Hi! I’m Nyx/Mike (he/she, 20) and I write fanfic. My fandom blog where I mass reblog various things is @nyxoneiros (please ignore that it’s also not set up nice and pretty yet, I’ll get to it, I swear). I cross post to my ao3, which is also under the name NyxOneiros. If you see my work literally anywhere else, please let me know, because that’s not me.
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Can i request loki x fem!reader that finally gives him the gentleness he seeks, cares for him even though he is himself, forgiving him and giving him love?
Love Like You - Loki x Fem!Reader
Summary: Loki wants to write a love poem to you. He doesn’t know how to encapsulate everything about you in it.
(Contains: fluff, established relationship, Loki POV, He/Him pronouns for Loki, reader is spoken of but not present, love poems, supposed to be fem reader but I don’t think I ever make it explicit)
Word Count: 1.6k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: This may not be exactly what you had in mind when you requested this, anon, but I do hope you enjoy it!
Loki has tried his hand at writing poetry many, many times over his long life. He believes he’s good at it. He’s written enough to fill at least three books, so he’s gotten plenty of practice. He’s written about many topics, in both good and bad lights, and he is certain he could wax poetry about almost any topic with little to no difficulty at all. And if he did hit a road bump and find something he cannot manage to write about, then he could always do what he does best: he could lie. He could fake it until he makes it.
Loki cannot find the words to describe you, and he knows it would do you a disservice to bluff his way through it for the sake of words on paper.
He knows an extensive list of words to describe someone radiant, and kind, and beautiful, but none of them are good enough for you. They pale in comparison to you. In his mind, they do not hold a candle to whatever unknown and possibly nonexistent words that could accurately describe you. He knows that there are things that could only be painted in the mind with the use of metaphors, but no matter what words he thought of and what way he tried to phrase them, the only things that are painted in his mind are imperfect replicas.
His best attempts were still relegated to a waste basket. It’s the best honor he can give them. The other failures were just ripped up or burned out of frustration and a need to never let them see the light of day again. He’s tried to write just a few opening lines over and over and over again, and he can’t even find a good opening word. He knows he’s been working on this for too long for your tastes. He half expects you to barge in at any moment to drag him to watch a movie on the couch or to try some new recipe you made or do anything else in order to take a break.
Maybe that could be the fuel he needs to start this poem off right, he thinks. Your kind-hearted care for him, even when he was certain he doesn’t deserve it from you. He’s a god. He could give you anything you wanted, and if he couldn’t do that with certainty, then he would rip through Midgard and Asgard and any realm in between to do it. You were a mortal, and he wasn’t, and that meant you were more fragile than him, and thus, by all means, requiring more care than him. And yet you insist on taking care of him instead.
You cook for him. You buy him little trinkets and bits of jewelry. You try to convince him to rest when he’s focused on something “too hard”. And by all means, such little things shouldn’t make a god swoon as much as it made him, but he couldn’t help it. It’s not even the things themself that get him. Most of the recipes you find are a far cry from the recipes he grew up with in Asgard, and he’s certain that doesn’t need as much rest as you think he does, and he still does not understand why mortals are so obsessed with things with the first letter of their name on it.
But he understands why he likes all of those things. He likes them because you got them for him or because you made them for him. He liked the strange, overly complicated meals of Migard because you put the care into every small detail of them, because you wanted him well fed. He gets the sleep you think he needs, if only because it makes you happy and he likes laying and sitting next to you and getting to look at your satisfied smile. He likes the little souvenir bracelets and keychains you find with an L on them, and he loves the ones you got custom made with his full name on them, because you cared enough to ensure he got to properly participate in this silly little Midgard tradition.
But finding the words to say how much that meant to him properly is hard. It’s impossible, even. Starting a poem about how much you care about him and how much he loves that you care should be easy. There are millions of poems and figurative language expressions about this sort of thing. But did he want a poem dedicated to you to be derivative of another? Could he really make you something that was similar to something that common.
No. No, he can’t. You were rarer than one in a million. He couldn’t give you something that couldn’t be picked out of a million other poems just like it. He balls up another piece of paper and drops it into his desk-side trash bin and tries to come up with another premise for a poem.
Maybe he could write about another way that you are kind. You’re forgiving to him, more forgiving than many others would be. He’s done many things wrong, some on accident, many on purpose. Some of them were small things, like an occasional mean trick or needless lie. Many of them were large things, like trying to take over New York.
He’s not entirely certain why you forgave him for that one. You’ve tried to explain it a few times, and he understands the words that you’re saying to him, but he doesn’t understand how you can say those things with such sincerity. You mean them. He knows you mean them. But he thinks it will take every year and every moment of his immortal life for them to finally clock in his brain properly.
It’s not so much that you are willing to simply overlook those things. Loki wouldn’t like it if you did. That would just be naive. You know that he did all of those things. You acknowledge that he did all of these things. You acknowledge that they were bad and that while some of them had understandable reasons behind them, others did not. And you forgave him anyway. And everyday you continue to forgive him for those things and some of the things he continues to do out of habit.
But is forgiveness alone enough for a poem about you? If he wrote about all of the things that you forgave him for, would he really be writing a poem about you? No, he would just be writing about all of the things that he’s done wrong in his life. That was worse than writing a poem full of common metaphors for how much you cared for him. At least that was something about you. He couldn’t write a self-pitying poem about his own failures and try to pass it off as something made to show his love for you.
It occurs to Loki that maybe he could write about one of the things he loves the most about you: the way you loved him. It sounds selfish and self-centered and awful. He knows that. But it is also the truth. He loves the little things and little quirks about how you love him.
It isn’t just about how you care about the little things for his sake. It’s about things you do that he’s certain you don’t notice. The things that he’s certain you’re not doing intentionally.
You’re gentle with him. In your words, in your actions. He’s never heard a mean word come out of your mouth that was directed at him. At people who said things that weren’t true about him, of course, but never at him. And your touch is just as gentle and kind as your words. You hold him like he was made of glass. You kiss the back of his hand and tell him it was only fitting that you do that for royalty.
And you are one of the only people he knows who can when he’s lying. He’s met maybe one or two other people in his long life who have that ability. He knows how they did it. It was magic, both of them. But you? He doesn’t know how you’re doing it. He doesn’t sense any kind of magic from you. He has to assume that you can simply… tell. He has to assume that you’ve found some tell of his, that you pay attention enough to find something that no one else has.
And you don’t blame him for his lies. You don’t get mad at them. You sit and talk with him about the serious ones if if the hurt you, but he does what he can to not tell ones that hurt you. But you don’t get annoyed at the silly ones. He likes telling you the silly little lies that you claim are obvious. They’re more stories than anything, tales he makes up about how he met the Pope today, or about how he stopped a stampede of cats before he came home, or about how he had to eat the last donut because the world would end if he didn’t, or any of the millions of other things he’s come up with. Those little lies made you laugh. He likes hearing you laugh.
And that thought is what finally gives him his idea for his poem. He can’t just write about one thing with you. He has to write about all of it. If he is going to rant and rave on paper about you, then he needs to do that about all of you. If he was going to do this, then he had to do it right, and to do that, he needed to speak on all parts of you and your love.
Series Summary: Edward likes riddles, and riddles are very particular with their words. Words have meaning. So maybe it confuses and baffles him when Jonathan uses them in a way that… doesn’t sound right to him.
Or: Five times Scarecrow uses a regional term or phrase and one time Riddler did too.
Chapter Summary: Jonathan needs a drink. Edward has no idea what he’s asking for.
(Series Contains: southern Jonathan crane, regional terms and colloquialisms, Edward being a bit of a bitch about word choices, Edward being a hypocrite, Edward Nygma was not born in Gotham)
For as much as Edward loves going outside and being the center of attention, he also loves quiet nights at home. It’s nice to get to stay at home with his boyfriend and just work on projects he’s a little behind on. Plus it makes Jonathan happy, since he doesn’t like people nearly as much as Edward does, and Edward likes it when Jonathan is happy.
Edward places his notepad and pen down on the coffee table and stretches his arms over his head. He’s been working on a plan for another heist for a few hours now, and he’s about due for another short break, he thinks. He checks his water bottle, and upon finding it empty, he deems that a good enough excuse to get up and take a walk to the kitchen.
Jonathan, who’s sitting in his armchair across from Edward, looks up when his boyfriend gets up from his spot on the couch. He’s in the middle of repairing one of his costumes. Batman ripped a hole in it the last time he wore it, and he’s just not getting around to patching it.
“Would you grab me a coke while you’re in there?” He asks once he recognizes where his boyfriend is going.
“Yes, I can get you a-“ Edward cuts himself off and turns to look at Jonathan. “Jon?”
“Eddie.”
“Since when have you drunk coke?”
Jonathan looks at home like he’s lost his mind. Edward does not like that. He does not like that one bit. He knows he’s not the crazy one here. Never has he ever seen Jonathan Crane drink a bottle, can, or glass of any kind of coca-cola. In fact, Edward has seen the man turn them down if offered one!
“I’ve drank coke my entire life.”
“No, you have not.”
“What do you mean ‘no, you have not’?! Yes I have! You’ve seen me drink coke!”
“No, I have not!” Edward stubbornly insists. “You’ve told me several times that you hate the taste of coke and only kiss me after I drink it out of sheer love for me!”
“Why would I say I hate the taste of coke? I don’t hate the taste of coke!” Jonathan finally puts down his sewing supplies so he can throw up his hands in exasperation. “I bought coke just the other day! Why would I buy coke if I hate the taste of it?!”
“I don’t know, Jon. Why would you buy coke if you hated the taste of it?” Edward asks sarcastically. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t buy coke a few days ago.”
“I bought coke a few days ago!”
“You couldn’t have bought coke a few days ago! There’s none in the fridge, and I know you never buy single bottles!”
“Bullshit, there ain’t no coke in the fridge!” Jonathan shoots back, his accent thinking from frustration. “There’s a twelve pack in the fridge!”
“No, there is a twelve pack of Sprite in the fridge.” Edward corrects. “There is no Coca-Cola, in any kind of container and in any kind of amount, in the fridge.”
Jonathan stares at him for a long moment. Then he runs a hand up his face, pushing his glasses up and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Edward can’t believe it, but judging by the color on his cheeks, Jonathan looks… almost embarrassed.
“Let me rephrase my earlier request.” He sighs. “Could you please grab me a… pop while you’re in the kitchen?”
He says it like saying the word physically pains him. It clicks in Edward’s brain that, for whatever Jon meant soda in general when he said coke. Why he thought Edward was also using “coke” to mean soda is beyond him.
“A pop?” Edward echoes back as a question.
“A pop, a soda, whatever the hell y’all call it up here.”
“What do you mean by ‘up here’? Does everyone in Georgia call soda ‘Coke’?”
“No, Ed, I just call it that for shits and giggles.” Jonathan answers sarcastically.
Now it’s Edward’s turn to flush with embarrassment. It’s harder for him to hide that than it is for his boyfriend to. Jonathan says that he’s always obvious with his emotions. Edward denies it, but he can’t deny the fact that some emotions make his face and ears flush as red as his hair.
“It was a rhetorical question.” He blatantly lies.
“I’m sure it was.”
“You’re deflecting from the real point here.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you are.” Edward crosses his arms. “Why do you call it coke in Georgia if it isn’t coke?”
“Because basically the entire South calls it that. Don’t see why Georgia would be any different.” Jonathan deadpans. “Don’t see why Georgia would be any different.”
“Oh, so that’s the game we’re going to play.”
“Word choice is important. Don’t you always say that, Eddie?”
“It is, which is why I’m willing to play this game with you. Fine. Why do people from the South call soda ‘coke’?”
Jonathan is stumped by his question. He tried to find a good explanation for it, or at least a witty one, but he can’t seem to come up with one.
“…That’s just what it’s called.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Just because it is, Eddie. Why’s a tree called a tree?”
Edward’s about to open his mouth to tell him, just to be a little shit and prove his point, but he was cut off by Jonathan raising a hand. One of the first things that Jonathan learned from dating him was that if you asked this man a question like that, you were getting an answer whether you wanted one or not, unless you stopped him.
“You know damn well I don’t need to know the history behind the word ‘tree’. Look, are you still going to the kitchen, or am I gettin’ myself a drink, because I’m gettin’ fairly parched over here.”
“Alright, alright, no need to get impatient.” Edward finally concedes and heads into their kitchen. “I’m going, Jon, I’m going…”
Edward holds true to his word and waltzes into the kitchen with his water bottle. He refills it from the filter in the fridge—because he is not drinking Gotham tap water—and then grabs Jonathan his can of sprite. He comes back into the living room to find Jonathan back to work on his costume.
“Thank you.” Jonathan mumbles as Edward hands him his drink.
Edward watches as his boyfriend pops the tab on the can and takes a swig. He knows he’s doing more than just watching. He’s blatantly staring. He thinks that he’s allowed to stare. That’s his privilege for being the man’s boyfriend.
“Jon, dear?” Edward grabs his attention as he’s putting the can down.
Jonathan hums in acknowledgment and turns his head to face him a little. Edward places a couple of fingers under his jaw to guide his head to the angle Edward wants it at. He presses his lips to Jonathan’s, slotting them together. Jonathan’s mouth tastes like Sprite, which is what Edward expected. Luckily to him, he doesn’t have the same disdain for Jonathan’s choice of soda that Jonathan had for his. Edward pulls his head back after a moment, keeping his fingers in Jonathan’s jaw.
“You’re handsome when you’re focused on something.” He gives Jonathan another, shorter kiss. “Even when you use the most confusing words for soda.”
Summary: You love your boyfriend. You hate his shampoo. You’re going to change some things around here.
(Contains: fluff, established relationship, showering together, cut to black sex scene, implied sexual content)
Word Count: 2.9k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: This goes out to all the people who hate 3-in-1 shampoo. That thing should not exist.
You love your boyfriend. For all of his sharp edges, he has a nice heart. But, unlike some people with their partners, you don’t believe that he can “do nothing wrong”. He does a lot wrong. You know he does a lot wrong, and you love him in spite of that. There is one thing that he’s been doing wrong that you’ve picked up on since you started living with him that you refuse to let him do any longer, though.
You want to be able to take showers in peace, but whenever you try, you have to confront that thing, and you can never find tranquility around it. Sitting on one of the higher shelves built into your shower—Guy’s shelf—is the offending bottle. It’s one of those stupid, horrible 3-in-1 shampoos. Its very presence, the constant reminder that your beloved boyfriend is using subpar hygiene products, haunts every moment of your shower.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it just stayed in your shower, but it doesn’t. Its ghost haunts you, following you around in other aspects of your life with your boyfriend. You want to be able to cuddle with him without a care in the world. You are not allowed this luxury, because whenever you reach up a hand to play with his hair, you are reminded that his hair would feel so much softer and nicer if he used actual shampoo and conditioner. Guy loves his hair, and he loves to boast about it. Whenever he does, you have to shove down a kneejerk reaction about how much better his hair would be if he treated it right.
You love your boyfriend, but you cannot take this any longer. Maybe the fact that you love him and want the best for him is part of why you’ve reached your breaking point on the matter.
You have to time your plan just right, or else it won’t work the way you want it to. You stay things too late, and you risk missing your chance because he would get to the shower before you, or worse, him catching you in the act. You start too early, and then you’ll just be standing in the shower for years while you wait for him to get in, and you don’t particularly want to do that.
You strike when Guy decides to go to the gym. Usually you would go with him, either to work out yourself or to just watch him, but you tell him that you’ll pass this time. You give him the excuse that you had something you needed to do around the house and that you’ll just go next time. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, but it did avoid the whole truth. He takes your answer though, and he kisses you before leaving to go workout.
You wait around five to ten minutes after he’s left, just to ensure he wasn’t coming back because he forgot something, to jump into action. You rush into the bathroom, ready to start your righteous work. You grab his horrible abomination in a bottle and slam it onto the sink counter. Then you run and grab the small, travel bottles you bought just for this reason. You unscrew the top of his shampoo bottle and start pouring it out into the little travel bottles. A worse partner would just pour it all down the sink or into the trash, but you weren’t going to do that to the man, just in case he really didn’t like your shampoo.
Once the bottle was empty, you screw the top back on and put it back on his shelf in the shower. You open all of the cabinets in the bathroom and try to find a good place to put all of the tiny bottles of soap. You don’t need to find a place to hide them inside the cabinet. Them being in the cabinet is hiding enough. Guy isn’t going to check in there for them, you knew that. You just had to make sure that they stayed out of sight.
You check the time once you’re done with that and match it up to what you know about Guy’s workout schedule. He should be home soon, assuming he isn’t doing a longer workout than usual. Perfect. Your plan took exactly as much time as you needed it to. You can move from phase one to phase two now without much concern.
You run back into your room to grab something clean to wear. You don’t put much thought into what you grab. It’s just a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and some clean underwear. You rush back into the bathroom and put your clean clothes down on the sink top. You peel your current clothes off and drop them on the floor. The two of you don’t have a hopper in the bathroom yet. You make a mental note to buy one and get it set up, but you don’t give it too much thought. You have bigger concerns at the moment. You kick your clothes into the corner, keeping them mostly out of the way.
You spin around to face the shower again. You turn the knobs of the shower faucet and wait for the water to heat up. After a few moments, you stick your hand into the spray of water to test the temperature. It’s a little off, not quite perfect, so you fiddle with the knobs again and then check a second time. Satisfied that the water temperature is exactly how you want it, you pull your hand back and then get into the shower. You lean your hair back into the spray, getting it soaked. You don’t do anything more than that. You simply wait.
It’s very boring waiting in a shower doing nothing, but at the very least, you don’t have to wait long. You can faintly hear the front door open over the splash of water against the tile of the shower. Guy’s footsteps are a little easier to hear, since he’s always been a heavy walker. It doesn’t take long for Guy to move from the door, to your room, to the bathroom door. If you had to guess, he was putting his gym down in your shared room, grabbing clean clothes, and then coming back to the bathroom door.
“You in the shower?” He asks through the door.
“The water’s running, isn’t it?” You sarcastically shout back.
“Ha ha, smartass.” He pushes the door open and waltzes in. “Do you care if I get in?”
“I’ve never cared before.” You quickly grab your bottle of shampoo and pour some into your hands, scrubbing it into your hair so you look busy. “Go ahead and hop in.”
“Hell yeah.”
You can hear him pull his gym clothes off over the water. He doesn’t bother to push his clothes into a contained area. He just leaves them on the floor where they lay after being dropped. He pulls the shower curtain open at the other end of the shower from the shower head, not wanting to get water on the floor for the millionth time. He steps in just before you start rinsing the shampoo suds out of your hair.
You stare a little. You have no shame in admitting this. He’s your boyfriend, you can stare at him however much you want. He stares at you all the time, you’re allowed to stare back at him. It’s justified. Your boyfriend is hot, why wouldn’t you look at him like this?
He’s sculpted like a god. Not like how some people think gods should look, not all “perfect” and generically muscular. He’s built like a brick house, all bulk and thick corded muscle. The fat he has on his body adds to it, padding bits of his body out here and there in just the right ways. He may not have the “dream six-pack” look, but he does have a thick, sturdy torso. His biceps are massive, the strength in them obvious. You could sink your teeth into those biceps. His thighs are similar, and so is your reaction to seeing them.
“You like what you see?” Guy asks with a shit-eating grin once he notices that you’re admiring him.
“…shut up.” You grumble, your cheeks heating up. You lean your head back into the shower stream, breaking eye contact with the convenient excuse of needing to wash the shampoo out of your hair.
Guy chuckled. He twists his body to look at the soap bottles on his shelf. He reaches out to his bottle of 3-in-1 and pumps the top of it. He pauses for a moment, his brow scrunching up in confusion. He tries to pump out soap again, and then he tries a third time. Then he gives up, accepting that his shampoo bottle was empty.
“Damn. I swear I just bought this.” He grumbles.
“You’re out of 3-in-1?” You ask as innocently as possible.
“Yeah. Fuck, that sucks.” Guy groans. “I don’t wanna run to the store to get another bottle, I just got back.”
Hook, line, and sinker. You have to choke down the smile that threatens to rise on your face. He’s had exactly the reaction you wanted from your plan. He’s mentioned that it’s such a tragedy that he’s out of soap, and that’s just the open door you need. You’re ready to move on to phase three, the last phase, of your plan.
“Just use mine.” You try to offer up casually.
“Just use yours?” Guy parrots back.
“Yeah. I’m fine with you using some.”
“Babe, the shampoo and conditioner thing you have going on has like… seventeen steps to it. My way is supposed to be simple and easy.”
“I’ll do it for you.” You decide, hoping he takes the bait on this.
“…You will?”
“If you let me, yeah.”
“There’s no way in hell I’d turn down free pampering from you, sweetheart.” He grins. “How are we gonna go about doing this?”
“I’m gonna wash your hair first.” You start, holding up a finger and twirling it around. “Turn around.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Guy says as he spins around.
You stare at the sculpted musculature of his back for a few moments, before you snap back into focus. You grab your shampoo off of your shower shelf and squirt a good amount into your hands. You reach up and start running your hands through his hair, working the shampoo into it. Suds start to fill his orange strands, covering them nicely. You scratch his scalp lightly as you go, and he sighs and leans his head back into your hands.
“God, that feels good.” He lets out a relaxed groan as you work.
“Thanks.” You smile. “That’s the goal.”
You scrub the shampoo into his hair just a little more before stopping. You pull your hands back and start shuffling around him to swap places so he’s closer to the spray. It’s not the easiest thing to do in such a cramped space, but the two of you make it work. You brush against him once or twice as you move, but you don’t slip or fall over, so you’re counting this as a win.
“Alright, lean your head back.” You mutter, guiding his head back under the shower spray.
Once the water starts running through his hair, you start running your fingers through it again. You ease the suds out of his hair, helping the water wash them out. You keep pushing your fingers through his hair until the water runs clear and without soap again, and then you keep doing it for a bit after, just before you want to mess with his hair. You pull your hands back once you’ve deemed it time to move on.
“Okay. Conditioner time.” You say, both to yourself and to him, grabbing another bottle off of your shower shelf.
You repeat the process of squirting conditioner into your hands and running them through his hair. You don’t do it quite the same way that you worked the shampoo into his orange strand. You need less conditioner than you did shampoo, just because of how short his hair is. You also don’t start at the roots of his hair. You start at the ends and work your way in, making sure the ends are nice and saturated and the roots aren’t too oily and greasy. His ends are a little dry and split. They definitely needed some TLC, and you are happy to oblige.
“So now we wash it out, right?” Guy asks, already moving his head back into the shower water once your hands start to leave his head.
“Nope.” You reply, reaching back out to tilt his head back forward.
“Nope?”
“Nope. It’s gotta sit in there for a bit.”
“How long is a bit?” Guy asks, scrunching up his eyebrows.
“Like, uh…” You think, trying to give him a better estimate than ‘when I feel like it’s been a bit’. “A couple minutes? Not too long.”
“Okay… and why’s it gotta sit?”
“Because it makes it work better.”
“What? How’s it sitting in my hair going to make it magically work better? Whenever I use my conditioner, I just wash it right out, and it works fine.”
You bite back what you want to say. You want to tell him that that’s because he uses 3-in-1 shampoo. The conditioner in that isn't a good conditioner. It doesn’t really work as a conditioner, or at the very least, it doesn’t work nearly as well as a conditioner by itself. You can’t work it into your hair in the same way you can do regular conditioner, and you couldn’t leave it in your hair the way it needed to be for your hair to soak up all of the good stuff in it. But you can’t say that to him. You’re just trying to prove the efficiency of your method right now.
“Just trust the process.” You provide as an answer instead.
“Trust the process?” He asks. “What process?”
“The one you have to trust.” You won’t give him an explanation more than that. “Okay, that should be long enough. Now we can rinse this stuff out of your hair.”
You tilt his head back again. Like how getting the conditioner into his hair was similar to getting the shampoo into his hair, getting the conditioner out of his hair was similar to getting the shampoo out. You have to work your hands through his hair a bit more to get the conditioner out, though. The conditioner is thicker, and it’s stuck more in his hair, and you want to make sure that you got it all out. If you didn’t, his hair would be weird oily in a patch here or there, and you didn’t want that.
“There. That should be done. Body wash time.”
“You gonna scrub me down, hot stuff?” Guy smirks, his hands finding your hips and pulling you just a little closer.
“Maybe if you behave yourself.” You shoot back at him.
“Ah, babe, you know me.” He leans down to give you a kiss on the lips, just a quick one before pulling back. “I never behave myself. But you like that.”
“No, Guy. I don’t like it. I love it.”
————————————————————————————
“I think I’ve got something you’ll love even more…” Guy chuckles before pulling you back in for another, deeper kiss.
You’re drying yourself off after your shower, running a towel over your arms. Guy finished drying himself a bit ago, and is now busy pulling clothes on. That doesn’t take him that long either. He runs a hand through his already mostly dry hair once he’s done, originally just to push it out of his face. He seems shocked by what he’s feeling, and he pushes his fingers back through his hair a few more times.
“Huh.”
“Huh?” You echo back, moving your towel to your other arm.
“My hair feels different.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“Good different. Like… wow, my hair feels great.” Guy whistles, looking at himself in the mirror.
“Let me feel.”
You throw your towel back over the towel rack as Guy turns away from the mirror and towards you. You reach your hands up and mess with his hair, getting a good feel of it. You smile at what you’re feeling. He’s right. His hair feels fantastic. It’s the softest that you’ve ever felt it. You feel proud of your work. You did this. You made his hair feel this good.
“Damn, you’re right.” You mumble, playing with a couple stands of his hair. “Your hair feels really nice…”
“Do you care if I use your shampoo and stuff more often?” He hesitantly asks.
You could scream. You could cry. You could cheer. It’s over. It’s finally over. The curse of his awful, horrid 3-in-1 shampoo has been broken. You’re free. You don’t have to quietly suffer through your beautiful, handsome, lovely boyfriend using subpar products on his hair. You think the only thing that would make you happier in this moment is if he got down on one knee and proposed to you right here, right now. You feel like you’re about to explode from joy and excitement.
“Yeah, sure, go ahead. I don’t mind.” You calmly say instead.
Summary: Erik Lehnsherr has a three year old daughter with the love of his life. He’s doing his best to be a good father and is worried he’s not doing enough. His daughter seems to think he’s the best father in the world.
He’s terrified about what will happen when she learns her father is not the perfect man she thinks he is.
(Contains: past mpreg, I never specify how Erik gets pregnant so whether he is trans or this an omegaverse thing or both is up to reader interpretation, original child of Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier, established relationship, anxiety, Erik Lehnsherr is a Good Parent, or at least trying to be, hurt/comfort, implied sexual content fade to black style, implied bottom Erik, implied top Charles.)
Word Count: 3.4k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: Written for @thebottomerikfest. I want the record to state that I wrote this to grieve and mourn for Episode 4 of X-Men 97 Season 2
Erik can’t believe it. It’s been three years already, and he still can’t believe it.
He has a daughter.
He has a three year old daughter with the man he loves more than anything else in this world. He has other children, it’s not his first time siring a kid, but it was different this time. He was not a good father to his older children. He knew that. He was not under the delusion that he was anything other than an absent and distant father at worst, or a lackluster one at best. But he didn’t want to be that anymore. Not with Emilia. He was older now, and he wanted to do all he could to give his last, youngest child the best life he could.
If Charles was his sun, then Emilia was every star around him. She reminded him so much of his husband. Within every smile of hers, she saw an echo of Charles’s. She was still learning how to speak, but with what little vocabulary she had, she sounded so much like Charles in the little way she said things. And she was so kind. Erik has never heard a bad thing from her preschool teachers. In fact, he had only heard the opposite. His daughter was known for sharing toys and snacks with the other students, to the point where he and Charles have begun packing double the cheese sticks and fruit snacks in her lunch box, just so she and whoever she shared with had enough.
He credits all of their daughter’s good traits to Charles. He doesn’t believe that it can come from himself. What good does he have to give to someone? He has caused so much death, so much destruction, so much fear. He has been looked at as more of a monster than a man, and for good reason. He doesn’t blame anyone who thinks that of him. He knows what he’s done. He’s made as much peace with it as he can. And he doesn’t hate that Emilia acts like Charles and doesn’t act like him. It’s a delight, actually, to have two of them in the house.
…But it does get to him, from time to time. He doesn’t even know how he would feel if Emilia did do something like he would. Part of him wants to think that he would be filled with joy, seeing a small bit of himself in his daughter. The rest of him believes that he would be sent into despair about it. What if he made some grand mistake, and she picked up one of his worse traits? What if he raised a girl who grew up just as angry and bitter as him? What if he took someone good and kind and ruined that part of her, like he’s ruined and destroyed so much else in this world and in this life?
He’s pulled out of his spiraling thoughts about his potential failure as a parent by Emilia yawning against his chest. He’s carrying her to her bed, ready to get her tucked in for the night. It isn’t the latest, he still had another few, albeit calm and slow, hours awake left in him, but Emilia was only three. She took naps and went to bed early, and was oddly well behaved for a toddler when it came to going to bed. Again, something he attributed to Charles, who went to bed on time every night, if only because he had a school to run every morning.
Erik hums a little song for her as he carefully shoulders her bedroom door open so as to not jostle her. She’s had a long, tiring day. It’s a weekend, and she didn’t have preschool, so of course Erik was more than happy to spend the whole day with her. She decided that she wanted to play in the garden, which was messy, but at the very least it was educational. She liked learning about flowers, and Erik liked teaching her. Maybe she would grow up to become a botanist. Erik could only hope she did something nice and peaceful like that.
Who was he kidding? Of course she would. She was going to do something like that, it was just in her nature.
Erik gently lowers Emilia down onto her bed, patiently waiting for her to let go of his shirt so he could move back a little. Once he was free of her little hands clinging to him, he pulled her blanket up to tuck her in. She curls up a little, getting into one of those weird sleeping positions that young children tend to fall asleep in for whatever reason. Erik watches her for a moment, just to make sure she was comfortable and settled in well. Then he bent to give her a kiss on the forehead.
“I love you, Emi.” He quietly says to his daughter. “Sleep well.”
“Love you too, Papa.” She says back with a yawn, closing her eyes.
Erik leaves her room once he was sure she was falling asleep. He pulls her door mostly closed, but leaves it just slightly cracked, just in case, just so he could hear her if she needed anything. He stops outside of her room. He was going to just walk to his and Charles’s room. He knew that Charles was waiting up for him, waiting for him to come to bed so that they could do their nightly reading together.
But he needs a minute. He knows he needs a minute, because his eyes are watering. He doesn’t cry, not easily. He hasn’t truly cried since he found out he was going to be a father again, and before that, he hadn’t cried for years. He wasn’t going to cry now. He knows he isn’t going to cry, because he doesn’t feel the strange pressure behind his eyes that he normally feels when he’s about to sob. But he does tear up.
It’s just four words. Emilia has said them millions of times to him, and he hasn’t been hit by them like this before, but something tonight feels… different. Maybe it’s because he’s been thinking about what he’s done in the past, maybe it’s because he thinks that Emilia is too good of a gift to his life, or maybe it’s some mix of the two.
He’s done so many horrible things in his life. He’s caused so many pointless deaths in the name of his cause. He’s destroyed so much, so many things and places he never needed to cause to crumble. He’s been a symbol of fear and chaos for generations, keeping up this persona for so, so, so long that it is what the majority of people know him as. He’s tried to change people’s minds on him. He’s tried to show them that he’s changed, that he’s understood why he cannot and should not do what he has done in the past, and that he will never do them again. Some people have come to forgive him, or at the very least accept him, but not everyone has. Some people still look at him with the same disgust, mistrust, and fear they always have. So many people still look at him like he’s the old Magneto.
…Is that how Emilia is going to look at him one day?
He can’t keep what he’s down from his daughter forever. Erik knows this. He knows this far too well. It’s kept him up late far too often, thinking late into the night and even early into the morning. One of these days, either from him, or Charles, or god forbid, someone one else, she was going to find out about all of the ugly things he’s done. He wants to be the one to tell her himself. He feels that it is the only right way to do it. He should admit the truth to her once she’s old enough to know it. He shouldn’t force her to hear it from someone else.
But he can’t help but think about all of the awful ways the scenario could play out, once he finally gets to that point in time. Would she look at him in disgust, viewing him as someone and something that was rotten right down to the core of his being? Would she fear him, looking at him like he was something dangerous that would lash out at her with devastating force? Would she hate him, thinking his actions are so awful that they negate anything good that he’s ever tried to do or done for her? Or would it be some mix of the three?
It doesn’t matter what reaction she has specifically. Erik knows this as well. He’s come to accept and understand that the specific negative emotion she feels towards him wouldn’t matter. What would matter is that she would not look at him the same way. She wouldn’t look at him like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky just for her. She wouldn’t look at him like he would move mountains just to make her smile—which he would, even if he didn’t have his powers, because he would find a way to do it, just for her.
She wouldn’t look at him with love anymore. That’s the root of his distress at the thought of her knowing what he’s done. Erik couldn’t handle the one wholly, truly good thing he’s ever put into this world looking at him like he was a monster. Maybe he deserved it after everything he’s done, but he knows he couldn’t handle it.
He composes himself. Or, at the very least, he composes himself as best as he can. He’s good at being stony faced when he needs to be, but that will not help him here. He knows that. Charles is a telepath, he could know if he wanted to. Even if he didn’t peer into Erik’s mind to look, which he often didn’t, he would still know. He knew how to read people. He knew how to read Erik, more importantly. Sometimes that was a curse. Sometimes that was a blessing. He’s thinking it may lead to the former this time.
Erik wipes the tears away from his waterline. He deems himself as good as he can be afterwards. He walks down the short hallway to his and Charles’s shared room. He can see soft yellow light from under their cracked door. Charles must have pulled it slightly closed when he headed to bed, as to not disturb Emilia. Erik pushes it open, enters and then pulls the door closed again.
Charles is laying in bed. He got changed beforehand, obviously, with him wearing his sleep t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s propped himself up on some pillows, leaning against the headboard. He’s sitting up, a book in his lap, reading with his bedside lap on. It’s a nice scene. A nice, domestic scene. It helps that Erik finds Charles, to be blunt, ridiculously attractive when reading, with the way he hums slightly and the way his eyebrows twitch every once in a while. The fact that Charles is comfortable and reading in his bed would send him into a tizzy if he were a younger man, and if he hadn’t gotten used to seeing him do this over their years dating and then being married.
He is reminded, everyday, why he put a ring on that man’s finger. He does not regret the time it took to meld and shape the ring himself. He would put all of that effort in again in a heartbeat.
“I take it Emilia fell asleep easily?” Charles asks, not quite looking up from his book yet. He has that look on his face that tells Erik he is deep in the middle of one of the good parts.
“She always does.” Erik replies. “She is a remarkably good toddler.”
He climbs into bed beside his husband. He’s been dressed for bed for an hour or two now. He tends to get dressed in lounge clothes quite a bit before he actually goes to bed. Charles is the one out of the two of them that doesn’t get changed until much, much later in the evening. He can’t blame the man for it, it was his preference and his choice and he can make it as he pleases, but Erik also couldn’t say that he doesn’t poke light-hearted fun at his husband’s habit every once in a while.
Charles finishes up his page and turns it, and then he looks up at Erik. And Erik knows, just by the small downward twitch of his lips, that Charles knows he’s been upset and been on the verge of tears. He doesn’t want Charles to mention it, and he doesn’t want him to search his mind to find out what has him like that. To his credit, Charles doesn’t do either. Erik knows he doesn’t go poking around in his thoughts, because he doesn’t feel the familiar tingle he gets in the back of his skull that he’s grown to associate with Charles being in his mind.
“She gets that from you, you know.” Charles says quietly.
“…what do you mean?”
“I mean you fall asleep fairly easily and peacefully yourself.” Charles chuckles. “I know it can’t have come from me. My parents told me I never wanted to settle down for even a nap at her age. But you, love, have the tendency to fall asleep almost immediately after laying down.”
“I never noticed.” Erik mutters.
“How could you?” Charles smiles at him warmly. “You would have to have noticed your own behavior while asleep. I can’t say that there are many people in the world who can do that.”
“It’s… nice to know that she takes after me in at least one regard.” Erik admits sheepishly.
“She takes after you in more regards than that.”
Erik is stunned into silence. He doesn’t understand what Charles means by that. In Erik’s mind, Emilia is the furthest thing from being like him. He would have noticed by now if she was. A preschool teacher would have called about her having some kind of behavioral problem by now if she was like him. She would have been acting out at home if she was like him. He would have known.
“What are you talking about? She takes after you in most things. I can’t really think of anything that she does like I do.”
“…her teacher called the other day.” Charles says after a moment. “She said that Emilia stood up for another kid in class. Apparently, a boy she sits next to was bullying another kid, and she gave him a talking to that I don’t think he’ll ever forget.”
“And that makes her like you. You were always the talker out of the two of us.”
“And you were always the one who wasn’t afraid to get confrontational with people who want to push others around.” Xavier counters. “And she has your eyes too. And your ears.”
“How can you tell she has my ears? Her ears are so small that they just look like… well, like any other toddler’s ears.”
“They look like yours.” Charles leans over and presses a kiss to Erik’s lips. “And they act like yours too. She can hear the implication in things when others can’t. She knows if someone is lying to her, and if someone is promising something that they never intend to fulfill. Just like you, Erik.”
“I doubt that a toddler can have that level of suspicion.” Erik hums.
“It’s true. She has this almost uncanny sense for when someone is trying to trick her into doing something. And she doesn’t like it when people do so.”
“…so she inherited my skepticism and my pessimism.”
“No. She inherited your strength of will and your moral compass.” Charles rebuttals. “I like that she did. I like seeing you in her. She’s so much like you, and I don’t know how you don’t see it.”
“Because I see your behaviors in her. She’s so much like you, Charles.” Erik explains.
“And she’s so much like you as well, Erik.”
Charles’s hands find Erik’s waist and hips. He gently pulls Erik closer, trying to pull him onto his lap. Erik is coaxed closer, until he’s hovering over his husband’s lap. He’s straddling Charles’s lap, one thigh on either side of his, his knees bracketing Charles’s hips. Erik kept himself propped up and balanced with his hands, one hand resting on the headboard of their bed, the other grasping the sheets in front of one of his knees.
“She’s like both of us. But that would be because both of us made her, wouldn’t it?” Charles asks rhetorically. “I contributed to her creation and upbringing, just as you did. In my mind, dearest, you’ve done more than I have.”
“And I oppose that thought. You’ve done just as much for our daughter as I have.”
“And I knew you would disagree with me.” Charles chuckles. “But that’s why I said ‘in my mind’, since my opinions cannot be factually proven. But while we may have, in reality, given the same amount to Emilia… I still think you’ve done more.”
“…Why?” Erik asks, mumbling the words. He’s so close to Charles that the sound carries the same as if he spoke them aloud from across the room.
Charles presses another kiss to Erik’s mouth. This one is longer than the first. It’s not softer, but it’s not harsher. It's deeper, with just a slight opening of the mouth. It doesn't go too far. It doesn’t leave the territory of sweet and innocent, not quite. But it does go just far enough that Erik can almost feel his head spin. It’s not quite lightheadedness that he feels, but he can’t find the words to describe it in any other way. Even after years, Charles still takes his words—and breath—away,
“Because if not for you, then I would not have a child. You carried her, I only helped you make her.”
Erik feels the flush running down his face and up his chest. He knows his face is turning red and pink, and he knows that Charles can see it. His husband smiles in a way that does not feel like the polite, innocent, respectful smile he gives everyone else. It is not the smile of a cheerful, hopeful man who tries to always look at the positive. It is the smile of the cat who got the cream, something more devious than it is sweet.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I fear I’ll end up carrying another of your children.” Erik mumbles out.
“…would that be such a bad thing?” Charles mumbles back after a moment, his thumb stroked one of Erik’s hip bones through his sleep pants.
“…do you want another child?” Erik asks, still thinking about himself.
“I think I would, yes. Emilia is a lot to handle at times, but she is never more than we can care for. I wouldn’t mind having a second little one running around. Would you want another child?”
And Erik thinks on it. He’s still scared of messing things up with Emilia. He’s still scared about what will happen when she finds out who he really is. He’s not certain he can handle having that fear for two children. But… he’s given good qualities to Emilia, more than he thought he had, at least according to Charles. And she loves him with all of her little heart, and she tells him as much every day. Maybe she wouldn’t react poorly to finding out what he’s done, or at least not as poorly as he worries she will, and maybe if they had another child, that child wouldn’t react horrifically either. And Erik starts to think that maybe it would be nice to give Emilia a little sibling.
“I think I would, yes.” Erik says quietly.
Charles kisses him again. This time is it the hungry, deep kiss that he has been building up to and wanting for a while now. Erik has to tilt his head to lean into it, his mouth opening at the slightest prod from Charles’ tongue. His hands pull Erik’s hips down heavier against his own, his fingers digging into his husband’s ass slightly. His grip is not harsh, but it is firm enough that his fingers press into Erik’s flesh. They part after a moment, their foreheads pressing against each other.
“Would you want to try making that child tonight?”
Pretty pleaseeee can I get some poly smut with Darkiplier and Wilford Warfstache? Maybe a fem Reader presses their buttons a little too much and they just fucking ruin her for it (full on double penetration I'm talking), bonus points if both boys bicker during it! 🥰
Who knows maybe the jealousy makes them fuck harder? 👀
It can be headcanons or a oneshot, I'm not picky!
~ 🦊 Anon
Ragebait - Darkiplier x Fem!AFAB!Reader x Wilford
Summary: You decide to ragebait Dark and Wilford. Consequences ensue.
(Contains: brat!reader, dom!Dark, switch!Wilford, brat!Wilford, double penetration (anal and vaginal), praise, not quite degradation but Dark isn’t happy with your behavior, implied voyeurism?, she/her pronouns for reader, reader anatomy referred to as holes, ass, and clit, 18+, MDNI)
Word Count: 2.2k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: Thank you 🦊 anon for my first ever request! I hope I did your vision justice here!
You would say you have no idea how you got into this situation, but that would be a lie. You knew exactly how you got here, and you knew exactly what you did and that all of it was on purpose.
The art of the ragebait is not an easy one. So many people were simply amateurs at it, believing themselves to be masters of it. You knew a master ragebaiter, you knew they paled in comparison to him. You knew you paled in comparison to him. But you were a very close second, in your humble opinion. You learned from the best, and you could do something that a good chunk of other ragebaiters couldn’t: you could personalize it. You knew how to get under people’s skin in a way specific to them.
Dark was easy to ragebait. With how stoic he was, it was like he was just begging to be pissed off. The trick with him was to just keep doing little things to tick him off. He was used to staying relatively calm during large, disruptive events. That’s why you had to make sure things just boiled over on him. Moving things on his desk, pronouncing words wrong on purpose, and messing with his tie were little things that would pile up over time. It helped when you acted like you had no idea what you were doing and definitely, absolutely, were not doing it on purpose.
Dark was easy to ragebait. Wilford, surprising to anyone but you, was not.
The problem was that he knew all the tricks of the trade. He was too good at ragebaiting, and that meant he was too good at identifying when he was being baited. You couldn’t just randomly do things to fuck with him. He would just dance around them, like a happy, fake-oblivious ballerina. He would even manage to turn the situation around and use it to ragebait you instead. Nothing worked on him. Nothing traditional, that is.
The method with Wilford is simple. You can’t piss him off by doing random, annoying little things. What worked, oddly enough, was stopping him from doing that same thing. You need the right opportunity for it to work, but when you got it, it was a sure fire way to get him riled up. It wasn’t even like it was that uncommon either. If you could catch him trying to ragebait someone—usually Dark as well—then you could simply stop him from doing that. Nothing got to Wilford quite like sabotage did. Maybe it was because he knew what you were doing, and he knew you knew what you were doing, and you both knew that you were just ruining his fun for the sake of it.
And maybe, admittedly, you were being a bit touchy-feely all day. Maybe you kept touching Dark’s waist whenever you fucked up how his tie was laying. Maybe you kept cutting Wilford off with a kiss whenever he was trying to say something stupid to Dark. Maybe you wanted their physical attention along with their mental attention. There was nothing wrong with that. That wasn’t a crime. You can’t be sent to jail for it.
You can brat a little close to the sun, though.
It was Dark who broke first. It was always Dark who broke first. It was him who stopped you in the middle of saying some stupid, anger-inducing thing by pulling you into a deep kiss just to shut you up. He just wanted to get some work done, but his two favorite people in the whole world just had to cause him problems. Wilford he couldn’t do anything about. He knew he was never going to change that man’s behavior; he’s tried. But he still held out some dim hope that maybe, just maybe, you could be reasoned with.
Or, at the very least, you could temporarily have this mood fucked out of you. Even that didn’t always work on Wilford.
And that’s what led you to where you were now. Dark is pressed against your front, Wilford curled around your back. The three of you were on your knees, both of your holes filled with one of them. Dark’s thrusts were meaner and rougher, while Wilford was more just lazily grinding into you. Dark had been the first to pull you in and start pulling your clothes, and Wilford had gleefully joined in. You’re certain he’s doing this partly because he’s horny, and partly because he’s wanting to go against what Dark was trying to do. Dark, for his part, was trying to both get his rocks off and get back at you for riling him up and being a nuisance all day.
The three of you were all in different states of undress. You were naked, your clothes thrown somewhere else in the room. Dark had tried to be at least somewhat neat when taking your clothes off, but Wilford didn’t seem to care much where your clothes came off. Dark was the most clothed. His shirt was still on, although slightly unbuttoned, with his tie loosened. Besides that, he only did enough to throw off his blazer and unbutton his pants and pull them down enough to get his cock out. Wilford was between the two of you in terms of clothing. He managed to actually get his pants all the way off, but his shirt was still mostly on.
“You’re being so good for us.” Wilford pants into the space between your neck and your shoulder. “You’re taking us so well.”
“Don’t tell her that.” Dark huffs back, pulling your hips down into his. “She’s not been good all day, that’s why she’s where she is right now.”
“You’re such a good girl.” Wilford continues, ignoring Dark entirely as he started actually thrusting instead of just lazily rutting into you. “So good for us. Don’t listen to Dark.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?” Dark complains, thrusting a little harder as to take his frustration out on you. “Shut up. She’s been bad all day. Don’t encourage this behavior from her.”
“Now, Dark, why would I ever be trying to piss you off?” Wilford asks incredulously. “That is so outside of my normal behavior, I don’t even know why you would begin to think that I would ever do such a thing.”
You have to give him credit for what he’s doing. You would verbally do so if it wasn’t for the fact that the two of them have you so wound up that you can’t even speak. All you’re really able to do is let out little moans and gasps as the two pump into you. Most people could not pull off such a blatant lie in the name of ragebaiting. It’s too obvious. No one in their right mind would fall for this. It’s too clear that it’s bait.
But Wilford knows that Dark is too deep into his (very horny) rage to care if it’s bait or not. That’s how he knows that it’ll work. And it does. It gets him exactly the response that he wants.
One of Dark’s hands leaves your hips and finds itself in Wilford’s hair. He cups the back of Wilford’s head, fingers tugging on his deep brown strands of hair, and pulls the man’s head over your shoulder and towards him. Dark kisses him, his mouth more harsh than it was sweet. Wilford lets a little hum out into kiss, pressing his lips against Dark’s with the same level of ferocity. He’s the one to open his mouth first too.
Dark pulls back after a moment, panting into the same air that Wilford was breathing. Wilford is left in a similar state, and the hand remaining on the back of his head keeps him from moving back and away from him. Dark looks Wilford up and down, his eyes moving quickly. It’s a small movement that only lasts a second or two. He’s just taking a moment to admire his other partner.
“Do you want me to fuck you like this once I’m done with her?” Dark huffs out, tugging on Wilford’s hair roughly. “Is that what would finally get you to shut up and behave?”
Wilford just groans in response, his eyes fluttering shut at the pull to his hair. And finally, Dark smiles. It’s not a big smile. It’s not a nice smile either. It’s a small, almost twisted, mean grin.
“You do?” Dark hums. “You want me to fuck you until you physically can’t manage to say anything stupid and infuriating like that again?”
It’s your turn to moan. They’re acting like you’re not there. They’re ignoring you almost entirely, except for the thrusts into your holes that make them hiss and groan between their words. It’s hot. It’s oddly arousing to just watch them do what they’re doing with each other. You wonder if it’s intentionally part of Dark’s punishment for you, or if it’s just a happy little side effect. It doesn’t hurt that the thought of seeing Wilford in your position makes you clench down on both of them.
Their groans are damn near synchronized. Dark finally lets go of Wilford’s hair, and the man behind you rests his head on the back of your shoulder. Dark’s hand returns to your hips, the fingers on both of his hands digging in slightly to your flesh as he uses them to anchor himself to you.
“I take it that you want to see that?” Dark growls, finally turning his head back to look at you. “You want to see Wilford getting the same treatment that I’m giving you?”
You were about to try and speak and reply to him, your mouth opening so words can get out, before you get cut off by your own voice squeaking. One of Wilford’s hands wandered down between your legs while you were preparing to speak. His fingers rub your clit in messy, rapid circles as he thrusts into your ass. Dark watches you, still awaiting an answer. Not trusting your voice, you nod for him, hoping that counts as good enough of an answer.
“I thought so.” Dark replies, taking it as an acceptable answer. “Do you think you’ve been good enough to get to watch that? Do you think that you’ve earned it?”
You nod again. Wilford starts placing kisses on the side of your neck, his mustache brushing against your skin.
“I don’t think you have.” Dark spits his words out and picks up the pace of his thrusts. “I don’t think you’ve been good enough to get what you want… Why don’t you beg for me? Maybe I’ll feel nice and have mercy on you if you beg well enough.”
You struggle to get any kind of words out. Any time you try, Wilford just increases the speed and pressure of his fingers on your sex. He doesn’t let up, not wanting you to be able to speak without fighting for it. He feels like he’s messed with Dark enough today. Now he feels like it’s only fair if he gives you the same treatment he’s been giving the other man.
“Please…” You manage to choke out. “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be good, just please let me see you fuck Wilford. I wanna see it so bad. Please, Dark.”
“What’s the magic word?” Wilford chuckles into your shoulder, egging you on. “You know what Dark wants to hear you say.”
“I’m- I’m sorry!” You whine out after being prompted. “I’m sorry for being a brat earlier! I’m sorry for riling you up! I’ll be good, I promise, just please let me watch you and Wilford!”
Dark thinks for a moment, his pace slowing down inside of you. It makes you whimper and grasp at his waist and shoulder. He tilts his head this way and that, thinking over whether or not he’s going to indulge you or not. He’s considering whether or not he thinks you’ve made up for your antics today.
“…I’ll allow it. You’ve been good since we started, and you begged so prettily for me, darling.” Dark decides. “But I want to feel you come around me first. Wilford, if you would?”
“Already on it.” He replies, making his movements on your clit more precise and targeted as Dark’s thrusts picked back up in speed.
“All you have to do is come for us. That’s all I’m asking you to do; all I want is you to do one of the things I’ve asked you today. Just be good for me.” Dark huffs out near your ear. “Can you do that for me?”
You moan again, nodding. You want to say that you’ve learned your lesson. You want to say that you really mean it when you say you're sorry, and that you really mean it when you say you’ll be good. But you know that’s not true, and so does Dark, and so does Wilford. But that’s okay, because that’s the game you three play, and you’ve ended up like this before, and you’ll end up like this again later down the line.
Summary: You ask Matt Murdock a nice, sweet, innocent, normal question. He doesn’t have anything remotely close to a normal answer.
(Contains: hand kisses, cuddling, heartbeats, reader doesn’t know that Matt is Daredevil, Matt is a bit of a freak but we love him)
Word Count: 1k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: Despite him being my pfp for damn near a year now, it’s taken me this long to write something for him
Matt decides, right then and there, in your living room, that he hates those stupid couple trends online. If you were anyone else, maybe he would have considered it to be just a sweet question you were asking him. But he knows you. He knows that, while you do ask those sweet, silly couples’ questions, you never ask the normal ones unless you saw something about it online. If it wasn’t something weird like “what kind of snowman do you think I would be”, then it had to be something you saw on your phone.
Matt doesn’t hate the normal questions. He just hates this one, because he has a weird answer to it.
You’re curled up with him on the couch when you pop the question. You’re tucked against his side, your legs thrown over his, with one of his arms thrown over the back of your shoulders. It’s a soft, comfortable moment, and Matt couldn’t be happier. He rarely gets to sit down with you like this, and like a sunflower with the sun, he wants to soak up as much time with you like this as he could.
“Babe?” You ask, drawing his attention. “What’s your favorite part of me?”
“My… favorite part of you?” He asks back for clarification after a moment.
“Yeah. Like… your favorite part of me.” You elaborate, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Some people think their partner has cute ears, or they like how their freckles look, or they think they have good legs or something. I just… wanted to know what you thought.”
Matt is quiet for a long, long moment, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. He wasn’t thinking about what the answer to your question was. He knew what he would pick the moment you asked. He was trying to figure out how to answer your question in a way that would make sense to you.
“Your heart.” He settles on. “You’re kind, and sweet, and far more forgiving than I deserve at times. You’re passionate about the things and people you love, and I like that too, especially since I am one of those people.”
“That’s cheating!” You protested, but he could feel the way you were smiling against his shoulder, your face turned inwards towards it just slightly.
“That’s cheating?”
“Yeah! It’s gotta be a physical thing, not a personality thing!”
And what he can’t tell you—what makes him feel like a weirdo for admitting with no context—is that it was the physical organ he was referring to.
He loves your heart. He really, really loves it. He loves the way it sounds when you sleep next to him, because it reminds him that you’re there and you’re fine. He loves the way your heartbeat picks up whenever he says something romantic, like the other reasons he gave for why he loves your heart. He loves the way the distinct thump-thump-thump in your chest lets him find you in even the most crowded places.
But he can’t tell you any of that. You think he’s just a normal blind man. He hasn’t told you about the whole superpowers thing, and you haven’t put the pieces of it together yet. If you knew, then him telling you he liked your heart wouldn’t be as weird. But if he told you that he liked your heart, the organ, without any context, then he would sound like a creepy serial killer.
“You never specified.” He tells you instead with a grin. “That means my answer is still perfectly fair and valid.”
“No, it doesn’t! You know that’s not what I meant now, so now you have to give me a proper answer!”
“No can do, Angel.” He replies, chuckling. “Asked and answered. I can’t answer a question twice, just because you want another answer. You should have specified the first time.”
“…fine.” You concede with a sigh. “This is what I get for dating a lawyer.”
“Yes, it is.” He ducks his head down, kissing the top of your head. “Now you have to answer the question: what’s your favorite part of me? Your favorite physical part.”
He can tell you’re resisting the urge to give his shoulder a little shove at that comment. Instead of doing that, you think about your answer. It doesn’t take you too long to find it either.
“…your hands.” You finally land on.
Matt is a little surprised by your answer. Hands aren’t the most unconventional thing to find attractive, but it wasn’t quite what he expected you to say. If he was going to guess, he would have aimed a bit higher. You did always say how much you like his arms, mainly his biceps.
“I like watching them when you’re focused on reading.” You continue, taking one of his hands in one of yours. “And I like holding them. They fit in mine nicely, and I don’t know if you know this, but you do this really cute thing where you squeeze my hand slightly before you let go. Also, I like that I can do this to them.”
You lift his hand up to your mouth and press a small kiss to the back of his knuckles. Now it’s his turn to be flustered and his turn to have his heart rate spike just a little.
You’re adorable, and you’re sweet, and you’re all around lovely. It’s not that Matt forgets this, it’s just that sometimes it fades a little into the background of his mind. But then you do something like bring him lunch at the office or fix his tie for him or do something nice like this, and it becomes all he can think about.
He decides right then and there in your living room that he was going to tell you that he was Daredevil. He could trust you enough and knew that this was long-term enough that he could and should let you know about his nightly activities.
Someday.
Eventually.
…Foggy was going to kill him for putting this off more than he already has.
Summary: Sanji is in the kitchen. That’s nothing new. He’s usually in the kitchen. If he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was in the pantry. He’s their cook. It’s his job to be in those places all day. That isn’t what stunned him into stillness.
No, that would be the part where Sanji was shirtless.
(Contains: bickering, canon typical behavior from these two, enemies to crushes, Zoro being bad at feelings and oblivious, shirtless Sanji, hot weather)
Word Count: 1.4k
Read here on Ao3 here
A/N: Can you tell I started writing this about a week ago during the heat wave?
It’s hot.
It’s unbelievably, unbearably, inescapably hot. The Sunny was sailing near a summer island during its hottest months, and the weather wasn’t letting the crew forget it. There was nowhere on the ship they could go without feeling like they were boiling alive.
They all tried to cope as best as they could. Usopp had taken the Mini Merry II out a few times and was using the sea to cool off. Nami was sitting under her tangerine trees and had started hoarding the ship’s supply of ice. Franky essentially turned himself into a giant ice pack, and Chopper and Robin were curling up against him. Luffy had literally melted into a puddle, and Brook, while complaining to his heart’s content, didn’t seem to really be affected by the heat.
Zoro didn’t care about the heat. Sure, it was hot out, but that wasn’t going to stop him from going about his day. If he was willing to swim in frozen water for training reasons, why wouldn’t he push through the opposite for the same reasons?
The heat does make him dehydrate easier. He would readily admit that, since dealing with it was annoying. The more easily dehydrated he is, the more frequently he has to get something to drink. The more times he has to step away to get something to drink, the less time he has to spend training. It wasn’t ideal.
Zoro walks down into the kitchen, annoyed by his body’s incessant need for more and more water. It was his fourth trip down there today, and he is beyond sick of it already. He pushes the door open, intending to go open the fridge and get himself something to drink. He is stopped dead in his tracks by the sight that greeted him.
Sanji is in the kitchen. That’s nothing new. He’s usually in the kitchen. If he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was in the pantry. He’s their cook. It’s his job to be in those places all day. That isn’t what stunned him into stillness.
No, that would be the part where Sanji was shirtless.
There were a few immutable, unchangeable rules to life. Gravity pulled things to the ground. Days lasted twenty-four hours. Sanji always had some kind of shirt on. Button down, polo, hell, even one or two graphic tees were in Sanji’s rotation. But shirtless never is. Or, rather, never was. It seems like the recent increase in temperature has changed the blond’s mind on certain things.
It’s probably for the best that he has. He’s drenched in sweat. Wearing a shirt in weather like this would only make him overheat more. And that wasn’t even considering how many shirts he would be sweating through. From the looks of things, if he had tried making it through the day with a shirt on, he would have soaked through at least three of them since he got up.
Zoro stands there staring. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. He doesn’t think he’s ever stared at the man like this before. Maybe he’s taken a quick glance out of the corner of his eye once or twice, but he doesn’t believe he’s ever stared at Sanji. He tries to move or look away, but he can’t. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.
“Are you going to just stand there forever, or is there something you actually need, marimo?” Sanji asks from where he had his head stuck inside the fridge, completely oblivious to the way that Zoro was looking at him.
“…What are you doing?” The green-haired man asks after a few moments.
“I’m trying to figure out what recipes I can actually make right now. It’s too hot to turn on the oven, so I need something that can be made without heat that we have the ingredients for.”
“…You’re shirtless.”
“Astute observation, dumbass. It’s too hot for me to even try wearing something. I don’t see why this is such a big deal to you.”
“…Because you always wear a shirt?” Zoro replied, like the reason he gave for his confusion was obvious.
“Not in this weather I don’t. I’m from the North Blue. Normal levels of heat are awful to me. This heat is killing me.” Sanji pulls the upper part of his body out of the fridge so he can look at Zoro as he talks. “Did you seriously come in here just to ask me stupid questions and point out the obvious?”
Zoro swallows thickly. The sight of Sanji’s bare chest did something to him that the view of his back didn’t. Sanji had a nice back, Zoro wouldn’t deny that, but his chest just made Zoro feel… different. It was like he was going to throw up, but in an oddly enjoyable way?
He’s almost certain that something was wrong with him, physically or psychologically. He doesn’t want to tell Chopper about what he assumed to be oddly pleasant nausea, but he makes a mental note to do so anyways. He wants this feeling gone, and since he doesn’t know what’s causing it, the only way to get it gone is to tell the ship’s doctor.
Until then, he’s assuming he has some weird tapeworm. Maybe the tapeworm was making him like the feeling so he doesn’t try to get rid of it. Can tapeworms do that? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that they make your stomach feel weird.
“Yeah, actually, I am.” Zoro tries to deadpan, seemingly remembering why he was here to begin with. “It’s hot out. I want something to drink. Move out of the way, shitty cook.”
Zoro tries to act normal. He lightly shoulders Sanji out of the way so he could get into the fridge. He feels his bare arm touch Sanji’s skin. His face heats up, and whatever parasite is currently in his stomach starts going ballistic. Maybe it was allergic to contact with Sanji. Could parasites even be allergic to people their hosts touched?
He grabs the first bottled drink he sees and backs away from Sanji and the fridge as fast as he possibly can. They stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment. Zoro struggles to keep his eyes on Sanji’s face, his gaze constantly being pulled down to his torso by some unseen internal force. Sanji opens his mouth, trying to say something, but Zoro cuts him off.
“I’m going to go train now.”
Zoro turns and bolts out of the kitchen. He tries not to. He tries to just walk out casually, but it doesn’t really work. He thinks—hopes, really—that Sanji doesn’t notice that he’s acting weird. He hears Sanji mutter something as he speed-walks away, and he knows that Sanji noticed.
He slows down once he gets above deck. He realizes, once he and the weird parasite in his gut calm down, that he has no idea what he actually grabbed. It’s a plastic bottle, one of the soft ones, and it’s mostly yellow, with a bit of green. He decides to actually look at what it is before taking a sip and finding out the hard way. He looks down at the bottle he grabbed.
In his hand is a bottle of lemon juice.
Zoro considers his options. On one hand, he doesn’t want to drink lemon juice. It’s sour and unpleasant to drink in large quantities. He’s also not even sure if it would hydrate him properly. He used to assume that really any liquid would hydrate him, but then Chopper got onto him for “drinking too much alcohol and not enough water” so he’s not sure about any liquid but water anymore.
On the other hand, he also doesn’t want to go through the process of putting the lemon juice back and grabbing an actual beverage. He’d have to go back down there and be stuck in the same room as Sanji for at least a minute and a half. Not to mention it would be embarrassing to have to walk back in after speeding out. But doing that would be easy. He didn’t care what Sanji thought about him or what he did.
…He shouldn’t care about what Sanji thought about him or what he did. He shouldn’t be seriously considering just drinking this lemon juice to avoid doing something embarrassing in front of a man whose opinion he couldn’t care less about.
…
Zoro pops the lid off of the bottle and takes a swig as he walks back to where he was training at.
When Did You Get Hot? (Scogean x reader) - Chapter 3: Skeleton (Not) In The Closet
Series Summary: After a few years of being away, you finally return to Xavier’s School and the X-Men. Some things have changed: the school is larger, you have to teach now, your old best friend hates you, and there’s a short man who you find very attractive whose classroom is down the hall from you. Some things stay the same: the professor still does weird mind reading shit, the layout of the mansion is still vaguely the same, your old classmates are still around, you maybe still think one of your old friends is really cute.
Chapter Summary: One of the original five brings you a gift. You also meet the local man under 5’4” and strike up a deal with him.
(Series Contains: slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, strangers to friends to lovers, mutant reader, mild angst, insane levels of tension and pettiness, workplace(?) meet cutes, polycules forming and expanding, eventual quad polycule where everyone is involved with each other, gn reader)
(Chapter Contains: Bobby Drake being Bobby Drake, Logan Howlett being Logan Howlett)
Word Count: 3.6k
Read on Ao3 here
A/N: I learned that it turns out that there’s an existing mutant already that’s named Marrow with similar powers to Reader so I’m gonna go back and fix that at a later date, I’m open to name suggestions for bone based names. Powers are gonna be roughly the same so uh… there’s just two bone mutants running around in this world ig.
Bobby Drake brought you a skeleton as a house warming gift.
Let’s back up a bit.
You didn’t come down to the kitchen for lunch in time. You were too wrapped up in your war against the cobwebs. You did have lunch, though, just… an hour late and by yourself. Which was fine by you. You were used to eating by yourself. It just, admittedly, sucked that you didn’t get to eat lunch with Jean. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.
You went back to clearing once you were done with your stupid uneven sandwich. You weren’t going to take any flack for your sandwich skills. The way the deli meat folded always caused issues with making the sandwich perfectly level. The middle of the sandwich always had more meat and cheese than the rest of the sandwich. That’s just how it worked.
But that’s besides the point.
Since you were done getting the cobwebs out of the corners of the room, you started getting the students desk wiped down. They were old, and dusty, and they definitely needed some love and care before your students would be able to sit in them.
You had made it halfway through scrubbing all the desks in the room when someone knocked on your classroom door. You put the rag you were using down on the desk you were working on and got up. Whoever was behind the door was knocking over and over and over again, like an impatient child. For all you knew, they were an impatient child.
“Alright, alright, I hear you.” You groaned, pulling the door open. “You don’t need to… Bobby Drake?”
“Surprise!” He grinned at you from the other side of the doorway.
Seeing Bobby gave you the same feeling you had when you first saw Scott and Jean again, but slightly different. It wasn’t that you weren’t close to Bobby or anything — everyone in the first class were pretty tight knit — it’s just that he was closer with Hank and Warren, and you were closer with Jean and Scott. But that doesn’t matter, because when you looked at him, you remembered what he looked like as a kid and you don’t think he looks that different now. He’s just taller and a bit older. He still looks like a goofball.
“How did you even know I was up here?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Jean told me.” Bobby answered, trying to keep something out of your sightline from the door. “You missed lunch, and that means you missed the welcoming party.”
“There was a welcoming party?” You cringed, suddenly feeling bad that you missed lunch. You didn’t want everyone’s efforts to go to waste.
“Okay, it wasn’t a party party, some of us just wanted to use it as a good way to welcome you back all at once.” Bobby corrected himself. “But since you didn’t get a chance to show up, I went out and got you a little something.”
“You… got me something?”
“Yeah!” He grinned. “I got you a little housewarming gift! Well, I guess it’s a classroom warming gift, but close enough!”
You did not like that grin. It was not an evil grin; Bobby was not an evil person. But you’ve known him long enough and well enough to know that that grin forbode nothing good. It wasn’t necessarily an omen of bad things, but it was never a sign of good things. Usually it heralded stupid things. Very stupid things.
“Bobby, what the hell did you buy?” You sighed, punching the bridge of your nose.
“I’m glad you asked!”
He pulled whatever he was hiding out from behind the other side of the door. You heard it click and rattle as he moved it, and you got your first good look at it when he set it up in the doorway.
It was… a skeleton.
An anatomical display skeleton, to be precise. It was one of the ones you put up in an anatomy classroom for students to look at and use as a visual reference. It stood hovering over its pedestal, held upright by the metal pole attached to it, holding it upright by the back of its spine.
“Where the fuck did you get this?” You asked, baffled.
“A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“How did you even afford it? This thing cannot be cheap.”
“A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“Okay, smartass.” You tried to sound annoyed, but you couldn’t keep the smile off of your face, and you couldn’t keep the laugh out of your throat. “Help me move this thing.”
You and Bobby shuffled the thing into and across the room. You pulled it from behind, and he pushed it from the front, meaning you had to rely on him to tell you where to go. It went pretty well, all things considered. He only almost leads you into a desk once, and the skeleton almost rips over onto its side once, but the two of you are quick to correct both mistakes before anything comes of them.
It’s weird. You haven’t worked with him in a decade now, but you can still read him. You know when he needs to step to the left or lean to the right. You know when he can hold more of the weight, and when he needs you to take the majority of it. It is such an odd, bizarre feeling to have, knowledge that you haven’t used in forever coming back like nothing happened.
But it makes you feel good. It means Scott was wrong. You were still an X-Man. You did still have teamwork skills. Sure, moving a fake skeleton across a room was different from fighting an evil villain, but the same basic concepts applied. Maybe you still needed a little training, just to refresh your skills a little more, but you didn’t need nearly as much as Scott insisted you did. That made you very happy.
“Okay. I think here’s a good spot for it.” You stopped next to your desk, putting your end of the model down. Bobby followed suit. Then he stepped back to get a good look at it. He nodded approvingly.
“Looks good there. It’s a classic spot too.” He added. “Right next to the teacher’s desk, so you can point at it while giving your students a lecture on… the rib cage, or something.”
That made you realize something. It wasn’t that long after lunch, and it was a school day. There was no way that the kids were out of classes by now. Which means…
“Bobby, don’t you have a lecture to go give on something or another?” You asked.
“I mean… yeah.” He admitted. “But Warren’s covering for me right now. That’s one of the great things about having a boyfriend: I almost always have someone around willing to go along with my stupid ideas.”
“Is there anyone else I knew in high school that are now together that I should know about?” You muttered to yourself under your breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Bobby, just…stop making Warren teach your class for you and go give a lecture on ice physics or whatever it is you teach.”
“Fine. I’ll stop making Warren do my job.” He sighed, walking over to the door. “Hey, I’ll see you around. You better not be a stranger.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Bobby slipped out of the room and started down the hall. Or, at the very least, you thought he did. You turned back to your students’ desks and got to work scrubbing them again. Not even a minute passed before there’s a knock at your door again. You turned your head to look at it. It’s Bobby again, peaking his head inside the doorway with a shit-eating grin.
“By the way, I teach kids about the state of matter, not just ice, so…”
“Get the hell out of my classroom, stupid.”
“I’m not in your classroom, I’m in the hallway.”
“Bobby-“
You didn’t finish your sentence. Instead, you sprung up and started towards the door. Bobby laughed at you and ducked back through the door. By the time you rounded the corner, he was already halfway down the hall. You weren’t going to let that stop you. You pulled your arm back, ready to throw your cleaning rag at him.
…
He’s too far away now. You’ll never make the shot.
You sighed and dropped your arm back down. Oh well. You’ll get him next time, you supposed. You turned from where you were staring down the hall after Bobby, intending to go back into your classroom.
There’s a little girl standing at the other end of the hall, opposite from where Bobby ran off to. She’s staring at you.
You stared back. What else were you supposed to do? This little kid, who was maybe around eleven years old, had just watched you do something stupidly juvenile, and now she was staring at you with big wide eyes. You waited for her to say something. She does. You decide to.
“Don’t tell anyone about this.” You told her. “You did not see me do that, understand?”
The girl didn’t say anything in response. She just kept staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.
Does that mean that she wasn’t going to snitch and tell everyone she knew what you almost did?
You were going to take it as her not snitching and telling everyone what you just did.
You slinked back into your classroom, not breaking eye contact the entire time. Once you were inside the room, you pulled the door shut, stopping her from staring at you. After a few seconds of the door being closed, you heard giggling out in the hallway.
You’ve lost all respect, reputation, and authority as a teacher. You know this. You’ve accepted this. You haven’t held a singular class yet, and it’s already over. That little girl is going to tell everyone that you almost threw a rag at your friend’s head, and they will never listen to you when you tell them to stop doing stupid things, because you are just as bad as them.
Oh well. Nothing you could do about it now.
You went back to cleaning the desks. It felt like they were never-ending. It was like a hydra — you cleaned one desk, and two new dirty ones popped up. Every time you checked your progress, you swore that there couldn’t be that many desks left.
But you made your way through it eventually. It took what felt like five years, but you managed to get all of the desks clean. You dropped your rag off in your box of cleaning supplies. The room looked infinitely better now.
Now you got to spend a bit of time on the fun part of setting up a room like this: decorating. You couldn’t just leave the room bland and as-is. It would look depressing and drab as hell I’m here. You weren’t the most confident in your teaching abilities, but at the very least you were going to ensure your students didn’t totally hate your class.
You considered your options. Posters were a classic, you could put up some posters. You weren’t exactly sure where you could get anatomy themed posters, but you were sure you could find some one line somewhere. You just had to make sure you didn’t get any of the boring posters that classrooms sometimes had.
You could also have a wall for students to decorate. That could be a fun first day activity. Or maybe you could make it a year-long activity. The students would probably be drawing and coloring diagrams throughout the year. You could put the ones they were proud of up on the wall.
You were in the middle of trying to pick a good wall for that when your classroom door opened. You expected it to be Bobby again, coming back to lovingly harass you. But when you looked over at the door, your eyes looking at where his eyes should be, you didn’t see anything. You dropped your gaze down when you realized that your guest was much shorter than Bobby.
The new guy looked like he was about five feet tall, maybe a couple inches taller. You wouldn’t have called him small, though, not exactly. He was short, but he was built like a linebacker. Or maybe comparing him to a bouncer would be better. He looked about as grumpy as one.
…It was hard to take him completely seriously with those tufts of hair he had sticking up, though. There was one on either side of his head, sticking up from the rest of his hair. It reminded you almost of a cat’s ears, to be honest.
You stared at him for a second, before remembering that this guy had just pushed your door open with no notice.
“You… do know there’s a thing called knocking, right?”
“Yep. Sure do.”
“Okay…” You dragged the word out. “So why didn’t you?”
“Why would I?”
“Because the door was closed, and it’s polite.”
“It’s not like this is your bedroom or anything. It’s a classroom.” He shot back. “It’s a public area.”
“It’s a public area, but people still knock.”
“No, students knock. Do I look like a student to you?”
You bit back the urge to tell him that he was as short as one. You didn’t know this guy. You didn’t know how he would take it. Given how he looked like he was perpetually pissed off, you have it about a fifty-fifty shot that he wouldn’t take it well.
“Point taken.” You begrudgingly admitted.
The two of you went back to staring. You didn’t know if he wanted you to start whatever this was off by saying something or not, but you weren’t going to. He’s the one that burst into your classroom. Clearly he wanted something or another. He was a big boy. He could ask about it or talk about it himself, without prompting. You weren’t going to do it for him.
“Logan.” He eventually broke and said, sticking out a hand for you to shake. “Or Wolverine.”
You introduced yourself in turn, taking his hand and shaking it. The handshake was brief, but you still felt something… odd about his hands. You probably wouldn’t have even noticed it if you don’t know the human skeleton the way you did.
His bones didn’t feel like they were in quite the right spot. They weren’t very far off, and their alignment was generally correct, but it felt like there was just a little too much space between the bones of his palm that connected to each finger. A quick glance down at his hands showed off what looked like metal shoots between his bones, three on each hand, right between his knuckles.
You quickly looked back up. You didn’t want to stare. It was rude, and you knew no one liked to be stared at.
“My classroom is down the hall.” Logan continues. “I teach art.”
“Oh… any specific kind of art, or…?”
“No. Just art in general. The kids can pick whatever kind they want.”
You were, admittedly, kind of confused by what was supposed to be going on here. Did he just… come in to introduce himself? You assumed it was. You didn’t really know what else it could be.
“Oh. Cool. I teach anatomy.” You offered, trying to match his energy.
“I know. Chuck told me.”
Well, fuck you, you guess! Maybe this wasn’t some weird, awkward introduction after all! It seemed like he knew everything he needed to know about you already!
And that meant he was here for something else. What that something could be, you had no idea. This guy hasn’t given you any indication of what he wants. You didn’t know if you liked him or not, given he seemed obtuse as hell and also lacked all manners. What you did know was that this was a man who pissed people off, Scott Summers included, more than likely. You had a knee-jerk reaction to feel bad for your old friend. Then you remembered he was being a jackass, and you stopped feeling bad for him.
“Okay. So why are you in my classroom right now, besides to have an insanely awkward conversation?” You finally bit the bullet and asked.
“Because my students are asking how to draw and sculpt people, and I have no idea what tips to give them. I can help when it comes to animals, but I’m no good with people.”
“So you want me to help you by teaching your students how to draw people?”
“You can teach them, you can teach me so I can teach them, it doesn’t matter. As long as someone can teach them, that’s all I care about.”
You thought it over. You weren’t certain, but you think your schedule made you not have classes on Wednesdays. You kind of wanted your day off in the middle of the week to remain your day off, especially since you were certain you were going to have at least some level of training with Scott that day, but… you couldn’t not help those kids.
“Do you have classes on Wednesday?” You asked after you made up your mind.
“Yep.”
“What periods?”
“Third, fourth, and fifth.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good to know.” He said. “Do you need any help with all of this?”
He waved an arm around at your classroom. That surprised you. You kind of expected him to just bail once he got his answer. But he didn’t. He was actually willing to help you, which was nice, since you were going to help him.
That does it. You’ve decided that you like this guy.
“No, I think I’ve got the worst of it done already.” You smiled at him. “Thank you for offering though. Really. I mean it.”
“Don’t mention it. Well, if you do need anything, you know where to find me.” He replied as he left. He didn’t close your classroom door. Asshole.
You’re tempted to yell down the hall that you don’t know where to find him. He never told you which classroom he was set up in, and he didn’t tell you which bedroom was his either. But you don’t do that. You figured that if you really needed him, you would just hunt him down. So instead of yelling at him, you just got up and closed your door.
Finishing up everything in your room barely took an hour. You weren’t doing any real cleaning, besides wiping down your desk, but that wasn’t much work. You mostly just finished up mapping out all of your decoration placements.
You called it a night at about four-thirty PM. That was enough cleaning and thinking for one day, you decided. You left your classroom with a sigh, closing the door behind you. There were no children out here to stare at you this time. Good. That eliminated one problem.
It didn’t eliminate every problem you had though. It didn’t even take care of the most pressing one.
You were bored. Painfully bored. It was too early in the day to go to bed, so you couldn’t do that. You used to live here, but that was over a decade ago. The city and the mansion have surely changed a great deal since you’ve been here, hasn’t it? It had to have. And that meant you didn’t know what was and wasn’t in the rec room, assuming there was still a rec room, and you didn’t know what was still around out in the city. That meant you didn’t really have any ideas on what to do.
You had a very, very limited number of people you could ask about this. You weren’t asking some stranger you’ve never talked to about fun places to go in the city. Sure, that was how people recommended getting to know people sometimes, but you sure as hell weren’t going to do it. So that left you with the handful of people that you’ve spoken to before this exact second that you could bother for information here.
Scott was an immediate no. Not only because you weren’t talking to him, but also because if he was anything like the Scott you remembered, then he wouldn’t know shit because he didn’t leave the house for fun most of the time. Jean might know somewhere good, same goes for Bobby, but Jean might try to go with you and want to bring Scott, and Bobby might just send you somewhere random for shits and giggles. You haven’t spoken to Warren or Beast at all since you’ve come back, and you don’t want the first conversation you have with them to be “hey, can you tell me a cool place to go so I can leave immediately and do something more exciting than talk to you?” Logan… seemed like he only goes to bars, which you think you could find yourself.
Remy seemed like your best bet. He seems like he has a life outside of the mansion.
