it seems that someone is trying to make shameless the next show that does that to me

Nowhere Fast (Logan x Reader)

 Word Count: 7k+

Rating: M for some mild smut

Warnings: None

Note:  I’m playing fast and loose with the events of “Logan” so most of this is pretty inaccurate. Took the basic premise and turned it into a fix-it fic slash road trip romance because the ending of that godfuckingdamn movie made me want to cry and I couldn’t leave the love of my life like that.
Also keep in mind that I have no fucking idea how cars work so anything in this oneshot is just guesswork.

ALSO the reader is said to be nineteen because duh this started out as a shameless self insert because I ADORE logan and he deserves love and someone who will appreciate his abs

It becomes his next mission, after Laura. Saving kids like her. Bringing them up across the border. And of course it’s easier said than done, but Logan feels like he owes it to them. It’s partially his fault their lives have gone to hell, anyway.

That’s how he meets (Name). She’s a mutant, the first natural-born one he’d seen in years– not strong, though, not with all the shit Transigen has been fucking dumping into the food and the water supply– and her entire telekinesis thing had brought a horde of those asshole Reavers crawling out of whatever hellhole they’d been stowed away in to track her down.

He picks her up in a bar somewhere east of Phoenix, Arizona.


The first thing he really registers about her is that she’s fucking pretty.

He notices her in fragments– she’s attractive in that sort of innocent way, with wide, wide eyes and dark lashes and a soft pink mouth and a bright smile, cutoff denim shorts exposing just a little more skin than actually necessary, enough that it makes him swallow around a sudden tightness in his throat.

He ignores it, focuses hard on doing what he came here to do, manages to get her out of there and into his truck without incident. Somehow she ropes him into small talk on the drive, though, and that– that’s where everything just ends up going to shit.

He tells her he’s like her– a mutant– explains where they’re going and why. Up through Michigan, to Canada, he tells her, because the Reavers will be expecting them to try to get through North Dakota again, and he’d rather be safe than dead. A solemn silence follows, which she breaks by making an odd sort of happy noise at whatever music is playing through his shitty speakers, and forcing him to crank up the radio for a song he’s never heard before. She tells him that she loves the song with a smile that’s pleasantly genuine. He says all he likes is alcohol and cigars and for some reason she finds that funny.

She asks him how old he is– “Old enough,” he says, avoiding the question– and then they lapse into a short silence.

“I’ll be nineteen soon,” she mentions as he’s crossing the state lines into New Mexico, an unimportant remark made in passing, and Logan feels his throat tighten inexplicably.

He glances over at her, mumbles some intelligible reply, rakes a too-hot gaze up her legs and over the front of her half-unbuttoned flannel shirt and registers that his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry and that his stomach is sinking–

She’s barely even legal , he thinks, hopelessly resigned to how much he already knows he doesn’t fucking care.


They get to the safe house just fine, and Logan breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they pull into the winding dirt driveway at nearly two in the morning– the hardest part of this is over. His connection will be over within the week to take her up to where the rest of the kids are, and that’ll be it.

He never shows up.

Which is just fucking great, and leaves him with the responsibility of bringing her up to Canada himself.

It’s fine, he tells himself, as he pushes open the heavy oak door to the safehouse and realizes it’s only got two rooms.


There are separate beds, at least.

It’s not fine.

He finds out almost immediately that she sleeps in nothing but a t-shirt and underwear. That first day is hell– it’s like she’s actively trying to kill him; she runs around the house they’re forced to share in the tiniest goddamn shorts he’s ever seen and seems to own a fucking million of those tight, low-cut tank tops. And it’s not just that– she’s a good kid, too, which just makes it worse.

She’s cheerful. She’s smart and a little sarcastic and ridiculously positive, but she’s also focused. Nothing he does goes over her head. At first Logan spends half his time being ridiculously fucking careful about what he says and how he says it just to make sure he doesn’t accidentally scare her away, because he knows he can be frightening. He’s killed people before.

Three days in he becomes convinced that the girl honestly doesn’t care. Nothing he does ever phases her.

It’s nice.

She’s clever, and brave, and unfailingly, stupidly kind.

It’s fucking weird.

On the last day, he wakes up to her fucking making him breakfast at seven in the morning like it’s a normal thing for her to do.

“It’s sort of a thank you, for, you know,” she mumbles through a mouthful of blueberry pancakes, “For saving my life.”

“Mm,” Logan responds, trying not to stare– because her nightshirt is incredibly fucking see-through and he might be two-hundred-something years old but he’s still a man, and–


It’s fine.

(It’s not fine.)

“You could say thank you,” she whines through his silence, pretty obviously not meaning it.

“Thanks,” Logan replies, more gruffly than he intended. He pours cheap convenience-store syrup over the pancakes and focuses harder than necessary on cutting the stack into neat, even pieces. She bites her bottom lip. He does not look.

“So,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes thoughtfully. “I– what are we going to do? I mean, we can’t– how long are we staying here?”

He licks his lips. Swallows. Drops his fork down on his plate and clears his throat with a cough that’s a little too rattling to be healthy, and says,

“Not long.”

She doesn’t say anything.

It surprises him, how easily she accepts the answer. To be honest, it’s nice, because he really didn’t feel like arguing, but a part of him wonders about her family and her friends and if there will be anyone to miss her– if Transigen fucking left anyone alive to miss her. The answer, if he had to guess, is no. She’s alone. She’s probably already been through her fair share of hell, but she still sings as she does the dishes, swaying gently to the tinny sound of some acoustic pop song as it filters in from the cheap radio he keeps on the kitchen window sill. He finds himself in awe of how incredibly fucking happy she still manages to be.  

Logan leans back in his chair and he sips at his coffee and he watches her as she stares almost pensively out the bay window above the sink, her face illuminated in the warmth of the morning sunlight.

It’s nice, he thinks. It’s normal.

It doesn’t stay that way. Things like this usually don’t.


They clear out two days later. Logan leaves two hundred dollars crammed in the space between the front step and the doorframe for his contact who had set up the safehouse– if he isn’t already dead– and loads the remaining food and supplies into the back of his beat-down pickup truck.

“What the fuck,” she says, looking half-dead in the passenger seat– and it’s not really a question, so Logan doesn’t bother to really answer.

“Seat belt.”

“What the fuck,” she repeats, louder, voice taking on a whiny sort of edge that should really piss him off more than it does. He’s already got a soft spot for her, apparently. Jesus Christ.

Logan grits his teeth.

What ?” he responds, deadpan.

“Wh– you dragged me out of bed at five in the fucking morning,” she says, kicking her feet up on the dashboard with a yawn.

Logan growls, and swats at her kneecaps with the folded-up, coffee-stained road map he’d swiped from one of those shady-looking rest stops by the highway. “Get ‘em off,” he snaps.

She flashes him a rude look, and in a move entirely indicative of how young she actually is, sticks her fucking tongue out at him , a flash of red against the white of her teeth.

And Logan–

Logan laughs. He laughs, the sound abrupt and kind of stilted, like he isn’t used to doing it, like there hasn’t been a reason for him to in what feels like years.

Which is probably true.

Fuck, he thinks.

The girl– she’s still looking at him, flatly unimpressed. Waiting for an answer, or an explanation, or something.

“We had to leave early,” Logan says, risking a side-glance over at her as he maneuvers out of the dirt driveway. “Makes sure we won’t be followed.”

She stares at him for a moment longer, and then heaves a sigh, leaning back against the leather-upholstered seat.

“I forgot about that,” she eventually offers. It’s kind of an apology.

He responds with a noncommittal grunt, reaching over to turn the radio up.

Soon enough they find the main road, and start heading northwest on a mostly-empty highway. The sky is still dark. The only light comes from the streetlamps, glinting off of the tinted windows in eerie, fleeting patterns as he drives past them, one by one.

“You’re not forgiven, though,” she says eventually, lips twitching up into a semblance of a smile. “I don’t get up before ten.”

Logan rolls his eyes. He wants to say something dismissive. Something rude, something to shut down whatever semblance of a friendship they’ve established.

Before he can muster up the courage to say anything she’s rolling down the windows and sliding on a pair of fucking sunglasses even though it’s like, five-thirty in the fucking morning, and turning up the radio as far as it will go. In the distance, the sun finally slips past the horizon line, and the light takes on this warm, ethereal sort of tone, highlighting the planes of her face in a way that makes Logan think about– things. Stupid things.

She’s pretty in a way that she shouldn’t be.

Whatever Logan was about to say dries up and disappears somewhere below his adam’s apple.

He looks at her.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirrored lenses of her knockoff Ray Bans.

“I can’t see shit,” she says, and, again, he finds himself laughing.


The first night, he manages to find a place for them to sleep: a motel about a half mile from the highway, nestled between a tiny gas station and a greasy, stereotypical “All-American” burger joint.

And it’s shitty.

Logan walks into their room and feels like he’s been blasted back to the fucking 1980s– between the weirdly overused floral patterns fading on the bedspread and the honest-to-god shag carpet, it’s like he’s stumbled into a time capsule.

“Ew,” the girl says, inspecting an odd stain on the chintz armchair by the coffee table. “ Ew.”

Logan scans the room. One bed. No couches, just chairs. The girl notices him silently studying the furniture and immediately sees the problem.

Her solution surprises him.

“We can share,” she says nonchalantly, “Just don’t snore.”

Logan opens his mouth, but doesn’t actually say anything. He closes it.


And that goes about as well as expected– which is to say they go to bed a respectable distance away from each other, and Logan manages to fall asleep without thinking too much about the practically half-naked girl next to him.


He wakes up on his side, hip digging uncomfortably into the box spring set beneath the paper-thin mattress, and finds her tucked into the empty space left by his body.

Right , he thinks, again, not really awake, and to be honest, uncertain as to whether or not he’s even conscious.

She shifts. Yawns, breath ghosting hotly against his bare chest. Makes absolutely no effort to move away, not even a little, and Logan feels something that’s almost panic begin to simmer in his abdomen, dissolving any of his remaining sleepiness and leaving him awake and painfully aware.

So he does the logical thing, which is to try to disentangle himself as quietly as possible, before realizing he’s already pressed up against the wall and that there is absolutely nowhere to go.

Fuck, Logan thinks, with the appropriate amount of irritation.

At least he hasn’t popped a boner.

He shifts uncomfortably.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Physical closeness– he refuses to call it intimacy, because it isn’t– has never bothered him before. His truck is small and road trips are long and at this point he should be used to the inevitability of being forced to share a bed with someone.

It would help, he thinks, if that someone were less attractive and less available and less exactly his type. Logan still isn’t sure if he even has a type, but if he did, she’d be it.

(He’s so screwed.)

She yawns, again, and then uses Logan’s body as leverage to push herself away from him towards the end of the bed. And Logan– he stays perfectly fucking still and forces himself to ignore the heat of her palms against his lower abdomen.

“Morning,” she mumbles, sitting up and kicking her legs over the side of the bed. She stretches, and her nightshirt rides up, up, up, exposes the curve of her spine as her back arches. The sun streams in from the nearby window and kind of fucking surrounds her, makes her look like some sort of goddamn angel, or something else equally as stupid.

Logan answers her with a noncommittal grunt and buries his face back in one of the lumpy pillows, legitimately praying for strength.

Getting up doesn’t help anything. They eat off-brand cereal for breakfast and he does his best to not talk. Later, she showers while he brushes his teeth, because they need to get on the road as soon as possible and sometimes that means awkward shit happens. He discovers there’s a sliding door to the bath, and it’s that bullshit frosted glass, not really see-through but not solid, either. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to keep himself from watching– he can’t really see anything, nothing defined, anyway, but there’s the outline of her body through the condensation collecting on the glass, and it’s enough to make focusing on anything else difficult.

Jesus Christ.

It occurs to him, after they’ve checked out and after he’s thrown their bags in the back seat of his pickup, that ignoring her should be a lot easier than it’s ending up to be.

It isn’t.

They stop at the tiny convenience store next to the motel before leaving, to stock up on food.

“And gas,” he adds, staring at the meter, hovering just above ‘empty’.

She goes in to pay and Logan fills up the tank, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the dusty side of the car. He glances into the shop through the dirty glass window and his eyes fix on her almost immediately. She’s smiling and handing a twenty to the cashier– a young guy, about her age, who looks like he has no fucking idea how to react to so much genuine happiness being directed at him.

HIs immediate response is a startlingly aggressive rush of irritation towards the cashier, followed immediately by irritation at himself.

He used to be immune to this sort of shit, he thinks, shoving the gas nozzle back into its cradle.

Apparently that’s changed.


By the end of their sixth day on the road, they’re somewhere in Illinois and Logan is suffering.

The AC is out and his engine is overheated and he’s overheated and about two minutes away from what feels like a goddamn heat stroke. He’s not sure if he can even have those, but he is sure that he’s about to find out.

They might have enough time to stop for repairs and still be ahead of the people following them. But Logan isn’t going to risk it. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired, and there’s always another way, even if that means running.

He tells her they’re going to start driving at night, and her response is understandably negative. It still doesn’t stop him from pulling the truck out of the little bed-and-breakfast they’d ended up in and getting back on the road as soon as the sun sets. She complains for a solid two hours before she starts to fall asleep, drifting in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat.

They’re driving through a long stretch of wilting, sun-dried fields when it happens.

“Wh– fireworks?” She says, opening her eyes just as the first one explodes into a shimmer of red and white above the car.

Logan grunts in affirmative. “‘S the Fourth of July,” he says. “I think.”

She sits up straight in her seat, absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her neck where the seatbelt had bitten into her skin, and fixes him with an imploring look that he can barely see in his peripheral vision.

“No,” he says, already knowing what she’s going to ask.
“But I want to watch the fireworks. Just half an hour,” she answers, somewhat convincingly. “I’ll watch from the truck bed. You can be an asshole and just sit in the car.”

Logan manages to hold his own for about five entire minutes.

“Goddamnit,” he grumbles. She grins.

(In hindsight, giving in to her was a horrible, horrible idea.)

He takes his shitty, beat-up pickup truck and parks it down off the road in one of the fields, half-hidden from the road by a giant weathered sign that reads Land For Sale in peeling black paint, and she climbs into the back truck while he stares at the steering wheel and contemplates what he’s even fucking doing to himself at this point.

He gets out of the car.

She’s lying on her back in the bed of the truck, arms tucked behind her head. The suspension creaks perilously as Logan moves to sit beside her. The sky is clear and the stars are bright and the moon is glowing and full. A firework shoots up into the sky in a trail of golden smoke and explodes with a dull crack across the dark expanse of the horizon. Logan doesn’t care. He’s been alive long enough that any sense of wonder he had for them has just– dissipated.

Above them, fireworks continue to go off, flickering through the sky in bursts of bright, effervescent color.

Logan looks at her as she watches them. He thinks about the happy smile she’d given him when he’d agreed to this bullshit. He thinks about the corresponding warmth that had blossomed slowly in his chest somewhere between his ribs, and wonders, not for the first time, when everything had gotten so fucked.


They’re in a shitty roadside bar in Michigan and she’s kicking his ass at pool when he realizes he has a fucking problem.

They’ve been camped out for the last hour and a half, commandeering the pool table in the back corner of the bar surrounded by half-drunk wannabe-rednecks in sleeveless flannels and fourty-year-old men with beer bellies who pretty obviously peaked in high school. Logan’s had enough scotch to actually start feeling it, which has been getting easier and easier to accomplish as his fucking healing factor shuts down, or whatever, but that’s not what really matters. The buzzing inside of his head isn’t entirely because of the alcohol, anyway.

The girl– (Name)– is bent over the pool table lining up a shot, and his eyes make a slow sweep up her body almost without thinking about it, lingering over her legs and her ass and the slow sinuous curve of her spine and–

“I am… the best, ” she announces, pausing to make sure she’s succeeded in sinking the eight ball before gloating, “That’s two to one, against somebody who’s spent, what, twenty years doing nothing but bar hopping–”

Logan swallows, mouth feeling particularly dry, and finishes off the rest of his scotch.

“Shut up ,” he says, not really meaning it.

Their arms brush. Distantly, he can hear the low-pitched rumble of his own laughter. She’s saying something about a rematch and he can’t fucking say no to her because they’ve got time to kill and this is infinitely better than being stuck in another shitty motel room.

She’s moving around the table, collecting the pool balls to rack for their next match when somebody approaches her from the bar.

In hindsight, Logan should have fucking expected this. It’s a dive bar and half the men here are scum and the other half are just plain stupid, and she’s young, and attractive, easily the prettiest girl in the damn place– it shouldn’t be all that surprising that somebody else would notice that.

The guy– he’s tall. Reedy. Messy, dull hair and a shitty beard that’s patchy and frankly pathetic, like he made it through half of puberty before his body just fucking– gave up. He’s got sweat-stains on his faded Michigan University t-shirt and tobacco-stained teeth and Logan knows, logically, that she isn’t even remotely fucking interested, but–

That’s not what matters.

What matters is that this piece of shit had seen him, and her, and assumed that any sort of bullshit he planned on pulling would be perfectly okay, because there was no way that the two of them could ever be together, no, the guy hadn’t even bothered to fully look at Logan before dismissing him entirely.


That makes him angry, even though he knows he’s got no right to be.

He comes up behind her. Curls his arm around her waist. He feels her stiffen and then relax into his side in less than a second, and a part of him wants to believe that the reaction is instinctive, natural, like she hadn’t even made the conscious decision to do it.

Logan grits his teeth and glares veritable daggers at the dirtbag leaning over her, and his anger must be palpable because the guy’s cocky, predatory smile withers and dies and he’s holding up his hands and walking away before Logan even has a chance to say anything to him.

She doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans into him, and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching down to squeeze his hand. Logan stiffens– even that little amount of contact is enough to make his pulse beat faster, stronger, louder.

“We should get out of here,” he says, voice low and slightly gravelly. The events that had just unfolded– they don’t feel real. Like he’s outside himself watching everything unfold through a telescope a million miles away. What the fuck is he doing?

He swallows.

The look she gives him is soft, and Logan wonders if she realizes what’s happening, if she even gets it, gets the nights in the hotels and the hours together driving and the fireworks and the fucking bar fight he’d been willing to start for her, gets what it all means when the incidents are lined up like that, one after another–

“Yeah,” she answers. “We should go.”

They wind up in another hotel with two six-packs of Logan’s favorite beer, and everything feels– off. Wrong. The silence is thick and there’s a thread of tension between them that hadn’t been there before.

Logan realizes he’s singlehandedly destroying the first good thing he’s had in forty years.



He has a plan. Get to Canada, get her somewhere safe, and then leave.

That doesn’t happen.


 The truck finally gives out in a tiny town called Paradise, on the very edge of Lake Huron.

It would be funny, he thinks, almost like fate, if he even believed in that sort of thing.

“Engine’s all overheated,” the mechanic explains, poking at a half-melted length of rubber piping. “See this? Coolant’s supposed to go through here, but it’s all fucked.”

Logan grits his teeth and crosses his arms and digs his nails into his palms with an unnecessary amount of violence. “Can you fix it?”

The mechanic runs grease-stained fingers through his hair and nods. “Yeah, I mean, next week , not, y’know, today.”

He babbles on about the shop missing the parts or some other bullshit, because apparently they don’t get much business in fucking-nowhere, Michigan– big surprise– and then he directs Logan and the girl to a small hotel by the shoreline that’s mostly empty, where they’ll apparently have to stay until the parts come in on Monday.

He checks in at the front desk and gets the keys from a sweet old lady who asks too many questions. Their room is small, and overly-decorated, with ocean-themed throw pillows scattered across a matching set of armchairs and a handful of seashell windchimes hanging out by the screened-in porch. It’s a nice place, better than where they’d been forced to stay before, but Logan doesn’t care. He just throws his bags onto a quilted starfish-patterned bedspread and collapses on top of it with a long, drawn-out sigh.

The girl is standing in the doorway, watching him.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

Logan grunts in affirmative and closes his eyes. He hears footsteps, steady and quiet against the plush carpet, and then a hand brushes across his forehead and it’s fucking ridiculous how quickly his pulse stutters and how sharp his sudden intake of breath sounds in his ears.

“No fever,” she says.

“‘s just the adamantium,” he grunts, except it isn’t.

She looks at him, and it’s suddenly so easy– too easy– for him to be angry. Irritated that when he looks back at her he can’t get a read on her, or her mood, or her intentions, can’t quite tell what she’s thinking.

He sits up, suddenly feeling suffocated. He’s tired of this– tired of fighting her and himself and tired of never being sure whether he’s winning or losing or just wasting time. Nothing makes sense anymore. It feels like he’s been knocked off-balance, like for some reason his center of gravity has shifted just enough to make his world spin around him and the only fucking thing he’s certain of anymore is his own denial. He’s never been good at confronting his emotions.

Logan stands up.

“I’m going out,” he says, tone clipped and short.

She doesn’t stop him.

Logan didn’t really expect her to.


She finds him a little over an hour later. It’s dusk– the sun has slipped down over the horizon, but there’s still just enough lingering light to give everything a soft, surreal sort of glow.

Logan’s clothes and shoes are stacked in a sandy heap up on the shoreline and he’s waded into the lake up to his waist, watching the fractured patterns of silver moonlight flicker over the surface, dizzyingly bright against the dark water.


He says nothing. Her gaze moves slowly over the planes of his upper body–the scars and the burn marks and the bullet holes that never really healed right– and the expression on her face is something he only distantly recognizes. Their eyes meet, and she searches his face, studying him, and Logan can see the precise moment when she realizes, pieces together his evasion tactics and his silence and his jealousy and his perpetual anger–

Her expression softens.

She pulls her tank top up over her head in one slow, languid movement. Discards her shorts. Wades into the lake until she’s standing beside him, gentle waves lapping at her stomach. She skims her hands over the water, gently, lightly, never quite breaking the surface, and Logan watches with a sharp sort of intensity.

The tension feels different, tonight. It’s softer, but it’s also become that much harder to avoid.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says in a gravelly whisper, before he can even think of stopping himself. His laugh is half bewildered and half angry, because he’s always, always angry. “You never fuckin’ know what you’re doing.”

She moves towards him. There’s the soft, lingering glide of her bare, wet skin against his as she traces the lines of the puckered, waxy scar he’d gotten on his left arm when he saved her life, and there’s the miniscule amount of space between them, hot and thick like the air inside of his shitty truck had been for the week since the AC blew out. None of this is new, not really, but it still feels different, this time.

“If I–” she pauses, swallows, and her pupils are dilated and nearly eclipsing her irises and Logan feels a sudden tightness in his gut, feels heat, feels anticipation and longing and a lot of fucking things, really, things he probably shouldn’t be feeling but feels anyway.

“If I asked you to kiss me, would you do it?”

He stares at her.

(He hadn’t been expecting that. He should’ve, though. She’s never been one for subtlety.)

The effect it has on him is instant. It’s like being doused in cold water. The fire pooling in his stomach fizzles and dies and is abruptly replaced by the thousands of reasons why he can’t and shouldn’t and won’t. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. He can’t just come waltzing into her fucking life and take a space that she should be saving for somebody else. For anyone else, really, for somebody who’s safer and kinder and better than him.

“(Name),” he warns, sharply. Abruptly.

End of conversation.

It isn’t really the end of it, though. She’s too fucking stubborn.

“Logan,” she retorts, moving closer. She reaches out to touch him again and he grabs her wrists before she can and fuck, he thinks, she’s looking at him like she already knows how he’ll react to everything that she’s saying and everything that she’s doing and he can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s managed to get himself into.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, hoarsely.

She doesn’t say anything. He can hear the gentle sound of the waves lapping up against them, the strange silence of the surrounding shoreline, can feel his own heartbeat perilously, traitorously loud inside his ribcage.

She’s waiting for him, he realizes. He’s waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he says.

He lets go of her wrists, registers her hands against his bare chest, warm and soft, and then he’s reaching out, cupping her face, tipping her chin up.

She moves up to meet him.

He kisses her slowly. Gently. His hands are shaking and she has her arms wrapped loosely around his neck and her body is pressed against his like it belongs there.

It’s easy. It’s so fucking easy. Weeks of constant tension dissolve like mist in the sunlight.

She’s the one who ends it.

“I’m going back to the hotel room,” she whispers, breath warm where his neck meets his shoulder. “Come with me?”

He breathes out, exhale shallow and shaky, but his eyes are steady on hers. Focused.

By the time they get back to the hotel, it’s dark, but that doesn’t matter.

The door closes with a soft click of rubber insulation against wood, and Logan looks at her, really looks at her, eyes roaming over her legs and her hips and her chest and her mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now.

The distance between them closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time.

“Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.”

Her laugh is soft. Disbelieving. She meets his eyes and leans up towards him and whispers, “That’s because you’re stupid”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as she kisses him– or maybe he kisses her, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and Logan doesn’t care.

He frames her face with his hands and slants his mouth over hers and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting her lips and pushing in and scraping over her teeth, across the roof of her mouth– she tastes exactly how he imagined, exactly how he’d dreamed she would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real. His hand is moving down from her face to the curve of her waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging her closer until her body is pressed up so close to his that he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of her breathing as he keeps kissing her. Her hand wraps around the back of his neck and her teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a growl and kneads her hips, yanking her closer, moving one hand up under her half-damp tank top. Her skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and fuck when he drags his thumb across her nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra she makes a noise like a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft, and rakes her nails down his arms–

It’s still not good enough.

He wants to touch her everywhere.

Logan yanks her tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to her still-wet skin, and then he fumbles with the clasp of her bra for a moment before discarding that, too. She’s beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second–

“Jesus,” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of her throat and then down to her collarbones, her breasts, kissing every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. She leans into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his boxers as he sucks a bruise into her skin where her shoulder meets her neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real.

In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. She kisses him and he tugs her closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly her body fits against his.

She’s the one who pulls him towards the bed.

“Come on, Logan,” she says, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on her neck and her mouth is swollen and red, and Logan stops and stares and the only thing he can think is I did that, I did that to her, I kissed her–

“Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive.

He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as she moves onto it, and he follows, wrenches his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the floor and then easily pushes her legs apart to take the space between them. Her nails dig  into his shoulders, not enough to really hurt, and she drags him down into another kiss, the movement of her mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of her hips–

“Get your clothes off, c’mon,” he mutters, half pleading, biting her bottom lip just hard enough to make her gasp against his mouth and relishing in how she reacts to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.

Her shorts are off before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then her underwear, too, joining his shirt in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at her and she’s staring right back and the sudden rush of vulnerability he feels is almost enough to make him wonder if this was a mistake. It’s fucking stupid, he thinks, because he’s still got half his goddamn clothes on, why does he feel so exposed ?



His breathing is ragged. His pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up her body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of her breasts and the curve of her stomach and then trailing down, down–

“Logan,” she mutters, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been him, she had watched and waited and wanted him too, and–

“(Name),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s undoing his belt and fumbling with the button on his jeans, discarding his clothes in a bundle and closing the space between them with a newfound desperation.

She leans up and meets him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins her down to the bed and his desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of his stomach as she rocks up against him, the friction making him groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of her bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down her stomach, moves in between her thighs, and she’s wet, fuck, his fingers are slick against her skin and when he touches her she chokes out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts–

“Logan,” she whispers, a little desperately, rocking her hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just fucking falters, shit, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than her.

“Jesus,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of her and curling it up, and her answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck her with his fingers she fucking melts underneath him in the best way–

“Stop fucking– teasing,” she says, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as her voice wavers and dissolves into a moan.

Logan exhales shakily. He stops touching her.

They’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of her thigh, hot and hard and insistent, and then she rocks her hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging her into a kiss–

He thrusts into her in one fluid motion.

“Ah– fuck,” he groans, against her open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still.

There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing ragged and unsteady against her neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control.

Logan moves slowly.

Her answering moan is soft and the warmth of their combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and her breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as she rolls her hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against hers and their noses are bumping as he kisses her, open-mouthed and messy, catching her gasp and his answering groan as she tightens around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way she drags her palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like she’s looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until their hips are pressed together and then back again.

Logan ,” she moans, biting into the tight, sinewy curve of his shoulder just enough to make him groan, and make his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way she moans with the rock of his body. A shiver trembles down her spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way her muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp, ragged sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. He doesn’t care about the past, or the future, or anything except the way she melts when he kisses her and how she arches her hips to meet his and moans into his mouth at the feeling, simultaneously overwhelmed and wanting more–

He snaps his hips forwards and he watches her tremble, watches her mouth part for a gasp and how she never stops looking at him, not even for a second. Her eyes are bright, clear and warm, and Logan wonders if she’s always looked at him like that, if maybe he just never noticed.

“I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” she gasps, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as she grinds up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to–

He’s acutely aware of her body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, her face buried in his shoulder and her breath hot against his skin and her body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving him fucking crazy and he’s wanted it for so long that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all he can see is her, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out his name as she comes.

And it’s fucking beautiful, and perfect, and exactly how he imagined while also being so much better. She trembles and tightens around him in the most delicious way and the moan she releases is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as she rocks against him until he can barely think straight.

“(Name),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in her shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with her, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation.

And then it’s over.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. She doesn’t make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where their bodies are still joined, the sound of their combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions they had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for him, and he thinks she must feel the same.

“You can get off of me now,” she complains, softly. Breathlessly. Logan huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling her to his bare chest with his hand curled over her hip.

The silence isn’t as suffocating as he’d expected. It’s almost– comfortable.

“Dumbass,” she says. There’s an honest sort of affection in her voice, as she throws an arm over his chest and buries her face in the crook of his neck.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.


He goes up to Canada. Brings her back to a house he hasn’t been to in years, nestled comfortably in the mountains under the shade of a forest of pine trees. The last time he was here, he was still mostly human; no adamantium. Just bone. The house is empty, but he still owns it, technically.

The first thing she asks him after getting unpacked is if he’s going to stay. He expected the question, but answering it is still hard, the word catching somewhere in his throat just below his voice box.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”

little red riding hood (1/2)

little red riding hood (½)
dom!hoseok x reader // M (smut) // 3233
You better not be wearing anything under that coat when you get here. Or you’re not coming tonight.

warnings: orgasm denial, mild dom and exhibitionist themes, name calling, dirty talk? i’m not sure what to warn about, oh! flashing too.

a/n: hello, this is my first ever smut piece and it’s written for my baby sister @kpopscenariostho​, who has turned me into hoseok trash in the span of four months. this is torn in two~ this is just part one so may the good lord hold you as you swim through this trashy thing. it’s also supposed to be a friends with benefits!au but now im not so sure if it is anymore?! BUT YES, i hope you enjoy and please be gentle with me, it’s my first time uwu

i would like to thank @beansuga, @justanemptydream, @mint-tape, and @apandasmind for listening to me screech about this over and over again. and @minyoongittaemune for going through the first actual draft and giving me notes. :* love y’all. you’re the best i can’t believe you deal with my weird ass all the time~

PS I wrote this to BTS’s Danger so may it also ruin your soul. Have a Danger Era Hoseok too.

Originally posted by notjhope

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Fabulous Olicity Fanfic Friday - October 6th, 2017

Happy Friday! So this is my attempt to both thank awesome fanfic writers for their amazing work and offer my recommendations to anyone who is interested. Here are the fantastic fanfic stories I read this week! They are posted in the order I read them.

Darkest Before Dawn multi-chapter by @everythinglollipop - Oliver Queen is a single Dad with a six year old son Connor. Felicity Smoak is a single Mom with a four year old daughter Emily. One day, Connor is kidnapped at his school. As Felicity together with her daughter attempt to stop it, they got taken as hostages too.

The Sweetness of Life multi-chapter by @charlinert - Felicity is a self-confident workaholic, who tries to do everything in her power to prevent the advertising company she works for, to be taken over by a ruthless business man known as “The Jackal”.  Her only hope is to land a big contract for a winery that wants to market their wines internationally.  This is easier said than done, especially if the winegrower requires that the person who will sell his wine, should be in an established love relationship.

All You Have To Do Is Ask multi-chapter by @wherethereissmoak - Felicity has a guardian angel - scratch that - he’s more like “Oliver the Friendly Ghost.”

Baby, It’s Cold Outside by @wherethereissmoak - Oliver and Felicity get stuck in a cold situation

Mayor Handsome March by @wherethereissmoak - A return of the “Studs of Star City” calendar from one of my previous one-shots.

Blue Eyed Angel: Sent to the Wrong Printer by @tdgal1  - A picture on the wrong printer causes a serious conversation between Oliver and Felicity.

If Loving You Is Wrong (I Don’t Want To Be Right) multi-chapter by @smkkbert - They live in a society where the Ministry for Procreation decides who you get to marry. Once you get the letter with the contact details of your partner, you are supposed to marry within few months. Sexual relationships with any other partner are forbidden, even before you receive the contact details. Everyone who disobeys that law will be punished brutally.  Oliver and Nyssa have come to terms with that. Although they are married, Nyssa can secretly be with Sara, and Oliver can do whatever he wants to do. When Oliver decides to make changes, he falls madly in love with Felicity. Therefore, his life takes a pleasant turn because although they cannot publicly be together, at least they can be in secret. Things soon get complicated, though, when Felicity receives a letter that shall change her life.

His Choice to Make by @wherethereissmoak - Oliver must choice between saving Thea or Felicity -

Olicity One-Shot: The Rage Phase by @entersomethingcleverhere - Newsroom AU — Felicity might have been the face of Atlantic Cable News’ financial analysis, but when an ex-boyfriend takes revenge on her for breaking up with him, he tries to ruin it all for her. Oliver’s the only one she can turn to to help her get off the floor and fight back.

(Don’t) Let Me Go multi-chapter by @emmilynestill - Felicity told him to let her go, but even when Oliver tried, it didn’t seem to be something he was capable of. In the end, there would be nothing in the world Felicity was more grateful for. Weaving in and out of the final four episodes of Season 5 and beyond, follow Oliver and Felicity’s emotional journey back to one another, one step at a time.

Trust Me multi-chapter by @felicityollies - When a prostitute meets the perfect client, she has to remind herself that there’s no room for getting close to someone in her line of work.

It’s Cute You Think This is My First Kidnapping multi-chapter by WriterMom3010 - Just a little head cannon about what happens during Oliver’s birthday. Doubt it will be anything like this in the show, but still fun to think about!

Time for a Story multi-chapter by @smkkbert - This fic shows Olicity and their life as a (married) couple with family. Although Olicity (and their kids) are the protagonists, other characters of Arrow and Flash make appearances. YOU NEED THIS STORY IN YOUR LIFE.

You Had Me at Hello multi-chapter by @tdgal1 - Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak met at a Gala and had an instant attraction but Smoak Technologies and Queen Consolidated have to work together. Can they make that sexual chemistry work and still work together.

A Soul Lost at Sea multi-chapter by @tinaday3w - MAGNIFICENT regency romance where Oliver is a pirate who had returned to his previous life.

Big Belly Date Night by @yet-i-remain-quiet - After a long day, Oliver surprises Felicity with dinner.

Of Big Belly Burger and Important Conversations by @overwatchandarrow - When they return from Lian Yu, there’s one conversation Oliver and Felicity keep putting off.

About Last Night multi-chapter by @wrldtravler - As a favor, Felicity reluctantly hired none other than Oliver Queen to be her executive assistant. What she never agreed to was how distracting it would be having him only a few feet away with only a wall of glass between them. Apparently, Felicity isn’t the only one struggling with the close proximity. Otherwise known as a shameless AU in which Felicity is a CEO, and her assistant Oliver Queen is more than willing to give her a hand.

In-Flight multi-chapter by @geneshaven - Oliver and Felicity set off on their honeymoon

Untitled by @deadlybingo - Did you eat the powdered donuts?

Left to Fate multi-chapter by @missyriver - Oliver never forgot her or the time they spent together. Does he risk everything to find her? Will he try one last time before his life is changed forever?

I’m So Lost Without You multi-chapter by @alanna-the-lionheart - Ray and Felicity visit Central City to get help with Ray’s ATOM suit when an explosion occurs at S.T.A.R. Labs. Instead of running, Ray goes back for his suit’s quantum processor, and when Felicity tries to save him she gets hurt in the blast. Oliver, Diggle, Roy, and Laurel rush off to Central City, where Felicity lies dying in the hospital. Faced with the prospect of losing the woman he loves, Oliver Queen is forced to reevaluate the decisions he has made, and make promises for a future he prays he can still have.

Felicity Smoak - Model, International Star and Murderer? multi-chapter by @tdgal1 - Oliver is called defended international Star Felicity Smoak when she is charged with murder - I can’t express how excited I am about this!

Appreciated by @dmichellewrites - A lunch date between Star City’s power couple turns in a long-awaited conversation about the next step in their journey together. With the craziness of their lives, sometimes it’s nice to appreciate the little things.

Times Like These multi-chapter by @anthfan - A man from Felicity’s past she never thought she’d see again suddenly appears in Starling City, bringing with him memories she’d rather keep forgotten, and a new threat.

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In Case You Missed It Pt 11--3x02

We first see Mickey return while Ian is banging someone else under the bleachers at the high school. I saw some people complaining about Ian “cheating” on Mickey between the last episode and this one but I’ll remind them: Mickey essentially broke them up in his last episode.

At first when Mickey stumbles upon the scene, he looks excited to see Ian until he realizes what’s going on; that Ian was having sex with someone else. 

Then the jealousy flares and he acts out violently. This violence works on two levels: first and foremost as I have hopefully made abundantly clear, Mickey has been raised to be homophobic asshole, he’s been raised to believe that it is okay and in fact encouraged to beat up gay people, so his first reaction when he sees this is to react violently because it’s how he was raised. But there’s a second layer there which is jealousy because that’s his spot. Mickey, as it has been hinted, is just about always bottom and now here he is being replaced. And even though Mickey knows that what he and Ian has is casual physically, and surely he remembers that they “broke up” last season, I’m sure it still hurt to find Ian with someone else. This pain of course will be only worse when he learns about Ned who has established an emotional connection as well as a physical connection with Ian, one thing that Mickey cannot give right now. 

Either way, Mickey acts out violently in this moment 

I think it’s important to pay attention to Ian’s reactions. Ian rolls his eyes when Mickey says something homophobic or acts out violently, especially if it’s regarding his sexuality or Ian, and this is one of those cases.

I think it’s important to always look to Ian when Mickey does something outlandish because Ian’s reaction will tell us a lot about Mickey’s motivations. In this instance, Ian laughs and rolls his eyes because he knows that Mickey isn’t beating this kid up just because he’s gay; that he’s actually beating him up because that’s his spot and Ian knows it’s a jealousy thing. Ian has always had a knack for understanding Mickey’s side and deciding which side of Mickey he’s seeing: The mini-Terry Milkovich side or the true Mickey side. We saw him see right through Mickey in 1x10 when Mickey said something very biting, but Ian only laughed at him because he knew that there was no actual venom in the words. And basically any time that Mickey says something snarky, Ian laughs because he sees right through him and sees it almost as endearing! Here we see Ian almost trying to stop himself from laughing because this is so over the top and it’s almost humorous to Ian because he sees the irony of what’s going on here. Obviously it is not funny that Mickey beat up this kid who was completely innocent in this situation, but because this is TV and because this is a character defining moment, I say we forgive ourselves for laughing at the situation, because it is the sheer irony of Mickey’s words that gives it humor. Without, I never would have laughed and Ian probably wouldn’t have either.  

The irony being that Mickey isn’t ACTUALLY beating this kid up because he’s gay or because Mickey has a vendetta against gay people. He’s beating him up because he’s jealous and beyond that is trying to keep up appearances that he’s a fagbeating hardass no one should mess with. It’s the way he tries too hard to come off as something he’s not that is humorous, then with the added irony that Mickey is criticizing this kid for allowing himself to be fucked in the ass when… Well, what is Mickey’s preferred position? 

I also want to point out that Mickey’s walls are definitely still raised. Mickey is no where nearer to coming out or being completely comfortable with himself, but he also hasn’t taken a step backward. The irony seems to be lost on him that he first beats up a kid for taking it in the ass and calling him a faggot, then assuming the same position… This is how dedicated he is to not admitting he’s gay. Even before this moment, it was actually in the previous episode, when Mandy said that Mickey was asking for girl on girl porn we see that Mickey is still trying to put on airs that he’s straight, overcompensating, even, to combat the possibility that Frank could still run his mouth (and it’s possible that Frank already has run his mouth but he just doesn’t know it yet.) 

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Originally posted by yg-boys

(15) Loud, so everyone can hear. (Football team!Captain!AU)

Part of ‘The Way You Said I love you.’ 

“Hey, you.”

She pauses midway of stuffing the textbooks into her locker, smiling slowly at the lazy greeting from behind the metallic, tiny door.

His goofy smile appears before her when she locks the locker shut, leaning against the line of doors with soft hair falling over brown eyes.


Every time his name leaves her lips, Seunghoon swears he can almost taste how sweet it sounds and for a moment he forgets what he was about to say next. It’s been only a few months since he mustered the courage to ask her out, the two of them initially thinking they were way out of each other’s league.

Seunghoon is the walking definition of the school’s pride and joy, and no one seems to love the alma mater more than he does. The Team Captain patch was something he deserves, embroidered next to his initials on the maroon letterman jacket with a symbol of a lion, the school’s famous team mascot.

And she, she’s just too smart to be with someone like him.

“You ready for the game tonight?” She shrugs her heavy backpack over shoulders, swatting his hand away playfully when he reaches out to carry it for her.

Seunghoon frowns making her grin, her fingers slipping in between his and the two of them stand looking at each other as if they’re the only ones there.

“You’re really not coming to see me?” He’s shameless as always, guilt tripping her this way and her face softens apologetically.

“I have that study group, remember?” She lets out a small laugh, brushing her free hand through her hair. Of course he remembers, he’s in the damn group after all, he’s just you know, a little flexible.

“I’ll try to leave early, you know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She inches up to pinch his cheeks gently, something she’s privileged with because she’s the only one he’d ever allow to do such thing.

“You better.” He jokes with a smile, sliding his hands to cup her cheeks, brushing his thumb across her jaw lovingly. A blush stains her skin as she tucks her chin timidly and he’s absolutely lovestruck, the butterflies in his stomach spurring like crazy.

She didn’t show up halfway through the game, or even towards the end. It throws him off his game a little, the way his mind isn’t completely in it. He’s completely breathless after the last quarter, blinking through the sweat like tears over his eyes as he scours through the crowd for the umpteenth time.

Seunghoon stretches a tight smile over his mouth guard when he spots the 92 on the back of the team’s jacket he knows is his, squeezing along a row of the bleachers. It didn’t take a while for her to notice him, not when he’s throwing his long arms out above his head wildly, shaping them into a full body heart.

Seunghoon jogs up near the audience, his hair drenched in sweat when he peels off his helmet, shooting her a mouth guard grin as the team disperse.  

“Look at your string bean.” A friend she dragged along mutters under her breath, leaving her to cough out a laugh at the second hand embarrassment he’s bruising her with.

Nothing beats what he does next and she’s left drowning further into his jacket, convinced that he’s got his brain in his padded knees. Seunghoon snatches the megaphone from the cheerleading squad nearby, his high pitched yell amplified across what seemed like the entire goddamn field as he bellows into the device.

“Hey, number ninety-two!”

Her eyes fly open in half panic, half confusion, pretending not to see the dozen of faces that turn around to glue their focus on her.

“Yes, you. Hi, beautiful.”

Seunghoon gladly ignores the protest in her wide eyes, enjoying this a little too much and she feels the heat flushing her face.

“I love you!”

She’s left in a dizzying state of bewilderment, the roaring claps from fellow students suddenly muted over the sound of her rapid pulse and all she can focus on him, just him.

Just Like Tales II - Vampire!AU

Baekhyun fanfic - Vampire!AU

Chapters: (1) / (2) / (3) / (4)*


Waking up the next day you feel this immense pain through your whole body, and a slight headache. Strange, you call it. You can’t remember doing something that could make you feel like you ran a marathon. The last thing you remember is.. being at Baekhyun’s house and now you are suddenly back in your own room.

And even more peculiar is when you decided to make yourself presentable for the day… you meet something strange in the mirror.

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I swear to god, sometimes I think the hardest thing (particularly in fandom) to get people to accept is that if you don’t like something or don’t approve of something being done in television or a particular movie, you don’t…


To watch.

You don’t! You can totally choose not to! In fact, you’d be happier if you did so choose! And that’s a totally valid reason to make that choice!

Also, everything doesn’t HAVE to be for you, and if it’s not for you and it IS for someone else? That’s totally fine, too. You can be bummed it isn’t for you and isn’t what you want and yet totally accept that it is for people who are Not You and, if you can’t be happy for them, you can at least try not being an asshole.

If for nothing more than the novel experience of not being an asshole, for some people.

Justice League? Not for me. I wish it were. I honestly can’t imagine how this movie could be for me, and I genuinely don’t understand why there are people as excited about it as they are. But they are both not me and excited for it! It’s just not for me. It has some characters I love in other media. I wish I could enjoy it. I know I likely won’t. But, hey, instead of tracking down fanposts by people who are excited about it and shitting on them/the movie they’re excited for? I - and this is gonna sound crazy, I know, but bear with me - I KEEP SCROLLING. I don’t even reply! I ignore them! Sometimes I roll my eyes while I’m scrolling, but then I turn my attention to something that is for me or watching paint dry or literally ANYTHING else.

I’m looking forward to Black Panther, having enjoyed the character in Civil War. I’ll go see it in the theater, no doubt. But whether I love it, am ambivalent about it, or hate it…it isn’t really ABOUT me. Even if I love it, it will NEVER mean to me what it does for people who are looking forward to all-too-rare representation, which I get at least more often than “almost never.” It’s about other people. Other people who are Not Me. And, strange as it seems, people who are Not Me exist and matter, too. (They do! It’s amazing!) So if there are things that aren’t FOR me or are for people who are Not Me…I know this is gonna sound so completely out there, but go with me, here…

That’s okay.

It’s totally okay.


It is.

The world will continue to rotate on its axis in its path around the sun if something exists for someone who is Not Me.

And here’s another secret…

Say something started out being For You (or seeming like it might be) and then it turns out it just is totally Not For You. Say you still want it to be. Even really, really hard. But it isn’t.

You…follow along with me, here; it’s okay…you don’t…have…to watch.

You can choose to do something else! Remember what I said above? The principle still applies!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But if I stop watching, it’ll be cancelled!”

… So?

If you hate it, what do you care if it exists or not? Seriously! What do you care?

I watched the first few episodes of a show called Shameless. It wasn’t my cup of tea. It was fine. It just wasn’t my cup of tea. Whatever. I didn’t watch any more. It’s totally possible that show has since been cancelled. It’s totally possible it’s still on the air. I couldn’t say and, to be quite honest, I don’t care. I leave it to people who are enjoying it or did enjoy it, and I moved on with my life. Whether I discovered it was still on or it was cancelled, my reaction would likely be the same: “Huh.” With maybe sometimes, “eh, I wish I’d enjoyed that more, if only because I think William H. Macy is a great actor. But I didn’t. Oh well. Maybe the next thing he does, I will enjoy more.”

If you hate something, seriously…it’s not a mark of weakness to let it go and move on. In fact, if you keep watching, there’s a good likelihood at some point, you’ll look back and ask, “why did I spend so much time and energy on something that I hated, that brought me so much more anger than joy? Boy, that was dumb.”

Because it is. So dumb.

Just like it’s incredibly dumb to not accept everything doesn’t have to be for you, and whether you hate it or even regardless of whether you get why it’s for the people it is…it’s still okay that it’s not for you.

Let it go.

Move on.

Try not to be an asshole.

Seriously. It’s okay. In fact, letting go, walking away, and not being an asshole? Can be surprisingly pleasant.

anonymous asked:

Shameless inspo for establish Sarumi where they move back in together. Misaki starts showing the highs of manic depression & Saru somehow finds out Misaki quit his job but wonders where he goes when he says he's going to work so he follows him. He finds Misaki at a gay strip joint lap dancing on some guy & giving him hand so Saru is like what? Yata acts all casual about it like it pays more who cares. Then when they get home Yata shows the lows & refuses to get out of bed. How would Saru deal?

I can see this being something difficult for Fushimi to deal with at least initially just because he’s not exactly well-equipped to handle other people’s mental issues when he can barely handle his own, like depending on Fushimi’s own feelings at the time if Yata hit a depressive low I could see Fushimi ending up lying there in bed with him and neither one quite has the will to get up. I think he’d be able to tell that something’s off about Yata though, like maybe Yata’s on one of his highs and it’s making him extra energetic to the point of recklessness. He’s rarely at home, always needing to keep moving and he’s always excitedly trying to drag a tired and cranky Fushimi out places. Fushimi assumes that Yata’s late nights are due to his part time job but then he finds out from one of the Homra guys that Yata quit and that makes Fushimi even more concerned, he knows that Yata was enjoying his current job and it seems weird that Yata would leave it without telling Fushimi. Maybe this has been going on for a while though, like Yata’s string of part time jobs wasn’t because he couldn’t hold one down or anything, it was because he hits manic periods where just going to work regularly is too difficult for him, he’s always wanting to go out and do more or he causes issues and gets fired. Fushimi confronts Yata about it and Yata just blows him off like don’t worry so much geez you’re not my mom. Yata runs off and Fushimi decides to follow him, which is when he discovers Yata’s current strip joint job. Say that’s the place Yata tends to end up when he’s at his wit’s end, like during the manic periods when he’s constantly getting fired he can work out his energy there and he’s not even embarrassed about it, just on such a high that he doesn’t care who he’s dancing with or what he’s doing. Being caught there by Fushimi doesn’t faze him at all, in fact Yata’s about ready to give Fushimi a lap dance before Fushimi drags him away.

Then the next day Fushimi’s expecting to have to deal with this unfamiliar manic Yata but instead he finds Yata’s hit a low period and won’t leave his bed, totally mortified about what Fushimi saw him doing and about losing yet another job and Fushimi doesn’t know how to handle this because he’s not even really sure why Yata went from one extreme to another. I think Fushimi would know enough to suspect manic depression though and maybe he and Yata have a talk about it, Fushimi wondering if Yata’s ever sought treatment or if he has some kind of meds Fushimi can get for him, Yata’s like why the hell would I go to treatment just because I feel shitty. I think Fushimi would get annoyed at him for that but then Yata gets irritated at him in turn, like you’re the last person who gets to tell me about needing therapy or medicine for mental issues. I feel like Fushimi would feel a bit helpless about the whole thing, part of him wants to be able to support Yata now the way Yata’s been supporting Fushimi through his rough mental patches but Fushimi himself has no idea how to do that, like he’s wracking his brain for what Yata does during Fushimi’s low periods and maybe he even ends up making Yata something to eat and then sitting with him in bed and being all awkwardly gentle about things. Fushimi thinks he’s probably fucking things up entirely but it does end up helping Yata, Yata can tell that Fushimi’s really trying and he can’t help but feel a bit touched, like he knows how out of his element Saruhiko is here but Fushimi’s still trying and it does actually make Yata feel less awful, like he has someone in his corner now even during the highs and lows of his mood and that makes him feel more like he can get through this.

In Case You Missed It Pt 5-1x09

So now a little more time has passed and I think we can safely assume that Ian and Mickey’s dynamic (fucking and hanging out whenever one or the other wants it) has continued without issue. With this dynamic, it would only make sense that a bond would form even if it’s just a bond of friendship. All of this may be implied but I consider this canon since it’s Mickey that Ian runs to when Monica comes back. It’s Mickey that Ian wants to see. 

To me, it’s clear he didn’t want to see him to fuck him (though that is what ends up happening) just because of how distraught he is, but the fact is Mickey has become a person Ian feels he can rely on for some comfort, even if it just comes in the form of physical release. We don’t know exactly where they are in their developing friendship, so while this may be the beginning of  platonic friendship, Mickey may still have that barrier demanding their relationship be wholly physical. What I do know is that clearly something was going on at the Milkovich house (it sounded small and unimportant, but heated from the offscreen dialogue,) and I see some genuine concern and even irritation in those eyes towards being interrupted in whatever is going on though he isn’t entirely shutting Ian out yet.

Now seeing Ian’s distress, pay attention to that wall slowly come down by a couple of bricks.

See how he’s resisting? Trying so, so hard to not be necessary and to not care, to make Ian go because his wall is definitely weakening against Ian. But he can’t help but be concerned for why this kid feels the need to show up at his house on his working day, and clearly upset no less.

Now pay attention to his focus, his clear pointed focus on Ian, drinking in his distress and clearly being bothered that this boy is so upset. But of course, Mickey has a rule. He’s not going to get emotionally involved because that would give them a deeper relationship than he is willing to give at this point. So, he offers Ian help in the only way he knows how and despite whatever is going on in his life, he’s putting that aside to help Ian.

This is a HUGE hint that Mickey cares way, WAY more than he’s willing to let on as he takes a risk to meet Ian down at the store despite whatever is going on in his life and despite the risk of being caught at the store and despite the risk of that wall lowering for Ian.

So now here they are back to doing what they do best when they get interrupted.

Obviously THIS is what Mickey had been so afraid of. THIS is why he kept Ian at arms distance, trying to avoid being outed. Because he has been seen he’s on edge because of the possibility that Kash might somehow spill. Mickey, as established in earlier episodes, holds a position of power over Kash because Kash if afraid of him. 

So when he comes back to the store to intimidate Kash into being silent, he thinks he has it in the bag and he won’t really have to even try hard, going so far as to push Kash in the usual punk way he does…

What Mickey wasn’t expecting was for Kash to actually grow some balls and use the gun. BUT those balls are completely misplaced for several reasons. 

First and foremost, he isn’t even shooting at Mickey because he’s just stolen a candy bar, let’s get real. Kash is shooting at Mickey because Mickey “stole” his boyfriend, nevermind the fact that Kash and Ian shouldn’t have even been together in the first place. Next, there is a problem because Kash (poorly) aims for Mickey’s HEAD!

Those details aren’t 100% relevant to Mickey, but I definitely felt they were worth mentioning just in case anyone missed that little tidbit.

So anyway, Kash shoots Mickey in the leg 

and an interesting thing is that even when Ian leaps to comfort Mickey

Mickey for a moment seems to accept the touch, but then fights it. Why? Because that wall that was starting to come down, has to go right back up. He absolutely has to set this boundary back where it was even in small touches like this.

That is all I have for 1x09 today! Let me know if I missed anything, counter-argue me, or even send me some love to agree with me!

‘Til next time lovelies! <3

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A Name In the Wind (4/?)

Hey guys, thanks for all of the comments, reblogs and messages about this fic. I’m super glad you like it! Anyway, here’s the next chapter, I hope you enjoy!

When Chika woke up the first thing she noticed was the now familiar room she was in. It seemed almost as normal to wake up there as it was to wake up in her own body, in her own room. Turning her head, she caught a hint of Honoka’s scent on the pillow, of the fruity shampoo she liked to use.

She would never smell that for real, not in a way that mattered. She would never be able to talk to Honoka even though she already felt so close to her. Her eyes prickled with tears and she turned over, burying her face into Honoka’s pillow. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. It smelled like her, even stronger than before.

She wasn’t sure how long passed as she lay there, quietly crying. She heard the door crack open at one point but she ignored it. In the back of her mind she knew it didn’t matter who was there. It was the weekend. All she had to worry about was practice. Which she was certain she was already late for.

A short while later, when her throat had become sore and the pillow was damp with tears, the door opened again.

“Talk to her, please!” Yukiho’s voice pleaded. “She’s crying and she won’t stop and it’s freaking me out! I don’t know what to do.”

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Sam Wilson’s Accidental Superhero Club

This is sort of a fairly lengthy headcanon that I’ve had for a while but started writing down when people were headcanoning Sam as becoming sort of a therapist for the rest of the Avengers team, or becoming a self-erasing support for Steve or Bucky, where the stories ignore Sam’s own identity and history and use him as a stepping stone in other people’s character arcs or development.  I think people have talked a lot about the problems with that scenario, very intelligently and rightly. 

But for me, I also really want to explore Sam’s personal urge to help people– and to help people in a different way than through superheroics.  He still loves talking to people, reaching out to people, and I think, for Sam, helping other people feel like they’re not alone helps HIM feel like he’s not alone.  I don’t think he’d give that up now that he’s an Avenger– but I do think the way it would manifest itself wouldn’t necessarily involve the Avengers.  In fact, I think one of the great things about Sam is that he’s probably one of the few people on that team– maybe him and Rhodey– who have a good sense of how to balance work and their regular lives, and have a regular life, doing what they want, outside of the Avengers.  And I feel like, when it comes to doing what he wants, for Sam, it would still involve helping people. Just not in the way all these headcanons have suggested.  And in a way that’s about Sam and who I think he is at his core, in the MCU. 

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rotten luck and testing patience

Yuri can’t believe his rotten luck; to be in China for a Grand Prix with this embarrassing couple cheering on him, wearing cat ears and signs saying Yurio and every variation of good luck.

Moreover, there’s also that guy again; whose blood would stain the ice later on and it would smell like Maple Syrup.

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

Yuri slumps on his chair, ignoring the cameras and everyone around him. He messes up. He didn’t land the quadruple salchow and triple toe loop combination. Yes, it’s ambitious of him to do the jumps in second half of the program and he shouldn’t have feeling so down because he gets a pretty good score; but it does bother him. This short program, The Sound of Roaring Tiger, feels very personal to him. He wants to convey the strength and gracefulness of a tiger, wants to show people how amazing their beautiful form on ice; instead, he showed how clumsy the tiger is by missing a chance to catch their prey.

“Yurochka,” Yakov pats his back as they step out of the Kiss and Cry. “You did great today.”

Stiffly, he nods. Of course Yakov would say that; Yakov is his coach and objectively, Yuri knows that he did well in the short program. Still…

Yakov sighs. “I guess I should say good luck,” his grasp on Yuri’s shoulder tightens briefly before he lets go.

Perplexed, he raises an eyebrow and about to ask what his coach means when something grabs his body, “Yurio!!!” The something yells.

Yuri screams, he is suspended on the air by hands on his waist—hands belonged to none other than Victor Nikiforov—as the man swings him around. Yuri’s vision turns blurry from the motion, he’s getting dizzy and the churning on his stomach intensifies he’s going to puke—

“Victor! Stop it, Yurio’s going to be sick if you do that!” A voice protests.

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y’know i’ve been thinking a lot about naked vex (i mean, i do anyway in general) and why a lot of people have an issue with it, saying that she was being pushy about the whole thing and trying to force a thing to happen, and i get that, i truly do, i see why it’s an issue (esp with the non-shippers), it’s also what i felt for a long time (and sometimes even to this day) with vax just randomly, spontaneously, SUDDENLY spooning keyleth in ep61 (marisha allowed it which is fine but still, as much as i ship vaxleth like the multi-shipper fuck that i am and as much as i appreciate and enjoy vax, that could’ve been “hey keyleth, mind if i stay here with you and spoon a bit with you” instead of “i go back to sleep and spoon keyleth” like okay does keyleth know you’re doing it tho).

but with this whole naked-vex-at-the-door thing (and i haven’t finished watching this week’s Talks Machina so idk if this is the entire truth of it), we don’t know that a) “we might die after tomorrow, let’s at least get a tumble in” wasn’t part of why percy went there, b) that they immediately jumped each other’s bones once the door slammed shut, and c) we don’t know that vex didn’t say “it’s not too late to leave” or “we don’t have to do anything, the offer is just on the table.” 

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morbidsilent  asked:

Hey Would you consider writing a piece where smth happened that triggered jelly&insecure mick?Mick would look at Ian and got self concious cause ian's to good to be true. It'd be perfect if you could close it with some sweet body worship♡ thank you

For Day 3 of Gallavich week- Jealousy


It’s  late on a Saturday night or maybe by now it’s technically  early Sunday morning at the club and Mickey is drunk off his ass. His drink orders are in the double digits as he watches Ian back on the last part of his shift. 

A guy approaches Ian, he’s the same guy Mickey’s been keeping his eye on since he walked in. He was hanging around and talking to Ian before Ian’s break which is the main cause of Mickey’s high number of alcoholic beverages.

The man was gorgeous. Ian was the only man Mickey looked at but damn this man certainly wasn’t ugly. Mickey seeing the man, who looked to be in his early to mid 20’s, all over Ian sparked a pain of jealousy in Mickey he wasn’t used to.

With the other older men it was a get your perverted hands of him because they could pretty much be Ian’s grandpa and the thought of them fucking was just disgusting. But this dude…. this dude was young, and hot, and fuck could he get Ian. And Mickey was beyond jealous, especially looking at the way Ian reacted to the guy with his fucking big ass smiles and batting eye lashes. Fuck the guy even made Ian laugh, that was Mickey’s job. He reflected his bitterness and inability to ever be that charming even to the fucking man he lov-… had feelings for. He stares into his almost empty drink as he sees red hair move closer to him out of the corner of his eye. 

Ian laughs as he yells behind him that he’d be back on the stage in a minute. 

“The usual?” he asks the bartender. 

“Havin’ fun?” Mickey asks, still staring at his glass.

“It’s work,” Ian said matter of factly. 

“Doesn’t look like it." 

Ian shakes his head smiling. 

"Looks like you and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome are having a great time.” Mickey slurs. 

Ian laughs, “What? Mickey how many of those have you had?” 

“ I dunno." 

Ian focuses on Mickey as he’s handed a drink. “Mick, you think I want to leave with that guy?”

"Well don’t you?”

“Wha-… No.” Ian says amused that Mickey could possibly think that. 

Mickey looks up at Ian, raising his brow. Ian’s face turns more serious. 

“Mickey, you’re the only one I want to leave with,” Ian says, touching Mickey’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. He then laughs.  "Jesus Christ,“ he says not understanding why Mickey was so jealous. 

Ian takes a swig of his drink and places it next to Mickey. “I’m off in an hour. Try not to drink anymore I don’t want to carry your ass all the way home.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and as soon as Ian leaves orders another drink for himself. 

Mickey continues to watch the man and Ian. The man orders a few dances from Ian. In the once one hour that was now extended to two hours, the man got 4 dances from Ian. 

The club is almost empty and Mickey waits at the bar for Ian to finish changing.

Soon he feels Ian’s hands on the back of his neck, ‘Ready to go?” 

Mickey nods and gets off the stool, steadying himself against the bar for a second. 

"Want me to get you a cane, grandpa?” Ian grins.

“Shuttup I had… I had a lot.” Mickey slurs.

“Yeah. I can see that." 

The man walks by them giving a nod to Ian, who smiles politely as the man leaves. 

Ian and Mickey start to make their way to the exit once Ian is confident Mickey won’t fall over in the process. 

"You should’ve gone after him.” Mickey says rubbing at his face once they exit and start walking.

Ian laughs again thinking Mickey was trying to be funny. 

“ ‘m seriouss,” Mickey almost moans sadly. 

“What is with you tonight, Mick?”

Mickey shrugs.

“What makes you think I’d ever want to leave with that guy?”

“Dunno. He’s nice looking." 

"Lots of people are nice looking.”

“Charming as shit it seems.”

Ian shakes his head thinking Mickey is just being ridiculous. 

“ ‘nd he’s…fucking tall.”

Ahhh there it is. Ian turns to Mickey, making the brunette face him. 

“You deserve a tall beautiful man.” Mickey lets out, barely able to keep his eyes to focus on Ian. 

Ian smiles sympathetically. “But I only want a short beautiful man.” He says smiling genuinely. 

“Fuck off, man. I’m hardly that.”


“Beut-…good looking.”

Ian looks at Mickey, hurt that Mickey had been giving such a negative outlook of himself…in pretty much every regard including but not limited to his outward appearance. He had always thought Mickey was aware he was hot shit. I mean does he not see the tons of stares he gets every time he walks into the club. Probably not, he was there to watch Ian but still. 

“ M’ not charming neither." 

"Eh Prince Charmings aren’t really my type.” Mickey smiles a little. “You have a certain charm to you.”

Mickey scoffs, “Sure.” Mickey starts to sway and grabs on to Ian for support. 

“Let’s stop for a sec.” Ian says. Mickey agrees and sits down on the sidewalk, back leaning on the wall. Ian stays standing, drawing his pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket, he had gone back to smoking a few weeks ago. 

Ian sees the man again and tries to avoid his gaze but the man notices him. He walks over.

“Hey, Curtis.” He says. not paying any attention to Mickey’s presence on the ground. 

 ”Hey. Rick, right?”

“Uh. David, actually.” The man corrects him.

“Oh right, right. Sorry. Lots of people to keep track of.”

The guy laughs, “Yeah I bet.” He stares down at Mickey briefly. “So you uhh…think about my offer from before?” he asks.

Ian shakes his head, still trying to keep the polite smile. “I told you. I can’t.” 

The man apparently still takes this as a “challenge”. 

“Oh come on,” He leans over Ian, whispering in his ear, “I’ll show you a good time.” The man grabs Ian’s bicep. 

Ian nicely takes the man’s hand off his arm and hands it back to him. “Nah thanks” 

Mickey wasn’t paying much attention, holding his head in his hands to stop the now apparent ringing and the start of a nice migraine.

The man still smiling wraps his arm around Ian and grabs his ass. 

“The fuck!” Ian yells, causing Mickey to look up at the sudden change in the tone of Ian’s voice. 

“Whatt?” the guy says flirtatiously.

“Get your fucking hand off my ass.” Ian says sternly. 

“Oh come on, baby” The man squeezes Ian’s flesh and by now Ian’s had enough. He reaches his hand back and punches the guy square in the face, sending his body back onto the concrete. The man grabs his face, blood pouring into his hand.

“Fuck!” He yells. 

Ian leans over him. “There…maybe now you will learn when someone tells you to stop fucking stop.” The guy starts to get up and Ian kicks him. “Now get the fuck out of here.” 

The man runs off far away from Ian and Mickey. 

“Shit, Ian.” Mickey says getting up, pulling on Ian for help.. “You fucking punched out Prince Charming." 

Ian laughs bitterly. 

"He was hardly that.. Kept touching me and trying to get into my pants all night despite me telling him ‘no’ ”

“Why didn’t you say anything?" 

"It’s business, Mick. All part of the job.”

“Man, you need to get another fucking job.”

“Yeah I know.” He puts his arm around Mickey. “Now lets get you home and you can be sleeping beauty all day tomorrow.”

“You gonna continue using that …b word when you talk about me?”

‘Until you believe it.” Ian says determined.

Mickey smiles, “You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

Ian laughs loudly. Mickey tells him to shut up “he didn’t mean it like that” causing Ian to laugh more as they make their way home.

anonymous asked:

Although jealous Gail is one of my favorite tropes, and I know that one of the key things about Holly is that she doesn't do drama, I really want to read a jealous Holly fic. Kinda like, Gail, who does do drama and how amirite :) deliberately trying stuff just to see what would make Holly jealous. Grand gestures - flirting with others, or making insinuations etc - doesn't do it but something fairly innocuous - like off-handedly calling someone else a 'nerd' - and hello, green eyes :)

Hi Friend!  This prompt took me a bit of time to get right.  I hope you like it.


Gail was as blunt as they came; whatever she was thinking she was saying, often times with amazing clarity and even if it came with enough bite to require anti-venom.  Her girlfriend, however, was as diplomatic as they came.  Holly didn’t like to cause confrontation unless it was necessary, preferring to use her words or let things slide. 

Except when it came to her blonde, cop girlfriend.    

Holly tried her best not to let her jealousy rear its ugly head, but she was incredibly territorial when it came to the people she loved and how others treated them.  Holly’s moments of jealousy didn’t bother the blonde.  There was nothing that turned Gail on more than a growling Holly trying hard to curb her jealousy, but falling short and instead aggressively claiming the blonde as her own.  The sex was always fantastic afterward.

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The Line

The moment you know you’ve made a mistake is when there’s a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach, and you suddenly feel the need to get extremely defensive, even if you’re not sure why.

That happened earlier today when I made a tweet, which has since been deleted. The gist is that I pointed people towards what my reporting suggested was the creator of the rather shameless 2048 app on iOS and Android.

The tweet raised the idea of potential harassment by loyal followers of mine in a way that I’ve long since advocated against. A random person who made that tweet does not have to worry about it, but a random person with nearly 53,000 followers has to think long and hard about a tweet like that.

It is often easy to forget you have that kind of megaphone.

The tweet came about because of a discussion on our morning show, in which Alex and I broke down some reflections on the Threes story from earlier this week. I mentioned how much time I’d spent trying to track down this particular designer: Facebook, Twitter, email, phone. I tried everything, and nothing ever came back. It frustrated the hell out of me, and it’s not like I could jump on a flight and knock on his door. But I’d done my due diligence.

Still, it bothered me that I didn’t hear from him. I wanted his side of the story in my piece. It would have made it a better article, and would have rounded out my desire to hear from all sides of this complicated issue.

It kept clawing away at me. But I wrote my story, and that should have been it. If anyone wanted to get up in arms, the evidence was presented to them in the story for them to make their argument. I didn’t need to encourage a little army to do it for me. What this designer did was (in my eyes) unethical but not illegal. I really didn’t need to be banging down the digital door to better make my point. I’d done that with a story that’s been read by more than nearly 50,000 people. A journalist presents his evidence and leaves.

This is all the more important because it’s about Threes, a game that was developed in the same office that I sometimes find myself in. (The game was done when I started working out of there.) Of course, working in that office means I’m never going to write a review of Threes, Samurai Gunn, or anything else that’s produced out of that office. I had no desire to write about Threes, since it seemed like plenty of people were doing that already. But when I realized I could talk to some of the faces behind the “clones,” when I realized the designer was sitting next to me and we could have a long chat about his game, it seemed like a story worth pursuing, even if I’d have to try even harder to make sure my story came across as truth seeking.

The article pulls that off, I think. But the tweet doesn’t–it sounds like someone bitter trying to take advantage of an army.

I’m not just a journalist. Sometimes I’m an advocate. In this case, though, I was trying to be a journalist, and the size of my audience, the tone of my tweet, crossed that line. That’s going to happen, and it probably won’t be the last time. I realize that, and that’s why my stomach felt weird. You tend to feel that way when you make a mistake, since owning up to a mistake is hard. I try to make sure I’m always doing that. Though it can sometimes feel like people have it out for you, sometimes they have a point, too.

I try to listen. Even when we disagree, I always try to listen.

Enjoy your weekend everyone. See you at PAX East.