary individuals have higher rates of food insecurity and higher rates of unemployment and we could be helping them solve those issues. Do we make clear that food resources at the Bishops Storehouse are available and LDS Employment Services will assist them to find work?

Safety Needs - A sense of security is paramount. Are we creating safe spaces for queer people? Do we speak up when we hear homophobic or transphobic things said at church? If someone has shared with us that they're queer, are we clear about not disclosing their gender identity or sexual orientation without their permission?

Although I'm well-known in my stake, I've been in stake callings for 12 1/2 years, there's one ward I won't go to alone because of how they've talked about and treated me.

When I travel and visit an LDS space, I always look to see if I can find someone wearing a Pride pin, I feel a release of anxiety when I see someone with rainbow or trans colors because if they attend and are accepted then I should be okay, and if someone says something queerphobic, at least I know of an ally in the congregation I can speak to.

Love and Belonging - Does the congregation foster a sense of community for LGBTQ worshipers? Are we accepting of who they are? My stake attempts to do this by having a group for LGBTQ members + family, friends, and allies that gets together on a semi-regular basis. We have a meal and a chance to catch up with each other, and a gospel-related discussion.

While having a group is good, it would also be great if our church would recognize LGBTQ celebrations like Pride Month and also recognize the contributions of queer individuals within the organization.

Belonging and love needs are only met when people take the extra step to see and understand that all people just want to be seen and shown as equals — not as props or checkboxes. We need visibility and representation, but in a way that doesn’t frame the queer people as outsiders, but as people. Just like everyone else.

Unfortunately, LDS theology isn't affirming of queer identities. For me, I choose not to attend the temple because I don't like being reminded that I'm excluded from basic blessings afforded to other members, like joy in my creation and the need to not be alone. The temple is not a place of belonging for me so I avoid it.

The opposite of love & belonging would be the many meetings I've attended where the need to not love too much and appear to be too accepting is discussed. Negative social messages can cause internalized transphobia/homophobia, which is when the queer individual feels uncomfortable with or cannot accept the fact that their sexual orientation or gender identity differs from others and as a result may believe negative things about themselves.

Esteem Needs - Recognition and respect are vital. How are we showing respect for who they identify as? The achievements of LGBTQ members should be acknowledged and opportunities to serve and to be leaders should be available. LGBTQ worshipers should receive the same level of encouragement and support as our peers

Self-Actualization - LGBTQ church members should be supported in reaching their full potential. Allowing queer people to be their true selves is necessary for this. LGBTQ individuals should feel empowered to express their true selves without fear of judgement or discrimination. Given the restrictions I must live under in order to retain my church membership, it feels like in several areas I’m limited in my growth

[communistkenobi]

I’m downloading shapefiles (basically geographic files, in this case the polygons of every country) for a mapping project I’m doing and while most countries have an ISO code column in their file (which is a 2 letter abbreviation of their country name), Canada, the UK, and the US do not. The US doesn’t even have a country column, it just listed the states. Now these are official shapefiles made by the vendor of the software I’m using (Esri, which is one of if not the dominant global distributor of mapping software) and are treated as the authoritative copies. Like if you wanted to download the outline of the US and all its states you would download Esri’s copy of it. And the reason I noticed this discrepancy is because I’m trying to combine individual country files to a global world file and I first had to edit the US & UK & Canada shapefiles and manually add in their ISO codes so they would join the world file properly. Notably countries like Argentina already have country & ISO code embedded in its shapefile.

And what I’m taking away from this is that there is an epistemic assumption happening where western countries can stand alone - they do not need to be combined or compared with other countries, they are complete units that constitute their own global file. Their data lack an “international character,” they are not set up for comparison or combination with other country data. The assumption being made by excluding these (extraordinarily trivial and easy to include) datapoints is that the only reason you would be downloading shapefiles for the US or Canada is to study these countries in isolation, while countries in the Global South are structured to accommodate the act of comparison

[sirxaibs]

⋆˚✿˖° ❝𝗜𝘁 𝗙𝗲𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗱𝗲𝗱❞ ⋆˚✿˖°

YOU ARE A COUGAR

────୨ৎ────

Geto Suguru X Reader

Gojo Satoru X Reader

────୨ৎ────

₍^. .^₎⟆ Synopsis: In a world of curses and power struggles take center stage, you’ve always kept to the simple aspects of life. Focussing on your studies, your friendships and life in the dorms. Though everything changes when Geto challenges Gojo that he can’t win your heart and what happens when Geto realizes that Gojo needs to lose.

MASTERLIST

has it been a while since I updated this series? since getting back to canada from the philippines, being a responsible adult and working all the time means i only had time to post my little one shots. BUT I HAVE A FEW CHAPTERS ALREADY WRITTEN IM TRYING

₍^. .^₎⟆ The four of you stood in front of Principal Yaga’s desk, waiting for what was clearly going to be a Very Important Mission. Shoko looked like she was three seconds from falling asleep. Geto had his arms crossed, already preparing himself for whatever was about to come. You just stood there, waiting patiently. Gojo, on the other hand, was leaning back, hands in his pockets, already looking bored. “When was the last time we had a mission with all 4 of us? He knows if im here it doesn’t really matter ”

Yaga exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like he was already losing braincells with having you all here. Then, with a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and spoke. “Your next assignment is training with the second and first years.”

“…That’s it?” you asked.

“That’s it,” Yaga confirmed.

Gojo blinked, then recoiled like he had just been physically assaulted by the information. “Training with the kids?!”

“Yes,” Yaga said, voice flat.

Gojo turned to Geto, grabbing his shoulders. “We’ve been set up.”

Geto sighed. “It does feel that way.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Gojo turned back to Yaga, waving his hands. “Why do we have to do this? We’re third years! Why are we suddenly getting stuck with mentor duty?”

Yaga crossed his arms. “Because you four have more experience, and they could benefit from learning from you.”

Shoko yawned. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

You tilted your head. “Wait… who exactly are we training with?”

“Nanami Kento and Haibara Yu.” Gojo groaned so loudly it echoed. “NOOOO?!”

“You wouldn’t know them,” Geto said looking towards you. “You’re always running off to other countries.”

Gojo threw his hands up. “Exactly! So why are we getting stuck with this?”

“Wouldnt that be a better reason? For Y/n to know more of the sorcerers?” Yaga deadpanned.

You crossed your arms. “I mean, how bad could it be?”

Gojo turned to you so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “How bad could it be?!” He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “You don’t understand! You weren’t here when we had to deal with Mei Mei treating us like free labor! You weren’t here when Utahime existed in front of us for five hours straight! We’ve been through too much!”

You blinked. “…It’s literally just training and we are the one that are in charge.”

“That’s what they want you to think!” Gojo hissed.

Yaga sighed, rubbing his temple. “Go now. Before I make you babysit panda.”

Geto grimaced. “Ugh. Let’s just get this over with.”

Gojo whined all the way out the door. “This is so unfair.”

Shoko started leaning on gojo and muttered, “We’re already suffering.”

You just shrugged. “Still don’t get what the big deal is.”

Gojo pointed at you, eyes wide. “You will.”

As the four of you walked away from Yaga’s office, Gojo was still pouting, muttering to himself. “This is so unfair,” he repeated, dramatically flicking his hair out of his eyes as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Honestly, how much can we possibly do with those second and first years?” Geto mumbled, clearly irritated but not as loud about it as Gojo.

You shrugged. “I still don’t see the big deal. We’ve all trained as underclassmen before.”

“It’s different when it’s you four!” Gojo whined, flailing his arms. “Do you know how many people would kill for a mission this week? And what do we get? Babysitting wit our other option ALSO being babysitting!”

Shoko, still unfazed,. “We’re not actually babysitting. You’re just dramatic.”

Gojo threw up his hands. “I’ll show you dramatic when I’m stuck with them! You know how I work, I need to be doing something, not sitting around listening to people talk about how to punch a curse!”

You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t help but smile. You were used to Gojo’s over the top complaints. Then, suddenly, Gojo stopped in his tracks and looked at you with wide eyes. “Wait.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He grinned mischievously, like a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “You!”

“…Me?” you asked, confused.

“Yes, you!” Gojo pointed at you, nearly poking your nose in the process. “You’ve got that magical power of yours, your insane ability to always be on missions! Maybe you can finally get us something good while we’re stuck playing teacher’s pet with the underclassmen!”

You blinked. “You do know I don’t have magical powers, right? Also gojo… do you have something wrong in the head? we’re literally walking there”

“Sure you do! It’s like the luck of the draw or something! You’re always out of the loop when it comes to stuff like this because you’re always on a mission or off somewhere else! That’s your power! You’re the best at missing things!” completely ignoring what you said.

“I don’t miss things on purpose…”

He ignored you completely, grabbing your arm. “You have to get a mission! I’m begging you. Please. Do whatever you have to do. I can’t be stuck with Nanami and Haibara for an entire week!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing at how frantic he was. “You’re really asking me to use my ‘powers’ to help you skip out of training with our underclassmen?”

“Yes!” Gojo practically fell to his knees in front of you, hands clasped together like he was praying. “Please, put me in your bag! Take me with you! I’ll do anything! I’ll even”

“No,” you interrupted, laughing harder. “I’m not dragging you around in a bag just to escape training. It’s not going to happen.”

Gojo groaned and flopped on the ground dramatically. “This is the worst.”

Geto rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you two.”

Shoko just shook her head, exhaling smoke. “At least we can relax while they’re busy with the first years. You’ll be fine.”

Gojo lay on the floor with his arms splayed out. “I’ll never be fine again.”

₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆

The girls’ locker room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. You had just finished changing into your towel when it hit you you forgot your gym clothes.

“Seriously?!” you groaned, facepalming in frustration.

You quickly scanned the locker room, hoping to find something, anything, that could help. No luck. All your clothes were neatly folded in your bag, but… no workout gear. Shaking your head, you cursed under your breath. “Great. Just great. I’m going to look like a total mess today.”

But then, you remembered: Gojo. You knew the men’s locker room was just down the hall, and Gojo always kept a spare set of clothes for emergencies like this. Sure, you weren’t supposed to be in the men’s locker room, but he was your best friend. You’d shared stuff since you were kids, this was nothing new. Without hesitation, you marched over to the door to the men’s locker room. You knocked loudly, pounding your fist on the wood like your life depended on it. “Gojo!” you yelled, voice echoing through the hallway. “Gojo! You in there? I need your spare workout clothes!”

You waited a beat. Nothing. You knocked harder, this time adding a few choice words for emphasis. “Gojo! Are you seriously going to leave me stranded here? Come on, I’m not asking for much! Just some spare clothes!”

Still no response. You leaned your forehead against the door, muttering to yourself. “He better not be napping in there or I swear”

BANG! You gave the door one last solid knock, pushing all your frustration into it. “GOJO!!!”

Finally, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a disheveled Gojo, still half dressed in his gym gear, “What?!” he groaned, clearly not thrilled with the interruption.

“Don’t give me that look!” you shot back. “I need your spare clothes. You’re the only one who comes prepared for this kind of stuff.”

Gojo sighed dramatically and ran a hand through his hair. “you crazy lady why am I the prepared one,” he grumbled, pulling a pair of athletic shorts and a plain shirt from his bag. “If it were anyone else, I’d say no. You’ve got some nerve showing up at my door like this.”

You smiled at him sweetly. “You do this for me.”

“Don’t get cocky.” Gojo handed over the clothes with an exaggerated flourish. “Here. Don’t mess them up, okay?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who would be messing up your stuff.”

Gojo leaned against the doorframe, looking far too pleased with himself. “Just remember, I’m a generous guy. And you owe me one now.”

“Oh, please,” you muttered, taking the clothes from him. “Like I’d ever forget you gave me your old stuff.”

Gojo grinned smugly, hands on his hips. “Exactly. You’ll remember this every time you put them on. Now go change and don’t take forever. We’ve got training to do.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned and made your way back to the girls’ locker room, a sense of relief washing over you as you got ready to train. You didn’t even mind that Gojo always seemed to find a way to be both annoying and helpful at the same time. It was just so him.

Though on the Inside the men’s locker room during your knocking crusade, the usual pre training bustle was happening. Gojo and Geto were leaning against lockers, talking about a really annoying bug called utahime. Haibara was rummaging through his bag, searching for his gym shoes, while Nanami stood at the mirror looking at himself.

Gojo, as always, was the first to notice anything out of the ordinary. He smirked and leaned back, eyes hidden behind his blindfold. “You hear that?” he asked, half smiling.

“Knocking?” Geto murmured, looking up from his phone with a raised eyebrow. He wasn’t nearly as fazed by the interruption as Gojo, but he was intrigued nonetheless.

Haibara, hearing the louder than usual knocking, looked over his shoulder. “Is someone outside? Should we check?”

Gojo tilted his head, pretending to consider it before giving a dismissive wave. “Nah, it’s probably nothing. Maybe some cursed spirit knocked on the wrong door. If it were a real emergency, they’d just barge in, right?” Geto rolled his eyes but didn’t look away from his phone. “If someone’s knocking on that door this loudly, it’s definitely not just a mistake.”

The knocking grew more persistent, and then a familiar voice echoed through the room, sending a shiver of realization through everyone. “Gojo! Are you in there? I need your spare workout clothes!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. “Wait a second ” Gojo’s smile widened, a mischievous glint flashing behind his blindfold. “That voice…”

“She’s seriously knocking on the men’s locker room?” Haibara asked, blinking in confusion. He knew you well enough from your shared missions but never thought he’d be hearing you demand clothes from Gojo in such an… unusual way.

“It’s just her,” Gojo said, still grinning. “give me a moment”

Nanami, who had been silently adjusting his uniform, frowned. “hmmm.” He glanced between Haibara and Geto. “Should we do something about it?”

Geto just shrugged, clearly more used to Gojo’s antics by now. “Nah. She’s been doing this kind of thing for years. She and Gojo have no boundaries.”

Haibara snickered under his breath. “I didn’t realize that was a thing…”

Gojo let out a loud sigh as the knocking continued, growing more desperate now. “Gojo!!! I need your spare clothes!”

Haibara couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. “Does this happen often?”

Geto raised an eyebrow, his face a picture of nonchalance. “More times than you’d think.”

Nanami sighed, crossing his arms. “She really knows how to make an entrance.”

Gojo, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying himself. “This is gonna be great,” he said, turning to Geto. “You know she’s going to make a scene when she comes in.”

“Yeah, I’m sure we’ll hear all about it during training,” Geto replied dryly, finally setting his phone aside and preparing to grab his gear. “We’ll just pretend we didn’t hear her until she comes storming in here to yell at you, huh?”

Haibara, still laughing, looked between the others. “I feel like I’m missing something here. Why does she keep coming to you?”

“Because,” Gojo said, crossing his arms and grinning widely, “we’ve been best friends forever, and she knows I’ve always got her back. And extra clothes, apparently.”

“Of course, you do,” Geto muttered, knowing full well how often Gojo would come to the rescue with something random, like extra gym clothes.

As the knock echoed one last time, Gojo walked over to the door, his grin widening. “I’ll be right back, boys. Gotta go save the day again.”

With that, Gojo opened the door just enough to pass the clothes through. On the other side, you stood there, looking far too confident, hands on your hips.

“Finally,” you said, clearly relieved.

The guys inside the locker room shared a look. Haibara raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the casual intimacy you and Gojo shared, while Nanami just rolled his eyes, still more focused on his gear.

Gojo handed you the clothes with a flourish, his grin teasing. “There you go. All set, bestie.”

Haibara couldn’t help but laugh, glancing at Nanami. “I think I get it now. It’s like a lifelong partnership or something.”

“Ugh, don’t even start with me,” Nanami muttered, clearly unimpressed by the antics. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”

Gojo, still grinning, turned back to face them. “You’ll get used to it. We’re just that special.”

You strolled in, looking like you were swimming in Gojo’s oversized clothes. The bright white shirt, two sizes too large, hung loosely around your frame, and the athletic shorts were practically falling off, held up only by the drawstring. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up, but still, they almost reached your elbows, and the whole ensemble looked like it could swallow you whole. You had clearly taken Gojo’s extra clothes without a second thought.

The silence lingered for a moment before Geto was the first to break it, raising an eyebrow. “Did you really have to wear that?” he asked, unable to suppress a smirk.

You grinned at him, completely unfazed by the attention. “What? It’s not like I had any other option. Gojo said it’s his ‘emergency backup’ set. his stuff is basically my stuff so it doesnt matter now” You tugged at the fabric, making it bunch up around your waist in a way that could only be described as absurd.

Haibara blinked, completely taken aback by the sight. “Whoa. I didn’t know Gojo’s clothes were that… big.” He stifled a laugh, clearly impressed with your choice of fashions.

Shoko snorted from her spot on the sideline, rolling her eyes as she leaned back. “You look ridiculous.” Her voice was lazy, but you could tell she was trying not to laugh. “But Gojo’s clothes being your option is so stupid, you could’ve just come get me”

“Shut up,” you said, still grinning. “It’s too late now… I’m rolling with it. Besides, Gojo’s just mad because I look better in his clothes than he does.”

“Hey, I’m right here!” Gojo called out from the corner, where he had been stretching. He had a huge grin plastered on his face, though, clearly entertained by the sight of you swaying around in his oversized gear. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not a part of this!”

You turned to face him, hands on your hips, still unapologetically drowning in his clothes. “Well, if you didn’t have such giant clothes lying around, I wouldn’t have to make do with your fancy leftovers.”

Shoko chuckled, her gaze sliding from you to Gojo. “The best part is that he doesn’t mind you wearing his stuff at all. Can you imagine if anyone else tried it? Gojo would probably lose it.”

Gojo just shrugged, a playful smirk on his face as he approached you. “I’m a generous guy. Plus, I have to make sure my best friend is always prepared, right?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, the sleeve of his shirt hanging off his arm in a dramatic way, almost like he was trying to own the moment.

Geto, clearly amused, raised his hands. “Alright, alright, no need to show off. We get it, Gojo. You’re a walking charity case for your best friend.”

“Exactly!” Gojo said, his grin turning teasing. “I’m just too kind for my own good.”

You shot him a playful look. “And I’m way too cute for my own good.”

Haibara laughed, his energy returning as he clapped his hands together.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile never left your face. “Okay, okay. I’m done here.” You threw a quick wink at Gojo before turning toward the training mats. “Let’s get to it before Gojo finds any more of his ‘emergency backups’ for me to wear.”

As you walked toward the center of the training ground, you could hear Gojo calling out to you. “I’m serious! You do look better in them!”

Geto, shaking his head with an amused smile, looked at Shoko. “I think we’re going to be hearing about this for a while.”

“Yeah,” Shoko replied with a lazy grin. “I’ll bet five yen that Gojo’s gonna ask for his clothes back before the day ends.”

“only 5?”

You could hear Gojo’s dramatic sigh from across the field. “I can’t believe you don’t think I look amazing in those clothes,” he shouted, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

It was definitely going to be a long day. Your gaze shifted to the two unfamiliar faces standing across from you Nanami and Haibara. It was clear they were second and first years, respectively, though they carried themselves with maturity and confidence.

Gojo, as always, was casually leaning against a nearby post, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He’d somehow convinced you to show up in his clothes, and now he was basking in the aftermath of his “success.”

“You’re all probably wondering who the new guys are,” Gojo said, interrupting the silence as he gestured lazily toward Nanami and Haibara. “Well, let me introduce you. This is Nanami Kento, secondyear extraordinaire. And this is Haibara, my fun loving first year protege.”

You turned to face them fully, giving them both a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you both! I’m Y/n” You started,

Nanami gave a polite, composed nod. “I’ve heard of you. It’s an honor to work with someone as experienced as you.” His tone was calm and respectful, and you appreciated the sincerity in his voice.

Haibara, on the other hand, gave a bright grin and waved a bit awkwardly, clearly the more approachable of the two. “I’m Haibara! It’s awesome to meet you! I’ve heard all kinds of stories about your missions!” He seemed excited to be working with someone more seasoned.

You chuckled, brushing your hair back with one hand. “Stories, huh? Well, I wouldn’t say I’m that special more like I’m just always on the move for missions.”

You took a step closer to Nanami and Haibara, giving them both an appraising look. “But I’ve got to say, you two are way nicer than Gojo made you sound,” you added with a smirk, casting a sideeye at your best friend who was still standing off to the side, acting like he owned the whole training field.

Gojo made an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “Ouch, that hurts! I’m so nice, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He grinned wide, clearly trying to downplay the jab.

Haibara laughed softly at the exchange, clearly amused by the dynamic between you and Gojo. “Yeah, he makes everything sound way more dramatic than it needs to be,” he said, giving Gojo a playful look. “I mean, come on nice is an understatement when it comes to you.”

You nodded in agreement, crossing your arms with a smirk. “Exactly. Look at this guy,” you said, gesturing to Gojo. “He acts like he’s the only one who can be ‘fun,’ but honestly, I think you two are way easier to talk to.” You directed the compliment toward Nanami and Haibara.

Nanami gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, his usual stoic demeanor softening just a little. “I suppose we have our own way of approaching things. We prefer to focus on the task at hand.”

“Yeah,” Haibara chimed in enthusiastically, “but we’re still here to have fun! I think I’ll like working with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, impressed by their reactions. “I think I might too,” you said. “You’re both way less dramatic than Gojo it’s refreshing.”

Gojo, ever the dramatic one, threw his arms in the air. “Why does everyone gang up on me? I’m such a good person!” His voice was full of mock offense, though it was clear he was enjoying the attention.

“Maybe we’ll see how good you are once we start training,” you teased, turning back to Nanami and Haibara. “But seriously, it’s nice to meet you two. I’ve been out of the loop with missions, so I don’t get to interact with many of the underclassmen.”

“We’ll make sure you don’t regret it,” Haibara said with a wink. “And hey, maybe you’ll teach me a few things?”

You chuckled. “I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from you two as well. Though, I warn you, Gojo’s the one with all the dramatic stories, not me.”

Gojo crossed his arms, feigning a pout. “Hey, I’m allowed to be dramatic! It’s part of my charm!”

You rolled your eyes at his antics, earning a small laugh from Haibara and even a slight smile from Nanami.

“Well,” you continued, turning back to Nanami and Haibara, “looks like we’ve got a good team. No drama just pure talent.”

Geto, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, looked between you and Gojo before smirking. “You know,” he said, “if you keep defending Gojo like that, you’re going to make him insufferable.”

Gojo immediately grinned and winked at you. “See? They get me.”

You just shook your head. “I’ll stick with you guys, as long as Gojo doesn’t start talking too much.”

Gojo gasped. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but I’m not sure if you’re actually joking!”

Laughing, you turned to Nanami and Haibara. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. But, seriously, it’s great to finally meet you both in person.”

It was clear that Gojo and Geto were in their usual mood mischievous, but with a hint of cruelty. You had seen this before, especially when they started ganging up on someone, and you could tell that Nanami was in for it. He was a bit too serious for their liking, and you both knew how much they enjoyed poking fun at anyone who didn’t quite fit their mold.

Gojo was the first to break the silence, his grin wide and devilish. He took a slow step toward Nanami, sizing him up with an exaggerated scrutinizing gaze. “So, Nanami, you really think you can handle this, huh? I hope you’ve been training hard, ’cause I don’t go easy on anyone.” He clicked his tongue and raised an eyebrow, feigning disappointment. “I mean, I guess you’re okay for a secondyear, but we both know you can barely keep up with me.”

Nanami, who had been standing calmly with his arms crossed, gave Gojo a cool stare. “I’m not worried,” he replied, his tone neutral but firm. He wasn’t one to back down easily, and that only seemed to fuel Gojo’s amusement further.

Geto leaned in from the side with a knowing smirk, folding his arms across his chest. “You know, Gojo, Nanami might be too uptight for this field. His whole ‘serious’ vibe isn’t exactly the best for fighting. I mean, I can already see you wiping the floor with him, but maybe we should make this fun.” His eyes flickered with mischief, and he made no effort to hide the fact that he was provoking Nanami.

You could already tell they were about to turn this into something personal. Gojo and Geto had a way of driving people insane with their teasing, pushing buttons until it was almost unbearable.

Gojo snickered, tilting his head to the side. “I gotta admit, though, Nanami, it’s pretty cute that you think you can hang with us.” He looked over to you, his grin widening. “Don’t you think so, Y/n? You’ve seen this before. Nanami’s so stiff. I mean, if I wanted someone to train in perfect posture, he’s the guy, but in a fight? Not so much.” He made an exaggerated motion with his arms to show how rigid Nanami seemed.

Geto let out a low laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe we should give him a proper warmup before he gets embarrassed in front of everyone.” His eyes glinted with something darker, something that said he wasn’t going to stop unless someone intervened.

You stepped forward, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, knock it off. You two are really pushing it today. You know Nanami can hold his own.” You threw a protective arm around Nanami’s shoulders, trying to shield him from the escalating teasing.

But Gojo wasn’t having it. “Come on, Y/n. You really think he can handle me?” His voice was loud and dramatic, clearly trying to get a rise out of both you and Nanami. “You know, you are a secondyear, Nanami, but you’ve got a lot to learn. A lot.”

He moved closer, standing right in front of Nanami now. “Maybe you should take notes. I mean, look at me. I’m basically the perfect fighter. And you” Gojo poked Nanami’s chest in mock sympathy, “you’re just… well, Nanami. Not quite as impressive, huh?”

Geto chimed in, his tone more biting now. “Yeah, Nanami, maybe you should just stand to the side and watch. It’ll be safer for you, trust me.” He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “We wouldn’t want you to get too bruised up by the time this is over.”

Nanami’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. You could tell the teasing was getting under his skin, even if he was trying to hold it together.

You stepped in front of Nanami, this time making sure to get in Gojo and Geto’s faces. “Enough,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re crossing a line.” You were trying to keep things light, but it was becoming obvious that they were being needlessly cruel now.

Gojo clicked his tongue, clearly not used to anyone standing up to him like this. “What’s the matter, Y/n? He’s a secondyear; this is just how we help people grow. You know that, right?” His eyes sparkled with his usual playful glint, but there was an edge to it now.

Geto smirked, pushing his hair back with one hand. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want Nanami to get soft, would we? It’s for his own good, really.”

You felt your irritation building. “You’re not ‘helping’ him. You’re just being assholes.” You turned to Nanami, giving him a small nod of support. “Don’t let them get to you. They like to joke around, but they’ll cross the line if no one stops them.”

Nanami let out a deep breath, seemingly unfazed. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.” But his clenched jaw told you it wasn’t that fine. You could see he was about to snap, and that was exactly what Gojo and Geto wanted to see just how much they could get under his skin.

Before anything else could escalate, you moved in closer, putting a hand on Gojo’s shoulder and giving him a playful but firm shove. “Cut it out, Gojo. You’re not funny anymore. And Geto” You shot a glare at him, “You’re no better.”

Gojo sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine, we’ll be nice. I guess we can’t have any fun around here, huh?” He shot Nanami a wink, his teasing not quite done but pulled back just enough.

“You know, Y/n,” Geto drawled as he leaned back, “You really are soft when it comes to your friends. I didn’t realize you were such a defender.”

You glared at both of them, turning back to Nanami with a more gentle smile. “Ignore them, Nanami. You’re way better than they give you credit for.”

Nanami gave you a halfsmile, clearly grateful for the support. “Thanks. And I can handle them. I’ve seen worse than these two.”

You nodded, but you knew that Gojo and Geto had left their mark, and that meant you’d have to step in even more if they kept going down this path. But for now, it was over at least until they decided to start again.

“Alright, enough talk,” Gojo finally said with a teasing grin. “Let’s get to training. Nanami, I’ll go easy on you maybe.”

“Maybe?” You said, a hint of sarcasm in your tone. “Go easy on him? That’s rich, coming from you.” You looked at Nanami. “He’s full of it, you know.”

Shoko, still lounging around lazily on the sidelines, yelled out, “You’re all too dramatic. Just spar already!”

With the pressure momentarily off Nanami, everyone shuffled into place to start the sparring. The air had a lighter tone, though you knew Gojo and Geto wouldn’t let up entirely. But at least for now, Nanami had you backing him up, and that was enough to keep them in check. you decided it was safer (and more productive) to spar with Shoko.

Lazy as she was, she was no slouch when it came to combat. The moment you threw a strike, she blocked it effortlessly, twisting her body with a smoothness that made it clear she wasn’t just relying on her reversed cursed technique to stay relevant. You had to admit, for someone who complained about effort, she sure knew how to handle herself.

“Damn, Shoko,” you whistled as she sidestepped another attack. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you actually like training.”

She rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “I don’t. But I also don’t like getting my ribs shattered on missions, so here we are.”

You laughed, stepping back before lunging at her again. “That’s a good point. But, you know” You grinned, pivoting midswing to test her reflexes. She blocked it easily, her movements as fluid as ever. “We don’t have to be those doomed yuri tropes.”

Shoko blinked at you, unimpressed, before immediately twisting your arm behind your back and shoving you forward.

“Ah Shoko, please, my pride”

“You’re the one who started flirting midspar,” she deadpanned, finally releasing you with a lazy shove.

Rubbing your wrist dramatically, you turned to her with a smirk. “Can you blame me? You’re cool, capable”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t start. You already have too many love interests.”

You paused, tilting your head. “What?”

Shoko waved a hand vaguely, as if dismissing the entire concept. “In another universe, maybe you’d actually focus on me and the female gender instead of collecting admirers like a shonen protagonist.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “…What?”

“Nothing.” She yawned, stretching her arms above her head before shooting you a side glance. “Just saying, if you ever wake up one day and decide men are too exhausting, I’m available.”

Your grin widened. “Noted.”

Before the conversation could go any further, a loud thud interrupted you Gojo had just sent Nanami sprawling across the ground, laughing like a maniac. You both sighed in unison.

“…Do we help him?” you asked.

Shoko rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Let’s give him a minute. Maybe he’ll start fighting back and finally shut Gojo up.”

Unlikely, but it was a nice thought.

₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆After parting ways with Nanami and Haibara, the four of you walked back toward the school. It was unusually quiet too quiet. Normally, Gojo would be running his mouth, filling the air with nonsense, but instead, he just sulked beside you, arms crossed, sunglasses slightly crooked like he was deep in thought over something profoundly lifealtering. Whatever. You stretched, feeling the soreness from sparring with Shoko settling into your muscles. “Man…” you sighed. “Nanami has a really attractive face.”

Dead silence.

“COUGAR!” Gojo practically shrieked, spinning toward you with such force that his sunglasses nearly flew off his face. Geto stopped walking altogether, staring at you like you had just committed the ultimate betrayal. Shoko, who had been lazily walking beside you, hummed in amusement but said nothing, clearly just waiting to see where this went.

You blinked. “What?”

“A COUGAR!” Gojo repeated, pointing at you like you were some sort of criminal. “You’re a whole thirdyear and you’re out here checking out a secondyear?! This is a scandal! A DISGRACE! I’m gonna have to tell Yaga that you’re out here preying on underclassmen”

“Oh my god, shut up,” you groaned, shoving his face away. “He’s, like, one year younger than us. I just said he has a nice face. That’s an objective fact.”

“No, no, no,” Gojo shook his head wildly, grabbing Geto’s shoulders for support like he was about to collapse from shock. “Suguru, are you hearing this? Is this real? Is this real life?”

Geto, who had been staring at you like he was still trying to process what you had said, exhaled heavily. “Yeah, I gotta admit, I didn’t think you were capable of acknowledging anyone was attractive.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Gojo pointed aggressively. “All these years, and Y/n’s never once said anything about me… uh, us! And suddenly, Nanami’s stupid, serious face is worth talking about?”

“His emo blonde hair is kinda nice,” you added, just to get under their skin.

Gojo let out a fullbody gasp, stumbling backward like you had physically struck him. “THE AUDACITY!”

Geto crossed his arms, now fully invested in slandering you. “You’re really out here thirsting over underclassmen, huh? That’s crazy.”

“I didn’t say I was thirsting, I said he has a nice face,” you defended.

“Oh, no, no, no” Gojo wagged a finger at you, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You can’t take it back now. You said it. Out loud. With your mouth. In front of witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” you repeated, deadpan.

“Yes. Three witnesses, in fact,” Geto added, smirking.

“And Y/n, be honest with us,” Gojo said, stepping uncomfortably close. “Was it just his face? Or was it also that cold, brooding, businessmaninthemaking energy? You like ‘em serious, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please, I’ve known you my whole life, and you’re the exact opposite of serious.”

“Exactly!” Gojo threw his arms up. “Yet somehow, Nanami is getting all the love?! I’m beautiful!”

“Yeah, and I’m charming,” Geto added, flicking his hair back. “Yet somehow, you’ve never once looked at us and said anything like that. And then along comes little Nanami Kento with his serious face and his ‘I hate working overtime’ attitude, and suddenly, you’re interested?”

“You two are being so dramatic right now,” you groaned.

“We’re heartbroken, Y/n,” Geto sighed. “Absolutely devastated.”

“Tragic, even,” Gojo agreed.

“Completely betrayed.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “For the last time, I just said he was attractive. That’s literally it. Do you two want me to start commenting on how nice your faces are? Would that make you feel better?”

Gojo and Geto immediately stopped talking. They exchanged glances. Looked at you. Then at each other again. And in unison

“…Maybe.”

You groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Shoko, who had been silently observing the mess unfold, finally leaned over, her voice barely above a whisper. “Y/n, you’re getting so many love interests.”

You shot her a look. “Don’t start.”

She smirked, lighting a cigarette. “I’m just saying. Another universe, maybe you go for me instead. it’ll make tour life easier”

Gojo made another strangled noise, and Geto clutched his chest dramatically like he was about to faint. You, fully regretting everything, walked ahead. This was never going to end.

₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆₍^. .^₎⟆

Gojo’s room was honestly not too horrible today. Clothes were thrown over his desk chair, an empty cup of instant ramen sat on the floor, and at least three pairs of sunglasses were scattered in random places. The sheer mess of it was something you had long since stopped questioning. You sat crosslegged on his bed, phone in hand, lazily scrolling as you replied to a text. Gojo, on the other hand, was lying upside down on the floor, feet propped up against the wall, a lollipop in his mouth as he tossed a ball up and down.

It was peaceful.

“Who are you texting?”

You barely glanced up. “Nanami.” The sound of the ball hitting the floor was immediate.

“WHAT.” Before you could react, Gojo launched himself onto the bed, nearly knocking the phone out of your hands.

“HEY!” you yelped, holding your phone out of reach.

“You’re texting Nanami?!” Gojo shrieked, eyes wide with betrayal.

“Yes?” You raised a brow. “Why are you acting like I committed a war crime?”

Gojo dramatically flopped onto the bed beside you. “Oh my god, Y/n. When did this happen? When did you two become texting buddies?!”

“Literally today.”

“AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO CONSULT ME?” He rolled onto his stomach, staring at you like you’d personally destroyed his worldview. “What could you possibly have to text Nanami about?”

“Books,” you replied simply.

Gojo stared at you for a long moment. “Books,” he repeated.

“Yes.” “That’s it?” “Yeah.”

He groaned, flopping facedown into the mattress. “You’re so boring.”

“You asked.”

Gojo turned his head dramatically. “Wait. Wait. Hold on.” His sunglasses had slipped down his nose, blue eyes squinting at you. “Are you… flirting?”

You blinked. “I just said we’re talking about books.” “But are you flirttexting about books?”

You stared at him. “What does that even mean?”

“You know, like ‘Oh Nanami, I simply adore the way you analyze classic literature~’” Gojo put on a terrible impression of you, complete with dramatic hand gestures.

You smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god.” Gojo sat up, eyes wide. “You like him. You think he’s hot.”

“I literally already said he has an attractive face,” you deadpanned.

“But that was in the moment!” Gojo gestured wildly. “Now you’re thinking about him. Texting him. This is a whole new level!”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your phone in your pocket. “You’re so dramatic.”

Gojo grabbed his chest like you’d just stabbed him. “I just never thought I’d see the day,” he gasped. “My best friend, my precious best friend, betraying me like this.”

“Oh my god, get a grip.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He collapsed backward onto the bed. “Go on, text your boyfriend. I’ll just sit here. Alone. Forgotten.”

You stared down at him before shoving a pillow over his face. Gojo immediately started flailing. “HELP! I’M BEING ATTACKED BY A TRAITOR!”

You groaned, shoving him off the bed. “If I knew texting Nanami would get this reaction, I would’ve done it sooner.”

Gojo, lying facedown on the floor, groaned. “I hate you.”

You pulled your phone out again “Nanami’s way more pleasant than you, anyway.”

Gojo screeched. This was never going to end. Gojo groaned dramatically from the floor, limbs sprawled like he’d just been hit by a truck. “I cannot believe this. My best friend, my one and only, has been stolen from me by a second year emo.”

You rolled your eyes, scrolling through your phone. “calm down big guy.”

Gojo peeked up at you, then, with zero warning, launched himself back onto the bed, flopping down beside you. The mattress bounced under his weight, and he made no effort to respect personal space, lying close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours. “I’m being serious,” he whined, dramatically resting his head on your shoulder. “What does Nanami have that I don’t?”

“Selfrestraint,” you said without missing a beat. Gojo gasped. “Excuse me?” He lifted his head to squint at you, affronted. “I have so much selfrestraint.”

“You just threw yourself onto me because I texted someone.”

“Okay, but that’s different,” he huffed, rolling onto his side to face you. “You never text people first.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” He raised an eyebrow. “Name one person.”

“…Shoko.”

“Shoko doesn’t count. She texts you first.”

“…Geto?”

Gojo scoffed. “You text him, like, twice a week.”

“That’s still texting someone.”

He groaned, rolling onto his back and dramatically covering his face. “Ugh, whatever. I just think it’s suspicious that the first person you suddenly feel like texting is Nanami.”

“You’re just mad I called him attractive.”

“Because you never call people attractive!” He flailed a hand in the air. “You refuse to acknowledge anyone’s hotness! Then suddenly, you meet Nanami, and it’s all ‘Oh, what a nice face he has~’”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“That’s exactly how you sound.”

You let out a sigh, tilting your head toward him. “Okay, would it make you feel better if I said you were attractive?” Gojo immediately sat up, looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

You blinked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just processing,” he said flatly.

“…Processing what?”

“That was the first time you’ve ever complimented my looks.”

You frowned. “That’s not true.”

“It is true,” he deadpanned. “I compliment you all the time. I tell you you’re pretty, I hype you up”

“And you sound insufferable every time,” you cut in.

“and I get nothing in return,” he continued as if you hadn’t spoken.

“Meanwhile, Nanami shows up for one training session, and suddenly you’re swooning.”

You groaned, rubbing your temple. “I am not swooning.”

Gojo flopped back down beside you, still pouting. “If you start dating Nanami, I’m gonna die.”

You snorted. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Just drop dead on the spot.” He sighed dramatically. “My fragile heart won’t be able to take it.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned your attention back to your phone. “You’re ridiculous.”

Gojo tilted his head toward you, watching as you lazily scrolled through your messages. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but then, in a much quieter voice, he said

“…You really think I’m attractive?”

You sideeyed him, unimpressed. “Don’t push it.” He grinned, his usual dramatic energy returning in an instant. “Oh, I’m pushing it. Say it again. Tell me how handsome I am.”

“No.” “Say it.” “Gojo ” “Saaay iiiit.”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him in the face. Gojo laughed, grabbing his own pillow and swinging back. And just like that, the teasing shifted into fullon mess, the two of you whacking each other like children, the earlier conversation long forgotten.

Gojo had you in a headlock. Not a real one more like a loose, ridiculous mess of tangled limbs and pillows as the aftermath of your impromptu pillow fight. His sunglasses were long gone, lost somewhere in the depths of his disaster of a room, and his snowwhite hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles.

You huffed, lying sprawled out beside him, out of breath from all the laughter. Your head rested against his shoulder, and neither of you had the energy to move. The room was quiet now, save for the occasional sound of Gojo shifting beside you. Then, after a long pause, he murmured, “You know… you never answered me.”

You cracked one eye open. “Answered what?”

“If you think I’m attractive,” he said, voice teasing, but there was something else beneath it. Something more serious.

You closed your eyes again. This was a trap. If you said no, he’d call you a liar. If you said yes, you’d never hear the end of it.…But also. You weren’t a liar. So, with an exhale, you muttered, “Yeah.”

Gojo stiffened. You felt it immediately the slight tensing of his arm beneath you, the way his breathing hitched just a little. Then, because you weren’t about to deal with the consequences of that admission, you immediately went limp against him.

“…Y/n.” You didn’t move. Gojo poked your cheek. “You’re not asleep.” No response. Another poke. “You literally just talked.” Nothing. Gojo groaned, shifting so he could look down at you. “You’re the worst.”

Still, you remained perfectly still, face neutral, pretending to be deep in sleep. For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at you, his arm still around your shoulder, your body still leaning against him. You weren’t sure what he was thinking, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze, the rare stillness in his presence.

Then, in a voice much softer than before, he said “Go out with me.”

Silence. Your heart did not just skip a beat. That was just… a bodily malfunction.

Gojo nudged your side. “I know you’re faking.” Nothing. “You’re such a coward,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it. Just amusement. Maybe a little fondness.

He sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. Then, instead of pushing you away, he tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer.

“You’re gonna have to answer me eventually,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t let your face betray anything. But you felt everything. Gojo didn’t let go.

The soft sound of Gojo’s steady breathing filled the room as you slowly woke up, the weight of his arm still draped across your shoulders, pulling you in close. The sunlight had shifted, casting a warm glow through the blinds. You blinked a few times, your mind foggy as you tried to get your bearings. You were lying against Gojo’s chest, his body relaxed, his head resting on the pillow. The way he had wrapped himself around you in his sleep made it feel like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. His presence usually so present and overwhelming was now replaced by the calm of someone who’d finally let himself rest. You let out a quiet sigh, shifting slightly but careful not to disturb him. His breathing didn’t change, and you realized he was sound asleep. Your thoughts wandered, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“…I’m not stupid.” You spoke softly, not intending to wake him up. It was more of a mumble to yourself. But as you muttered those words, something inside you shifted, like a weight that had been hanging in the back of your mind finally settling into place.

“I see it now,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Both of you.”

You let your eyes wander over to Gojo’s peaceful face, watching the way his features softened in sleep. Then, your thoughts turned to Geto. They were always together. The way they acted so close, so constantly wrapped up in each other’s orbit. Too close. It was almost like a competition for your attention, only you hadn’t realized it until now. It wasn’t until they both started acting so ridiculously possessive that the pieces finally clicked together.

You chuckled bitterly, shifting again and trying to untangle yourself from Gojo’s arm without waking him.

“Honestly… how did I not see it sooner?” You muttered to yourself, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “They’re both so obvious about it.”

Gojo shifted a bit in his sleep, his arm tightening slightly around you as if in response to your movements. You stilled, eyes wide for a moment, but then you relaxed, biting your lip.

“You know, it’s honestly kind of embarrassing,” you continued, still not fully processing how much you were revealing to yourself out loud. “Both of them… acting like they’re fighting for my attention. Like I’m some sort of prize.”

You laughed under your breath. “But I’m not stupid. I can see what they’re doing.”

The realization was so simple and yet so unexpected. Gojo’s flirty teasing, his relentless need for validation, and Geto’s cool demeanor that had a little too much weight behind it when it came to you it all clicked. They weren’t just being weird. They were being deliberate. You looked at Gojo again, his face serene in sleep, the playful, arrogant grin from earlier now replaced by a quiet, almost vulnerable expression. He was the same as always, but in a way, he wasn’t. You realized you couldn’t quite figure out what was going on with him, and it made your heart race just a little faster than you wanted to admit. With a sigh, you mumbled to yourself again, though the words felt heavier this time.

“I should be annoyed. I should be, right?”

You let the silence hang for a moment. But you weren’t. Instead, a quiet warmth spread through you, making you feel both frustrated and comforted at the same time. Gojo had always been the one to keep things a mess. But with the way he held you now his fingers loosely tangled in your hair, his breathing soft against your skin it almost felt… intimate.

You knew you couldn’t let yourself fall into the trap of his teasing, not this time. You had to be rational. But then again, you couldn’t ignore it either. You found yourself slowly letting your eyes slip closed again, not yet ready to face the mess of thoughts swirling inside your head. You barely realized you were drifting back into sleep until you felt Gojo’s hand gently rub circles on your back, as if he’d woken up without you noticing.

“…You’re not stupid,” he murmured sleepily, his voice rough with sleep. “I’m just really bad at hiding it.”

You froze, eyes snapping open as you realized he was awake. He shifted again, his arm sliding around you in a way that wasn’t exactly innocent. His face was still soft, though there was an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes. “You heard all that?” You asked, your voice a mix of shock and mild embarrassment.

He just smirked, the same playful smirk you’d known for years. “I always hear you, Y/n.”

You sat there in Gojo’s room, the weight of everything you’d said hanging between you. Gojo sat next to you, his usual carefree attitude nowhere to be found, though he tried to keep it together. He had his hand resting on the bed beside you, but the tension in his posture was clear. He’d listened quietly as you tried to untangle the mess of your feelings, but there was an undeniable frustration brewing inside him. He couldn’t deny it. A small part of him the selfish part was frustrated. He hated the way you were caught between him and Geto, like some kind of tugofwar. He had always been the one to be there for you. He had always been the one who made you laugh, who kept you grounded. And now, he was sharing you with someone else, someone who didn’t get to be your best friend in the same way he did. He wanted to tell you how much he loved you. How he always had. But instead, he was holding back, trying to be supportive, trying to be the best friend you needed, even though it was tearing him up inside. You weren’t making it easy on him, though. And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was wrong, but the thought of losing you to Geto or anyone else made him feel like his insides were twisting in knots. But Gojo wasn’t going to let that show. Not yet.

“You’re my best friend, Gojo,” you said, your voice quiet. Your words were like a balm, but they didn’t ease the frustration that was bubbling inside of him. Not yet. “You’ve been my best friend for so long, and I I love you. I do. But…” You trailed off, and Gojo held his breath, desperate to hear you continue, desperate for something anything that would tell him you felt the same.

“But then there’s Geto, too,” you finished, and Gojo had to fight the urge to grit his teeth.

His heart was pounding, and for a moment, he had to resist the urge to blurt out everything he had ever wanted to say. But no, he couldn’t. Not yet. He stayed silent, giving you space to work through it. He could hear the quiet pain in your voice, the way you were trying to figure everything out, but it was frustrating. So frustrating.

“Gojo,” you continued, meeting his gaze, and for a brief moment, his mask almost cracked. You looked so vulnerable, so unsure, and he couldn’t help but feel protective of you. But that little selfish part of him still wanted to yell, to make you choose him. “I don’t even know if romance is something I should be thinking about right now. Everything’s so messed up lately. Both you and Geto started, like… vouching for my affection out of nowhere, and it just…” You stopped, looking down, and Gojo swallowed hard, trying to push the frustration aside for now. “It’s made my head spin.”

He wanted to say something. To tell you that it wasn’t like that, that he had always been here for you, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he exhaled deeply, forcing himself to be calm, to just be there for you. He had to, even if it was tearing him up inside. “You’re not alone in this, Y/n,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, even though the jealousy was gnawing at him. “You don’t have to figure it out right now. You never rush into anything. You always take your time. So don’t let all this pressure you.”

You shook your head, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I know. I just ” You exhaled deeply, turning toward him. “It’s just hard. When I’m with you, I feel… safe and seen. And when I’m with Geto, I also have that feeling. And both of you are important to me.” And there it was. The words Gojo had been dreading to hear. Not that he didn’t understand. He did. He knew what it was like to have different people give you different things, but for him, it was hard to hear that you felt seen by someone else.

“Y/n,” he said softly, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. But his mind couldn’t help but flash to the thought of Geto touching you, of being with you in a way that Gojo couldn’t. He wanted to push those thoughts away. He had to. He was being the best friend you needed. “You’re not going to lose us, okay? Ever. Whatever happens, we’re still your friends. No matter what.”

But his mind was still reeling, and a small, selfish part of him wanted to say, Screw that. I don’t want to be your friend anymore. I want you to choose me. He couldn’t, though. He wouldn’t say it. Not yet. You met his gaze, your expression softening, but there was still that uncertainty there, lingering. Gojo could tell you were still processing everything. And that was fine. He would give you the time you needed, even if it was killing him inside.

But when you spoke again, your voice quieter, more tentative, Gojo felt his heart race, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration. It was out of something else. “Thanks, Gojo. You’re always there for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His chest tightened at your words, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief. It wasn’t everything he wanted to hear, but it was something. He reached out, his hand resting on yours, his fingers curling around your hand gently. “Don’t mention it. I’ll always be here for you. I’m your best friend. That’s what best friends do.”

But deep down, there was still that selfish part of him that wanted more. That wanted to be the one you chose. And maybe, just maybe, he would get that chance. But for now, he could only wait.

Gojo: [leaning casually against your desk] So… when are you gonna realize I’m in love with you?

You: Oh, you’re in love? With who? Tell me! I’ll help you!

Gojo:

Gojo: [wheezing] No one, actually. I’m dead inside.

taglist: @pandabiene5115 @inthedarkshadows000

[dr-litcrit]

Why Stories Matter: Letting Them Loose, and the Havoc They Wreak

a deeply emotional rant about The Handmaid’s Tale’s betrayal of Nick Blaine

I started watching The Handmaid’s Tale when three seasons were already out. It was a bittersweet time: I was finishing my PhD, newly married, and we had just moved to a quiet house in the countryside. It was winter break. My husband worked in the capital during the week and came home on weekends. I stayed behind, mostly alone. We didn’t have our dog yet. We didn’t have our daughter yet.

One day, my neighbor and her little boy came over, and she suggested I try The Handmaid’s Tale. I’d read about the book but didn’t even know there was a show. I guess I was too buried in my studies. I needed something to watch in the mornings—just background noise while I made breakfast and drank my (now shocking to me) cup of coffee. I’m fully team matcha these days.

I gave it a go, assuming it wouldn’t be my thing. It seemed too heavy. I hadn’t read the novel yet, I absolutely knew what the book was about—I'm a literature professor with a PhD, after all. But our curriculum is very different, and The Handmaid’s Tale was never a required text, though it absolutely should be, considering our history. I’d read 1984, The Hunger Games, Red Rising… but I went in with zero expectations.

And then it happened.

The voices. The music. The imagery. The sheer emotional weight. It wasn’t background noise—it was everything. I couldn’t look away. I watched, completely still, barely breathing. It became my ritual, this sacred hour in the early morning dark. I devoured Season 1 and immediately bought the book. Then I rewatched Season 1 with the book’s insights. Then read the book again. Then rewatched again. It spiraled quickly, and I was loving every second.

I soon reached Seasons 2 and 3, and that’s when Nick Blaine truly became the heart of the show for me. His scenes were tiny rays of sunlight in the pitch-black cruelty of Gilead. He was hope, from the beginning. At first, I prayed he wasn’t an Eye. Then I hoped he was an Eye for a reason. And when we learned that he became one to take down corrupt Commanders after a Handmaid died under the Waterfords’ roof—it shattered me.

He didn’t yell or rally crowds. He didn’t write manifestos. His resistance was quiet, cautious, calculated—and deeply human. That made it more believable. More painful. More real. I saw myself in him.

I’m not loud. I go to protests, but I’m the one who moves with the crowd, not the one holding a megaphone. I vote. I sign petitions. I care. But I don’t scream. Nick felt like my kind of hero. Someone who shows up. Who watches. Who listens. And who acts—when it really matters.

His connection with June was the soul of the show. When he brought her that message from Luke in Canada… I don’t have words for what that scene meant to me. I rewatch it every time I’m traveling alone for work (I’m also a translator and interpreter). It gives me comfort—like a familiar voice in an unfamiliar city. At this point, Nick should be claiming frequent flyer miles for all the emotional support he's given me in hotel rooms. That kind of quiet love—that sacrifice? It stays with you, long after the credits roll.

When I ran out of episodes, I read The Testaments. It pulled me out of a COVID reading slump and helped me feel grounded during the chaos of those early lockdowns.

Season 4 was the first I watched live. Week by week. I’d rewatch each episode before the next aired. I was obsessed with the music (Adam Taylor’s score deserves awards), the cinematography, the acting. Honestly, if I could major in 'Handmaid's Tale Visual Suffering with a Minor in Symbolic Pacing,' I probably would’ve. I convinced my husband to watch with me, but I still needed those solo rewatches. As an introvert, I needed space to fully feel the show. And afterward? The podcasts. Above the Garage was (and still is) my favorite. (Eyes on Gilead lost me a bit with the inaccuracies.)

Season 5 aired while I was grieving a chemical pregnancy. The show, with its themes of motherhood and loss and strength, kept me afloat. My ritual stayed the same: episode with my husband, rewatch alone, podcast on my walks or while folding laundry. I lived and breathed this show. I analyzed every word, every glance. When Nick started acting… off… I noticed. Why was he asking June to come to New Bethlehem after risking everything to get her out of Gilead? It didn’t make sense. But I kept hope alive.

I got pregnant again soon after Season 5 ended. I was terrified the whole first trimester. Naturally, I turned to The Handmaid’s Tale. I rewatched it all during my pregnancy (well, up to Season 4—life gets busy). That’s how much it meant to me. That’s how much I needed it.

When my labor started, I tried to stay home as long as possible. In a stroke of absurd optimism, my husband put on The Handmaid’s Tale to distract me. Spoiler: it didn’t help. But I remember a scene where Nick tells Lawrence he just wants to keep June alive. That stayed with me through the pain.

Fast forward a couple days: I’m in the hospital with my newborn daughter. She’s sleeping beside me. And what pops up on my phone? A notification for a new Above the Garage episode: “Nick Blaine Character Analysis.” I listened, right there in my hospital room. No headphones. Just me, my daughter, and the voice of someone who got it. Honestly, if the nurse had walked in, I probably would’ve asked her to sit down and listen too—priorities, right?

Back home, I continued rewatching the series during those endless breastfeeding sessions. I was a hormonal mess (shoutout to postpartum life), but somehow it made me appreciate the show even more.

Now, let me tell you—I was blessed with a very difficult baby. Sleep? What sleep? Some days I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. My peace? Long stroller walks with The Handmaid’s Tale soundtrack in my ears. Or podcasts dissecting Nick’s every breath. That world became my safe place. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of ironic—finding comfort in such a bleak, brutal show. But maybe that’s what made it feel so real. So earned.

So when Season 6 was announced? I was ecstatic. Finally, we’d see Nick’s Mayday storyline in full. Finally, his years of quiet resistance would come to light. I couldn’t wait. My toddler had just entered the chaos era (Toddlerzilla unlocked), but I clung to this. Tuesdays became sacred again.

Problem: Tuesdays are my university days. I travel early to the capital to teach. Solution? Downloaded HBO to my phone. Set my alarm for 5:45. My sleep-deprived brain thought this was a solid plan—clearly, I was still in denial about how far the show would go to ruin my week before it even started. Watched episodes on the train, half-awake, headphones on, praying for a stable internet connection. If the signal failed, I hid in my office to finish the episode before lecture. Mother. Scholar. Fanatic.

When Nick “betrayed” June, I wasn’t even upset. We knew it was coming. He revealed a plan that June never supported anyway. I figured—okay, we’re moving pieces. He’ll explain next episode. We’ll be fine. It’ll all make sense.

Oh, how naive I was.

The second half of Season 6 felt like a cruel joke. It broke me. The writing wasn’t just inconsistent—it was insulting. I kept asking: who are these writers? Did they swap out mid-season? I was so disoriented I started talking to AI. My friends watched casually. I was spiraling alone.

Thank god for Easter break—and a couple of other unexpected free Tuesdays. I watched the last two episodes at home, alarm set for 6 am, praying for redemption. What I got instead? Grief. Disbelief. Rage. Intrusive thoughts. Total disillusionment.

It. Did. Not. Make. Sense.

For the first time in my life, I started commenting online. I argued. I brought receipts. I found other fans who felt the same. We built a community. We cried, raged, and analyzed together. And I realized something:

The people who care most about this show? The ones who remember every line, who understand every choice? They all love Nick. Because he’s not a coward. He’s not a villain. He’s not violent or dishonest. He’s just a man doing the best he can in a world gone wrong.

So no. I’m not watching The Testaments. They don’t deserve our viewership after this. I can't believe I'm saying this—but I'm glad it's over. The damage they did in just a few episodes was so severe that it turned years of love into something close to resentment. It's a brutal irony, really—how something that once brought me comfort and strength ended up making me feel betrayed and disillusioned.

The writers may have forgotten their own show. But we haven’t. We remember who Nick Blaine was.

And that’s why stories matter. Because even when they get ruined—when they get butchered by people who never understood their own characters—we carry the truth with us. As Philip Pullman once said, 'After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.'

And I won’t let those clueless writers take that away from me.

[trans-axolotl]

Bo Laurent created the Intersex Society of North America in 1993, starting the intersex rights movement in the United States. Describing the founding of ISNA, they wrote:

"Over the course of a year, simply by speaking openly within my own social circles, I learned of six other intersexuals--including two who had been fortunate enough to escape medical attention. I realized that intersexuality, rather than being extremely rare, must be relatively common. I decided to create a support network. In the summer of 993, I produced some pamphlets, obtained a post office box, and began to publicize the Intersex Society of North America (ISNA) through small notices in the media. Before long, I was receiving several letters per week from intersexuals throughout the United States and Canada and occasionally some from Europe. While the details varied, the letters gave a remarkably coherent picture of the emotional consequences of medical intervention. Morgan Holmes: "All the things my body might have grown to do, all the possibilities, went down the hall with my amputated clitoris to the pathology department. The rest of me went to the recovery room--I'm still recovering." Angela Moreno: "I am horrified by what has been done to me and by the conspiracy of silence and lies. I am filled with grief and rage, but also relief finally to believe that maybe I am not the only one." Thomas: "I pray that I will have the means to repay, in some measure, the American Urological Association for all that it has done for my benefit. I am having some trouble, though, in connecting the timing mechanism to the fuse."

ISNA's most immediate goal has been to create a community of intersex people who could provide peer support to deal with shame, stigma, grief, and rage, as well as with practical issues such as how to obtain old medical records or locate a sympathetic psychotherapist or endocrinologist. To that end, I cooperated with journalizes whom I judged capable of reporting widely and responsibly on our efforts, listed ISNA with self-help and referral clearinghouses, and established a presence on the internet. ISNA now connects hundreds of intersexuals across North America, Europe, Australia, and New Zealand. It has also begun sponsoring an annual intersex retreat, the first of which took place in 1996 and which moved participants every bit as profoundly as the New Woman conference had moved me in 1993.

ISNA's longer-term and more fundamental goal, however, is to change the way intersex infants are treated. We advocated that surgery not be performed on ambiguous genitals unless there is a medical reason (such as blocked or painful urination), and that parents be given the conceptual tools and emotional support to accept their children's physical differences...To provide a counterpoint to the mountains of medical literature that neglect intersex experience and to begin compiling an ethnographic account of that experience, ISNA's Hermaphrodites with Attitude newsletter has developed into a forum for intersexuals to tell their own stories.

...When I established ISNA in 1993, no such politicized groups existed. I was less willing to think of intersexuality as a pathology or disability, more interested in challenging its medicalization entirely, and more interested still in politicizing a pan-intersexual identity across the divisions of particular etiologies in order to destabilize more effectively the heteronormative assumptions underlying the violence directed at our bodies."

-Cheryl Chase, Mapping the Emergence of Intersex Political Activism, Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 1998, 189-211.