#crest of reliability

[sophia-michelle-art]

Gomamon as an Animal Crossing Villager!

Just keep swimming swimming swimming

[camleecomics]

Ikkakumon (Champion)

[wwemcumuscleslover]

Kido Jo. Crest of reliability, Partner of Gomamon

[ash-is-not-trash]

[katvara]

The best meal to end Odaiba Memorial Day? Omurice, of course ❤️

[digifandom]

Okay this might be a hot take but, I don't think the Crest of Sincerity shouldn't exist. I like the dub crest of reliability for Joe and the sub crest of purity for Mimi. At least to me they seem to fit the characters better. Like compare the meanings and-

Joe/Jyou

Let's use the whole situation with Takeru and his Mom. With the Crest of Sincerity the meaning of that scene is that he keeps his promise to protect Takeru to Ms. Takashi, therfore showing he is sincere in his promise. (Which is great, it does read) Yet when you watch it in the context of the Crest of Reliability then the scene isn't just a promise being fulfilled (simplifying ofc). Joe's character gimic is literally being a constantly anxious person (again simplifying) so the scene has more impact (imo) to Joe as a character due to it showing that nature of "this person that I care for is in trouble, I have to help him" and therefore showing that someone who has a lot of anxiety/fears is still a reliable person. Someone who despite of himself will still do everything he can when it comes down to it, to me that has a bigger impact. Feel free to give your own opinions I'm also open to different interpretations.

There is a counter arguement to be made with the example of Joe and Yamato fighting together at the restaurant and that episode showing how "sincere" Jyou is by telling Yamato the whole truth of him not messing up on purpose, but 1 that episode is supposed to showcase Yamato's trait of friendship more so than Jyou's trait of sincerity (don't get me wrong it does do both but still), and 2 that episode read with the Crest of Reliability still reads really well, especially as a set up for who Jyou is. The episode shows things going wrong time and time again, Joe messing up (even tho it's not his fault) it shows that side of him that counter acts his giving trait of reliability but still shows the effort he puts into be reliable and once again shows his resolve to do everything he can for those he cares for via being squished by veggiemon for Yamato. The episode shows peaks of him being reliable while still keeping the trait buried in other things as it's not his and Gomamon's time.

Mimi

For our pink loving queen let's use the episode of her princess Era (ya know the one where she needs to sing but Taichi has to slap some sense into her before she does). It makes sense that this scene reads better, or more deep, with the perspective of Purity rather than Sincerity (the og is showcasing Purity afterall) In the Dub the Crest of Sincerity is used as Mimi (just as in the Joe sub) keeping true to her promise, and it admittedly (again imo) works much better than Joe keeping his promise. It works better only due to the build up of Mimi not aligning with her trait, but the Purity (imo) is still better. The Purity crest in this scene is used to represent that Mimi is a caring person that wishes the best for others but also incredibly (albeit unintentionally) selfish. Mimi is a character who wants to be treated like royalty and she can be very unaware of what her actions bring to others or that they are morally wrong in any slight way, but it makes sense for her character as she is like 10 and when she does realize the harmfulnes of her own actions she stops and tries to be better. Purity in this sense is a trait of betterment, Purity is NOT supposed to represent Mimi as a character with an unwavering moral compass that's perfectly aligned to good, instead it's meant to showcase her trait of Purity is the sense that she has a heavily wavering moral compass, one that leads her to make bad decisions at times but she then improves herself from her mistakes. Purity is (self)betterment rather than perfectly clear/good.

Counter argument: Mimi saving the people when she first get palesmon to digivolve into lillymon. It's easy to say this doesn't showcase either, or that it showcases her sincere want save people, or that it shows how pure she is by wanting to save everyone (especially her parents). So let me just justify my interpretation of the Crest of Purity representing betterment rather than being pure of heart (aka my explanation that's not the 3rd option I just gave). To keep this short, this scene is pay off of past (self)betterment and the gateway to more (self)betterment. The payoff comes from Mimi holding her ground rather than just encouraging everyone to run and get out, it's her acting (something that she's grown to do). The gateway of this scene is the fact that she is still doing this still protecting these people because of her family, she still hesitates to fight (until the very end of the series she hesitates to fight) but everytime she gets better she reacts faster she gains more confidence to do what she has come to believe is right, protecting others.

Iori/Cody

Okay I won't go into as much detail with Yolei/Miyako and Iori/Cody. But Cody is a bit difficult to really define but I still wanna say the Crest of Reliability fits him best. When Cody has to lie when he gets his digitama and is choosen to be Joe susesor it's easy to see how it's supposed to represent the in-between of the Crest of Sincerity, how it's okay to lie if necessary and that you can still be an honest (sincere) person. But read it withthe Crest of Reliability and that message is still there but another layer get added to it, Iori at that moment is doing what he can to save his friends and he pulls through despite his own hesitations it shows that responsibility within in that also helps his character as someone who always does what their told by their elders, he was taught to be honest and goes against those teachings for those he cares for. To me that developed who Iori is as a character a lot more.

Miyako/Yolei

I feel as if the execution of both crest was well down with her, to the point that if it weren't for her being the successor of Mimi I would probably be more on the Sincerity Crest side. The episode that stands out to me is surprisingly not when she gets her digitama of Sincerity/Purity it's when she gets dragged with Ken and Hikari to the dark ocean. Specifically when she slaps Hikari, that slap and the speech she gives to Hikari read so well with the Crest of Sincerity in mind, Yolei is being honest with Hikari, she's talking about her feelings she's unbashfully being herself and admitting what she wishes for, admits her jealous of Hikari. She's sincere and in ture she brings out Hikari's genuine emotions. I think this is the best use of the Crest of Sincerity and that the scene doesn't read as good when read with the trait of Purity in mind. It still reads well which is why I still think Yolei should have the Crest of Purity because it reads well with either and therefore dependent on what work for Mimi (as again she's suppose to be Mimi's successor) But just bc I like Sincerity better in this case doesn't mean I won't give my arguement for Purity.

The Crest of Purity in this same scene is weaker (imo) but it does still work, my point with Mimi is that Purity is suppose to represent (self)betterment and this scene can be argued to show that. The first step at fixing a problem is acknowledging it, this scene is Miyako out right admitting to everything that she sees wrong with herself and wants to change, it's her not necessarily asking for help from Hikari but telling Hikari "Hey I wish I wasn't as stubborn as I am and knew how to listen to others like you do" and in response Hikari points out that their is a good side to Yolei not being able to do that. This scene in this context is about (self)betterment but specifically the steps to it such as accepting the problem and understanding the positives that should stay but the negatives that do need work.

Now some of the scenes I talked about weren't scenes the characters crest were a big deal in. So ...

Why Think about the Crest in a situation that the character isn't actively using it?

The Crest that the digidestined have are meant to represent a trait they have (an arguable exception is made with Hikari's Crest of Light and Daisuke's Crest of Miracles but I have theories on that for another time) meaning in every scene you should be able to see the trait in each character or the character struggling with their trait. It shouldn't matter when if it's a trait that their suppose to represent at all times,

Taichi being scared because Courage is overcoming fear

Yamato pushing people away because he struggles with receiving the friendship of others (but giving it as much)

Mimi being selfish because it's something she needs to better

Takeru putting on a brave face because even if he doesn't have hope he refuses to let those around him lose hope

Sora holding someone back because she loves the so much and doesn't want them to be hurt

The whole point of the digidestined's crest is that they have these traits so deeply ingrained in their actions, yes their human and don't always adbid by them but even that is still present in their actions.

Lol sorry for the rant, feel free to drop your own opinions, at the end of the day it's just personal preference and interpretation, pls reblog so others can vote!

[yaoifan20forgoodgirl28]

[digimontamerrichie-tcg]

God only knows what TCG these are from, but they're in my card album lol

[emblemxeno]

This might just be me being petty

I saw a take about how Ingrid's racism should've been handled better so that Ingrid's character could be done justice and I'm like, you want to talk racism because the white girl deserves better???

Maybe I'm just splitting hairs here, but like....

Something feels off here

LMAOOOO yeah that's kind of crazy lol

Edit: This turned into a rant I wasn't expecting I'm really sorry

And, here's the thing, I like Ingrid--just for everything that's not involving Duscur.

I think what gets me about that case, and every case of the racism and xenophobia in 3H's narrative, is that it's treated as so utterly secondary in both the macro and micro sense.

Ingrid's hatred towards the Duscur people is in one support chain, in her dislikes, and one monastery line that's not even available if you pick the Eagles or Deer.

The hatred and ignorance towards the people of Brigid is only really displayed in subtext besides Petra's support with Hubert iirc. Dagda? Can't recall any meaningful discussion on that part that isn't just the Imperial war with them and Shamir being Shamir. Sreng? Barely a footnote in 3H, and I remember Hopes handling them badly too.

And Almyra? Biggest waste of time in the grand scheme, with its story relevant conflict settled off screen and the grander friction settled in an epilogue. And the only representation of that nation is a prince who has to hide his ancestry, and a former slave who had to be rescued that everyone in the fandom hates basically (if you think about it long enough) because he's a child.

The cherry on top is how pretty much any valuable social commentary is undercut by the game putting so much value on Crests in its story, to the point that it reads as lacking in self awareness.

Racism and xenophobia? Secondary, compared to the "obviously" more important topic of how Crests have affected rich kids.

Government and Religion being involved with one another? Questioned, but given less priority than lore dumps and sympathizing with imperialists.

Crest Breeding? It would be a fantasic read on societal misogyny and keeping women oppressed since they're basically sold by their families, but no, it's about Crests because the game said so and also men like Sylvain and Hanneman are miffed about it too (ignore how Sylvain is a "women are whores only after my money" type of douchebag and Hanneman's backstory makes no fucking logical sense because he could've easily just been the one to sleep with tons of women to make Crests instead of his sister fucking DYING FROM HEART FAILURE AFTER GIVING BIRTH TOO OFTEN).

Even the idea that should be aligned with the Crest narrative, that being the dynamic of societal hierarchy and power between classes, is superseded by Crests themselves.

It ignores Crestless nobles: Caspar's still a rich kid with an influential father, but he obviously has it rough cuz he's Crestless right?

It ignores poor nobles: let's not talk about how Ingrid's house and family are constantly starving and on the brink of collapse because her being married off for her Crest is the more pressing issue.

It ignores rich merchants: cuz I guess business acumen isn't an actual skill worth anything? And instead Ignatz is trying to be a knight and Raphael is gunning it as a merc, like uhhhh, no the mercantile class isn't as cut and dry as that.

It ignores successful commoners: two successful and famous songstresses and you have them whine about nobles keeping them down even though they literally made it? and both of them are desperately seeking marriage to the point of coming across pathetic? Fuck off, this is why Leonie is better commoner representation.

It ignores FOREIGN FUCKING ROYALTY and the dynamics of other countries: Petra is one of the most disrespected characters in the game, that's a forever truth IMO.

And see, I'd be fine with it if Crests were logically written to be the cause of this type of stuff. If Crests passed down more easily from mothers, it'd make more sense to have the blatant misogyny angle. If people in Fodlan more openly looked down on other countries for not having Crests, there you go, that's a connection. If there were more active barring of commoners and/or Crestless individuals rising up in the world, like a max quota of those people being allowed in the Academy by nobles who control the majority of funding for the place, that fixes it.

But all you have is missable or irrelevant. If your racism, misogyny and class warfare story elements are incomparable and incompatible to your made up magic blood? Maybe don't include it.

[futurefind]

//also s.o to the fact that one rumor/theory about fate/ rea circulating in clock tower (esp after they get their paws on her/SEE her as not just a hypothetical made up heir) is that, if she wasnt a kidnapped child/relative of the main rodas branch, is a straight up homonculus

(which like. probably for the better she'd get even MORE targets on her back if everyone internalized she has a fully* functional crest from a family/line she has no blood relation to but also. oh my god shes rattling in her cage))

[sophia-michelle-art]

Armadillomon as an Animal Crossing Villager!

Smart and relliable!

[black-daisy7]

The idea of this is that "what if the energies of Digimon of original Tamers & the Crests became helpful guides to the second group?"

So this is the embodiment of Agumon,Tai, & the pure essence of what the crest of Courage means.

the embodiment of Gabumon, Matt & the pure essence of what the crest of Friendship means.

the embodiment of Biyomon, Sora & the pure essence of what the crest of Love means.

the embodiment of Tentomon, Izzy & & the pure essence of what the crest of Knowledge means.

the embodiment of Palmon, Mimi & the pure essence of what the crest of Sincerity means.

the embodiment of Gomamon, Joe & the pure essence of what the crest of Reliability means.

the embodiment of Patamon, TK & the pure essence of what the crest of Hope means.

the embodiment of Gatomon, Kairi & the pure essence of what the crest of Light means.

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter Reader!)

Chapter One

There was a moment, right after waking, when everything felt normal.

The sun crept in through gauzy curtains. Her sheets smelled like chamomile and old linen. The air carried that soft, dusty warmth of a mansion too large to ever truly feel full.

But then the moment passed.

And Y/N remembered everything.

The chains.

The underground cell.

The collar.

Her own scream as the collar crushed her throat—her vines too slow to answer.

She had died. She knew she had.

So why… was she here?

The room around her was achingly familiar—her old room. Not the larger suite she’d been moved to at sixteen. This one was smaller. Green wallpaper. A desk by the window. Her old stuffed elephant still sitting on the dresser, untouched by time.

Her chest tightened.

No.

This wasn’t right.

This was before.

A knock. Then the door creaked open.

“Miss YN,” came the voice that never stopped being gentle. “Time to wake, my dear.”

Alfred.

She turned slowly. There he stood—older, upright, the ever-reliable silhouette in his pressed suit and warm eyes. He stepped in, balancing a tray with tea, fruit, and a slice of toast—simple, perfect, the way he used to bring it when no one else remembered she was alive.

She sat up, heart thudding.

“Alfred…”

He raised a brow. “Yes, Miss?”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. To throw herself at him. But she didn’t.

He didn’t know.

None of them knew.

They didn’t remember what had happened. How it ended.

Only she did.

“Never mind,” she said softly, voice smooth and polite. She smiled gently—the smile she had trained to wear like a mask.

He looked at her a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before placing the tray on the bedside table.

“You’ll be late if you linger. Master Damian is already downstairs. I imagine he won’t wait.”

She flinched inwardly at the name.

Damian Wayne.

In her first life, he was her older brother by adoption and blood—Bruce’s biological son, trained since birth, brilliant and deadly. He used to ignore her. Mock her sometimes. In school, he barely acknowledged her existence.

And yet, she had idolized him.

Tried to win his favor. Smiled at him every morning, even when he didn’t look her way. Followed after him in school and sat beside him at lunch, even when he moved two seats down. Laughed at his jokes, even when they were at her expense.

She wouldn’t do that this time.

This time, she’d keep her distance.

This time, she wouldn’t beg to belong.

She dressed herself slowly in the Gotham Academy uniform—neatly ironed, green plaid skirt, soft cream blouse, and a jacket that bore the Wayne crest. It was strange, wearing it again. Strange being fourteen when she had last worn it at eighteen.

She tied her hair back, tucked a flower behind her ear—reflexively—and then yanked it out with shaking fingers.

Not this time.

No vines. No bloom. No signs.

No one could know what she truly was.

⸻

Breakfast was quiet chaos, just like it had always been. Dick laughing too loud. Jason making jokes between bites. Tim hunched over a tablet, barely touching his food. Bruce silent at the head of the table, sipping black coffee and pretending not to brood.

They looked the same.

But YN saw it differently now. She saw the spaces where affection should have been. She sat at the far end of the table, untouched by their noise.

No one spoke to her.

No one noticed her tea going cold.

Just like before.

But now she didn’t feel sad. She felt… numb. Distant. Watching it like a memory already repeating itself.

Then Damian walked in—clean uniform, sharp eyes, katana still strapped across his back like it belonged there. (Bruce would reprimand him, because the boy knew that he could not take weapons with him to school. Still, he tries to do it regularly.)

He looked at her.

She didn’t smile.

He frowned—briefly—like something felt off, but then sat beside Bruce, ignoring her as always.

It was easier this way.

She didn’t want his approval anymore.

The ride to school was silent.

They were in the same car, just the two of them. Alfred had driven them, like he always had. Damian was on his phone, scrolling through something on his WayneTech interface. YN sat beside the window, backpack in her lap.

In the past, she used to try talking to him. Making conversation. Telling him about her school projects, or showing him her drawings.

Now, she stared at the skyline, her mind somewhere far away—four years ahead and buried beneath stone.

The car pulled up in front of Gotham Academy’s front steps. A wave of uniforms and chatter greeted them.

Damian got out first.

He didn’t wait.

She didn’t follow.

⸻

Inside the school, YN moved like a shadow. Students waved at her. A few boys smiled—too long, too interested. A girl ran up to say hi, called her “sweetheart,” asked if she was coming to lunch later.

YN nodded gently.

In this world, she was known for being kind. Polite. Shy, but graceful. Sweet as sugar, soft-spoken, the Wayne girl who always brought flowers to teachers and remembered birthdays.

And every boy with a pulse had tried to flirt with her at least once.

She remembered how they looked at her. How some of them turned cruel when she said no. How the whispers followed her through the halls.

She remembered how Damian would roll his eyes when she told him.

“You’re too sensitive,” he once told her.

“You let people get close.”

He was right.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

This time, she wasn’t going to be loved. She wasn’t going to be adored.

She was going to vanish—quietly, carefully—before the world could bury her again.

She would use her second chance in life.

Authors note:

Here comes the first chapter. Its still unedited and pretty short, but I wanted to try and post something. Any suggestions? Any ideas? Also, this story will contain a bit fanon stuff, but I will try to be as canon as possible.

[spookygibberish]

A Bloodrunner in fighting regalia. The fringed coat and bells make quite the spectacle as these sporting dagnyds engage in ritualized and often lethal combat, for which they are trained their entire lives. Although hardly rare for Runner-fights to end in the death of one or both combatants, such is usually not the specific goal; pushing the opponent out of bounds, removing a specific article, and knocking the opponent off their feet are all common win conditions, it is simply the case that runners fight so viciously that life threatening injuries are not uncommonly sustained.

Bloodrunners are small, agile dagnyds which reach maturity quickly, and are thus easy to raise in quantity, making their lives overall more disposable than larger sporting dagnyds like jaw-horned and serpent-crested juggernaut types, each of which can take nearly a decade to obtain full growth, and require a much greater investment in food and training.

Blood-runners are among the most common kind of dagnyd. Aside from their entertainment value as fighters, they are reliable guardians, and can make loyal and devoted companions.

[uzurimisery]

bitter frost, honey i'm coming home. / logan howlett x reader / nsfw

warnings: MDNI, angst, p in v, mention of vomit, makeup sex, death (not character), thoughts of suicidal ideation, sappy emotional sex, old man cums quick, Logan yells at reader, smoking, knotting (not a/b/o)

wc: 9k

A/N: I do not know brevity. This was only meant to be 4k max

It’s cold on the ranch now. The first frost came barrelling through, ice crystals hanging on the barbed wire fences and freezing over the troughs out in the pasture. Days on the ranch start early, often before dawn, the first rays of light peeking over the crest of the mountains, painting it pink and golden. He’d step out into the crisp morning air and go to the barn, where he’d feed the animals. The chickens were too loud if he didn’t feed them first, the two roosters crowing till he did, so they went first. After the chickens, it was time for the two horses and the cows. After three years of doing it, he moved with practiced precision. Scattering hay, pouring oats, and spreading seeds are all mindless tasks. 

Logan had to venture out on Weston, a reliable but honorary son of a bitch, with an icebreaker to free up the water for the herd. Then, he had to head into the barns and ensure they weren’t frozen. He should pull out the heated troughs, kept convincing himself he’d do it next weekend 27 weekends ago, and now it was necessary. His back ached a bit at the thought. Pulling out all the equipment and placing it was a full day's job with just himself doing it. He was getting a fucking headache just thinking about it.

It’s not that he wasn’t strong enough. He was just old. He was far too old to run a ranch independently with so little help. Each winter felt a bit long as if there was too much work. Maybe he had grown lazier, too, over the years. No more fighting and not working at Xavier’s school; he was just living on the land now. Cattle ranching. Felt like an All-American cowboy when he had on wranglers, flannel, Justin boots, and some hat he had picked up at the tractor supply store a year back. The hat had seen better days, and the ridge was beaten up and dented from all the times he’d fold it in half and tuck it into his back pocket. He didn’t bother with a jacket, be far too warm that way. 

The ranch was quiet, save for the sound of cattle and horses. Now, the yellow pasture stretches out from the start of his property line on the road to near the base of the mountains. His little private valley. At first, the quiet made him anxious, like he was waiting for another catastrophe to come and tear it apart. That he’d wake up with someone trying to kill him, and all too often, he’d close his eyes and envision all the torture he’d been through—too much pain and suffering in his life. 

The quiet also gave him too much time to think about everything he’d done. Everything he’d lost. He was a man who had known mainly suffering for all his life. Sometimes, he felt he didn’t deserve this peace, this serenity. It was dissonant. He was a fighter, a soldier, a weapon made human to kill and kill and kill again until the only color he knew was red, the only scent he smelt iron, till the collar around his neck pulled so tight it’d break it.

His hands ached, claws threatening to come out as he worked himself up, the sting of vomit on his tongue. The back of his knuckles split open like they weren’t even there, like there was no skin or muscle for the adamantine to cut through. Like it didn’t hurt every time it did.

Weston whinnied under him, tired of lazily trotting around the barn to check for coyote marks. He wanted to gallop around the outskirts of the land while Logan sniffed out any danger to the herd. Didn’t need a cattle dog when he was a glorified one.

“Yeah yeah, asshole.” His spurs dig into Weston’s sides, urging the horse into a gallop. He might as well get the morning round done now. 

The horse broke into a gallop, bouncing Logan in the saddle, wind whipping him in the face. For a moment, the noise in his head quieted. There was no constant thought of you, just what he had to do after rounds. 

As they reached the fence line, Logan scanned the horizon, senses on high alert. He knew he was never looking for just coyotes or stray animals; he was always searching for something more. A threat that might never come. Some bullshit hopped-up mutant on a vendetta or some power-hungry human looking to use him.

Now, at a canter, the two patrolled the whole property line as he took deep breaths, inhaling the cold air, trying to focus on the present. On the life he had here. Not what he had left behind. But the past is never far behind, and he had so much past to run from. It would always be near him, lurking in the shadows. The ranch could never drown it out, cover it up, and make him forget. Maybe it was just another reminder he could never truly escape who he was, no matter how hard he tried. 

“Easy now,” he murmured, pulling Weston to a stop near the far edge of the property. He could see everything from here. It was beautiful and peaceful, but all he could feel was the weight of what he was missing. 

Sometimes, he swore he smelt your perfume on the breeze.

“Let’s head back.” Weston turned around, ready to run the way back toward the barn. This routine was the only thing that kept him sane. The work. The responsibilities. Barely enough to keep him busy but not enough to keep him from sinking too far into the darkness in his thoughts. 

He’d gotten lazy the past week and fallen behind on the hay maintenance, so he’d need to buck it today. Move it all from being covered under some tarps to the hay barn. Move them all one by one. He was glad that 150 pounds felt like nothing to him in times like that. 

The chicken coop also needed a roof repair. The last storm did a number on it. Logan bought the supplies the last time he was in town. It just meant stripping the old one off, resecuring the waterproof liner, and hammering the steel roof. Maybe he’d add some more insulation next weekend in preparation for the winter. 

Today was going to be a long one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

A knock on the door echoed in the ranch house, slicing through the quiet thrum of the fridge kicking on and the TV volume on low. He wasn’t expecting company as he stopped mid-swig of his beer, brow furrowed. The neighbors knew by now to leave him the hell alone and had enough run-ins to steer clear of him unless it was an emergency. There were no ranch hands due to arrive until next Monday. 

His boots thudded with heavy steps as he rose from the couch and walked over. The tips of his claws cut through his skin, the metallic ring soft as he reached the door.

He grabbed the handle, ready for it to be blown off the hinges by someone knocking it down.

“Logan, it’s me.” That's a voice he’d recognize anywhere, unmistakable and achingly familiar. The one he longed to hear to the point it drove him crazy. The one he dreamed of every night, of all the terrible things it had said to him because of what he’d done. Heard it in his sleep and his waking hour like a fucking ghost haunting him.

“Can you open the door already? I know you’re in there.”

He blinked as he did, trying to grapple with his emotions brought to light by the reality of you standing there. 

“What?”  his voice cracked. “What are you doing here?” 

You looked so sad, a deep sorrow in your eyes—the kind that had been there when the two of you had argued the night before he left. It made him feel like he missed something crucial like you had lost a part of yourself—one that settled deep in your bones and moved in your muscles and ligaments.

“Charles told me where you were.”

His throat felt painfully tight, as if the words were squeezing his neck. He didn’t expect this- hadn’t expected you to ever ask Xavier where he was and come see him.

Neither of you moved, the door half-open as he stood blocking it.

“You ain’t supposed to be here.”  His tone was gruff. He had been smoking more since coming to the ranch, trying to dull his brain.

Your voice was steady but filled with so much sadness it made him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Plead with you to transgress his sins. Go to confession and tell all his wrongdoings. “I needed to see you again.”

He looked out into the driveway, seeing nothing but emptiness.

“Did you fly over here? You don’t even have your suit on.”

“It’s fine,” you said with a shrug, “it’s dark out anyways.” 

He stared at you. The porch lights set a soft, warm glow on your skin, the panes of your face made clear. You looked beautiful, mesmerizingly so, as you stared up at him.

“You gonna let me in or not?” 

“Don’t get comfortable,” he grumbled, his tone softer now that you were closer. He opened the door wider, letting you walk past him.

He had the fire going, for which you were grateful. Flying without your suit always left you frigid afterward, especially since Logan had taken to living in the middle of nowhere nestled in the Rocky Mountains. You had always been jealous Storm didn’t have to deal with that. 

The ranch house Logan was living in was quaint. It was a three-bedroom, two-story house built in the 1880s that the previous owners renovated in recent years to feature modern amenities. The floors creaked as you walked, clearly still the original hardwood. He hadn’t done much decorating. It was clear that Charles had been the one to decorate the place for him.

He wasn’t ready to see you. Ready to talk about why he left you in the middle of the night four years ago. 

You quickly found your way into the living and dining room. Logan had left pocket doors open in these two separate rooms. Sitting on the couch, you could see through to the kitchen. A large pot was on the gas stove, the flames flickering on low. It smelled like beef stew.

Logan lingered by the entrance to the living room off of the entry space, unsure of what to do next. Watching you settle into the beat-up couch made him feel a mess of relief and anxiety. He was glad to see you were okay. Your hair was shorter, and you must have cut it after he left at some point. Grey hairs were coming through at your temples. 

“It’s, uh, good to see you.” Having his eyes on you like this made you feel small again. Like he was leaving you all over again.

Logan nodded, swallowing hard. “You too.” 

You smiled at him, and it hurt. Cut him like a thousand glass pieces over and over again. He was getting sandblasted and healing through it. 

He walked into the kitchen, trying to distance himself from you and his feelings, and stirred the stew. “I wasn’t expecting company,” he commented his back to you.

Your hands wrung together automatically, anxiety creeping up your throat. Maybe it was a mistake to come here and see him again when he had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do to you the night he left. “It’s fine, I don’t need to eat.” 

The wooden spoon clatters against the rest, and he puts it down harshly, making you wince. “Nonsense. I can hear your fucking teeth chattering from here.”

“I’m fine, really. It's just wind chill.” 

“Just take the damn food!” Logan bellowed, his hand slamming down against the counter, breathing heavily. “Just take the damn food.” 

You were silent for a moment, reeling. He’d never been like this with you before. “Okay.”

Logan closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and pushed it out of his mouth, trying to steady himself. He didn’t mean to lash out at you, to snap, but just seeing you again put him in confrontation with his past and his own feelings. It was more than he could handle. He grabbed a second bowl from the cabinet, ladling the stew between the both of them. Even after all this time, he took care to give you more potatoes than beef and half his carrots.

“Come sit at the table. Don’t want soup on the damn couch.” 

You moved quietly, always did. It unnerved him when he first met you. Your mutation lets you float more than walk and never hear any footfall when you move. He sat across from you, and you could finally get a good look at him. The years had never been kind to him, but he seemed older now than ever. The past three had been the worst of his life. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and the wrinkles on his face seemed more pronounced. 

The silence between you was thick with unspoken words, cut only by the scrapping of metal spoons against ceramic bowls. The sound echoed in the quiet house with the TV now shut off.

As you finished up your food, he looked antsy. His left leg bounced up and down, hand strumming on the table.

“Thank you for the stew.” you pipped up, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah, well, you look like you needed it. " Despite all these years, he still cared for you and loved you. It was evident to you. 

You both sat there momentarily, the silence returning but now filled with different tension. The possibility of reconciliation hurts more than anger.

“Why did you come here?” he puzzled. “After all this time, why now?”

You tapped against the bowl, inconsistent drumming on the sharp ceramic cutting against his ears. “I needed to see you.”

“Bullshit, what do you want”

“Jesus, Logan,’ you finally snapped, lightning crackling as you did. He acted like the wounded party when he was the one who had left you. “Am I not allowed to want to see you?” 

You didn’t mean for it to happen. Far past the age that your powers slipping up due to your emotions should be embarrassing. Static electricity builds up around you.

“You left,” you continued, to reel in your emotions, to keep them in check. “You left me without a word, without an explanation, and now you’re demanding an answer as to why I'm here? Do you have any idea what you did to me?” 

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he looked to the side. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have this conversation with you. Not now. The night he left, you felt like he was ripping out his own heart, running from his feelings and the truth about the world around him.

It was like he was on autopilot as he stood from the table, knocking his chair off balance as he went. Like a bull in a china shop, that’s how he moved. He could hear you talking and feel the vibrations in the air, but none of the words meant anything. You were begging him to just sit down and talk to you, a pleading whine in your tone. 

But he couldn’t.

Just like the last time he saw you, he walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on his back into the night down the porch steps. 

The screen door slammed shut as you walked out after him, your body trembling with the intensity of your emotions, your hair standing on end from the static. He never told you what was wrong or why he did what he did. He just left. Tears blur your vision as your back hits the siding of the house, sinking down.

“Logan!” you yelled, calling out after him, voice breaking. “Please just talk to me!”

He didn’t turn around. His figure grew smaller, illuminated by the porch lights flickering from your lack of control. It felt like your heart was breaking again. The ache of his absence, familiar and painful, made all the more unbearable by seeing him again. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

“I’m staying here till you talk to me.” 

When he finally came back to the house, knowing all too damn well, he had to take care of the ranch, that was the first thing you told him. He didn’t like it but found it hard to argue with you and Charles. It was impossible to change Charles’ mind; he knew you were too stubborn to leave. So he let it happen. 

Letting you sleep in the guest bedroom across from his was easier. It felt like he slept better since you had shown up. Even if you woke him up in the middle of the night, the floorboards creaking in protest under your weight as you went pee around 4:15 a.m. every night.

He’d lie in his bed, now fully aware of the space in it next to him, listening to the sounds of the house. The gentle rise and fall of your breathing, the ticking of the clock downstairs, the wind outside. He would never admit it, but you being there gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. The night terrors that plagued him endlessly seemed to ease. For the first time in a long time, he could close his eyes without fear of being swallowed up and spit out by the past. 

During the day, you had a tentative routine with him, and he woke up earlier than you did. It had only been a week since you had shown up. You had left at one point to fly back to the school and get some of your belongings. Every morning, you’d go out to the chicken coop, collect the eggs, and make breakfast. It was nothing fancy, some variation of a bread product, eggs, and a protein. Sometimes, it was pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Other times, it was steak and eggs. Today, it was omelets. 

You’d help out in other ways, too. Go out and move the steer to a different part of their sectioned-off pasture. You were faster at de-ice the troughs, flying, and whatnot, so he let you take over that job. It was hard work, and your muscles ached like they hadn’t for a long time. 

Logan had to admit it’s helpful having you on the ranch. He’s got a greenhouse and some therapy project Charles talked him into, but that’s been looking worse for wear. The weather pattern changed the past couple of weeks, and there’s been an inversion that has left the valley with no direct sunlight. All the plants inside had started to wilt and were on the path to dying, not that he cared. He’d survive without some tomatoes. Then you threw open the door, solar energy pouring out from your palms, and they’d perk right up. You had that effect on plants, hell, people too. 

Something about you, even if you didn’t have your mutation, would have made you shine as bright as the fucking sun to anyone. All wild curls and big smiles, a helping hand to those in need—just one of those people who made the world a better place by breathing. You always said you were just doing your part, but god, there was so much good, so much sweetness in you. If he took a bite, he’d even get a cavity. Seeing you wrapped up in an old wool sweater of his, bent over coaxing a plant back to life, made him feel so ashamed of himself. 

“The plants in the greenhouse look a lot better this week.” 

Some of the leaves crunched underfoot, but most of them were soggy in the mud as you walked over to the steer barn where he was working. One of the steers had a rock impacting his back hoof, and he had to get it out. Logan had just finished spraying it with salicylic acid and wrapping it as you walked in. 

“Like I said, you don’t need to be doing all that.” He grumbled, standing from the stool and leading the cow back to the enclosure. 

Where he spoke dissent and anger, you heard what he really felt. Fear. He was still that little boy in his father's manor.

“It’s not a problem.”

It hurts to be this close to him and not have him, to know that things could just be better if he were honest. 

You'd cook him dinner in the evening, sit at the old wooden table, and comment about the school. About what you’d been up to. You steered away from the elephant in the room. It was best to talk about the mundane things. Sometimes, you’d slip and tell him something more personal than you meant to. He didn’t add much to the conversation because he hadn’t been doing much since leaving you, but he’d chime in about the animals. About the fox that kept creeping around the chicken coop.

Logan still had moments of withdrawal, times when he’d just disappear from the ranch, and you wouldn’t see him till the morning. It was hard on you, a reminder of just how much had changed between the two of you. You used to come home to him after a day of teaching and collapse into his arms on the couch. He’d offer you a sip of his beer, something dark and hoppy, and you’d taste it and declare it’s gross. Logan had told you one day, he’d find a beer you liked, and he’d stock the fridge with it. The closest you’d gotten was some Mangocart IPA that he told you was meant for 17-year-olds, and you told him to go fuck himself. 

Healing wasn’t a straight path forward. And healing couldn’t start until you cut out the festering parts. You can never go backward, but you must go forward while looking at the past. 

The two of you sat on the porch tonight, twilight hues, deep indigo taking over the sky, and the stars coming out. The first night you were out here with him, you couldn’t stop staring at them. Had a whole thing about them since they charged up your mutation, but he just thought you looked gorgeous. Older but still gorgeous. 

That was another thing that scared him. You are aging. He didn’t know how long he had left to live, hell, if he could even die. Some wounds should have killed him many times over, but they never did. They never do. But he's seen you bleeding out and broken after a fight with Magneto, a laceration so severe you had to self-cauterize the wound on the spot and passed out multiple times while doing so. You were getting older, and he was staying the same. 

You were 24 when the two of you first met. Your parents were good folks, never held any bias towards mutants, and helped you learn to control your powers and keep yourself hidden from the government when they were still rounding up mutants. The only reason you got found out was because of Cerebro and Charles. With so little training, it should have scared him how strong you were back then. A few years with Charles, and you were deadly. Deadly, but a pacifist. 

The air was cold. You could see your breath as you rocked in the rocking chair he had out there. Wafts of pungent tobacco hit your nose as he lit up a cigar. He had stopped when you lived together. You looked over at him, feeling the weight of his eyes on you. As soon as your own met his, he looked back out into the night sky. The silence was heavy.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly. 

“Miss what?” he drew another drag from his cigar.

“The school. The kids. The…purpose.”

“I think about the students daily. It was good work. Important work. But…” Logan trailed off, searching for the right words. What were the right words to say without telling you everything? “It got complicated.”

You nodded, understanding the unspoken part of his statement, drawing your knees to your chest. “It’s still important. And the kids still need you.” 

After all this time, you still wanted him. Despite every wrong he had done to you and all the harm he caused you. The most pathetic part of him was ready to take your kindness, love, and care and bathe in it. Draw you back into the bottomless pit of his life and ruin you like he had all the others. 

You saw him clench his jaw. A twisting wave of guilt and self-loathing ate him up. A man made to destroy and he was afraid to destroy you too.

“The kids will be fine without me.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, they’ve been fine without me so far.” He shot back, but there was a hollow note in his voice. There wasn’t any gumption behind it. 

“They’ve managed, but that doesn’t mean they’re fine. You gave them something no one else could, Logan.  They relied on you, they needed you-they need you.” You corrected gently, reaching out to touch his thigh. He was always so warm.

He took another drag, blowing the smoke away from you. “They’ll move on. They’re better off without me.” 

“They didn’t move on, and they aren't okay without you.” 

Logan looked down at your hand on his thigh, his expression a mixture of pain and something else. Something so soft, buried deep beneath the layers of hardened exterior. He didn’t pull away, but you could see his temptation rising.

“I’m not me without you, Logan. Please just talk to me.” Your grip tightened, the denim rough under your fingers, and you begged him to let you in again. To tell you why he left you, why you haven't heard from him since.

He needed to keep you safe from himself.

“You should leave.” Standing from his chair, he threw open the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him as he walked over to the living room. 

You rose after him, chasing him into the house, your heart pounding in your chest. The floorboards cracked up the both of you, echoing in the house. He moved with a desperate, frantic everything. His broad shoulders tense as if he could outrun the conversation you were about to have.

“Why won’t you let me care about you!” You cried out, voice breaking, trembling with the weight of the emotions you've been holding back. He didn’t stop, didn’t turn around, but kept going, and your words spilled out like a damn bursting.  “I am begging you to let me in, to let me love you, to stop pushing me away like you do every time! You left me. In the middle of the night, you left. I woke up, and you were gone. And all I have ever asked of you is to let me love you.”

From behind, he looked like a man barely holding together as he reached the living room.

“I don’t want you to.” he ground out. Each word hurt to say, and he hated lying to you. 

“We both know that's a lie, Logan. I’m not stupid. I know you love me. Just please let me in. Why won't you let me in?” 

“Because I don’t want you to wind up fucking dead!” His voice reverberated off the walls. “Everyone and everything I have ever loved is buried six feet fucking deep, and I don’t want you to join the shithole graveyard that is my life.” 

Logan’s voice cut deep through the room, his shoulder hunched as he leaned over the back of the couch. The sob was settling in his chest as he tried to keep it at bay. He didn’t want you to see him crying. It was like he could see you now, lying in that grave, another name added to the long list of people he’d killed or gotten killed.

“You think leaving me is protecting me? You think that by pushing me away, you're saving me?” You hated being an angry crier, the tears welling in your eyes. “I’m already in this. I’ve been in this for years. You leaving didn’t save me—it fucking broke me.”

“I just,” his breath was shaky, knuckles white against the couch as the wood splintered from his grip. “I can’t lose you too.” 

You stepped closer, a hesitant hand hanging in the air a moment before it made contact. Slipping over his back, meeting your other hand in the front as you hugged him from behind. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, voice soft and thick with sadness. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I’m not letting you leave this time.” 

He shook his head, tilting it backward to keep the tears from falling. “You don’t understand. I keep telling you that I’m cursed, that everyone who gets close to me, everyone that I love,” the crack in his voice hurt you, “ends up dead. And I can’t let that happen to you.” 

“You’re not cursed,” you mumbled into his back. “You’ve been through hell, but you deserve a chance at happiness and love.” 

His shoulders shook as the sob he had been holding back finally broke free. He crumples against the back of the couch, wrenching at his waist as his head meets his hands. You went down with him, following the curve of his back with your front, holding him tightly as he cried. 

“I’m here,” you cooed into his ear, your tears cresting down your cheeks. “I’m here, baby.” 

“I don’t deserve you.” he choked out between sobs. 

You tightened your hold on him, wishing that the pressure could soothe his aches and worries and make him feel whole again. That it would wash away all the suffering he’s been through and wipe it from his mind, even if you knew that pain was part of what made him him. 

“Yes, you do. You deserve love and happiness and to find that with me.” 

“I’m just going to hurt you again, like I have before.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me-”

“God dammit, I’ve killed people,” he stood up straight to face you, his voice jumping in volume, shaking you off balance. As you stumbled, he reached out, a hand on your hip to steady you. “I’ve killed so many people that it’d take them years to find all the bodies that I’ve fucking piled up in my 230 years of life. I am a fucking mess of a man who is so goddamn broken, and I don’t want to drag you down in the mess that I have made.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around your face as he did. His beard was grown out, the greys now outnumbered the black, jaw trembling as he spoke. 

“And just when I think I can start to be okay without you in my life, you show up, doll, and it ruins all that progress I made, if I even fucking made any in the first place. Make me realize just how damn much I need you. And how much I am so fucking scared of losing you because I can’t take it if I do.”

You reached up, hand cupping his face against the scruff of his beard. “I know that I’ve always known the life you lived before meeting Charles, and it doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of you shutting me out and living out here on your own till you die. You’re not this terrible monster you think you are. Yes, you’ve done terrible things, but you’ve also done so much good in the world. You’ve saved just as many lives as you’ve taken.”

His eyes softened, tongue darting out to wet dry lips that stuck to his teeth. 

“I can’t change who I am. I can’t be someone you deserve.” 

“I’m not asking you to change.” 

His other hand met your hip, both of them squeezing them tightly as his body shook. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” you promised. It was easy to promise that to him. As much as he needed you, you needed him. “You and me, we’ll get through this, and all that's to come.” You wrapped your arms around his neck. 

For a long while, he just stared at you, listening to your heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, looking for any doubt or lie in what you said. Fearful you’d sweep the rug out from under him and leave. He couldn’t find any indication of the sort. All he could see was how much you loved him, how much the distance between you had hurt, and how badly you wanted him to let you in.

Logan let out a shaky breath before pulling you into a kiss. His facial hair tickled your face as your lips met. It was intense as his lips moved against yours, his hands sliding down to your ass to pick you up and hold you. You could feel all his longing, desperation, and the despair he had been holding back. His lips were chapped from working outside, not caring for for himself like he should be, but you didn’t mind.

It sent a shiver down your spine, having him so close after so long. He was so warm against you. Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Logan groaned as you did, parting his mouth enough that your tongue could meet his. 

The kiss deepened. You could taste the salt of his tears mingling with your own. His grip on your ass tightened, pulling you flush against his body like he was afraid you might disappear. His mouth moved hungrily against your own tongue, nearly forcing yours into submission as he held you close.  He felt like a man starved. 

You matched his intensity, trying to pour all your love and care into the kiss, your lips moving together in a way that felt both familiar and new. Hoping that enough of your love could spill into his cup and fill him so full it didn’t matter what spilled out his cracks. There’d be more poured in every second. A rediscovery of what the love between the two of you had been. 

The two of you have to part far sooner than he liked, your lung capacity smaller than his own. His eyes were still wet with tears as he watched you, your chest rising and falling as you gulped down the air. 

He leaned in towards you, placing a small kiss on your forehead as he rested his head against your own, moving your ass to rest against the back of the couch. You had changed your conditioner; it smelled like honey now, but no matter how fragrant it was, it couldn’t cut through the smell of you to him. You smelled like home. 

“I’m sorry, doll.” his voice was a murmur against your scalp, heavy with regret. If hammer home the point, he’d bend nail after nail into soft wood, splitting it down the middle with how much metal he’d drive into it, just how sorry he was.

“I forgive you.”

Somehow, he gripped you tighter.“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“I know you will.” you pulled away from your position tucked against his chest to look up at him. “Kiss me again?”

He compiled without hesitation, his lips finding yours so tenderly. It was slow, deliberate, a melting of his body with yours. A promise, shared understanding, a soul tie that bound the two of you together.

Pulling away, his eyes met yours, and all he could see was love. 

“You gonna take me to bed or what, big boy?” 

Logan moved quickly up the stairs, taking two of them at a time. The promise of having you again was all the incentive he needed. He missed you. The way you felt under him, the way your pussy felt against his dick. How you fluttered around him every time he angled just right, how you smelt. He'd been jacking off to the thought of you for years now, and finally getting to have you again was like a fevered dream.

It wasn’t graceful the way he swung open his door and tossed you on the bed. You bounced a few times, mattress springs creaking as you did, before propping yourself up with an eyebrow raised, questioning him. No doubt he’d never hear the end of it; could hear you nagging him now. “A spring mattress? Logan? You’re made of metal. You can't have a spring mattress. You know this.” 

You raised a finger, curling in towards yourself, beckoning him closer. He was a dog on a leash for you, moving like a well-trained animal. If they’d found you during Project K, he would have listened to every command they gave. Hell, he’d roll over right now if you told him to. 

His knees enclosed your legs as he crawled over you, dog tags slipping out from his white tank top and dangling in your face. You smelled like him. His body wash and house, mixed with your fruit conditioner. Underneath it all, he could just smell you. The salt on your skin, the heady scent of your arousal. Logan lowered himself, tucking his head into your neck, and took a deep breath, groaning at the smell of you.

“Need you logan.”

That was something he’d missed. That pitched whine in the back of your throat you got when you were all horny and needy for him. Your voice turned raspy and low, caressed his ears so smoothly, and it made him want to purr like a fucking cat. The cadence just scratched an itch in his skull, setting his nerves on fire. 

With a low growl, he cradled your face in his hands, thumbs tracing over your cheekbones, relishing the heat coming off your skin. The little bumps and scars that crossed your skin felt like home to him, a map he’d always know how to read no matter how many years passed. He leaned in, lips meeting yours, and it just felt right. It always felt right. He was stupid for trying to run from you all this time. 

Your fingers laced in his hair on the nape of his neck, fingernails scraping his scalp. He groaned low,  wanton, animalistic, your tongue meeting his own in a warm, wet dance. Logan devoured your lips, his hunger for you impossible to sate. It was messy, desperate, the way he clung to you. Grabbing your waist and lifting you closer to him, you felt like a feather to him, all soft flesh and curves against his hard angles. 

He pulled away from the kiss, moving along your jawline and neck, stubble brushing your skin, making it more sensitive than it already was. Not stopping at your neck, he continued down over your collarbones and the expanse of your chest, all the skin he could access in the v-neck you wore. His fingers tugged at the hem of your sweater, pulling it over your head. You weren’t wearing a bra, perfect fucking nipples already perking up for him.

Logan leaned forward, his lips closing around your nipple. You gasped, back arching off the bed, the cool metal of his dog tags stinging against your skin. His tongue swirled around your nipple, fingers digging in at your waist before he pulled away with a pop, your chest heaving. You always looked so beautiful coming under him, over him, beside him, any position in which your naked body was near his and your flesh met in sinful desire.

“Oh,” his voice was ragged like he had fought all his battles and wars at once. “Oh god, doll…”

Testament and faith could be read about in books and studied. The Bible could teach you of Jesus’ preaching, but true faith, true trust in the unknown, could never be read about. It had to be felt and experienced. Logan slid to his knees, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed as he went. The fabric of your leggings felt too thick, separating him from his worship. He could smell you through them, through the lace of your panties. Heady, musky, a whine rumbles through his chest as his face falls against your thigh, nose pressed against the fast of your pussy. He breathes in deep, savoring your scent, his mouth watering like he can taste you.

“Doll, please,” he begged, opening his bloodshot eyes, his voice needy. “Let me taste you?” 

“You don't have to ask, Logan,” you replied, smiling. “I’m yours, always yours.” 

Logan hooked his finger into the waistband of your legging and panties, tugging them down in one swift motion. The cold air of the room met your skin as he did, but you didn't have long to think about it as he parted your legs, and his hot breath made contact with your pussy. His mouth hovered above for a moment, just wafting in your scent, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“Fucking love the smell of this pussy.” he murmured to himself, a low growl, before he dove in, tongue parting your folds.

Wet muscle slid between you so easily before swirling around your sensitive clit, teasing it. His hot breath ghosted over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers flew to his head, trying to find purchase in his hair as he went. Logan was ferocious. He went from your clit to your hole, delving inside you, trying to taste every inch of you. He grabbed your hips, tilting them upwards, making you squeal as he opened his mouth wider on you. Working himself into a frenzy, growling, the vibrations amplified by his adamantium skeleton. It rumbled through you, low and deep, like the base setting of a vibrator.

He takes a second, not quite remembering the perfect rhythm for you right away, but he gets to it quickly. Starts playing with your pussy like a fine-tuned machine the way he has you gushing in minutes. Your wetness coats his tongue, and that engine is firing.

Each stroke, each flick of his tongue on your clit brought you closer to ecstasy. The stars might power you, but he’d have you see them tonight. He devours your pussy like a man starved, primal hunger driving him. You couldn’t fight back, not that you wanted to. All that you could do was let him keep going. Let him take you to the edge. Push you past it. Over it. Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your chest so hard you feel it in your temples.

You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. They move on their own accord, desperate for friction. There’s a growing wet spot of precum at the front of his darkening blue jeans.

“Cum for me, doll, please, I need to taste it.” That low vibration of his voice made you whine, hips bucking against him.

Logan spread his tongue flat and mercilessly kept going at your clit. Your moans grew louder, fingernails digging into his scalp as he manhandled you around like you weighed nothing. He gripped your hips tighter, tilting them further, ensuring he had better access to your pussy, before taking your clit in his mouth and sucking on it. An involuntary squeal came out of you as the added pressure made your back arch. 

The suction made your stomach drop, and your toes curl. He kept swiping his tongue side to side, little pulses of suction in time. It left you writhing and gasping. One of his hands released your hips, moving so that he could slip two fingers into your wet hole. You were so soaked he met no resistance, walls clenching around his digits as he slid them in, desperate for something to clamp down on. The pads of his fingers brush against your G-spot, and the lights of the room glow brighter as you begin to lose control. You’re so close so quickly it feels like you can’t breathe from how overstimulating it was. 

You push his head back, abdomen muscles flexing, a thick line of spit and arousal connecting Logan’s mouth to your pussy. His pupils were blown wide, eyes unfocused, hungry. A red, ruddy color spread across his cheeks. He felt hard enough to cut steel with his length, rutting against the bed. Your vision blurred, light filling your eyes, your only point of focus in the world, his mouth on your sensitive pussy.

“Taste so goddamn good,” he licked his lips, breaking the strand before diving back in. Your legs shook, thighs clamping down around his ears. You were so close, you could taste it. Logan picked up the pace, his tongue rapidly flicking over your clit, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering hole. 

The room was filled with sloppy, wet sounds of Logans eating you out mixed with your cries of pleasure. He presses your pussy harder against his face, moaning as he does. You clench around him, body drawing tight like a bow as your release nears, his fangs scrape on the fat of your pussy lips.  It's like you leave your body for a minute, your ears ringing and your heart pumping. Every nerve in your body is lit up.

Logan reaches up to grope at your breasts, and with a pinch of your nipple, you cum with a loud moan that startles the cows, the lightbulbs exploding as you do. Your body trembles and shakes, juices gushing onto his palette like a tall glass of iced tea after a long day of work during the summer, and his thirst is quenched, but his appetite is only hungrier. You felt like you were melting, pleasure pouring out of you.

“Fuck,” you sound winded, “I haven’t had that happen since I was 24.” Your smile shows crow's feet, crinkling comforts near the sides of your eyes as you smile, really smile at him for the first time this week.

“Getting old, kid.”

“Oh, shut up!” 

He ducks to the side to dodge the pillow you throw his way. 

“You want to keep going?” 

“With you, I don’t ever want to stop.”

His eyes go all soft at the corners, caught up in his feelings. “Promise you won’t ever have to again.” 

“Good.”

He picks you up and places you up on the center of the bed, grabbing the pillow you threw at him to place under your hips for support. His clothes come off, and his blue Wrangler jeans drop to the floor with his tank top and boxer briefs. The dog tags stay on. He knows you’ve got a thing for them.  They glint in the dim light, steel catching your eye.

Rough, calloused hands slide up your legs, starting at your ankles, and he kneels between your legs on the bed. He folds you nearly in half, hooking your knees over his shoulders, his hip meeting yours. You feel the curling wisps of his pubes tickle against the back of your thighs. Always been a hairy guy, told you it's how he was so warm all the time. It makes your stomach flutter.

Logan leans down, capturing your lips against his own in a kiss before lining up his pre-cum soaked tip with your entrance. He eases into you with a hiss, your walls squeezing him tightly. The length was never an issue, he was only about an inch and a half above average, but it was the girth that made your jaw go slack and droll pool out the sides as he fucked you. The stretch is delicious as he slides inside you.

The first inch yielded a slick gushing sound from your pussy, while the second made you gasp, and the third had your walls tighten around him, taking his and your breath away. The stretch felt so good with how fat of a cock he had. One that felt so much girthier than you’d ever imagine it to be. His cock twitched, heavy, inside you, his pulse beating in time with yous.

“Jesus, princess, you’re squeezing me so tight. Relax,” he rolled his hip about halfway in and still meeting resistance.  Relax.” It came out like a pant. Fuck you were so tighter, like a vice around him. He wanted to take it slow, cherish you, show you how much he’d been missing you, but he was an old dog, and he wouldn’t last that long with how bad you were squeezing him. 

Your hands gripped the sheets, nails cutting the threadbare cheap cotton ones he’d been using for all these years. “Too much Logan.” You could barely breathe, let alone get the words out.

“You can take it, doll, remember?” he groaned, finally sliding in, flesh meeting yours in a wet slap. Your poor little hole stretched to the max as you whimpered. “See? You can take it.” Logan emphasized each word with a thrust of his hips. 

He felt his control slipping, thrusts starting to pick up, super strength coming into play. It coiled deep in his belly as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. “Feel so fucking good. Oh fuck. You’re so perfect, perfect little pussy.”

Logan’s hands move to grab your breasts, pushing them together. He plays with your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and index finger. His pace is brutal, and the position allows him to hit that perfect spot on your gummy walls that has you seeing stars. He’s all grunts and whimpers, silver tips eclipsing the skin of his knuckles. It gets to the point he wants to go faster, the need to cum inside you far too great, and he lets go of your tits and balances himself on the bed. 

The base of his cock swelled, his knot beginning to grow. This was the part you missed the most. The way he’d stretch you out so good on his dick, only to then slip his knot inside you and stretch you even further. 

“Ain’t gonna last much longer, doll.” 

You moan, reaching down to play with your messy clit. It’s so wet between your legs it’s hard to find any purchase, and the sensitive nub slides back and forth so easily. The bed creaks, the wood floors groan, and the bed frame slams against the wall. He’s getting rougher by the second, his knot starting to press against you. 

“Give it to me, I’m ready.”

Logan thrusts forward, his knot sliding in with a satisfying pop, your words spurring him on. He pulses, cock swelling impossibly large before he cums. Thick, hot white ropes paint your insides as he stutters and groans, nearly growls, dropping to his elbows and forcing your knees to your chest. His hips don’t stop moving, still rutting up into you as you play with your clit. You just need a little bit more to push you over the edge. 

His voice is gravely in your ear as he careens over you, half squishing you with his weight. “I love you.” 

It’s the emotion of the moment that makes you cum. Tears in your eyes and love in your heart. Love is a lot like faith, blind trust in the unknown. A bishop can train his whole life, be a theologian, a scholar of the bible, know all of his god’s teachings inside out, and have less faith than a man who’s lived through hell. Putting your trust into the unknown and praying that good comes back to you. You felt like you were finally home, like that piece of yourself you’ve been missing for years is clicking back into place.

Logan didn’t know romance. He was gruff and awkward, snappy at the random way things. But he stood on the outside when you walked along the street, never let you carry anything, and opened every door for you. Never bought you flowers because he hated the local guy who sold them. But he picked them for you daily on his runs. Didn’t ever wash your laundry, but he folded every piece of clothing you owned and hung up all your shirts, all of it, just because you mentioned hating folding clothes to him once. 

He’d never be able to admit to you how much you meant to him fully. When you came into his life, he was close to ending things. There had been so many dark, endless days that only he remembered now. Horrors beyond human comprehension were his burden, shadowing his every waking moment until you came walking into his life.

There’d be a conversation in the morning that probably would rise into an argument. He’d likely storm off, and you’d be there waiting, telling him to get therapy, and this time, he would. This time, he’d go talk to a shrink about the mess in his head and sort it out for you, for himself. This time he wouldn’t fuck it up and leave you in the middle of the night. He’d have the difficult, uncomfortable conversations that activate his fight or flight. 

You were soft under him as he lifted off of you, still unable to pull out due to his knot. He rotated the two of you so you were on top, your chests pressed together as he lazily traced your spine. 

“I love you too.” 

“I love you more, sunbeam.” 

“Oh, absolutely not. You know I hate that name.”

©️ uzuzrimisery

thank you @txjis for beta reading

[theslumberinggod]

Peripheral of My Mind (Oneshot)

The General Mahamatra cannot get you out of his head, and it's troubling and embarrassing and wonderful.

Pairing: Cyno x Reader

•~°~•

The General Mahamatra prided himself in the ability to separate his work life from his non-work life---not that much existed of the latter. He was good at changing mindset, relaxing during breaks (destroying his colleagues and friends at TCG) and partaking in hobbies he enjoyed (telling jokes so bad people would beg the Archons to send them deaf).

Then you came into the mix. You made the lines Cyno carefully drew to help him separate the often brutal task of a Matra and well…being human, blur in an unprecedented way that was both pleasant in a strange twisted way, and incredibly annoying, even embarrassing.

You were a scholar at the Akademiya. You fell into the category of people Cyno must keep an eye on as a part of his job, however you also fell into another category of people which had a very short list of names. This shorter category of people were people Cyno decided he wouldn't have to worry about.

Tighnari was respectful of knowledge and such, and Alhaitham was rational and reliable, and ‘Hat Guy’ seemed too busy destroying his peers in verbal debates to consider trying anything drastic. And then there was you.

You were just you. Cyno was sure that you couldn’t commit a crime if you tried! With your luck, you’d probably run right into a Matra during a hypothetical crime. He couldn’t even think of a single scenario in which you would even want to---since your study was on rocks. What horrific crimes of forbidden knowledge could one want to pursue in the name of ‘greater good’ involving the forming of volcanic rock?

You being you in all of the pleasantness of one less soul to be concerned over…at least in the law sense, Cyno has saved you from many almost-falls down stairwells. This would not be an issue if the thoughts of you would just not follow him into his working hours.

When The General Mahamatra was set to work. thoughts of his social life were not on his mind. Any time not working on reports, participating in trials, investigating, patroling or tracking down wrong-doers during his working hours he contemplated and studied the law and the nature of the power that resided within him. If not that, meditation.

However even as he drags a sorry soul through the sand back towards Sumeru City, he could not help but think of you. Did you get any sleep today? Did you eat? What were you studying today, had you found anything that excited you particularly? Could he think of a pun that would elicit another delightful laugh from you?

“...That’s why it’s of the utmost importance! The Lesser Lord Kusanali would understand! It’s for the greater good!” The sorry soul begged as Cyno tugged him over the crest of an enormous sand dune with ease. The General snapped out of his thoughts, ever stoic gaze scarlet and hard as he looked over to his prisoner.

He had completely missed everything the foolish scholar had been saying. What were his excuses again? Cyno could probably guess.

“Save your pleadings for Lesser Lord Kusanali,” The General’s firm gaze and level voice shushed the wrong-doer, and they continued on their way through the hot desert. The new silence granted Cyno the quiet he needed to wrestle with himself to focus on the task ahead, and not you.

It seems he could not escape the thoughts of you. As he returned to Sumeru City and settled back into a more stable and familiar routine of reminding the Akademiya that law will be obeyed, you still danced in the corners of his mind. It was the most perplexing and frustrating thing, that you had somehow wormed your way past the barrier of his.

The halls of the palace stretched long and wide, warm Sumeru sun grazed his skin as he passed windows, dutiful on patrol. His route took him through the Akademiya and then the palace. Then his break would be in about three hours. He glanced out the window as he passed, noting where the sun hung in the azure sky above the trees, just to double check. He tried his best to contemplate today’s case, to use the new albeit same-y experience to enhance his watch, to better equip himself for future encounters but…

…You! You lingered there in his peripherals. He could not escape the thought of you, it was too tempting to dwell on. You looked holdable, Cyno thinks. Were you someone who would like to be held? What would your hands feel like in his? The thought alone is enough to make heat that was from the land’s natural temperature creep up his neck, to his face and ears, turning tawny skin a deeper shade.

A childish, silver-bell giggle interrupted The General’s thoughts. To his utter horror, Lesser Lord Kusanali had been walking down the hall, and he hadn’t even noticed. He paused, gripping his polearm and gave her a nod. “Lesser Lord Kusanali, may I help you?”

The fair-haired Dendro-Archon smiled, emerald-green eyes crinkling as she lifted a little hand and giggled again, “Oh nothing, General Mahamatra. I just can’t help but notice you seem distracted, is everything alright?”

Cyno’s ears burned, and he felt his mouth run dry. The only sign of anything amiss was the blush on his face and the split second he everted his sunset vermillion gaze away from his superior before he let out a soft breath, stealing himself. He was the General Mahamatra, he had spent years hardening himself to carry out the heavy burden in which he willfully took on.

“Everything is fine, Lesser Lord Kusanali, it has been a long day,” The excuse was good enough. He did just get back from tracking down a fool in the desert. Something flickered in the Archon’s eyes and the child, ever wise and intuitive, smiled sweetly up at him.

“Why don’t you take your break early, General? You’ve worked hard, you deserve it.” There was something in her tone---all the genuine fondness and kindness Archon Nahida was famous to have along with something else. Something knowing, almost teasing. What for?

Not one to argue with the Lesser Lord Kusanali, Cyno bowed his head, “Thank you, Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

In the most professional manner he could, Cyno fled, unable to comprehend why Archon Nahida was giggling to herself all the way down the hall. The General decided to use the break to get some food that wasn’t the rations he had to carry with him, and some water that wasn’t warm.

With helm and polearm set aside in his quarters he set off for his quest for food, stopping when he saw you. There you were, carrying books stacked precariously as you made your way down a small set of stairs. His heart raced as it often did just before combat and watched calmly as you struggled to make your way down, ready to leap into action.

“Hmm--oh hello General Mahamatra!” You smiled softly when you saw him, eyes alight in an expression no one else gave him. So many looked at him with indifference, weariness, fear, but you----that single expression on your face made Cyno feel like the most loved and important man in the world. “How was the--”

He was already moving as you missed a step, view blocked by your collection of books. He caught the tomes that slid off the top of your stack with one arm, and you with the other, arm out and kept you from falling face first into the rough, stone tile floor.

Your face darkened with blush and you laughed at yourself, and Cyno carefully stepped away, you and your holdable self with your holdable hands, with that sweet laughter and the presence that followed him frustratingly into every moment of his day, into the halls of secrets, into the world of law and justice, into the hot desert, into the dunes when it was cold and dark and quiet, you were there.

Right then and there, he decided there was nothing in this world that could keep you out of his working hours. He would just have to find a way to live with it.

The General insisted on carrying your books for you, making a dry, deadpan pun. One which you laughed at heartily, causing his face to heat up. As he followed you down the hall, he dearly hoped you had missed the way he looked at you longingly.