#Dust analyser

[prism-forgone]

Deltarune Classpect Assignment, or: We've Been Godless For a Very Long Time Y'all

Everything that happens next can be blamed on the tumblr user @vriskologymajor. They literally asked for this to happen in response to me stating i have Some thoughts on the subject x. Enjoy the carnage lmao

Note that this whole analysis is over 2000 words long. I'm putting everything below Susie under the cut but there's also an analysis of Noelle, Kris, Ralsei, Berdly and a surprise someone in there. Please read it. Pretty please.

EDIT: An ask in which I elaborate about the secret bosses can be found here: x

Here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to provide the classpects i believe the main characters can be aligned with and my reasoning for both parts of the title. Be aware this is my own personal opinion and every classpect analyst's opinion is worth its salt because, frankly, classpects are insane. Okay. God. Let's get to this.

Susie // Knight of Rage

Susie's classpect might for real be the easiest and most obvious one I've ever assigned. It seems incredibly open-and-shut once you think about it. I don't think many are going to disagree with at least the aspect assignment but I'm going to monologue about it some more anyway because there's a lot more in support of this than some might think and it's actually pretty interesting.

Rage is the immovable object of aspects - Ragebound are incredibly volatile not only to their environment but to narrative itself. They're unpredictable and can quite literally go against the powers that be (i.e. narrate the story) because they don't feel like following their directions. And Susie does that routinely - she cuts off the player's choice and states their decisions don't matter while being inside an RPG and, in Chapter 1, quite literally refuses to listen to their commands. She is the one that initiates the revelation that her and Ralsei can act on their own, and picks a third option from the two given to the player, splitting the party and leaving its leader alone.

When it comes to less meta elements of this aspect, the main thing that comes up is her strong emotions. Contrary to the name, Rage is not only about anger. It is largely about negative emotions, though. In addition to anger, doubt, bitterness, aggressiveness or fear (specifically of being betrayed, left alone or lied to) are all emotions Susie exhibits quite a lot. Fortunately, she finds a way to utilize those and vent them out instead of bottling them up or lashing out, and she does that by... oh man, utilizing them? If only there was a class that did that, huh-

Yeah, Knights have a tendency to weaponize the elements of their aspect A Lot. With a Knight of Rage, it's something among the lines of a barbarian in DnD - they utilize their negative emotions to gain strength, using it as a means for attack and protection; both literally and on a more interpersonal level. And Susie does both! She's a bully both before and during a good part of Chapter 1 but it seems very much so that she's projecting, especially when it comes to the entry on Noelle's blog. It's a defense mechanism to hurt before you get hurt.

It's not surprising in the slightest - Knights tend to have incredibly low self-esteems. Later on she switches to a different strategy - she lets her strong emotions fuel her attacks and even further down the line, her S-Actions. Her demeanor switches to very explicit protectiveness of her team. And I think something that was kind of the final nail in the coffin for me is that her title in the party is literally its knight:

Doesn't get more explicit than that, I don't think.

Noelle // Mage of Hope

The reason why Noelle is on the list so early on is because her and Susie have opposite aspects and I think that's fun, and that it's easier to exemplify those differences if they're next to each other.

Being a pair to Rage, Hope is an aspect that is also connected to its hero being somewhat connected with the narrative. But, as opposed to the way Ragebound refuse to make things easy for the narrative, Hopebound are a driving force within it, either through acting on their own volition or being forced by an external force. Other evidence includes its symbolic connection to angels, things that are holy (like... Holy Prayer? wow), extreme passion for their interests and a penchant for uncovering what is real and true but perhaps hidden (like easter eggs in a game, for example).

Hope is the unstoppable force to Rage's immovable object. In connection to Hope's alignment to miracles, it fits in nicely with how Noelle is the key component in the Weird/Snowgrave Route, as it reads as something straight out of a creepypasta, something that should not even be possible in the game. (To those who read HS scratching their head about the miracles being a Hope thing, Gamzee was a Bard (a destruction class), and thus ghosting his opposite aspect - in his case Rage. We'll talk about aggressively ghosting aspects by Princes and Bards in just a while, though).

The Mage part might be more complex and less obvious than the Hope part. A Witch might be something that seems more intuitive due to her power level but I'll do my best to make my case here.

Mages internalize their aspect through experience. They take in both the good and the bad that comes with it and learn from it to be able to use it. Their relationship to their aspect can then be quite volatile - sometimes the aspect serves to actively harm them, they have too little or too much of it. And Noelle puts a lot of faith into others and is pretty easy to trust and be swayed to one side or another. This shows the most prominently in the Weird/Snowgrave Route once again, where her blind faith in the hope of getting stronger puts her through the awful experience of being made a tool of destruction.

There's also a fascinating element to Mages and their relationship with external beings. They (along with Seers) are extremely attuned to hearing and perceiving external forces and their voices (like the commands of the exiles in HS - or the player in DR). Additionally, Mages have once been speculated to be the passive counterpart to Witch at some point before settling into the active part of the knowing class duo they make alongside Seers today because while Witches manipulate, the Mages are more prone to manipulation, mostly through something directly connected to their aspect (Sollux by literally fate itself, and Meulin by someone close to her as Doom and Heart heroes respectively). What screws up Noelle in the Weird Route, is her blind belief in who she perceives as Kris and their actions, her sureness in there being some method to this madness and the reason for all this being getting stronger, something she really wants due to feeling weak.

Let's discuss that feeling.

Kris // Witch of Heart

I know! I know. I know this class seems out of pocket but I'll do my best to justify this title, I promise.

Let's start with Heart, the less... offending of the two. Heart as an aspect has to do with emotions and desires, yes, but mostly it has to do with identity, self, personas and literal soul. I'm sorry but this is non-negotiable - if you believe Kris is anything else than Heartbound, you need to reconsider the text again. Yes, there could be some argument about how struggle for freedom can be a sign of them being Breath-aligned but their struggle is mostly for the freedom of self-expression. There are multiple points in Chapter 2 at which we direct them to do something and they comply but use an incredulous inflection or say something that technically is what we picked but in such a tone that it's construed as something completely opposite. Their struggle is centered on identity for sure.

It goes beyond just our influence and Kris's struggle against it, though. There are multiple hints at Kris not really being entirely comfortable with their place in Hometown as the sole human. They don't like thinking about other humans, Toriel says they would wear a horn headband because one time they asked when their horns would grow in. They're clearly usually an introvert and don't like other people knowing too much about them. They look up magic and were interested in the occult at least at some point, and seem to not really want to be themselves.

In what ways are they a Witch then? Many, actually! The first piece of evidence is that Witches break the rules of their own aspect, and I don't think calling tearing your own soul out of your chest and shoving it into a constricting place for just a moment is a stretch. Additionally, they seem to even have a Witch Familiar that is closely related to their aspect and without whom the entire plot would change drastically! It's you. You're the familiar. The soul is the familiar.

And the 4th-wall breaking fun doesn't end there! Despite being possessed, they still retain who they are - no one thinks they're a different person, after all. Which means that us using Kris, Noelle's childhood friend, to exploit her need (dare I say desire, to make the connection to the Heart aspect more explicit) to feel stronger and make her IceShock every moving thing in Cyber City is us utilizing their abilities to manipulate the Heart aspect.

Ralsei // Prince of Void

Remember when I said we were gonna talk about how the destruction classes like Princes and Bards ghost the aspect opposite to theirs in a bit? Yeah, that time is now. Back on the more stable ground because I don't think it's that big of a hot take to argue Ralsei is a Prince of Void, given that it's basically in his title within the team.

Yes, Princes and Bards ghost their opposite aspect a lot. Ralsei accomplishes this by being a walking, talking exposition machine, something that those more familiar with the mind-numbing properties of Aranea Serket, a Sylph of Light (an inverse of a Prince of Void) would know is very up the alley of those who are Lightbound. Ralsei serves as an introduction to lore, game mechanics and other very technical things. However, ghosting the opposite aspect is not the same as being bound to it. Ralsei is still very much Voidbound.

There's an air of secrecy and obscurity around Ralsei. He's not telling us something. He smashes through the 4th wall - something Void heroes adore to do, by the way - like it's nothing by showing knowledge of what he should not be aware of at all - what do you mean EAST classroom. How do you know this and why can you acknowledge this. He can banish us to focus on other characters to talk to Kris one-on-one, causing a narrative blackout of sorts, which is another thing Voidbound tend to do.

At the same time, he shows clear signs of being a Prince that destroys his aspect or with his aspect. As I said, he's incredibly prone to throwing animated exposition dumps at the player but that's not all there is to it. He's literally part of a team of heroes who set out to destroy dark fountains. Not only can he cause narrative blackouts around himself, he tries to make Kris stop focusing on what happened after Spamton's fight, blocking off a path to solve that mystery. "You don't need to know anymore" kind of thing.

Destruction classes are dual in nature through being defined by their aspect but setting out to destroy it. He's afraid of being abandoned and forgotten. He keeps things from both his friends and the player. He doesn't want to fall prey to obscurity. He's secretive and does unexplained things through unknown means, like by just showing up in the Cyber World. As befitting a Prince, he's a walking contradiction.

Berdly // Page of Light

Believe it or not, Berdly's was one of the more tricky titles to pin down. I'm still not fully sure of it but I'm able to argue in favor of this decision.

Light is an aspect of relevance, knowledge and fate. Berdly is someone incredibly focused on academics. However, Pages inherently lack their aspect and literally have to be fed it by someone else who has more of it despite not even being bound to it until they reach a power threshold that allows them agency. Once they do, they're a force to be reckoned with but, as things stand, Berdly admits that Noelle is the real smart kid and he would never be the best in class if it weren't for her.

Despite not being the opposite of an Heir of Void, the narrative seems hilariously allergic to him anyway. He starts reading out loud and literally puts Kris to sleep with it. His monologue is not going to be read by many people because it's happening while there is a time-sensitive multi-part puzzle going on. Queen, the antagonist that moves most of the plot forward, runs away from him. Additionally, Lightbound are usually quite prone to being swayed to do things, and Berdly is a pain for Queen to handle but she does manipulate him quite a lot anyhow. He's flabbergasted when she captures Noelle right in front of him because that's not what they agreed on.

As an aside, one of his attacks is him throwing pages of A+ school assignments. That's the most hilariously Page of Light attack in the history of ever.

BONUS ROUND

Player // Seer of Mind

Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?

Every player is a different separate person but again, classpect titles are more about the place and role in the narrative and oh boy, oh boy. Is there evidence that the soul, i.e. us, are a Seer of Mind in the story of Deltarune.

For starters, it's literally the inverse of Kris's classpect. We're as diametrically opposed to them as possible. Secondly, as stated with Noelle, knowledge classes like Mages and Seers are incredibly attuned to meta-level voices. In Noelle's case that means things like hearing our commands even if Kris is down. In our case it means literal narration. We also know things we have no business of knowing - we're able to do things like hearing characters' thoughts, literally mind-reading them.

A more traditional role of a Seer of Mind (and we know this because there literally is one in HS) is knowing the outcomes and consequences of certain decisions. We literally have the power of reloading and saving to find that out. I rest my case.

[madbard]

Experimenting with style a bit… well, honestly just trying to learn how to draw. I kind of like this though; I might draw more like it, might not. Anyway, have a Dust! I’ll probably post an analysis/rant about this guy eventually.

Other version below the cut; I spent so much time on his skull then decided I didn’t like it.

[momentomori24]

Ok, can I ramble about the Poison remix real quick? Cool, thanks. You're so supportive, I always appreciated that about you.

Anyway, I absolutely loved it. It was awesome. I can't believe they made an entire remix for a character's birthday, but they did and I'm so impressed by that. Adding Valentino to the song was honestly the best decision they could've made. Not only are his lines super addicting to listen to (that "good boy" lives rent-free in my head like DAMN), but the way they're used in the song feels so intentional and fitting it's brilliant.

The "I own you or have you forgotten that?" at the start sets the tone perfectly, hammering down that Angel's his property, that he's unable to get away from him no matter what. Val in the original, despite not actually singing in the song, is the consistent looming threat in every scene, and being reminded of the context of the situation from the beginning helps retain that ominous presence he brought to the table for a remix with no visuals. When Angel sings about how he feels himself disappearing due to acting becoming natural to him, you can hear distorted, small "Action" from Val in the background, as if signalling him to get into character before the cameras start rolling. Angel puts on an act and tries desperately to make it his identity even outside his work because it's how he has to be, especially around Valentino, and hearing Val order him to perform really emphasises that. And my absolute favourite part is when during the "What's the worst part of this hell? I can only blame myself". Despite everything Val has put Angel through, despite being clearly deceived into something he didn't know would get this out of hand, he doesn't blame him-- he still blames himself for the decisions that have lead him to the position he's in now. And that internalised victim-blaming is met with positive reinforcement as Val praises him with a "good boy" (btw seriously that took me out like why does he have to sound so hot goddman). Val revels in control over his workers, even going as far as to use his and Vel's roofies to get them to behave. And should Angel do anything that even slightly appears to challenge his authority, he's not above using more physical means to put him in his place. When Angel agrees to get rid of Charlie and when he places himself between her and Val to stop her from fighting him and gets her to go, his submission and appeasement is rewarded with the temporary satisfaction of his captive, and it's still felt in the remix.

Poison is all in Angel's head. It's him lamenting his acting persona taking over his sense of self, his reflection on his relationship with Valentino and all the self loathing and resignation that comes with the revelation of how it will come to an end. It's a look into his psyche and that darkness he hides so damn well as he plays his part for his audience to a fault. While Val is an overwhelming presence in the song, he's only there visually; the vocals are entirely Angel and Angel alone. But in the Poison remix, Val's voice still lingers in the background. And what I like is that they aren't new lines-- they're things he's said to him before. Even in the safety of his headspace, his abuser's words still echo in his mind. Valentino still taints his thoughts, previous praises, orders or reminders reacting to and influencing his lyrics. Even in his own mind, he's still unable to escape him.

[starberrymothh]

vox's scene in the end of poison keeps me awake at night so I'd love to know what your analysis of it is

Poison analysis ( part one )

Why Vox is evil.

CW ・ abuse

Vox is an abuse enabler. He clearly does not care about Angel Dust.

An abuse enabler is someone who knows someone is being abused and does not help them.

Angel Dust is clearly in pain and he does not help him

Also the way he just. disappears at the end of the video

he just

leaves

doesn’t care about him at all (I hate vox)

[cepheusgalaxy]

Pratice makes perfect

[venomnyx]

HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!

You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.

You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.

It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.

But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.

Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.

The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.

You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.

Stryker worse.

A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.

He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”

“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”

“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.

You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.

He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.

You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.

“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.

“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”

He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”

What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?

You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”

“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”

“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”

You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.

“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”

Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.

“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”

He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.

“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”

You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.

Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.

Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”

You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.

A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.

“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”

You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”

“Then suit up.”

Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.

Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.

So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.

But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.

You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.

“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.

Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”

The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”

“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”

You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.

When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.

“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”

You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.

You could stay here forever, you think.

Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.

He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.

You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.

“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.

You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.

Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.

All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.

You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.

“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”

As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.

But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.

“You with the mouth? To fix things?”

You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.

“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.

“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”

“Wade.”

He twists towards you comically slow.

“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.

“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”

“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.

“Technically he’s not dead—”

You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”

“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”

He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.

“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”

“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”

You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.

“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”

“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”

“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”

Even yourself?

“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”

You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”

“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”

And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.

“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”

You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Are we good?”

“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”

“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”

The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.

Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.

Him, on the other hand…

“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.

You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”

You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.

You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.

“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”

You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”

“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.

He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”

Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.

“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”

Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.

“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”

You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.

In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.

“Waited long enough for this.”

He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.

“Logan…”

“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”

You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.

Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.

Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.

She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.

“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”

Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”

“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”

She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”

Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.

But you know how that story ends.

You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”

She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”

“You motherf—”

You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.

You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.

Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.

Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.

Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him

You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.

“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.

Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.

But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.

“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”

He grimaces.

“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”

He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”

He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”

“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”

A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.

The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.

“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.

You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.

Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.

You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.

“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.

You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.

“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.

“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”

“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”

“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”

“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you’ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.

“You got no idea, lumberjack.”

You hated killing.

You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.

The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.

You hate killing. Especially this up close.

You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.

You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.

You should have meditated more.

The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.

A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.

“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”

Logan. Of course, it’s him.

“Leave me alone, prick.”

“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”

You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.

“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”

He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.

Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.

“Quit your squirmin’.”

“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.

“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”

Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”

Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.

You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.

“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”

Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”

“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”

“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”

“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.

You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.

At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.

“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”

“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”

“No, no, no— before that.”

You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.

“If… they can fix your world?”

He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.

Your eyes widen.

“What do you mean: if?”

“That’s what Wade said—”

“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”

“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”

He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”

Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?

Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.

“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”

Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.

“You made… an educated fucking wish?”

“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”

“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.

“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”

“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”

He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”

You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

He snorts. “Oh, are you?”

In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.

“That all you got?”

“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”

“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”

His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.

“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”

Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”

The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”

Your eyes widen with recognition.

“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”

Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”

“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”

The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You’re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.

Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.

But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.

The result of a painful reunion.

The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”

You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.

“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.

Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”

Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”

He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”

Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”

“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”

He then turns to address Logan directly.

“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”

He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.

“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.

You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.

As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.

For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.

The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.

“Are you—” she says your name.

You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”

“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.

Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.

“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”

“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”

You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.

After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.

You hadn’t realised you were being followed.

“It’s not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”

He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.

“I gotta leave, baby.”

“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”

“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”

“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.

“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”

“I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.

“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”

You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.

“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”

“Quit hogging the fire then.”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.

A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”

His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”

His hand runs up and down your back.

“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.

“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”

He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”

“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”

“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”

“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”

He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.

You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“But Charles said—”

“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”

He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.

And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.

“’Course, you don’t understand.”

You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.

“Since when did you start smoking?”

You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”

He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.

“Right.”

You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.

“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.

Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.

“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”

“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.

You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.

“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”

His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.

“Although probably just as stupid.”

A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.

“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”

A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”

You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”

He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.

“What, you like it?” He grunts.

You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”

“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.

You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.

Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.

“Did you love him?”

Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?

“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”

He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.

“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.

“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”

You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.

“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”

He hums resignedly.

Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”

He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.

“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”

You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”

You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.

“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”

His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.

“Were you—?”

“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”

Logan takes a moment to catch himself.

“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”

The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”

“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”

“You never liked hurting people.”

“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”

He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.

“You know, your accents thicker.”

He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.

“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.

“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.

He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.

God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.

You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”

“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.

“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”

He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”

“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.

“Nope.”

A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.

It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.

“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.

“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.

“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”

“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”

He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.

“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”

You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.

You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.

His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”

But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.

Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.

You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.

One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.

His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.

“I know,” he whispers.

And you believe that he does.

He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.

It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.

“Wade!”

You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.

You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.

You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.

“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”

He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—

Jesus. Pull yourself together.

You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”

Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.

A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”

Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.

“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”

You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.

“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”

“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.

“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”

You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”

“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.

“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”

Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.

“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.

Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”

That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.

He rubs his jaw. “Right.”

“I’ll… see you around?”

“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.

A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.

You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.

You know, though. Of course, you know.

You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.

The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.

You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.

You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.

The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.

You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.

Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.

You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.

Logan.

When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.

Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.

“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”

“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.

You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”

Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.

Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.

The red string knots.

When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.

“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”

He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.

Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.

You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.

You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”

When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.

You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”

Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.

“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.

He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”

You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”

The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.

He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”

He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.

You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”

He ticks an eyebrow.

You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.

“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.

“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.

He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

You blush. You hadn’t known that.

You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”

Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.

You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”

The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.

He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.

You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.

When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.

“Legs up.”

You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.

He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.

You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?

He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.

Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.

You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”

You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.

He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.

You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.

You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.

“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.

You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”

“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”

When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.

Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.

“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.

You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.

His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.

There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.

You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.

His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.

You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.

“I can take it.”

The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.

You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.

“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”

“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”

His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”

You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”

He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.

You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.

Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.

You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.

“Did you—”

“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”

You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”

“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”

He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.

You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.

It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.

“Where’s that mouth gone?”

You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”

The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”

You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.

You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.

Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.

“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”

His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”

You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”

divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony

[huellitaa]

girl exorcism ⊹˚. ♡

cuz sometimes we all get a little off track and need to wake the fuck up again !!! 🫶🩷

──★ ˙ ̟🐰 physical! 🎀

have an everything shower

do ur whole skincare routine

brush ur teeth, floss, dental care

arrange a new workout routine

dance, pilates, exercise, move around

go on a walk and thrive in nature like a plant or a tree

find and try out some new cute hairstyles

pamper urself! face masks, spa day, etc.

get ur beauty sleep

change your bedsheets and pillowcases

clean your makeup brushes

go through all haircare, skincare, makeup, etc. products

organise and donate or throw out all of the clothes you don't wear or don't make you feel like your own dream girl

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 mental! 🧸

write down all your thoughts. every one.

write down all the problems in your life right now

have a mental breakdown over something tiny and let all ur emotions out by bursting into tears

write down what you want and go over your dreams and goals

read over or write out your highest self and everything about them

analyse your mindset at the moment

write what limiting beliefs you have

remember and remind yourself of your "why", keep it somewhere you can see

write down all your bad habits

write down some new habits to counteract them, become your best self and to work towards the future

vaunt and go on a huuuge rant to urself about how beautiful and perfect and amazing you are bc you literally are <3

──★ ˙ ̟💬 personal! 🎀

sweep your room

open the curtains

wipe down all your mirrors

dust down all surfaces

go through all ur clothes and chuck out or donate ones you don't wear

clean out under your bed !!!!!!!!

rearrange your shelves

get some new posters & wall prints

go through all of the books, movies, series, content you're consuming right now and choose new ones that align with ur highest self

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 digital! 🎧

go through ur following on every platform and delete everyone that makes you feel even remotely negative

uninstall a bunch of apps you don't need

install useful, helpful, purposeful apps

go on the hunt for accounts that make you laugh, happy, or confident

redecorate your home page

revamp your social medias (pinterest, tumblr, instagram, etc)

go through all your playlists and reorganise your music

delete all depressing songs and media

go through your contacts, rename, delete, etc

[dimicul]

°☆.。. | unedited sorry yall D:|

nanami with reader whose had to be her own supporter, parent, sibling and best friend all in one.

you don’t even question it, it’s a second nature at this point; driving your little brothers to their practices when your parent couldn’t, carrying the quiet burden of trying to help your mom, sitting through an argument with your sister who you know should be handling it herself but you can’t help it; there’s a part of you that needs to be there for them.

nanami doesn’t think you even understand the word boundaries when it comes to yourself- always giving, even in friendships where you know they clearly don’t value your time the same way as you. it always ticked the man off, being someone of orderly fashion and who analysed people the same way he would the broad spreadsheets on his screen everyday, it was a blessing and a curse to be able to read people so clearly. he just didn’t understand why you couldn’t do the same - if the edges blurred when you saw it from a different perspective, or if you were choosing to be ignorant.

it’s not until you move in with nanami you realise.

“Yeah, I can try and squeeze in time to pick him up, but are you sure you can’t— No, no I get you’re busy but I’ve also got to pick up my package halfway across town-” you’re speaking into the phone with your mother, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, blowing a strand of your hair out your face as you scrub the dish in front of you, frowning as she explains how she can’t pick up your brother again for the third time this week. You’re slightly irritated, the clothes on your body feeling too tight, soap suds on your forearms, and the deadline for your work is creeping slowly and you hadn’t even started it yet—

“Sweetheart, I’m home.” A quick, swift shut of the door brings your attention to the tall blond by the doorframe and you’re about to apologise for leaving the room a little messy, but your gaze falls on the pink package tucked in his arms.

Your package.

He doesn’t say anything, effortlessly hanging his grey coat up and sliding his shoes off, cool honey eyes studying you. You’re still blinking in surprise when he’s managed to get you sat on the couch, knees scooted up as your mother’s voice droned on through the line.

You didn’t even tell him you had a package, you think, staring at the broad expanse of Kento’s back, the muscles shifting under the blue material of his work shirt as he washed the dishes.

And it didn’t even stop at that. You’ll catch yourself attempting to complain but there it is - the keys you needed on the desk he settles down with a curt nod, a sweet kiss to your cheek before he leaves for work. The laundry pile growing in the corner of the room? Done and folded by the next day. Your friend group were acting strange? It’s fine, he’ll draft up a message for you to send. One night you’re sighing over the deadline and there’s a mug of tea in your hand, large hands massaging your shoulders. You ease into it so comfortably. It’s like you’ve forgotten how it feels to be taken care of.

“Shoot— Sorry, Ken, I was gonna make dinner for us— Oh.” Your shoulders slump, the weariness and fatigue from work leaving a little when he enters the door again with a bouquet of roses in his hand, and a takeaway bag in the other.

How? How the hell does he just know?

“It’s alright, honey. Here you go, I bought these from the new florist in town. Thought you’d like them.” The sweet, deep tone of his voice fills the room, and you feel it sink and sweep into your veins, a weight lifted off. A light pink dusts your cheeks when you take the bouquet in your hands, and when you’re looking up at him, studying the subtle quirk of his lips, it’s like you’re seeing him for the first time.

For the first time in months you feel shy around your boyfriend.

“How the hell do you even have time for a relationship nowadays? I swear I come off my shift and I get annoyed if my man breathes near me,” Your friend is scoffing with an eye roll and she sips from the matcha on the table. You usually agree, reply with a quick quip of ‘Yeah, men suck’, but you’re just smiling a little to yourself, shrugging, a newfound glow to your face that she catches. It only amplifies when you stare at the text message he sends you.

Kento 🩷 : Hope you’re having fun, sweetheart. Just letting you know I’m picking up Ethan for his game, don’t stress about it. I love you.

“Oh, you’re so whipped,” she laughs at you, leaning back in the sun chair and you don’t even care, a grin growing over your face as you hunch over the screen, typing away with the manicured nails he paid for.

With his efforts and the small kisses he drops everyday, you manage to multitask working and your deadline in time. You find it in yourself to cook him a dinner, wear something pretty and wait patiently till he comes home but the next thing you know you’re having a screaming match with your mom on the other end of your iPhone.

Nanami’s day at work goes by smoothly. Being a salesman had honestly become the worst part of his day but it was manageable. It got a bit easier as he sipped his cup of coffee at his desk, every now and then glancing to the lock screen of you both. It gets easier when he hears your voice through the panicked, rush voice note you send throughout the day. He imagines your smile and eyes during certain parts and works just a little harder.

It gets a lot easier when he steps out his car and unlocks the apartment door. Except you’re not standing by the fridge, or laid out on the couch. There’s two plates of smoked salmon and hors d’œuvres surrounding the ceramic plates, a bottle of wine unopened.

It didn’t feel easy though when he pushes the bedroom door open, a frown bracing his features as you, his dear sweet girlfriend, perched on the end of the bed, hastily wiping your tears. His heart lurches, eyes dropping from the iPhone to the little milkmaid dress on your hunched over form.

“Oh, Ken — ‘m so sorry, I just—“

“Enough.”

Your wide eyes peer up at the blond man who shifts down beside you, kneeling, dark brows lowered over sharp honey, holding a deep affection. You sniffle, cheek hot under his cool fingertips that wipe away the tears. You can’t help but wonder why he was so insistent on being with you, someone so easily distracted by everyone else around her, someone who couldn’t even do something nice back—

“I’m sick of seeing you being pushed around. Do you understand what I mean, my love?”

You shake your head but he raises a brow and you shuffle before nodding. The subtle hints of his cologne intrude your space and you melt when he sighs, his large hand framing your face.

“What happened? Did you argue again?”

“Yeah— I just, I’m so sick of it, Ken. It’s like I’ve got to do everything, and I know I can do it but they— they don’t care. They don’t care.”

“I care. I see what you do. For everyone.”

You don’t realise you’re still crying until he presses a kiss to one of your tears.

“And that is more than enough. You can’t push yourself too much. You have a limit. And honestly, Im getting a little tired myself watching you do everything.”

“You don’t have to.. You’re just saying that because you have to.” You mumble, lashes dark and slick with tears. Nanami hums.

“Have to what? Support you? Love you? Please, sweetheart. It’s my job.”

“Ken—“

“Take a few days off work. We’ll just relax together, yes? What do you call it — bedrotting? You need to put this all behind.” The warmth of his voice bleeds into your veins again and you nod slowly, subconsciously leaning into his touch when he strokes his thumb against your cheek.

“I love you. Im sorry I’m a mess.”

Nanami chuckles, and there’s no malice behind it, light and warm, encasing you in its briefness.

“I just want you to understand I’m here. Okay?”

Teary eyes meet oak brown, resilient and deep. And you got it. It hits you. You understand you didn’t have to do it all on your own.

[jennxxe]

Poster girl.

pairing — bobby campbell x fem! reader

summary — he’s been talking to a girl online for months without knowing who she is. they agree to meet and he comes to find out she’s the very girl he’s been staring at on his bedroom wall for years.

warnings — mention of masturbation, first time meeting, awkward and shy bobby, tiktok manifesting, he is a bit delusional but we love him for it

a/n — i love this man. i will start writing for erik soon too bcs that prince albert piercing did smth to my psyche

Bobby Campbell stood in front of his bedroom mirror, shirtless, holding two nearly identical hoodies with the intensity of a man deciding between defusing wires. His blonde hair was damp, curls still clinging to his forehead from the shower, and the room around him smelled like a confused mix of citrus body wash, fabric softener, and nerves.

One hoodie was grey. One was navy. Both soft, a little too worn at the cuffs, and both somehow held the weight of first impressions.

“This one says laid-back,” he muttered, holding up the grey, “but also maybe unemployed?”

He swapped it for the navy one. “And this one says I tried. Like, tried just enough.”

His reflection didn’t answer.

Neither did Paco, watching his human with eyes that said you are deeply stupid, but I love you anyway.

Bobby groaned and dropped both hoodies on the bed, rubbing his face. “This is so dumb, it’s just a meet-up, it’s not like—”

His eyes flicked to the corner of the room. The poster was still there. Pinned up crookedly between his closet door and a hockey trophy he never dusted. A glossy print of her, the model he’d crushed on since he was sixteen. He knew a lot about her. Like he analysed her zodiac chart to see if his and hers would go together type of a lot. He also jacked off more to that poster than he did too every porn video he watched combined. She was born in the same town as him, but he never really saw her in real life no matter how many manifestations on TikTok he followed.

He pointed at her with one sock-covered foot.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, smirking, “but she’s different. This girl? We’ve been playing Warzone for, like, four months. She’s actually funny. She trash-talks better than me. She made me laugh so hard last week I choked on a goddamn pretzel. That’s not nothing.”

Still no reply, of course. But Bobby nodded, like she’d given him a blessing anyway.

He pulled the navy hoodie over his head.

The walk to the meet up spot was short, but his brain made it feel longer. He kept pulling his hoodie over his hands the whole way, reciting to himself:

“Don’t be weird. Don’t say anything about sweaty palms. Don’t mention how you once cried watching a dog reunion video. And for the love of God, do not say ‘you smell nice’ unless she brings it up first.”

He stood outside the café early.

Ten minutes.

No—eleven. He was that guy now.

He sat back on a bench, drumming a pattern on his thigh with both hands. His phone buzzed once. A message from her:

“Here :)”

Bobby grinned, heart tripping in his chest.

He stood up and tried to casually lean against a lamppost like a guy in a movie might. Except the lamppost was hot from the sun and he almost burned his elbow, jerking upright and swearing under his breath.

He turned toward the café, heart pounding.

Someone called his name.

“Bobby?”

And he froze.

She was standing maybe twenty feet away, backlit by late sunlight like some goddamn prophecy.

He knew that face.

His jaw slackened.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful.

It was her.

The girl on his wall.

His voice cracked halfway out of his throat. “...You look like her.”

Her brows lifted. “Like who?”

He pointed at nothing. At memory. At his entire teenage life. “The poster. I—I have your poster in my room. That’s not weird, is it?”

She blinked.

Then laughed.

“I bought it used on eBay,” he blurted. “I’m not creepy or anything, I just—your smile is like, you know, comforting. Not that I was, like, staring at it every night, but—oh my God, I’m gonna shut up now.”

She smiled wide, eyes bright with something like mischief and recognition. “You’re exactly like I pictured you.”

“I am?” he asked, stunned.

She nodded. “Kind of like a hot golden retriever.”

He blinked. “I—I can live with that.”

She took a step closer. “You coming in, Bobby? Or are we gonna talk about my modeling history?”

“Right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s do this.”

As they walked inside, side by side, Bobby glanced up at the sky like he was checking to see if lightning was about to strike him. The universe had pulled something ridiculous today.

And for once it was good ridiculous.

Still, the voice in the back of his head whispered: This is too perfect. Something’s gonna go wrong. But when she laughed again, the whole café seemed to bend toward her like gravity. And Bobby forgot every thought for a while. Besides one;

Holy shit, that manifestation candle worked. And Erik made fun of me for it! Well, now he can suck it—

“Nice hoodie by the way.”

He almost floated away.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Sweet vengeance. // Gwayne Hightower x Cole!Reader (sister of Criston Cole)

Summary: After the encounter with Criston Cole, they return to the keep after successfully defending the territory, almost as if the gods were calling out for him to seek revenge; he ends up bumping into you.

WARNINGS: smut, mdni, porn with plot (a little bit too much plot ig), unprotected p in v sex, slight breeding kink, cunnilingus, oral (f. receiving) interrupted orgasm at the end, cumming inside, Gwayne is an absolute asshole to Criston, purity culture, virginity loss, profanity, age gap (left it up interpretation, but the reader is in her 20s and Gwayne in his 40s), doesn't follow the show plot it's a literal fic which I altered heavily + not proofread.

WC: 2.7k

A/N: here comes the promised gwayne x cole!reader fic, I've teased it ever since that confrontation episode dropped and now finally I'm able to publish it 😭 // divider credits: @cafekitsune

Gwayne walked through the corridors furiously, stomping his feet inside the red keep, departing to his guest chambers in a hurried manner, trying to stay calm.

He just returned from the battle, successfully defeating the invasion of the blacks into King's Landing, securing the land for themselves as Aemond ruled as Prince regent. However, there was only one thing on his mind.

His sister's tainted honour.

Amidst everything, he had gotten Criston to confess and admit that he was sleeping with the Queen, he was disgusted by the revelation. Wasn't Criston a kingsguard? Vowing to not seek pleasures or taint his cloak?

He felt sick in the stomach, wanting to empty it out, regardless of the fact that there is nothing inside.

His feet tapped against the stone floor harshly, his armour clanking with every step forward, he took a harsh turn at the end of the path only for his body to hit something that came from the opposite direction, causing him to stumble two steps backward. He took a moment to collect himself and straighten his posture, wanting to see what it was that he bumped into.

He looked down, shocked to see you on the ground. You broke the impact of the fall with your hands, which proved to be a bad idea considering how the force made them give up immediately, crashing your butt onto the ground. “Ouch.” You clenched your eyes shut as a burning sensation spread through your buttox.

You glared at the reason for your fall, eyes widening on the realisation that it was Ser Gwayne Hightower. “Seven hells, I apologise my lady, are you alright?” Gwayne is quick to apologise, extending his out, waiting for you to grab it and get up.

You gently place your hand in his, his palm closing immediately as he grips onto you while you get off the ground. “Ser Gwayne, I apologise, it was me who was at fault.” You bow, dusting off your gown with one of your hands.

“If it is not rude, might I ask who you are? I have not ever seen you around before, yet you seem to know me.” He speaks politely, giving you a small smile and you nod. “I am Y/N Cole, I know you very well Ser, your knighthood isn't unheard of.” You praise him.

“Y/N Cole… ? Are you related to Ser Criston Cole perhaps?” He questions, furrowing his eyebrows as his grip tightens around your hand. “Yes Ser Gwayne, He is my elder brother.” You reply.

Gwayne was not aware that Criston had a sister.

He took in your form, eyes trailing down from your face to your neck, to your breasts and further downwards, analysing you quite intently, “Mhm, I did not know he had a sister.” Gwayne shrugs, still not letting go of your hand. “He is quite overprotective, so he doesn't mention my existence to his peers.” You admit embarrassedly, looking down and biting your lip. He stared at you for a moment too long, the like of dots being connected as his mind sketches out a plan of action. His expression almost betrayed him as his face bloomed into a wide smile.

Oh you sweet little thing.

He could not believe that Criston had a younger sister. It's almost as if the Gods are etching him on to trudge this path, but he was not going to complain. It felt like he won a war when he realised this fact.

He can use you against Criston.

Perhaps he will make Criston feel the same thing he felt.

He smiles widely at you, bringing your hand upwards and pressing his lips to your knuckles. You blush at this gesture and give him a soft smile in return. “If you may excuse me, I have to take my leave, my lady. I've returned from war and my state.. is well.” He looks at himself and you chuckle, “It is alright.” You reply and he smiles. “Let's go on a stroll next time, yeah?” He speaks in a questioning manner, your eyes widen at the offer but you nod immediately.

Those walks became more frequent as you both enjoyed each other's company quite a lot. Gwayne found you much more bearable than criston, he's aware of the fact that he is an elitist. Holding himself at great stature as he comes from the Hightower family. So any other house that is not in power or he hasn't heard of; he acts like an ass to them.

But he found himself being lenient on you, perhaps to butter you up for the feast he's planning to have. His thoughts have been a mess for the past few days. He at first began to plan on how to execute the plan and take your maidenhead and let the keep hear it. But the ratio of the execution and sexual part became heavily unequal as he wanted to indulge fully in you.

You were beautiful, your skin was pretty, the way your hair was styled, exposing your neck from behind. He wanted to bend you over the ledge and fuck you. You would be so confused he assumes.

Have you had your first orgasm? Did you ever touch yourself?

You were from Dorne so you must know of the deprived acts right? But he notes how young you are, likely spending your entire life here in Kings Landing with Cole.

It was one of those usual garden walks you went on with Gwayne, walking in silence as you both had nothing to talk about, this was no means foreign to you, there would always be silence sometimes during your walks; but this time it felt tense.

Like the feeling of a volcano before it erupts.

You both were standing over the parapet of the backside in the keep, noticing how the waters flowed gently. You felt him move, standing right behind you, pressing himself against you.

“My lady.” He whispers in your ear and you turn your head slightly, not reacting in any way, “H-hmm?” You reply in nervousness his hands moved up your sides in a sensual manner. You stood there frozen.

He grabs you by your shoulder and spins you around so that you're facing, placing his hands on both the sides of your frame; preventing any escape. “Are you promised to any man yet? Your beauty is otherworldly.” He asks, his eyes staring right into you, his voice was sweet yet held a hint of his perverse desire for you.

You shake your head no.

“Such a pity.” He mocks, one of his hands coming to grip your cheek. He pauses for a moment, staring at your lips before looking into your eyes waiting for you to say something; yet you remain quiet as your heart beats loudly in your chest.

He takes it as a cue to press his lips against yours closing his eyes; fully indulging himself onto you as he groans at how soft your lips feel, his own move against yours in a soft manner, a gentle pull of a wave.

It was your first kiss, never having done this with anyone before, it felt odd; but in a good way, his lips felt soft against yours, he waited for you to reciprocate— giving you all the time you needed to process this.

One of his hands rested on your hips, using it as leverage to pull you closer, pressing your bodies together while the other positioned itself against the back of your head pulling you deeper into the kiss.

You responded a while later, learning through the process, moving your lips in a rhythmic motion with his, he muttered something against your lips which you weren't able to process as your mind was hazy. Something about this kiss was shooting immense pleasure down your body; increasing the heat between your legs.

He pulls away from the kiss to take a breath while staring at your lips, noticing the string of saliva that was still connecting you both. He hums before capturing your lips once again but with even more fervour this time. He pushes back until your butt hits the ledge before he places you on it, not breaking the kiss at all.

He plants himself between your legs as his hands roam around all over your body in desperation, sometimes gripping your waist or your soft breasts, squeezing your flesh as he grips onto you tightly.

He breaks the kiss abruptly before he suddenly kneels, you look at him confused until you notice that he's hiking your skirts up, revealing your intimate area. “Ser, this might be inappropriate—” You try to protest but not knowing what to expect, but circles his arms around your thighs pulling you close as he disappears before your legs.

You watch curiously when you feel his warm breath on your cunt. You shriek in surprise when you feel his tongue run across your fdd before he fully takes in your cunt.

You squirm uncontrollably as he works his wonders on your cunt; causing you to grip his hair tightly and push yourself further into his face, you let out small moans, hoping that no one would pass by this area and catch you both in this compromised position.

You place your other hand on the ledge to support yourself from falling before closing your eyes and fully enjoying what he's doing to you. His tongue laps hungrily at your folds, licking them up and down before he suckles on your clit harshly, flicking the bud with his tongue before capturing it wholly again with his mouth.

He groans into your cunt, enthralled by the sensation of having your soft folds in his mouth, he enjoyed it way too much than he'd like to admit, wanting to be forever stuck in between your legs.

You feel a sudden heat building up in your abdomen as he continues his actions, “U-uhm Ser Gwayne— I think something is happening.” You tell him unsure which makes him speed up his movements.

Without warning, you're hit with a plethora of euphoria, your back automatically arching and your voice letting out a loud moan as the feeling hits you in waves. He suckles on your cunt for a minute to let you ride out your orgasm before coming out your skirt.

You feel your cheeks heat up when you see how his lips were coated with your wetness which makes you look away in shyness, he gets back up on his feet before grabbing your chin and tilting your head slightly to make you look at him.

He doesn't say anything but only stares at you as he slowly connects both your lips once again, making you take your own essence. He grinds against you, pressing his now hard bulge in between your thighs as he dry humps you.

He tears away from the kiss with a wet pop, not wasting any time in undoing his breeches, revealing his cock to you, your eyes widened at the sheer size and girth of it. “I-i don't think it will fit?” You stare at him which makes him smirk a little, “It will my lady, I shall see it does.” He replies before bunches up your skirt, making your cunt come into view.

He slowly lines himself against your entrance, his tip kissing the entryway gently as he slowly closes in, pushing it inch by inch. He places his hand on both your sides as you grip him for support, the stretch stinging a little bit.

It takes a while but he's fully inside now, and slowly he begins to move, he grabs a hold of your waist with one of his hands so you don't fall over the edge, he pushes your body against his, making it so as if you're hugging him.

You wrap your arms around his neck tightly as he rams into you, thrusting in and out; causing you to bounce along with him, he grunts into your ear, whispering sweet things.

“Seven hells, you feel so divine.” He whispers against your ear, causing you to clench involuntarily; which makes him gasp in shock, “Jeez—” He drops his head onto your shoulder, now fully gripping you by his arms around your waist as he rams further and further into you. “Fuck, I'm about to finish— should I do it inside you? Fill you up with my seed huh? Make you carry my babes?” He groans, the idea of you being pregnant with his children driving him insane, it would always be a good way to get back at Criston.

You feel him hitting your sweet spot inside you, prodding it with his tip every thrust. His pace falters as he reaches his end, with a final thrust— he finishes with a loud moan of your name as he pulls back and recaptures your lips, kissing you with even more hunger.

He keeps thrusting, wanting you go finish as well, you were about to; almost reaching the breaking point— “What in the seven fucking hells is going on here?!” The shout of a familiar voice makes you snap out of the trance, Gwayne halts and you both immediately look to the place of origin.

It was your brother, Criston.

His expression contained that of both anger and shock, Gwanye quickly pulls himself out of you and puts his breeches back on and you get off the ledge and pull your skirts down and pat the wrinkles down.

“B-brother I— I can explain, it was me—” You begin, “Be quiet, Y/N.” He grits his teeth, cutting you off from speaking as his eyes shoot daggers into Gwayne, whose face is now bearing a smug expression.

“You fucking bastard!” Criston yells before he reaches over and grabs Gwayne, throwing him to the ground before punching his face. Gwayne dodges it, holding his hands down. “It is not so nice when you discover that someone has been fucking your sister, is it?” Gwayne remarks which angers Criston further.

A group of guards rush over putting an end to this fight, pulling the two men apart as you stand there in shock, shaking as if you were scared of both the men.

The next thing you know, You, Gwayne, Criston were all standing before the dowager queen as she looked at you all three in questioning ways. “What has happened?” She directs her question to Gwayne who raises an eyebrow.

Gwayne doesn't answer, “This b- Lord Gwayne was—” Criston swallows as he looks at you, “He was caught in a compromising position with my sister.” He blurts out, “And what was the compromising position that made you raise your hand on my brother, Ser Cole? They could have just been together—” Alicent wanders off.

“He was fucking my sister.” Criston grits his teeth, spitting the words out like venom, causing Alicent to cut herself off. She goes silent as she looks over at her brother, “Is this true?” She asks and Gwayne nods, “Yes my Queen, how can a man hold himself back at the sight of such a maiden? Besides, she wasn't opposed to the idea.” Gwayne speaks out, his words angering Criston ever more.

“Y-yes your grace, I wasn't opposed to it.” You jump in defending Gwayne which makes me smile at you, making Criston look at you in disbelief.

“My Queen, he has tainted her, he has ruined her, who will marry her now?” Criston brings up a valid point which makes the Queen get lost in thought, you put your head down, ashamed of it.

“I shall, I will marry her.” Gwayne volunteers which makes everyone look at him in shock. He only offers a smile.

He wasn't doing it out of kindness or anything, he knew that by marrying you, Criston will experience the same torment and anguish Gwayne felt when he discovered the truth of Criston and Alicent, except it will be a hundred times worse because Criston has no way to avenge himself, for he cannot marry Alicent.

He'll have to suffer, watch his little sister marry Gwayne, become his wife and a mother of his children, every step will be a stab in a vital organ to Criston.

Was Gwayne going a bit too far? Perhaps, yet it didn't matter, for the situation only benefits him. Not only will Criston be tormented by this relationship but he will have you as his pretty wife whom he can fuck and ruin all he wants.

Gwayne is a selfish man.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[crescenthistory]

heyy carina, I hope you have a safe travel♡ how about our beloved Remus with the 'Person A waking up to a sleeping Person B clinging onto them tightly.' prompt and 'Saying "you're lucky I love you" and realizing too late what they said' prompt

for the journeys & journals mini-event <3

wc: 1.5k

cw: gn!reader, best friends to lovers, instinctual communication, physical affection, fluff, first kiss, reader pov, in denial!reader that can be interpreted as shy, reserved, etc.

It’s normal to be this close with your best friend.

That was what ran through your mind over and over like a mantra as you fell asleep in Remus’ arms yet again. This time, the excuse was that the get-together at James and Regulus’ stretched too long into the night, and the walk to Remus’ was simply shorter. You already had a toothbrush and your medication there. Convenient. 

It was only natural you wake up in his arms, the air of his flat light with dust particles dancing in the incoming morning sun. Both of you wearing some of Remus’ worn pyjamas, with his arms around your waist and his face buried in the crook of your neck, soft breathing fanning out over your skin informing you that he was still asleep.

You had been thinking more lately. And you were thinking even harder now, with your fingertips slipped up under the hem of his shirt, as if they belonged there.

Whenever you thought like this, Remus would pinch the space between your brows to emphasise the furrow and tell you “nothing good ever comes of that, dovey.” You always listened to Remus – you convinced yourself that that was the reason you had kept avoiding this specific line of thinking for years.

Truth is, you were a coward. And hopelessly in lo–

“Mm, good morning, dove.” Remus' voice rumbled against your skin, brushing his nose against your pulse point. You were amazed he could realise you’re awake without you moving or saying anything.

You smiled nonetheless. “Good morning, Remus.”

He tightened his grip on you, pulling you closer to him, despite your limbs already being an incomprehensible, tangled mess. Whether it was because he heard the shakiness in your voice, or because that is a normal thing for a best friend to do at 10 AM in the morning, you had no idea.

“Staying for breakfast?” he mumbled after a minute.

Normally, you would say yes without hesitating. Today, though, you were doing all this damned thinking, stalling you.

Remus answered for you. “Staying for breakfast,” he said, this time in the affirmative. He nuzzled into your shoulder and breathed you in.

“Well, if you simply insist.” You kept your voice light, breezy. You felt very breezy. And you were not in lov–

“I do, actually. The bastard that I am, keeping you here against your will.”

You knew he was joking, but even hearing Remus’ faux self-deprecation brought forth some primal, instinctual reaction in you, instilled after years of deconstructing every piece of misguided direction his father had drilled into him. You moved your head back enough for him to see your face, see that you were happy to be around him. “Breakfast would be lovely, my keeper.”

Remus grinned at you, lazy in the sunlit sheets. “At your beck and call, no?”

“Hey, I didn’t ask you to do that,” you argued, holding up your hands as if proving your innocence. 

He caught your hand with his, intertwining your fingers as he extracted himself from your neck to lay back against the pillow he had abandoned in your favour. He brought the hands up to his mouth to kiss the back of yours. “No, I do it because it’s fun. And I’m quite good at it.”

“That you are,” you whispered, voice too quiet to suit the moment.

Remus looked at you for a second too long, eyebrows twitching as if he was analysing you. Whatever he found, he decided to just smile at you. “The usual, then?”

“Do we have everything for the usual?” Remus had an elaborate breakfast meal he preferred to cook you up, a mixture of his and your favourites. 

His expression turned mischievous. In those moments, you saw his friendship with James, Sirius and Peter clear as day, etched into every furrow of his face. At least he had the decency to sound sheepish as he said, “I was hoping we could go to the shops.”

“The shops!” You let out a groan, rolling over to bury your face in the pillow beside his – you made a point not to let go of his hand, though. The nearest Sainsbury’s is quite the walk away. “Rem, it’s early.”

“Yes, it’s early, and I want to cook my dove a proper breakfast to wake you up. And I want to continue spending time with you. So…” 

It had taken years of friendship for Remus to get to the point where he would ask you to do anything you weren’t immediately thrilled about. The odd displayal of intimacy settled into your heart, even as you wore a mostly fake scowl to peer up at him. “Gods above. You’re lucky I love you, Lupin.”

A beat – then you realised what you had said. It was far from the first time you declared your love for him, but there was something about how the word love has been bouncing around your brain, uninvited and uncomfortable, for quite some time now that made it taste differently.

“That I am; alas, I love you more, so you must come along.” Remus’ tone and expression wore none of the weight to signify the same strife you felt at the minute.

The smart thing would have been to play off your momentary silence as you preparing yourself to get up. To brush it off, like nothing.

Then again, thinking like this had not been smart in the first place, so you were clearly not in the right headspace at the moment.

Remus’ gaze flicked back to yours when you remained frozen, looking at him in a way that was strange at best and concerning at worst. His brows furrowed properly this time as he studied you. He squeezed your hand and rolled over onto his side to see you better. “Dove?” he whispered, voice quiet. “Is everything… Are you alright?”

The anxiety you saw in his eyes told you he must think he had said something wrong. It made you ache enough to nod. Even still, you kept looking into his eyes, falling further and further down the well that was his amber eyes.

You had to physically tear yourself away and throw yourself back onto your back, putting distance between you as you let out a harsh breath. “Yeah, yeah,” you forced out, a bit choked. You made for a laugh, but failed. “Sorry.”

He didn’t let up. Instead Remus curled back against you, inadvertently pushing his plaid pantleg up as he hiked his leg over yours to lay against you. “Don’t be sorry. Hey. Hey.” 

With gentle fingers, he placed a hand on your cheek, turning it towards him. Your foreheads were a hairsbreadth apart. He looked between your eyes, fiercely studying. “What…” His question trailed off, unsure.

You looked back, confused and horrified with yourself. For a second, your gaze flickered down to his lips, noticing how they were slightly turned downwards into a frown. Almost panicked, you looked back up, just in time to see a sliver of realisation dawn in his eyes.

His expression seemed to be turning to one of entertainment, but you didn’t dare look back to his lips to see if they had changed. “Oh… uh…” He struggled to find the words. “Is this about…?”

You quite felt like going back to sleep right at this minute. You tried to turn your head back around, running despite there being no room to do so.

But Remus’ hand on your cheek remained steady, though it turned sweeter. “Hey, hey, no dove, it…” He swallowed harshly, eyes crinkling into a nervous smile. “Me too,” he whispered. “Me too.”

Your lips parted slightly. He couldn’t possibly mean…

He brought your hands still intertwined together up to his chest and pressed them against his chest. Over his heart. His gaze chased yours, and now you had the guts to check, verifying that he was in fact smiling. One look at his eyes proved it real. 

“I meant it too,” he whispered, ushering an intense amount of hope into each syllable. Hope that you understood. “I meant it too, my love.”

Your breath caught. 

Two young adults, entangled beyond what any visual glance could infer, on a cheap bed in a small flat that was made big with love. It was love.

You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over his undereye as you looked at him with all the confused affection in your heart. “Yeah?” you let out. Maybe not eloquent, but he carried all the meaning in the world nonetheless.

“Yeah.” Remus’ voice was teary with laughter. “Dove, can I kiss you?”

You didn’t wait to answer him. You closed the minimal distance between you and kissed Remus Lupin, like you were always meant to.

He was your best friend – but you were also madly in love with him. And the sentiment was shared.

[amnhnyc]

Research alert! Two new studies out this week find that rock and dust samples retrieved by NASA from the asteroid Bennu in 2023 contain some of the building blocks for life on our planet. What’s more? There’s evidence of underground pools of saltwater that might have served as the “broth” for these compounds to interact and combine.

The studies, published in Nature Astronomy and Nature, are the first in-depth analyses of the minerals and molecules on Bennu, a remnant of a larger celestial body that formed about 4.5 billion years ago. The findings indicate that asteroids like Bennu may have seeded early Earth with the raw ingredients that led to the emergence of life. Read more in our latest blog post.

[teal-fiend]

“so,” the villain said, voice smooth as black oil. “Where is he?”

The villain had captured, and shrunk the hero's sidekick down to a more manageable size, and had now contained them in a large glass beaker

The sidekick glared upward. “You think I’d rat him out to you? dream on, freak.”

The villain was undisturbed.

"let me clarify. I know where he is. Hes coming to save you. If hes found out youre missing that is -- i hypothesise, your hero will be too late. Too late to save you from me."

The villain flicked an invisible speck of dust off of their white coat, "after all, you are useless to me. I dont keep things around that have no use at all, i do hate clutter."

The sidekick’s eyes widened. “Wait--what are you going to do?”

“I am going to get rid of you." They said plainly, "I prefer something... economic. Organic disposal. Though you might be a bit hard to get down at this size... no matter"

They licked their lips absentmindedly. “Waste not, want not.”

The sidekick stumbled backward against the curved glass wall. “You’re joking. You’re insane.”

The villain only tilted their head. “Well, if you’re lucky, maybe your hero will find you in time.”

"You - you cant just eat me - it's, its not ethical"

The villain just laughed. Because the sidekick knew ethical practice wasnt the villain's modus operandi

♧

The lair door slammed open

“Where is he?” the hero demanded, boots skidding across the polished floor.

The villain's gaze flicked up. They were reclining in a high-backed chair, lab coat unbuttoned, one leg crossed over the other. Their hands were folded over the slight rise of their abdomen, rounder. distended. Satisfied.

A faint, glurrg issued from within the villain’s midsection, and they patted it absently, like one might after a heavy meal.

The hero gaped.

“No…”

“Oh,” the villain replied, “yes.”

"You monster,” the hero whispered, fists clenched. “He was innocent”

“Was being the operative word.” The villain picked their teeth.

"You...how dare you...... I .... should have gotten here sooner .. you had no right"

A muffled belch slipped from the villain’s lips. They dabbed at their mouth with the back of one gloved hand, utterly unbothered. “You’re too late,” the villain said, “But you’re welcome to stay. I find digestion so… educational.

And im definitely not in a state to fight you. So if thats what you want, please let it be known now, so I can arrange a visit from my henchmen."

The hero stood, stunned, while the villain reclined deeper into the chair- content, humming, a quietly working belly on their lap.

the hero watched it, the swollen belly under the fabric of their shirt. Lab coat draped across either side of it.

There, the chorus of bubbling gurgles and muffled churns filled the silence, soft and low and constant, and if not to personify an organ, content. As well

The hero swallowed thickly. That’s him, the hero thought. That’s… that’s my sidekick. In there. Breaking down. Being... used. His face burned.

The villain’s body was human, but what sat there wasn’t. Not entirely. There was intelligence behind those eyes, cruelty, sapience, but an equally true fact was that this was a predator animal. And it had just eaten their friend.

The hero flushed deeper.

“hello there?” the villain said. “I expected you to .... i dont know..... attack me?"

The hero couldn’t answer. Their eyes kept drifting down. To the villain's gut.

A wet, languid blorp rose. The sidekick. Gone. Reduced to meat and bubbles of sound inside that grotesquely (admittedly) attractive swell.

"Does it disturb you?” the villain asked. They gave their belly an affectionate rub. It let out a sharp grrggghhl, as if in reply. “You’re blushing.”

“Shut up,” the hero snapped- "You’re a monster.”

The villain’s eyes flicked down. Analysing flush blooming across the hero’s cheeks, the way their eyes wandered, the tense and awkward and vulnerable counterance.

It clicked.

"Well well well," the villain started. "What’s this? Feeling... intrigued, are we?”

"i can see you're trying not to stare - god - ....seriously, you're into this? Watching me digest your precious side kick?"

“i had no idea - I thought I was tormenting you, truly breaking you down by showing off what I did but. But maybe... maybe I’ve been teasing the wrong nerve.” They tapped a finger lightly on their gut, which gave a low, wet churn in reply. "Complete accident, my bad truly"

“I never meant to... uh... turn you on with my big, full belly,” the villain said, voice dipping into a playful drawl, to alieviate their own embarrassment at the awkward situation.

“Though, now I’m wondering if you’ve got a thing for predators digesting their meals... is that it?"

The hero’s face burned hotter, eyes darting away as they struggled for a reply, but the villain wasn’t finished.

“You can’t help it. I see it in the way you watch, the way you are getting all embarrassed. It’s... fascinating.”

Their fingers traced a slow, teasing circle on their coat above that soft swell. “Honestly, it’s almost flattering.”

The hero’s jaw tightened, lips pressed so thin. He wouldn’t admit it, couldn’t admit it, not aloud, not even to himself. But beneath the rush of fury and heartbreak, beneath the desperate need to be angry, the truth pulsed like a secret heartbeat: this was their ultimate fantasy. God it was embarrassing. Why today? Why now? Why..... them.

The villain shifts in their chair, awkwardly patting the curve of their belly as a soft 'brrruurp' escapes.

They wince, putting a hand over their mouth, too late.

“Uh, excuse me,” they murmur, cheeks going pink under the sterile lights. “I… I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to make this any more… enticing for you.”

the hero buries his face in his hands.

[pure-smut]

the feel of you.

featuring: Laios Touden x f!reader

contains: lots of making out, nipple play, missionary, creampie, mentions of death

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

word count: 1.7k

series: 1. the taste of you | 2. the feel of you

masterlist

You’re in the rocky, freshwater pool with Laios, your arms wrapped around his neck as you unhurriedly explore each others mouths.

You had guided Laios to the pool, showing him the jut of a smooth, flat rock under the water that he could sit on before you climbed on his lap, straddling him. His erection is pressed between your stomachs and you can feel it warm against your skin despite the cool water of the pool. Laios had been enthusiastic about testing out his theories but had stopped you before you could guide him inside you.

“I still want to taste you,” he’d said. “All of you.”

So you had smiled and gently washed his face. Laios thumbed your bottom lip, his eyes running over you, mapping your features and committing them to memory. You had never seen this kind of look on someone’s face before – fascination, curiosity free from judgement.

When he was clean, Laios wrapped strong arms around your waist and pulled you closer to him, dipping his head to kiss you. It was chaste at first and you could feel him thinking, his brain churning as he analysed the taste of your lips. He parted your lips gently and you allowed him, feeling his tongue slide into your mouth for a better taste.

“Mmm,” he moaned lightly into your mouth.

You’ve been kissing for a while, neither of you in any hurry. Laios’s lips are soft even as his stubble scratches at you, the combination only heightening your arousal. His hands trace absently up and down your back as you cup the back of his neck, playing with the ends of his sandy hair. Above you, cherry blossom leaves fall lightly onto the surface of the pond.

Laios has never been somewhere so peaceful, so quiet. His mind is usually loud, crammed full of thoughts running in tandem with each other, his brain moving quicker than his mouth sometimes. But being here, with you, his curiosity being sated rather than stifled, is making the loudness in his head a little quieter.

“What is it you taste?” you pull back from the kiss slightly to ask him. Laios chases your lips for a moment before blinking.

“Sweet again, but darker,” Laios muses. “Like honey but not as rich. There’s a bite to it that’s really interesting.”

“A bite, hmm?” You smile before nibbling softly at his neck, sucking gentle kisses against the stubble on his skin.

Laios’s cock throbs against your stomach. A blush dusts his cheeks, despite having had his face between your legs not long ago. He’s sweet, you think.

Laios moves to kiss you again, capturing your lips with his. His mouth moves to your jaw and then down to your neck, recreating what you’d done to him. He softly sucks at your skin before licking along your windpipe.

“Salty, a slight tang, and something earthy,” he mumbles against your neck. Delicious, he thinks before licking along your collarbone.

You shudder under his touch, growing hornier by the second. Never has a man had this effect on you, although you’ve never spent this long with one either. You’re still troubled by the unusual feeling in your stomach, familiar but unfamiliar.

You’re quickly distracted as Laios lowers his head further, his mouth traveling down to your breasts. You raise up slightly, allowing him better access as Laios feasts on your tits. His grip hardens slightly on your hips as his tongue flicks over your nipple. Laios gets a thrill from feeling it stiffen under his touch and the little whimper you let out.

You skin here tastes the same as your neck, except lighter. It’s just as addictive and Laios kisses over the soft skin of your breasts before moving back down to your nipple again. He sucks at it before lightly nibbling, his cock twitching at the moan you make.

Laios can’t get enough of you. Your taste, your sounds, the way you feel under his hands. All of you feels so good, so satisfying in a way he can’t explain. Is it because you’re a succubus? He’s not sure. But he doesn’t mind – as long as you let him keep tasting you.

“Laios…” you breathe, curling your hand around the back of his head, feeling his soft hair between your fingers. “I want to feel you.”

Laios looks up at you with his golden eyes, wide and earnest and alight with wonder.

“I want to feel you too,” he says.

With a smile, you climb off his lap and make to step out of the pool. At the last minute, Laios hauls himself out before you so he can offer you his hand. You grin and take it, letting him help you out.

Laios pulls you in for another kiss, his mouth hot and intent this time instead of slow exploration. Without leaving his lips, you tug him to the ground on top of you, feeling the grass like a blanket under you. Laos holds himself over you on his arms, your legs around his hips. You reach down to guide him to your entrance, now dripping for him, but feel the hesitation in him.

You break away from the kiss to look at him.

“You’re nervous,” you say, keeping your voice kind.

“I’ve died before,” he says, nibbling on his bottom lip. “But this is different.”

“We don’t have to,” you assure him. “We can try your other theories – a finger, maybe? Or we don’t have to do anything at all.”

Laios shakes his head.

“No, I want to be inside you,” he says firmly, his adam’s apple bobbing. “We can try fingers next time.”

It takes you a moment to register what he’s said. You blink in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“Next time?” you echo. “You’re coming back?”

Laios cocks his head at you.

“Of course.”

“Even if I…” For the first time, you struggle to say it out loud. If I kill you, is stuck in the back of your throat.

Laios furrows his brows, confused.

“You’re just hungry,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

You’re horrified to feel a sob nearly overtake you, bubbling from your chest. You inhale sharply, blinking rapidly to shake the tears. Laois cups your face, concerned.

“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

You shake your head, a lump in your throat preventing you from talking. Instead, you breathe out shakily, running a thumb across Laios’s jaw.

“I hope you do come back,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper.

Laios smiles before pressing a kiss to your lips.

“You’ll see me again,” he promises.

He takes a deep breath, his thick tip nudging past your lips, before pushing himself inside you. You bite your bottom lip against the initial stretch of him, your slick combining with the ridges of his cock to create the perfect mix of friction. Laios’s eyes become half-lidded, his lips parting slightly as he quickly loses himself in the feel of you.

You’re hotter than he expected and your silky walls are pressed tight around him. He rocks his hips, trying not to go too deep just yet but your greedy pussy pulls him back inside every time he withdraws. A low moan falls from Laios’s lips, his eyes closing and brows knitted.

You expect him to go faster but he’s too caught up in how you feel when he strokes himself long and languidly in and out of you. Laios lets his head fall into the crook of your neck, his ragged breathing in your ear.

“You feel amazing,” he gasps lightly.

You lock your ankles behind him, pulling him tighter to you. Every slow, savouring thrust sends sparks through you, his cock stroking so sweetly against the nerves inside you. You’ve never felt this good before, never felt someone’s body pressed so close to you like this.

But Laios’s impending fate looms in your mind. You moan softly in his ear every time his cock brings you closer to the edge but you’re waiting for his thrusts to stall, for his movements to become slower, less deliberate. Tears prick at your eyes.

I’m sorry, you think. I’m so sorry.

Laios’s long strokes start to stutter. He breathes hard, his chest heaving against yours as he changes to quick, deep strokes, staying buried inside you.

“Fuck…” he breathes. “Don’t want… to end…”

But he's powerless. Laios moans, long and low as you feel him flood your insides, his cock throbbing against your walls. He collapses on top of you and you hug him tight, tears flowing freely.

You stay quiet, holding him to you as you sob quietly into his neck. For the first time, you hate what you are. You wish you’d told him no, that you’d sent him away.

You wish he was still here.

A startled yelp bursts from your chest as Laios pushes himself up on his arms. He blinks a few times, a dazed look on his face, before his eyes focus on you.

“Wow,” he says, a blush across his nose and cheeks. “That was amazing.”

You gape at him. Laios pulls back slightly, looking down at where he withdraws his softening cock.

“You’re alive,” you whisper hoarsely. “You’re alive.”

Laios makes no sign of moving, holding himself above you. A thoughtful look crosses his face.

“That surprised me too. I guess this hasn’t happened before?”

You shake your head vigorously.

“Never.” You reach out to touch his chest gingerly and feel him solid and warm under your palm. He’s really alive.

How is this possible? Everything was the same as it’s always been, every time you ate. Except…

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Laios,” you say suddenly. “You made me cum.”

Laios’s ears turn pink but he nods seriously.

“You think that made a difference?”

Your hand moves down to your stomach, where the strange feeling that’s been plaguing you sits. An overwhelming sense of relief and annoyance at yourself for being so dumb rushes over you.

“I’m full,” you tell him. “After you made me cum, I wasn’t hungry anymore.”

You stare at each other. Laios eyes glow with interest and a small smile plays on his lips.

“Fascinating,” he says. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Person, you think. Not monster.

“I think…” Laios’s blush deepens. “I think I’d like to stay a while, if that’s okay with you.”

You pull him down for a kiss, feeling him strong and secure above you, your legs wrapping around him. He brushes your wet hair back from your forehead, his heart and mind calm.

Laios never really leaves after that.

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[queenofmorningstar]

See You in Hell

Lucifer x f! Overlord Reader

Summary: A date under the stars

Word Count: 3.9K

Notes: I cried writing this chapter ☺️👍

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8

CHAPTER FIVE

The old salt refinery was deathly quiet, the scent of rust and brine clinging to air. Sunlight didn’t reach here. The sky above pulsed a dull red, casting jagged shadows from the twisted metal columns that had long since stopped serving any purpose.

You stood silently behind a shattered support beam, one hand gripping the angelic weapon holstered at your thigh. You had paid dearly to Carmine for it. Two of your best were in position, concealed in the rafters above, eyes sharp. You waited. 

Then, a whine of compressed space split the air as a portal opened. Lute stepped through, her eyes scanned the clearing with unhurried grace. Her left arm, mechanical,  hummed with quiet power.

You didn’t move, not yet. When she stepped fully into the marked zone, you gave the slightest gesture.

Your spies dropped down, flaring out twin cuffs woven with high-tensile steel, aiming for her wrists with fluid accuracy. For a second, it worked. The clamps caught with a satisfying clank.

But only for a second. Lute’s head turned slightly. Her expression never changed.

And then—CRRRRRACK!

The mechanical arm surged with brutal, unnatural strength, and the restraints screamed as she ripped them apart like wet paper. She twisted, knocking one of your men back into the dirt with a pulse of raw force. The other barely had time to react before she levelled him with a kick to the ribs that sent him sprawling.

She turned, her eyes locking on you. She tilted her head, analysing you. 

You stepped into view, calm and collected despite your pulse rising. “Aren’t you early for Extermination, angel?”

Lute’s smile curled wider. “Oh no, I’m here for something entirely different. I guess we managed to get your attention.”

We? You didn’t have time to think about it, as Lute came at you with her spear.

You parried with your sword, your body twisting as steel rang against steel. The impact shot sparks into the air, the force nearly tearing your blade from your hand. You slid back and exhaled sharply. She was fast. 

Lute wasted no time. She pressed forward, each movement clean, controlled, and brutal. Her footwork was sharp, militaristic—this wasn’t some street-level thug. 

You ducked the next blow and rolled, pushing off the ground and sending a surge of icy mist outward from your palm. A burst of frost erupted under her feet, instantly freezing the slick ground beneath her boots.

Her feet slipped. You took your opening.

Your sword flashed in a crescent arc, aiming for her midsection, but Lute dropped low with unnatural fluidity. Her mechanical arm shot out, and a beam of holy light shot out.

Fucking Iron Man. You raised a barrier of frost just in time, shards exploded on impact, peppering the side of your face with icy dust.

You were a blur of motion—twisting, blocking, slashing. Your blade danced through the air, its edge occasionally trailing frost, your magic surging through every swing. Lute matched each blow with her spear. Her spear sliced a shallow wound across your shoulder. You hissed, spun, and retaliated with a sharp kick to her side.

“You’re better than I expected. No wonder he’s got his eye on you.”

You spat blood from your mouth. “You talk too much.”

You clashed again with so much force that both of your weapons flew out of your hands. Lute engaged in physical combat and pushed you down with sheer strength.

“What the hell are you—”

A white-hot needle of agony shot through your arm as something pierced your skin. You screamed, instinctively jerking back, but she held you fast. 

Her mechanical arm had extended a sleek, silvery syringe, now sunk deep into your upper arm. You could feel it pulling your blood, drawn into the glowing vial attached to her wrist.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you roared, trying to wrench away.

You slammed your forehead into hers. She reeled back just enough for you to kick her. Lute stumbled, and you scrambled to your feet, the syringe ripping out with a hiss and leaving a thin stream of blood down your arm.

Your backup arrived then, a circle of your people formed around.

“Stand down!” one barked, charging toward her.

But Lute didn’t fight. She stepped back with a smirk, as a portal engulfed her, leaving you confused. What the hell was that? The illegal trade with imps was new, so it might have been a distraction…? For what? To bring you here? What did heaven care for you, an Overlord like any other?

“What’s the Extermination schedule? Are they still going to go through it?” You asked as your assistant came up to you. Since Lucifer had stopped the previous Extermination with a show of power, you’d thought it put an end to that unjust treatment.

“No, ma’am. The treaty has not changed. The king just defended his daughter, who was protected under the treaty. There has not been any…changes by the king.”

You sighed angrily. “Some things never change.”

*

Few months earlier…In Heaven.

Sera walked quickly through the endless garden pathways, the hem of her gown brushing against blooming lilies that never wilted. 

The doors opened at her touch without resistance. Michael stood at the heart of the room, surrounded by a ring of glowing spheres—visions, potential timelines, or glimpses across realms. He was still as a statue, watching one sphere intently.

“Michael,” Sera said, “I heard… you had a vision.”

He didn’t turn.

“You know I don’t like gossip,” he said, voice calm but distant.

“I wouldn’t come if I thought it was trivial.” She stepped beside him, eyes narrowing toward the sphere. “Is that Hell?”

A shimmer within the orb revealed ruined buildings. There were glimpses of imps, overlords, the tell-tale haze of the infernal. Then it shifted—and your face appeared, breathing heavily, wounded but unbroken, the determination in your eyes almost radiant.

“That’s her,” Michael murmured. “The one from the vision.”

Sera frowned. “Who is she?”

Michael finally turned to her. “She is the one who might change everything.”

Sera arched her brow. “That dramatic? You’re not usually one for prophecy.”

“This wasn’t a prophecy,” he said. “It was a warning.”

That made her pause.

“She is not just a non-believer,” Michael said, his voice softening into something unreadable. “She is a true one.”

Sera scoffed. “So? There are billions of atheists. That doesn’t make her special.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You misunderstand. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in God. It’s that she truly never did. Not as a child. Not in pain. Not in miracles. She never once turned her gaze skyward and asked for us. Not even subconsciously.”

Sera folded her arms. “Still doesn’t explain why she matters so much.”

Michael raised a hand and the sphere shifted again. This time, it showed exterminators marching. 

“She will end the exterminations.” Michael said, his voice as heavy as iron. 

Sera blinked. “You’re serious.”

Michael nodded. “This is the future that has the strongest resonance.”

Sera turned away, troubled. “But only Lucifer has that authority…” She walked away in a hurry.

Michael said nothing as she left. He simply stood there, hands loosely folded behind his back, watching her go.

The moment the doors closed behind her, he exhaled with a soft laugh and turned his attention back to the sphere.

You were smiling in it now, laughing at something offscreen. The image shifted slightly, revealing Lucifer nearby, sitting close, his face lit with rare joy as he looked at you like you were the only person that existed.

Michael’s smile deepened, nostalgia bittersweet, missing his brother.

________________________________

You were fuming. After everything, Lucifer still hadn’t tried to amend whatever the fuck that treaty was?!

You marched through the hall of the hotel. You ignored Angel's concerned glance as you passed the lounge. Your jaw tightened as you reached his door. You didn’t knock this time. You pushed it open, only to stop mid-step.

Lucifer was sitting near the apple-shaped balcony, bathed in the pale red glow of Hell’s filtered light. His legs were folded neatly, his shoulders hunched slightly, as he stared into the endless sky beyond. His cane rested beside him, untouched.

Your rage crumbled instantly.

There was a sadness in his frame you hadn't seen before, not like this. You swallowed hard, guilt crashing over you like a tide.

You had snapped at him before. After he showed you the blueprints. After he offered you breakfast—offered you his time, his ideas and you’d barely spared him a glance.

Goddamn it, you cursed inwardly. What’s wrong with you?

You stepped forward, softer now. “Lucifer?”

He blinked and slowly turned toward you. His crimson eyes looked duller than usual, surprised to see you there.

“I—” you faltered, then took a breath and approached him. “I owe you an apology.”

Lucifer sat straighter, blinking again in surprise.

“I... snapped at you before. That wasn’t fair of me.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised a hand gently. “And I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was just... overwhelmed. But that wasn’t your fault, and I should have been honest instead of cold.”

Lucifer stared at you for a moment, caught between disbelief and the slow thawing of hope in his eyes.

Then you smiled, soft and a little uncertain. “So,” you continued, shifting your weight just slightly, “would you be kind enough to join me for lunch? Since I ditched breakfast.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then his whole expression lit up.

Because in his mind, just moments before you arrived, he had been replaying everything he might have done wrong. Maybe he’d bored her. Maybe his ideas really are nonsense. Maybe she regretted the dance—maybe she didn’t want to be seen with him again.

“I would be honoured, dear,” he said, “All of that is forgiven.”

“You’re too kind.”

Suddenly, the thought struck you—something brighter than apologies, something more meaningful than just sharing a meal. 

"Actually..." you began, glancing up at him. "I wanted to make up for things properly."

Lucifer tilted his head, curious. “You already invited me to lunch. I must admit, that’s quite high on my list of favourite things.”

You smiled, a little mischievous. “I meant somewhere else. Not the hotel.”

Lucifer blinked. “Oh?”

“I’ve been rebuilding my observatory. The one in my territory. Finished it just this week.” You gave his hand a gentle tug. “Come have lunch there with me?”

“An observatory?” he echoed, brow lifting in amused confusion. “You do realize Hell doesn’t have any stars.”

You didn’t answer, just grinned and snapped your fingers. A shimmering portal cracked open midair, swirling with a faint iridescence. “Come and see anyway.”

Lucifer looked surprised, but intrigued. And, perhaps, a little enchanted by your confidence. “Lead the way, dear.”

The portal opened into a wide, domed chamber with glass walls and an impossibly high ceiling. The floor beneath your feet was covered in natural grass, but none of it compared to what was above.

The ceiling bloomed alive with stars.

A vast cosmos stretched overhead—an almost perfect projection of the mortal sky. The Milky Way spiraled across the dome like a frozen galaxy, constellations twinkling in their places, and comets occasionally trailing by in soft, slow arcs.

Lucifer stumbled to a stop. His eyes widened. A thousand stars reflected in his irises.

“I know it’s not real,” you said, voice quiet but certain. “Just tech. A projection system I’ve been building for months. Took forever to get the rotation right. But… I wanted to show it to you.”

Lucifer didn’t say anything right away. His mouth parted slightly in quiet awe. Lucifer looked at you then and the way he smiled was unlike anything you’d seen before. Soft, reverent….like you were one of the constellations above.

You added gently, “I thought… you’d like them.”

He chuckled—a little shaky, a little touched. “Like them? There are literally no words…”

Before the moment grew too heavy, Lucifer clapped his hands together. “Well! If we’re stargazing, we need proper supplies.”

He waved a hand theatrically, and with a soft poof of light, a red picnic blanket unfurled itself onto the ground. A floating lunch basket shimmered into existence, complete with a bottle of sparkling pomegranate wine, sandwiches wrapped in foil, and pastries with various toppings.

The two of you sat close, shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth even in this illusion of a night sky.

Lucifer took a sip from his wine glass, his gaze drifting upward. “I haven’t seen stars like this…” he began, then paused, lips quirking into a rare, melancholic smile, “...since Eden.”

You turned to him. His voice had been soft, nostalgic, but not bitter. There was something childlike in it, as though he were remembering a bedtime story or a dream he once believed in.

You took another bite of tart and nudged his foot with yours. “Do you miss Heaven?” you asked softly, watching him beneath the glitter of stars.

Lucifer blinked. “Miss Heaven?” he echoed, as if the words were in another language.

“Well…” He glanced at the stars like they might help. “That’s… complicated. I mean, it was my home. For… well, eternity. Familiar halls. Familiar faces. But—” He made a so-so gesture with his hand. “The rules.”

He leaned back with a sigh, “So many rules. ‘Don’t create this, don’t touch that, don’t question this, Lucifer put that experimental flaming dragon down right now’—you get the idea.”

You laughed. “You wanted to create flaming dragons?”

“I tried,” he huffed, sitting up again. “And pocket dimensions! Gravity-defying instruments! Self-singing flowers! But—nooo. Too noisy. Too chaotic.”

You smiled softly, and wanted to share as well that he wasn’t alone in that. “In life,” you began, voice low, “I wasn’t exactly... accepted. People thought I was strange. Cold. Too intense. I didn’t go to church. Didn’t pray. I always questioned the rules set by others…”

You hesitated, then said it plainly: “I was a Satanist.”

Lucifer blinked. “Wait—you were part of one of those cults?”

You gave him an utterly flat look. “Do I look like someone who sacrificed goats under the full moon?”

He raised his hands in surrender, laughing. You rolled your eyes. “I followed the modern path—the one that teaches self-worth. That there’s no god above you. That you are responsible for your choices. You live by your own moral code, not someone else's book of rules.”

Lucifer stilled for a moment, looking at you like you were a newly discovered invention. “...So, you do believe it now? Since you’re in Hell.”

“I don’t.” you said, looking down at your fingers in your lap. “If there’s a God, he has to beg for my forgiveness.”*

Lucifer’s gaze softened again, but before you could sink into your thoughts, as always, he ruined it with, “Though I am still curious if you ever tried summoning me with a chalk circle and latin phases.”

You smacked his arm. He laughed and leaned away dramatically, almost toppling onto the picnic basket.

You turned to him with a softness in your eyes that caught him completely off guard. “Heaven might not have appreciated your ideas,” you said gently, “but I do.”

Lucifer’s breath stilled. The stars cast a silvery glow across your features. You looked like something carved out of a dream. Not angelic, no. Something wilder, freer. Like the universe had made a star that refused to follow any orbit and called it you.

He swallowed. His throat felt dry.

You smiled, and the corners of your mouth curved in a way that made him feel completely stupid.

And it hit him, quiet and thunderous all at once… coup de foudre.**

Oh. 

Oh.

He was in love with you. Completely, hopelessly, cosmically in love with you.

You glanced at him, your brow lifting just a little. “You okay?”

Lucifer cleared his throat, then smiled crookedly, just enough to hide the panic beneath it. “Perfect,” he said, voice cracking slightly before he smoothed it out. “Absolutely...perfect.”

His mind spun. What if he ruined it? He always did, didn’t he?

He was too much. What if you thought so, too?

He glanced at you, smiling to yourself as you sipped from a cup of hellbrew. The expression on your face was serene. 

He could be charming, yes. But he was also messy. Prone to bouts of invention-mania that made him forget to eat, sleep, exist like a normal person. He talked too much. Felt too much. 

Would you still want him when he broke down because his thoughts were too dark at night? When he locked himself in his room for days, reworking inventions that never quite lived up to your expectations?

Would you leave, like everyone else eventually did?

Lucifer suddenly hated the way his chest ached. He hated how small he felt in this moment, sitting beside someone so powerful, so radiant, so good. You could build stars in Hell. You could rebuild yourself from rejection. You could see people so clearly.

Surely, you could see through him. And what if, after seeing all of him, you decided he wasn’t worth the trouble?

He swallowed hard, staring down at the last crumb of tart on the plate between you.

That gentleness, that patience… was it mercy?

His thoughts screamed over each other. She’s just being nice. She’s powerful, clever—she doesn’t need you.

You’re entertainment. A fun detour. Lucifer’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of the conjured picnic cloth. He should be used to this feeling—The fear of being too much and not enough all at once. But damn it, it had been so long since it mattered.

And you? You mattered so terribly much.

That terrified him. Because if he let himself fall and you decided he wasn’t worth it…He wasn’t sure he’d recover this time.

His hand inched closer to yours.

Just a little more.

Just a liiiittle more—

Nope.

Abort.

You were still looking out at the stars overhead, your expression soft, serene, completely unaware of the existential hurricane inside the King of Hell. You looked beautiful. Too beautiful. Dangerous, even. The kind where he wanted to hand you all of himself and ask for nothing in return.

He slowly retracted his hand, sighing silently. He couldn’t risk it. What if you pulled away?

And then—You touched his hand. His entire nervous system exploded. Lucifer's eyes shot down to where your fingers rested against his. Your fingers touched his gently, curling around his hand with such natural ease that he nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice low and concerned.

He nearly forgot how to speak. “I—uh. Me? Pffft. Perfectly alright. Never better!” he replied with a too-bright grin.

You didn’t look convinced.

Desperate to redirect before he melted into a puddle, Lucifer blurted out, “Do you… love the stars?”

“I don’t know,” you said, letting your thumb brush lightly over the back of his hand. “I think I prefer the Morningstar.”***

Lucifer.exe has stopped responding.

His brain absolutely imploded. Did you just—did that—was that—WAS THAT A FLIRT??

His eyes widened.  She’s flirting! That’s a move! That’s a solid move! That’s a real, actual, she-is-into-you kind of move!

…Unless. No no what if she just meant your name. What if she’s just being polite. This could be a casual compliment. A platonic comment. People say things like that, right? Right??

If his heart had wings, it would have flown directly into the sun.

Your eyes held the same hesitance, the same nervous flicker of hope he felt in his own chest. You, close and impossibly beautiful, starlight dancing in your eyes like it belonged there. 

He didn’t even realize he was moving until his forehead was nearly brushing yours. Lucifer leaned in slowly, hesitant at first, his hand trembling slightly as he reached up to touch your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin like it was sacred. His lips hovered over yours, and he almost didn’t let himself go further.

What if you pull away? What if this ruins everything? What if he was too much, too fast, too—

But then you leaned forward, closing the distance. Instead, your hands curled into his collar and you kissed him back like your soul had found something, like it had always been waiting for this. And when your lips met his, Lucifer’s whole body trembled.

His wings unfurled behind him with a soft rush of breathless joy, the tips curling inwards like they were trying to hold this moment steady in the stars.

It was hesitant, at first—tender and shy, as if both of you were afraid the dream might end. But the second your mouth parted, and you pulled him deeper into you with a soft sound, all his restraint shattered.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in like he belonged nowhere else. His wings, trembling and wide behind him, cast long shadows over you both as he kissed you again and again, each one deeper, more urgent, like he was afraid this moment would be taken away.

You made a soft sound in the back of your throat—something like a gasp, something like a prayer—and Lucifer broke.

In the crook of your neck, in the curve of your waist, in the press of your chest against his—he found his new religion.

And oh, he would kneel. He would worship.

The kiss broke, slow and breathless as you tilted your head back to catch your breath, lips tingling, heart beating wildly out of rhythm.

Lucifer stared at you. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His expression shifted. “Was that—was this just… spur of the moment?” he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly as he pulled away just enough to give you space. “Because I—if it was, I understand. I just—”

You reached for him, but he backed up another inch. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His gaze flicked away, downward, inward, hiding in the dark corner of his own head.

“I’ve ruined things before,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I know I’m too much sometimes. I know I’m exhausting—and I keep thinking, maybe someone could care despite all that. But then I look at you and think... what if I drive you away too?”

His voice cracked fully now, brittle and uncertain. “I want—gods, I want someone to stay. Someone who won’t look at me and see a burden. Someone who doesn’t leave. But what if that’s too much to ask? What if you wake up tomorrow and regret—”

You sat up fast, reaching for his hand, wrapping both of yours around it firmly.

“Luci,” you said, his name a lifeline. “Stop.”

His gaze finally met yours, shaky and aching.

“You’re not too much. You’re everything. And I—” your voice wavered slightly, and you took a breath. You’d never admitted this aloud before. “I doubt myself too.”

His brow furrowed, surprised. You pushed forward anyway.

“I wonder if I’ll be enough for you. If I’ll be able to give you the devotion you deserve. But with you... I want to try.”

You looked down at his hand in yours. “I want to be loved only by you. And I want to love only you.”

Lucifer went still. Like the whole world had gone quiet to let your words sink into his bones.

And then—he exhaled. A soft, shaky sound. One of relief.

His fingers curled around yours.

“You mean it?” he whispered.

You nodded. “I mean it.”

Lucifer let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a sob, and pulled you into a tight embrace, his face burying into your shoulder, never wanting to leave this place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:

*A phase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner.

**coup de foudre: A sudden unforeseen event, a love like a lightning strike.

***Do You Like Stars? Ya They're Cool  taken from this meme

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[rapunzellovesbooks]

So, okay, deep breath.

It is quite funny how it all works. I wake up, maybe a bit excited to see if the rumours of Nicola and Luke in Galway are true. Who knows, right? But what I see is a lovely new article that no one has seen before, with lovely quotes from our two idiots in love, and Luke basically saying „yeah, we are friends to lovers“. I squeal in delight, see lovely fan edits with the new quotes, all is good. I have no clue how these articles suddenly pop up, but someone must be behind it.

And then… I go in here and everyone is in histerics again over a picture with no context, most likely taken from someone‘s private account, with no actual reference to the date it was taken. Folks are fighting over whether it is last year or this year. If it was last year, wow, must be pretty serious no? Well, no, going to one meal to someone‘s house does not equate a serious relationship. If it is from this year, oh boy no? Well, no, cause you do not know if it is from this year and you can analyse curtains, hair, the dust on the furniture… you cannot tell cause you are not Luke nor his family. In any case, someone creating a blog simply to share that picture… making the effort to go stalk folks, even going back in time most probably to get a picture that tells you nothing… is just awful.

Of course I am biased. I want Luke and Nic together. But I do not base my narrative on cropped pics or photos taken without consent and context. Like, the quotes from the new article are them, unfiltered. That should be the focus.

I just refuse to sit here and see people spiral over a photo again when there is no information on when it was taken, by whom and why. It is ridiculous. And moreover, I cant believe I have to say it again, stop stalking family and friends. Luke and Nicola are very aware of the price of fame, their relatives should not.

Also… we get lovely rumours and a new article where they look amazing together.. and shortly after someone decides to drop that… makes you think. Why are some people so hell bent on proving us wrong? We ain‘t going anywhere, we have been here through worse. Stop being nasty, stalking and sharing stuff that should not be shared simply to rile people up. Most of us aren‘t hurting anybody.