Me Reading All The Fics Ive Been Gatekeeping In My Drafts And Realizing They Werent As Bad As I Thought

me reading all the fics i’ve been gatekeeping in my drafts and realizing they weren’t as bad as i thought they were and they’ve lowkey been vaulted for no reason 🧍‍♀️

darling your writing is so good that i felt the need to tell you, which i don't do, like ever, and i stayed up an hour and half longer than i wanted to because i was SO immersed in it. thank you for writing and creating and doing it for free. i love

(not an ask, i just don't really know how this works)

my love 😭 thank you!! this made my day omg

it was so nice of you to take the time to write this out and step out of your comfort zone to let me know you've enjoyed my writing!! i've stayed up way too late reading other people's fics before so it's so cool to know that you did the same 🩷😭

also ur profile picture is really fun :))

Known

A/n i see this as taking place a little after  this , but they're both separate drabbles that can be read on their own :)

Summary: Late night drinking turns into reminiscing between friends. Or, in which you realize that you've always felt safe around Logan.

Warnings/info: age-gap (both characters are of consenting age!!), casual drinking, unnoticed pining, technopath!reader

----

The colors and voices radiating from the TV screen are easier to feel than experience, the electric current buzzing against your skin.

You move to sit up a little straighter, hands pressing into plush cushioning as you adjust. There's a distance to the way you're feeling, as if some odd lightness has managed to wedge itself between you and the world around you.

You lean forward, reaching for the bottle abandoned on the coffee table in front of you. Your fingers press into the glass as you move back into place, the side of your thumb tapping against the neck of the second beer you've finished tonight. A third might be nice, but the darkness around you makes the door feel too far to even think about getting to the kitchen.

There is a bottle of whisky only an arm's length away...it'd be easy to--

"No." The word is flat in its finality.

A soft laugh gives you away immediately. You press a palm against your lips as if that'll take the sound back. Sometimes Logan reads you so well you have to wonder if he has secret psychic abilities he hasn't told anyone about. "I didn't say anything."

He turns his head, lips pressing together in what feels like an attempt to dismiss the amusement behind his eyes. "Didn't have to." Logan's attention shifts back to the glass in his hand. "You're not drinking it."

You shift, turning to better analyze him. There's a stiffness to him that doesn't suit the amount of alcohol in his system. Maybe he's overcompensating for something, like his level of commitment to the stance he's taking. "Okay," the response is warm, cheery.

Logan lets out a breath as he leans forward, angling himself so close his forehead nearly touches yours. He watches you with an openness that's more dizzying than the alcohol in your system. "I mean it."

His proximity is so disorientating you nearly forget that you're meant to respond and not just stare at him.

"Fine," a genuine concession. Nothing else comes to mind, and you can't bring yourself to look away from him. The overwhelming desire to look at him is far from rare, but you're usually better at suppressing it.

You set one of your hands against the space between the two of you. "I'm gonna go get another beer."

He sighs, as if something about the statement has deeply drained him. "You're not."

Your lips part in a mock gasp. "Are you cutting me off?"

The joke seems to ease him, the corner of his mouth pulling itself upwards. "You're drunk."

Please--who gets drunk off of two beers? You narrow your eyes, not sure if you're more offended by the assumption or his hypocrisy. "Am not."

He has the audacity to smile fully. "Then let's keep it that way." The side of his hand moves to rest against the back of your palm. He's--Logan's always so warm. "Don't need to make putting you to bed any harder, princess."

An uneasy warmth begins to crawl its way up your neck. "Y'know you've had twice as much to drink as me, and you're still going."

You press your lips together in an attempt to hide the fact that you're arguing for the sake of it more than out of a desire for more alcohol.

There's a beat of silence as Logan tilts his chin downwards, making the distance between the two of you feel even smaller than it really is. "And when you're my age, you'll get a third beer."

You let yourself openly frown. "You're no fun."

He sighs, attention shifting back to his glass. "Don't pout."

"I'm not," it's a little more directly dishonest than you'd usually be, but the mood seems easy enough for you to get away with it. "I'm just...talking."

Logan watches you for a moment, doubt etched into his expression. "Sure, kid."

You roll your eyes as you shift away, arm stretching forward to place the bottle back on the coffee table. When you lean back, body pressing into the couch, a strangely poignant wave of drowsiness hits you.

The show you had been forcing Logan to watch has been replaced by something bright and loud. The sitcom had been familiar in that slightly off way, the theme song and characters like something out of a recurring childhood dream.

Before your thoughts can snag on the blurriness of your past, you lift a hand. You let your mind give into the draw of the electric current, the two melding until all you have to do to change the channel is flick your wrist. You flick through a few of them before settling on a show you're much more familiar with.

"You're a regular universal remote."

Despite yourself, you smile. The more you've worked on using your powers, the better you've gotten at motor control. Before, sometimes so much as touching something plugged into the wall was enough to make you lose control. "Much cooler than being the person that blew up the toaster."

He laughs once at the memory, the sound low but warm. "Or electrocuting me."

You glare. "I never electrocuted you." It's the truth. Your first few days here had been hectic, the stability you were being offered seemed too good to be true; every instinct in your body begged you to get out before it was too late. But you hadn't hurt anyone.

"But you thought about it." You don't have decent response. When you met Logan, you were running on nothing but adrenaline. "It's okay, I didn't make the best impression."

When the two of you first met, Logan had been...gruff, and maybe defensive in a warranted way, but you can't remember ever not liking him. Maybe that's why you felt more comfortable around him than anyone else, Logan never spoke to you in a way that felt like a facade.

But he doesn't need to know that, so you just shrug. "We're good now, though."

The show cuts to commercial break, an ad for detergent filling the screen. You let yourself relax further into the couch, your head moving to rest against Logan's arm.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "We're good."

You're aware of your blinking, of the weight of your eyelids and the focus needed to pull them back into place. Logan's presence makes it easier to accept the sluggishness and the vulnerability that comes with it. This isn't the first time he's made you feel okay about something like this.

"Logan?" He hums once in acknowledgement. You let out a quiet breath, the words briefly tangling in the back of your throat. "I'm glad you were the one that found me when I was like that."

He's quiet for a moment, and then his hand squeezes yours. "Me, too."

His voice is so quiet it almost feels like an extension of the electricity floating through the air, another thing that's easier to feel than to know. Your eyes fall shut, and you're comfortable enough to let them stay that way.

----

Taglist: @whyausername99

rewatching criminal minds. thinking about spencer reid.

ik i’d feel sm better if i wrote something on here but i have the kind of writer’s block that makes me feel like im crashing out 😭

stop 😭 (don’t ever i love u)

False Prophets

A/n was looking through my drafts and decided to let this logan fic leave the vault also fun fact the title is inspired by a line in a gracie abrams song

Summary: After the laboratory that's served as the only home you've ever known is ambushed by those that don't believe in the mission you've dedicated your life to, you're left with no other option but to trust the stranger that helped do so.

Warnings/info: slight allusions to manipulative use of an unspecified religion, reader has a touch of stockholm syndrome bc she was raised by a cult that experiments on mutants, brief mentions/implications of being medically abused by a caretaker, age gap (reader is in their early 20's)

----

The knife is as intangible as everything else. You squeeze the blade's handle regardless, knuckles straining against your skin as you try to force the metal's weight to mean something to you.

How did--how did things turn so quickly? Father Daniel grabbed you by the arm, he dragged you up the stairs and into the above ground. He gave you little instruction and even less explanation.

Protect the cause. That was all he could say before the defiers found you. Things had moved so quickly, your instincts allowing you to neutralize an assailant before--before the world became little more than a nauseating haze.

The pulsing ache behind your skull, the weight of your limbs, the resistance of your lungs, the dark spots clouding your vision. You set a palm against the floor, the coolness of the tile doing little to ground you. It's not unusual for you to feel unwell after over exerting your abilities, but this has been something else.

You need to--to evaluate, to begin the contingency process. Who knows how much time you've lost?

You bend your legs, hand pressing against the ground as you try to stand. A sharp pain immediately latches onto every tendon in your body. You screw your eyes shut. Breathe. Breathe.

A soft creak brings you back to where you are. The handle in front of you begins to twist. The door's pushed open, revealing a man who occupies too much of the doorway for you to consider bolting.

His attention shifts around the small space before settling on you. Everything about the stranger is harsh--his stance, his expression, the blood staining his clothing and skin.

The man takes a step forward. You flinch, head hitting the closet's back wall. He presses his lips together before exhaling. He holds his hands out in front of him as he steps back to where he was before, behind the doorway's threshold. "I'm not going to hurt you."

One of the many lies Father Daniel had warned you about. When you don't respond, the man sighs again. "So drop the knife. You look more likely to hurt yourself with it than me."

The perceived weakness only adds to your mounting unease. You scoff. He may have the physical advantage, but you have something he doesn't. You tilt your head, ignoring the pounding of your skull as you focus on mentally reaching for him. He's easy enough to latch onto, but actually doing anything takes more from you than you'd ever admit.

You take a deep breath, letting your energy build before pushing it onto him. It takes longer than it should, but eventually, your mind finds the strength to obey you. Just as the man's starting to bend to your will, his feet beginning to drag against the floor, your hold on him lapses.

Great--you've revealed your only real advantage and for what. You try to stand a little straighter, eyes landing on the stranger. You stare at him with wide eyes, fear making it difficult to breathe right. Father Daniel has always warned you about what happens to your kind in the real world.

You don't know what you expect from him--anger, horror, something else equally brutal. Instead of displaying any of that, the corner of his mouth briefly pulls itself upwards. "Got it out of your system, kid?"

"I'm not a kid." The raspiness of your own voice surprises you. "Where is he?"

He seems to know what you mean immediately. "The man that held you hostage and experimented on you for what--twenty years?"

Of course that's what he'd believe. "Father Daniel is a visionary with a divine calling, who is doing what he needs to do to pioneer a better future for mutants and humans alike."

"Yeah? Is that why he hasn't let you go outside in two decades?"

You scoff. It's not--the situation isn't like that, and to pretend that things are that black and white is ridiculous. You've been outside. Family outings to the movies after particularly strenuous medical trials, birthdays, and sometimes Christmas. Sure, you're not worldly, but that's the cost your family pays for safety. Until society is no longer cruel to your kind, you're safer in the lab.

If you were feeling a little more like yourself, you'd tell him all of this. But all you can manage is a defensive, "I've been outside."

His eyebrows draw together, something in the look coming terribly close to un-harsh. He doesn't believe you. Whatever. This man's opinions mean nothing to you. The only thing you know about him is that he's one of the ones that decided to invade your home in order to target you and Father Daniel's work.

His eyes drift downwards, landing on the band-aids stuck to your forearms. Some urging part of you wants to explain that things aren't always like this. That your labs and medical trials only make a fraction of your life, that these last few weeks have only been extra uncomfortable because Father Daniel has been getting closer. But the words needed to explain this to a stranger feel so far, and you doubt he'd be able to understand, regardless, so you settle for turning your forearms away from him.

"Congratulations," he mumbles dismissively, attention shifting away from your arms, "You're going again."

"What?" He sighs, as if there's something deeply irritating about the question. He can't--he can't possibly mean to take you from here. You squeeze the knife's handle. "No. I'm not--" Your protests don't impact him in the slightest. "No."

"I know it doesn't seem like it," there's something measured about his gruff assurance, "But you'll be okay if you come with me. I'm taking you to people that want to help you."

You press your a hand against the wall, as if the plaster will offer you a means of escape. "No one like you wants to help someone like me."

He watches you for a moment, something behind his expression becoming a little less fragile. "Someone like me?"

The man takes a measured step forward, crossing the door's threshold. Dread digs into you as your mind tries to reach for him. You've barely touched his energy before a piercing ache in your skull forces the connection to snap. If the stranger noticed your attempt at self defense, he gives no indication of it, taking another step in your direction.

He continues forward, his movements slow and definitive until he's so close you have to tilt your chin upwards to look him in the eye. Like this, his anger feels less...prominent.

After a moment, his eyebrows draw together slightly. If you didn't know any better, you might have mistaken the look for a barely there grimace. The man drops his gaze downwards, and you follow his line of sight.

His hand, the back of his palm--he had been weaponless before. And now, sharp, metal blades have split his skin from the inside out. You lift your chin to meet his gaze. He's not exactly smiling, but there's something gentle about the set of his mouth.

You angle your head downwards again, carefully pulling your free hand away from the wall. You move slowly, holding your arm out between the two of you for a moment before letting your pointer finger touch the edge of one of the blades. In another life, you might've been willing to tell him how cool you find his mutation.

He pulls back immediately, his hand moving away from you as his claws retract back into his skin. "You get it now?"

You press your lips together. Just because he's a mutant doesn't mean he's like you. Very few people understand your family's mission, and he isn't one of them. The fact that he broke in here is proof of that. But the ache in your skull is too disorientating for you to be efficiently hostile, and maybe there's a small chance that the fact he wanted to ease you when he could have easily just attacked you is throwing you slightly.

There is no good answer, so instead, you offer another question, "Where is he?"

"He left." The response is flat. "Ran downstairs and then disappeared."

What? Father Daniel--he left. That's not...that's not part of the contingency plan.

Okay--you let out a breath in an attempt to neutralize your expression. If Father Daniel left, he must have had a reason. There are other things that needed protecting. He'll come back.

You must look as thrown as you feel, because the man sighs. "Do you understand now?" When you don't react, he pauses. "You can stay here--in an abandoned warehouse, or you can come with and--and get some help."

Help. The word digs at you. You're not--not some kind of victim. You were chosen for a higher purpose, your mutation was given to you so that you could help others. However, that doesn't mean that the prospect of staying here, in a now compromised lab, without your family, isn't much more unappealing than leaving with this stranger.

You swallow, ignoring the lump in your throat as you weigh your options. Maybe there's something to remaining within a certain proximity to those that attempted to destroy Father Daniel's work. You could learn about their operations, their goals and desires; then, when the time is right, you'll have information to share with your family. It might not be the simplest task, but it's better than waiting.

This man also knows more about the outside world than you do. You could always just use his offer as a way to get some distance and then bolt once you're somewhere more secure. It might be easier to find Father Daniel from somewhere...out there.

You can't will yourself to look at him as you nod, wounded pride only amplifying your anxiety.

"Okay." His voice gives you no indication of what he thinks of your compliance, but something tells you that he'll be cautious of you for awhile. "You gonna drop the knife?"

The request is spoken so casually, you do briefly consider listening. You've never been much of a physical fighter, and you're sure the stranger could easily overpower you regardless of your small weapon, but you can't bring yourself to let it go. Besides, the stranger gets to have multiple knives physically attached to him. You should get to keep your one.

You briefly lift your chin in a vague gesture towards his hands. "I'll lose mine when you lose yours."

Some aspect of him seems to shift, his brow relaxing and his lips pressing together. The differences are gone too soon for you to dwell on them, his expression returning to its default blankness as he turns. You assume that's the closest thing to an 'okay' that you're getting, so after a beat, you follow him.

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a/n i was considering adding to it and it lowkey feels like a waste of lore not to, so if you'd like a part 2 lmk!!