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Rolling Stone has named 'folklore' as one of the 100 Best Album Covers Of All Time! (#83)
(July 22, 2024)
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may 7, 2023 | one year ago today
rolling stone released an interview with dianna agron where they asked her about being the inspiration for a song of taylor’s and whether or not they dated
dianna agron on being the inspiration of ‘22’:
“Me? Oh, if only! That's more because of a friendship than being the inspiration for the song. But I would not be the person to ask about that. I cannot claim that!”
dianna agron on fans and the media thinking she was in a relationship with taylor and shipping the two:
“That is so interesting. I... I mean, there have been many stories about my dating life that are so wildly untrue. That's funny.”
#may 7 2023#may 7#2023#dianna agron#swiftgron#22#songs and albums#quoted#rolling stone magazine#gaylor throwbacks#gaylor#gaylor swift#lgbetty
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andymcginnis92: Happy birthday Mr Michael Romance
[Sep 10, 2024]
#mikey way#jarrod alexander#andy mcginnis#mcr#live#return#ig#2024#sep 2024#9/10/24#2022#aug 2022#8/24/22#2022 na tour#cincinnati#heritage bank center#the rolling stones#photo#originals
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here are some shows that have 10 to 13-episode seasons: the wire, breaking bad, the sopranos, mad men, better call saul
and here are some shows that have 22-episode seasons: supernatural, glee
now i’m not saying anything. i’m just saying
#ok i will say something actually…i saw a rolling stone article yesterday arguing in favor of the 22-episode season#and they did namedrop the sopranos. and they were like ‘it wouldn’t have been as good if each season was only 8 episodes’#and all i could think was ‘yeah but it wouldn’t be as good if each season was 22 episodes either!!!’#i think a 22-episode season of tv is fine IF you’re a sitcom#but they are barely even making sitcoms anymore. i know there’s abbott elementary but that’s like the only one i can think of#most ‘comedies’ on tv these days are not sitcoms and are also not that funny#and if you go on the wikipedia category page for ‘2020s american single-camera sitcoms’#most of them are holdovers from the 2010s and/or already ended#like who give a shit about the 22-episode tv season…the sitcom has DIED BADLY and you don’t even care!!!#ok but back on topic…i would prefer that tv seasons have at least 10 episodes but you’re wrong if you think under 10 can’t be done well#the righteous gemstones for example…funniest thing on tv right now. 9 episodes per season#and yes…they feel like ‘complete’ tv seasons!#like. it can be done. the problem is most of these shows just aren’t doing it
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act 3 sorc is nutty. wym i rolled a 43 to hit. and then i proceeded to do 52 damage. good fucking cantrip
#mine#i genuinely had no idea where that roll was coming from but i have +22 to attack rolls and sweet stone features
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Photo credit Todd Owyoung/ NBC
ROLLING STONE
BY LARISHA PAUL, FEBRUARY 22, 2023
THE ROLLERCOASTER DROP that signified the end of One Direction is the very first clip played in the trailer for Louis Tomlinson’s upcoming documentary All of Those Voices. “Performing for one last time tonight,” a voice announces, backed by impassioned screams. “It’s One Direction.” In the preview for the film, out March 22, the singer reflects on how much he took those words to heart.
“I thought, for me, it was the band or nothing,” Tomlinson says. “It was hard for me to imagine myself on my own. I didn’t see a way back, not even musically – just to do anything.”
The band’s final performance brought them back to where it all began. Appearing on The X Factor UK season finale in December 2015, One Direction performed “Infinity” and “History,” a song that promises “this is not the end” while serving as a parting message ahead of an 18-month hiatus that has now lasted seven years. A month prior, they had performed the song during their final concert together in Sheffield on the On the Road Again tour.
“I started to feel like, oh, maybe I do have some individual worth,” Tomlinson adds, jumping ahead to when the dust had settled. “What about making some music on me own?” The singer, who released his second solo record, Faith in the Future, last year, then recalls a conversation he had with his late mother about the prospect. “She was like, ‘Well that’s obviously what you’re going to do.'”
Tomlinson’s voice is layered over footage captured in studios, on the beach, in the company of his friends, and backstage before he hits the stage all on his own, performing to sold-out crowds internationally. “It does kind of feel like, finally, the stars might be aligning for me,” he explains. “I think, dare I say, I’m ready.”
All of Those Voices captures Tomlinson in true form as he grapples with “the highs of superstardom to the lows of personal tragedy,” all while becoming a father and settling into the central role of his own musical journey. “I finally feel worthy of where I am and what I’m doing,” he says in the trailer. “Welcome to my world.”
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it bother me like en peu just this much 🤏 that in the beautiful iconic healing cuddle scene at the end of The Truth, they're on the wrong sides. Scully's side of the bed is the right side (from in the bed), or rather curled onto Mulder's right arm -- they are noticeably consistent about this in other instances -- and in The Truth she's on the other side 🥲
(they're gonna have to shuffle around the other way to fall asleep lol)
#msr#txf#txf spoilers#season 9 tag#I have rested on the warm glow from that scene for 22 years don't get me wrong!#but she really is his right hand arm man as the meme says lmao#the rolling stone cover is the only other time i can think of that way around but arguably they aren't in character so idk
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#Charlie is about 22#and actively having a mid-life crisis in the background of this photo#the rolling stones#keith richards#charlie watts#young married band
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23. Carly Rae Jepsen & Rufus Wainwright, ‘The Loneliest Time’
Carly Rae Jepsen always knows how to find the emotional core of any glossy pop confection, and her wonderful team-up with Rufus Wainwright ranks right up there with her finest moments. “The Loneliest Time” is a classic disco duet about two old lovers breaking free from a breakup of Shakespearean proportions to get right back where they started from, with Rufus and Carly sharing a chemistry on the level of Stevie Nicks and Kenny Loggins in “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend’,” which is to say, as sweet as it gets.
#carly rae jepsen#carlyraejepsen#crj#rolling stone#the loneliest time#rufus wainwright#category: review#category: best of#song: the loneliest time#album: the loneliest time#source: rolling stone#12/05/22#december 2022#2022#🍐
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All Rolling Stones Data Posts Today: September 22, 2024
All Rolling Stones Data Posts Today: September 22, 2024 *Click for all latest posts Rolling Stones chronology: September 22 Today in Rolling Stones history: September 22 *Click for DAILY ROLLING STONES… September 22, 2024September 21, 2024 A Song About Pure Desire: Decoding The Rolling Stones’ ‘Sex Drive’ (1991) Rolling Stones songs: Sex Drive I can drive you fast/… September 22,…
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Origin [Logan Howlett]
Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.
Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST
A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙
----
Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James.
Your James.
—
It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself.
Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.
James.
He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.
From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.
"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"
A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."
You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"
He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.
The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.
But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.
Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.
"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.
"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing.
You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.
“How was your day?" you prompt.
James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."
You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."
He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.
Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"
"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."
The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.
He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”
There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.
The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."
He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.
You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."
For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."
Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"
Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."
He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."
You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence.
"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"
He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."
You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"
Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."
There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—
BANG.
Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.
"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.
Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."
The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.
"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"
Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.
As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.
"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.
Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.
"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"
The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.
"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"
He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?
When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.
Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.
There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.
"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.
You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.
Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.
"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"
James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."
"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.
Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."
It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.
"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."
But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."
You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.
Betrayal is written all over his face.
His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.
"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.
The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.
"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"
“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust. He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”
“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”
“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.
“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"
Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.
In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him.
A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin.
"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"
You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.
"We have to go!" you say urgently.
His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.
You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you.
All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.
Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream.
You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood.
His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh.
"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.
He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"
Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"
"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."
"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”
You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.
"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"
“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."
His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.
"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"
"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."
Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.
Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.
Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.
Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.
“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.
He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.
In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there.
—
Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.
He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him.
Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.
It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.
A new identity.
Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week.
Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own.
To you, he’s still James.
In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.
After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.
“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."
He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."
"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."
You don’t argue. How could you?
The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.
But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.
You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.
And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.
It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.
It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it.
You’ve fallen in love.
—
It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.
Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.
You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own.
His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body.
The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.
—
The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.
Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say.
“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines.
On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.
In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly.
“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.
The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.
“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close.
“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”
But, all good things must come to an end.
The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.
Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.
On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.
When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.
“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.
One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.
The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.
“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.
But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”
He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.
Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.
And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.
Just like now.
Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.
The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.
Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."
You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."
He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.
"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"
—
That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.
And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.
The shack feels too quiet, too still.
All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know.
Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air.
There’s no answer.
Panic grips you as you search the familiar places���around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.
No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.
The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.
"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze.
By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.
In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain.
Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.
It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.
The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.
You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.
Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.
The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"
Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.
He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.
—
In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence.
Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.
Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving.
Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.
But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.
And that hurts. A lot.
You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.
—
A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?
All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.
But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes.
The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.
Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.
Except, unlike him, you’re alone.
He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.
Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.
If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?
You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.
Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.
Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.
—
The days bleed into one another.
Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.
You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew.
And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries.
The first time you did it, it was an accident.
You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.
But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet.
It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.
But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.
Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.
It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.
You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart.
What if they leave you too?
Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it.
As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.
Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.
So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.
It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.
Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?
You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past.
He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.
—
Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.
You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves.
And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.
Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.
So you agree.
And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.
The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.
—
This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.
The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.
“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.
Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”
Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.
You freeze.
You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.
James.
Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.
The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.
His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery.
A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.
You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.
“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.
The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next.
Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes.
But it’s too late.
In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.
You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.
Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.
Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”
You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.
The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions.
How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him?
But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.
After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.
—
He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.
You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?
Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.
It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.
The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.
Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”
A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.
“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.
“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."
Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”
You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”
She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”
Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”
Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word.
“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”
“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”
Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”
“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”
Charles nods gently. “Of course.”
—
When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.
And for a long moment, neither of you speak.
There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.
But it never comes.
Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”
It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier.
He doesn’t remember you.
“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”
His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.
You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."
His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again.
“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”
“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”
You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet.
“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”
Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.
“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”
Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.
“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”
Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”
“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”
He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”
Because we grew up together.
Because we were everything to each other.
Because you were the one person I never stopped loving.
“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile.
He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”
The awkward silence returns.
“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”
He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.
Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.
You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom.
The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.
Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew.
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.
Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.
Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.
“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”
You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.
“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.
Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”
The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.
Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.
“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
—
The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.
Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.
Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.
It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.
You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.
When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.
While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.
And sometimes, your eyes meet.
From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.
One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed.
“Mind if I sit here?”
The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk.
“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did.
He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”
A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”
“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”
Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”
You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.
He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”
Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you.
“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”
Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”
“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”
You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”
He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”
“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.
—
For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.
You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.
This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run.
You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.
Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different.
“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”
“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”
He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”
Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?
“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”
Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?
Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”
His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.
“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”
But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.
—
This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.
You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.
“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.
Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.
“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”
You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”
“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”
You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”
“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”
—
The memories keep coming.
You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”
He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”
“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”
You know exactly who he’s talking about.
“Do you remember her name?”
Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.
“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”
He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.
“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”
“Because I know you,” you whisper back.
To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything.
—
He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page.
You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.
Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.
Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.
"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"
“James.”
You still.
"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—
“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”
The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.
Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”
A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”
You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.
But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.
For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”
He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”
—
You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.
“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.
James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”
Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”
You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”
He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly.
You frown. “What kind of trouble?”
“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”
His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”
Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”
There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.
“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”
The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail.
“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”
James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”
He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”
His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”
Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”
Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”
Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”
He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.
“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face.
“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”
Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”
You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.
It was him.
It was always him.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”
All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart.
“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”
He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”
You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord.
“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”
He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”
While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.
“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”
“James…”
“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”
You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”
“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”
“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”
He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.
You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.
Your James.
----
A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3
#deadpool and wolverine#logan howlett#logan x reader#logan howlett fic#x men#wolverine#deadpool movie#logan howlett imagine#logan howlett x reader#deadpool 3#hugh jackman#logan howlett angst#x men origins: wolverine#wolverine angst#logan howlett x you#wolverine x reader#wolverine x you#angst#mcu#marvel fanfiction#james logan howlett
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The Ronettes - Be My Baby 1963
"Be My Baby" is a song by American girl group the Ronettes that was released as a single in August 1963. Written by Jeff Barry, Ellie Greenwich, and Phil Spector, the song was the Ronettes' biggest hit, reaching number 2 in the US and number 4 in the UK. It is often ranked as among the best songs of the 1960s, and has been regarded by various publications as one of the greatest songs of all time. Ronnie Spector (then known as Veronica Bennett) is the only Ronette that appears on the track. In 1964, it appeared on the album Presenting the Fabulous Ronettes; the only studio album by the Ronettes (credited to "the Ronettes featuring Veronica"). Produced by Phil Spector and released in November 1964 through his label, Philles Records, the album collects the group's singles from 1963–1964. In 2004, it was ranked number 422 on Rolling Stone's list of "The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time".
"Be My Baby" has influenced many artists, most notably the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson, who wrote the 1964 hit "Don't Worry Baby" as a response to "Be My Baby". Many others have replicated or recreated the drum phrase—one of the most recognizable in pop music. As for the opening drum beat, drummer Hal Blaine stated, "That famous drum intro was an accident. I was supposed to play the snare on the second beat as well as the fourth, but I dropped a stick. Being the faker I was in those days, I left the mistake in and it became: 'Bum-ba-bum-BOOM!' And soon everyone wanted that beat." Sonny Bono and Cher were among the backing vocalists. Cher stated in a television interview, "I was just hanging out with Son [Bono], and one night Darlene [Love] didn't show up, and Philip looked at me and he was getting really cranky, y'know. Philip was not one to be kept waiting. And he said, 'Sonny said you can sing?' And so, as I was trying to qualify what I felt my … 'expertise' was, he said, 'Look I just need noise – get out there!' I started as noise, and that was 'Be My Baby'."
The song appears in the opening sequence of Martin Scorsese's film Mean Streets (1973), and the 1987 film Dirty Dancing. The song appears in a fantasy sequence involving Kamala Khan in the Marvel series Ms. Marvel, in the second episode "Crushed". In 1999, it was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame. In 2006, the Library of Congress inducted the Ronettes' recording into the United States National Recording Registry. In 2004, it was ranked number 22 on Rolling Stone's list of the "500 Greatest Songs of All Time", where it was described as a "Rosetta stone for studio pioneers such as the Beatles and Brian Wilson." In 2017, the song topped Billboard's list of the "100 Greatest Girl Group Songs of All Time".
"Be My Baby" received a total of 86,9% yes votes!
youtube
#finished#high yes#high reblog#high votes#low no#60s#o1#o1 sweep#o23#o23 tie#popular#the ronettes#english
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Ooh, a storm is threatening
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Ooh yeah I'm gonna fade away
#one of my favorites.. this song is just super calming to me#but tbh I’ve listened to it too much now it’s getting kind of annoying :(#the song is#gimme shelter#the rolling stones#daily lyrics#21/11/22
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Death of the Tortured Poet
Taylor Swift and other poets in conversation with Roland Barthes's "The Death of the Author" (1967) and Michel Foucault's "What is an Author?" (1969)
I want to say thank you to @ttpds @youmeetyourself and @ohdorothea. This post would not exist were it not for your musings on the topic, our conversations, and your encouragement. Seriously, thank y'all.
Sources:
Unless otherwise noted, lyrics are from Genius and screenshots/scans/etc are from taylorpictures.net
Barthes, Roland. "The Death of the Author"
"delicate" music video
"Dear Reader" lyrics
Foucault, Michel. "What is an Author?"
"Style" music video
"mirrorball" lyrics
Barthes
Taylor Swift before singing "betty" on the Eras Tour in Glendale, AZ on March 17, 2023 (text from @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes)
Siken, Richard. "The Torn-up Road" in The Iowa Review
Promotional image for The Tortured Poets Department from Swift's social media
Savage, Mark "Midnights: What we know about Taylor Swift's songwriting" for BBC.com
Foucault
reputation prologue
Barthes
Promotional image for The Tortured Poets Department
Barthes
Halsey. "Gasoline" lyrics
"mirrorball" lyrics
Barthes
Florence & the Machine. "King" lyrics
"Dear Reader" lyrics
Foucault
"22" lyrics
Foucault
"Out of the Woods" music video
"...ready for it?" music video
"Anti-Hero" music video
"look what you made me do" music video
"if you're anything like me" from the reputation magazines
Foucault
Album covers for the Taylor's Versions of Fearless, Red, Speak Now, and 1989
Taylor Swift in Musicians on Musicians: Taylor Swift & Paul McCartney for Rolling Stone
"look what you made me do" music video
"the lakes" lyrics
Foucault
"look what you made me do" handwritten lyrics from the reputation magazines
"my tears ricochet" lyrics
Foucault
"my tears ricochet" lyrics
"look what you made me do" music video
Foucault
"hoax" lyrics
"why she disappeared" from the reputation magazines
Barthes
1989 prologue
Foucault
#alternate title: what if you got so invested in fandom discourse that you read literary theory and got really weird about it#alternate alternate title: oh michel we're really in it now#taylor swift#the tortured poets department#sydposting
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Code Green
A game for 3–7 players, about being where you're not supposed to be.
Last night, you were suspended in a tube of brightly coloured goo in an underground research facility, operated by an organisation whose three-letter initialism's meaning is strictly need-to-know. This morning, someone noticed your tube was empty. Nobody has determined how that happened yet, and you're not inclined to stick around until they figure it out!
Or, in other words, it's been nearly a whole week since I got that massive revision to Space Gerbils out the door, and apparently my brain has decided that's enough of a break. This thing was written start to finish in under 12 hours, so let the circumstances of its authorship guide your expectations. Special thanks go once again to Caro Asercion, whose micro-RPG Dwindle introduced me to the design space I'm fucking around with here. Go buy their stuff.
Anyway:
What You'll Need
Code Green is a tabletop RPG for one game moderator (GM) and up to six players. Each player will need a copy of the Profile Grid, below, as well as three tokens of some sort: dice, coins, beads, etc. You'll also need at least five six-sided dice (for the whole group, not per player, though it's fine if each player has their own set). If you're using dice for tokens, it's recommended that the dice you plan to roll be visually distinguishable in case they land on someone's Profile Grid.
Rolling Dice
There are two ways you'll be asked to roll dice in this game: rolling d66, and rolling a dice pool.
To roll d66, roll a six-side die twice, reading the first roll as the "tens" place and the second roll as the "ones" place, yielding a number in the range from 11 to 66. For example, if you rolled a 3 and then a 5, your result is 35. You may also be asked to flip a d66 roll; to do this, take your result and swap the digits without re-rolling. In the preceding example, if you flipped your roll of 35, your new result would be 53.
To roll a dice pool, pick up the indicated number of six-side dice, roll them, and take the highest individual result. Duplicates have no special significance. For example, if you rolled a pool of three dice and got a 2, a 4, and a 4, your result would be 4. If you would ever roll a pool of zero or fewer dice, roll two dice and take the lowest instead.
Character Creation
Each player should create their own character. There are three things about your character which are always true:
You are newly born into the world. You may know things about the world (e.g., from your programming, having read them on a computer terminal, etc.), but you haven't experienced them.
You are implausibly good at remaining inconspicuous; unless you're deliberately drawing attention or doing something which requires a dice roll, humans will almost always fail to spot you.
You are not human. You can decide what that means.
To find out what else is true about your character, roll or choose three times from the Form table, and three times from the Function table, placing your results into the correspondingly labelled slots on the Profile Grid, below, in any order you please. Your three results from each table should be different; if you elected to roll and get the same entry multiple times, flip your result, and re-roll if it's still a duplicate.
Think about what your three Form traits and three Function traits imply about your character's physical makeup, but don't set anything in stone just yet – you'll see why not in a moment.
Finally, roll a six-sided die five times, and record the results in the order in which they're received. The resulting five-digit number is the only name your character has when play begins.
Table 1: Form (d66)
11–12. Blood 13–14. Bones 15–16. Brain 21–22. Claws 23–24. Ears 25–26. Eyes 31–32. Guts 33–34. Hands 35–36. Heart 41–42. Hair 43–44. Legs 45–46. Lungs 51–52. Nose 53–54. Skin 55–56. Tail 61–62. Teeth 63–64. Tongue 65–66. Wings
Table 2: Function (d66)
11–12. Accelerated 13–14. Autonomous 15–16. Auxiliary 21–22. Cryogenic 23–24. Cryptic 25–26. Elastic 31–32. Electric 33–34. Entropic 35–36. Invasive 41–42. Invulnerable 43–44. Kinetic 45–46. Magnetic 51–52. Phasing 53–54. Polymorphic 55–56. Projectile 61–62. Pyrogenic 63–64. Telescopic 65–66. Toxic
Playing the Game
Play proceeds in a series of scenes. In each scene, the GM will set the stage: a challenge to overcome, a peril to escape, a mystery to investigate, etc. Given the nature of your characters, most things will be mysteries to you!
Initial Token Placement
Once the stage has been set, place each of your three tokens on a different square on your Profile Grid. If you have no preference, you can roll d66 for each token and place it in the square whose marked numeric range contains the number you rolled, flipping or re-rolling your result if you get a square which already contains a token. The placement of these tokens represents your initial state when the scene opens. Depending on the nature of your character, this may be reflected by a shifting of internal focus, or by a physical transformation.
Participation
To participate in the scene, simply tell the GM what your character does; the GM will describe how the world responds, and ask what you do next. Whenever you wish – or are forced – to do something more than lurk and observe, you are obliged to make a test.
Making Tests
To make a test, first choose a pair of traits – one Form trait, and one Function trait – with which to face the challenge. For example, if your Form traits are Legs, Tail and Teeth, and your Function traits are Cryptic, Invulnerable and Phasing, you might test your Invulnerable Legs against the trouble at hand.
Next, count the number of tokens present in the rows extending from each of the chosen traits. The illustration below shows which squares would be consulted in the preceding example:
Next, roll a dice pool containing a number of dice equal to the number of tokens present on squares extending from the chosen traits. Do not count a token twice if it's on the square where the two traits intersect (e.g., the green square in the illustration above). In the event that no tokens fall on squares extending from appropriate traits, remember that you are allowed to roll a pool of zero dice by rolling two dice and taking the lowest rather than the highest.
Finally, compare your result to the following table:
1–3. Less than human. Whatever you'd intended to try still happens, but it cannot overcome human opposition (or adversity which would challenge a typical human), and any lasting effects are transitory and easily explained away. 4–5. Mostly human. Your effort can contend with human opposition (or circumstances which would challenge a competent human), and its lasting effects make it obvious that someone (or something) has been interfering with matters. 6. More than human. Your effort easily brushes aside any human opposition, and its lasting effects are impossible to rationalise as anything other than the intervention of inhuman forces.
Without Applicable Traits
In the event that you're forced to make a test and no possible pairing of your traits is applicable, you don't get to roll anything, not even with a pool of zero dice; simply resolve the outcome as though you'd rolled a result of 1–3. Other characters may attempt to preserve you from this fate by assisting you, in which case you roll one die per assisting friend; see below for more details.
Assistance
If you wish to assist another character in making a test, consult your own Profile Grid, considering only those squares which contain tokens. Only the specific pairs of traits represented by the squares on which your tokens fall are eligible for assistance; for example, if one of your tokens falls on the intersection of Cryptic and Teeth, you may assist with Cryptic Teeth, but not any other pair of traits involving Cryptic or Teeth unless those squares also have tokens on them.
If you're able to identify an eligible pair of traits that seems applicable to the test at hand, explain how you're using it to help, and hand the player making the test one extra die. Any number of characters may assist on a given test.
Providing assistance neither requires nor permits your character to adapt (see below) – it needs to be your own test for that!
Adapting
After resolving a test, your character adapts, shifting focus or form to reflect what they've learned. Take one token of your choice from your character sheet, and move it to a different square which doesn't already contain one. You can move any token you wish, but it must end up on a different square than the one it started on unless no valid destinations are available. Adapting is not optional, and must be carried out after every test.
Suffering Strain
If whatever you're making a test against is particularly strenuous or dangerous, you might suffer strain as a consequence. Strain will often be incurred on a result of 1–3, and rarely on a result of 4–5; only the most foolhardy efforts will incur strain even on a result of 6!
To incur strain, roll d66, and place a small X on the square on your Profile Grid whose indicated numeric range contains the number you rolled. If there's a token on that square, immediately move it to an empty square of your choice, unless fewer than three unmarked squares now remain; in that case, simply remove the token entirely.
For the remainder of the scene, tokens may not be moved to any marked square. In addition, if you suffer further strain, and the square indicated by your d66 roll is already marked, your character is incapacitated, and may not participate in tests at all until they recover.
All strain is cleared – and any discarded tokens restored – at the end of each scene. Incapacitated characters also recover at this time.
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