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lewmagoo · 2 days

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we own the sky | rhett abbott

part one: ain’t no love in oklahoma

series info: new parts will be uploaded every friday at 7pm est. want more? read the synopsis here. listen to the playlist here. see the posting schedule here.

description: in which you return to the place where you lost everything

warnings: 18+ only, heavy themes, character death, grief, blood and injury, angst with a positive ending, allusions to sex, eventual smut, inaccurate weather terms, please do not check my science lol this story requires some suspension of disbelief. i usually try not to say anything about reader's family in fics but i do mention them having an unnamed great-aunt, as it was necessary to the plot

pairing: rhett abbott x f!reader

notes: this story is inspired by twisters. you do not have to watch the movie in order to understand this story, because aside from the storm chasing aspect, it has nothing to do with the twister universe. i've been working on this story for 2 months straight, and it is my pride and joy. i am so excited for everyone to read it! without further adieu, here is we own the sky!

You never thought you would return to the place where you lost everything.

When you left, you had sworn to yourself that you would never come back. This part of your life, the unspeakable tragedy you had endured, had to stay in the past where it belonged. And for six years, you managed to make yourself forget while you moved on with life.

You knew it wasn’t just you who had been affected by what happened. It had touched the lives of multiple people, shattering everything around them. But while they had stayed, you had decided to run. Away from the agony, away from the memories, away from the man you loved. It was better that way. At least, that was what you told yourself.

Now you found yourself standing in the middle of the rolling plains of the place that you used to live, wisps of tall grass brushing against your legs as the breeze rushed over the earth. It was all so familiar, yet so foreign. You felt so out of place, like an alien that had just descended the sky and landed on Earth for the very first time.

As you bent to pluck a stalk of switchgrass, you were struck with a memory of the day you left. Sprawled out in the long grass, your first love lying at your side. Rhett Abbott. The man you had known since you were mere babies in the church nursery together. Saying goodbye to him was the hardest part of leaving. But in your heart of hearts, you knew this was the way it had to be. You couldn’t look at him without being reminded of all you had lost. Of all he had lost.

“I wish you’d stay,” his voice, filled with longing, cut into the still morning air. Such a contrast to the chaos that had transpired in recent days.

“You know I can’t,” you whispered, afraid that if you spoke any louder, your voice would break, and you would succumb to tears.

“We can figure things out, you an’ me. Work through it together.”

“Rhett–”

“Fuckin’ twister took so much from us. Now you’re leavin’, too.” Defeat was evident in his voice.

You sat up, turning to look down at him. “We talked about this, Rhett. I have to leave.”

He sat up, too, nodding somberly. “Y’don’t have to. You just can’t stand the thought of facin’ reality. So you’re runnin’ from it.” Then he rose to his feet, grass crunching beneath him. “Not all of us have the luxury of bolting when things get tough, honeybee. The rest of us have gotta stay and face it head-on.”

Then he walked away, and you let him, knowing this would be the last time you would see him. A love lost.

Yet here you were again, in the same field where your romance had ended. However, you weren’t here to see him. You had returned to tie up loose ends, and face the past you had spent the last handful of years running from.

Rhett had been right about one thing. You needed to face it all head-on. But you weren’t sure if you had the strength to do so.

Being back in your hometown of Wabang, Oklahoma was a surreal experience. Nothing and everything had changed all at once. Dorothy McIntyre still owned Mac’s Diner on Main Street. Mrs. Simmons still tended to her rose garden every single day, keeping it in pristine condition. The local Baptist church still looked exactly the same as the day you left.

It felt like the town was stuck in time.

But there were also some changes. A new bar had opened up in town. A coffee shop, too, which was quite the upgrade. Even though life was slow moving here, it still continued on, just like it did everywhere else.

Coming back was never something you thought was in the cards for you, but a handful of your family members had remained here when you left. Including your great-aunt. Sadly, she had recently passed away, and you’d surprised yourself by willingly volunteering to go sort through her belongings and prepare her house to be sold.

You had a good portion of vacation days saved from your job at the National Weather Service Headquarters, and you decided to take them while you had the chance. Instead of going on a fun getaway, you were cleaning out a house that was just a few steps down from a hoarding house.

Your poor aunt had gotten rather forgetful in her old age, and had let so much clutter accumulate. Her declining physical health and mental capacity had inhibited her from cleaning, and, unfortunately, her children were not the most diligent when it came to looking after their mother, so no one had helped her with clearing any of the clutter when she was alive.

That was where you came in. And you certainly had your work cut out for you. But you didn’t mind too terribly. You were glad to have a break from work. Monitoring weather was quite literally a 24/7 thing. You loved your job, but you often felt as if you were running about like a chicken with its head cut off.

Especially now. It was late spring, and the weather had been wild and unkempt. It had a mind of its own, and with all the freak storms ripping through seemingly every state in the US, the National Weather Service was extremely busy.

And here you were, in the heart of Tornado Alley, which had seen a record-breaking uptick in tornado activity this season. You couldn’t deny that the thought of being here during this season made your anxiety skyrocket.

Where you lived now, in Maryland, tornadoes weren’t commonplace. They happened, yes, but not nearly as often as they did in your home state of Oklahoma.

You had once loved studying the phenomenon of twisters. There had been a time when they fascinated you. A time when you chased after them to analyze their data. And then, one terrible, fateful day, while observing one of those vicious twisters, the unthinkable happened.

Six Years Ago

“This one’s gonna be a big one. I can feel it,” Rhett’s voice was laced with electric excitement. He was a live wire, blue eyes wide and glimmering with his eagerness.

His excitement rubbed off on you. You loved doing this together. It was what you were meant to do. “I can, too,” you replied with a grin, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

He leaned in, his gaze flickering to your lips before he ducked his head to kiss you languidly. “Ready to wrangle this twister?” He asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Could’ya get a room?” Another voice cut across the site, interrupting your moment.

Rhett scowled as he looked over your shoulder to find his brother approaching. “Just for that, I’m kissin’ her again.” He pulled you in and planted another kiss on you, dialing it up to disgust Perry all the more.

You shoved at Rhett’s chest, giggling when you parted. “Maybe let’s not gross out everyone within a ten-mile radius,” you joked, though you still leaned in to steal one last peck from him.

“When you two are done neckin’, you might wanna pay attention to the radar. Winds are pickin’ up,” Perry explained, tapping the screen that was currently resting on the tailgate of Rhett’s truck.

“Think this one’s gonna touch down?” Came the voice of Rebecca, Perry’s wife, as she approached, tugging her ball cap down over her blonde ponytail.

“Look at them clouds. It’s gotta,” Rhett mused, motioning toward the sky. Angry, black clouds roiled in the distance. Perry was right, the wind was picking up. Although it wasn’t cold, it still sent a shiver down your spine.

Lightning crackled across the gray backdrop, and thunder subsequently rumbled in the distance. As you felt the first drops of cool rain, you locked eyes with Rhett. His face broke into a grin.

“Let’s get goin’!” He called out, retrieving his worn felt hat, the one you’d gotten him on his eighteenth birthday, and placing it atop his head.

You found yourself laughing with glee as you moved to scurry to the passenger seat of his rickety old GMC Sierra that had seen more storms than you could count. As you wrenched the door open, the sound of scrambling footsteps alerted you that someone was approaching quickly. You turned to find Lydia, your best friend, running toward you, her French braids bouncing wildly about.

“Don’t forget this!” She called out, shoving a walkie-talkie into your hand. Her own remained clipped to the waistband of her cargo pants.

“Thanks!” You replied. “You riding with us or with Perry and Bec?”

“I’ll ride with them, since they’ve got more room and all,” she told you. Unlike Rhett’s truck, Perry’s had a backseat.

“Okay, see you after the storm. Be careful, alright?” You surged forward and gave her a quick hug. Your friendship went way back to childhood, when you had met each other in kindergarten. You had been inseparable ever since. With your shared fascination with the weather, it was only natural that she would decide to chase twisters alongside you.

“Let’s go to that new ice cream place when we’re done!” She suggested when you parted.

“Sure, I’ll mention it to Rhett. See ya in a bit!” With that, you yanked the truck door open and climbed inside, while Lydia rushed off to get into Perry’s truck.

As you settled in the seat, you set your walkie down in the cupholder and grabbed the monitor you used to keep an eye on the weather radar. There, at the top of the screen, you saw the red banner that listed which counties had just been put under tornado watches.

Glancing back up at the sky, your heart quickened in your chest. While it wasn’t guaranteed that a twister would touch down, it was a very high possibility, especially with the string of storms that had ripped through the area lately.

“Let’s go chase this son’bitch,” Rhett murmured as he settled into the driver’s seat, tugging his seatbelt into place. He turned the key, and the truck roared to life. Without wasting a single moment, he threw the gear into drive and peeled out of the vacant lot you’d all been congregating in.

He kept to the east of the storm, offering you the best vantage point. Most storms moved northeast, at thirty to forty miles per hour, so you had to move fast to keep up. Rhett stepped on the accelerator, wasting no time. He was vibrating with adrenaline beside you, and it was infectious.

He always had been a bit of an adrenaline junkie. When he was in high school, he’d started bull riding competitively. He loved the thrill, the danger, the electricity he felt atop a thousand-pound animal.

Chasing twisters was similar to bull riding. Trying to hold on for dear life as an angry, churning force threatened to toss you through the air like a rag doll. Once he’d had a taste, he couldn’t get enough.

His love of the thrill and your fascination with weather made you a dream team.

Turning it into a family affair wasn’t necessarily the goal, but Rebecca found the phenomenon of tornadoes fascinating, and Perry was simply along for the ride, so the four of you started storm chasing together.

And of course, Lydia had been on board from the moment you suggested it. Much like Rhett, she also loved thrill seeking, and was content to join your little team. She was particularly good at analyzing storm data. Her entire motivation was figuring out how twisters worked.

Meteorology was a science that was relatively new. While the study of weather itself had been around for millennia, it didn’t quite progress until scientists began utilizing computers to analyze meteorological data.

Even with all the progress that had been made, tornadoes were difficult to study. Things like hurricanes and tropical storms were easier to predict and monitor. But not twisters. They were wild, uncontrollable beasts that could touch down at any moment and wreak all sorts of havoc in mere seconds.

Lydia wanted to learn all she could about the phenomena, and so did you. Your shared interest allowed you to work very well together.

You were so grateful for the little group you worked with. Four people you loved very much. You’d known Rhett, Perry, and Lydia your entire life, of course, and Rebecca was a newer addition. She’d joined you in the last five years, but she was an excellent asset with her history as a news meteorologist.

What a merry band of storm chasers you were, heading into the face of danger, hoping to encounter one of the most mysterious weather anomalies in existence.

“How’s she lookin’, darlin’?” Rhett asked, one hand reaching over to squeeze your thigh lovingly.

You gazed down at the screen in your lap, paying attention to the large highlighted region that showed which direction the storm was moving. The severity was mounting.

“Pretty intense,” you answered. Then, as if on cue, the telltale sound of hailstones began to patter against the roof of the truck. Your face broke into a grin.

Over the walkie, Lydia’s voice could be heard. “We’ve got hail!” She cried in excitement.

The shift in temperature was a good sign. These were peak conditions for a tornado to form in. You grabbed the hand Rhett had placed on your leg, giving it a squeeze. He squeezed right back.

Moments later, the hail died down, and you opened the truck window, listening. A crack of thunder in the distance. And then, a split second of utter silence.

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end.

You turned your head, looking straight at Rhett. The blue of his eyes was bright as could be, shining with anticipation.

And then, just beyond him, you saw it.

“Holy shit.”

He glanced to his left and saw it too. A few hundred yards from you, in the open fields, a funnel cloud had begun to form. Your eyes never left it, staring at the sky, willing the funnel to touch down.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

“We got touchdown yet?!” Rhett asked, eyes half on the road, half on the funnel.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.

And then, all at once, it made contact with the ground. Lydia was shouting through the walkie, and you grabbed the device to answer her. Your heart was pounding in your chest, your teeth chattering as adrenaline began to course through you.

What a beautiful sight it was. Terrifying and destructive, but beautiful.

“Goddamn, look at that,” Rhett breathed in awe. He kept his foot planted firmly on the accelerator, maintaining a fast pace, staying just ahead of the swirling tunnel of wind.

But your spirit of wonder soon dissipated as you noticed something. “It looks like it’s getting bigger,” you remarked. The change was obvious. It was covering more ground. Moving faster and faster.

Within seconds, your entire life was turned upside down.

“Oh my God. Rhett…” Your voice failed you, coming out as more of a whisper. You gripped his arm, and he quickly brought both hands to the steering wheel, knuckles white.

He gazed out at the approaching swirl, and he knew he was no longer chasing the storm. No, this time, the tides had turned.

Now it was time to run.

You scrambled for the walkie-talkie, fingers closing around the plastic, but it flew out of your hands as Rhett slammed on the brakes. You let out a yelp as you plummeted forward, seatbelt stopping you from hitting the dashboard.

“We gotta find cover!” He shouted, throwing the gear into park and unbuckling his own seatbelt. His face was awash with fright, pale as could be. He pointed to your right. “Old Miller property’s over there. Maybe we can make it to the storm cellar!”

Terror-stricken, you scrambled to open your door, tumbling out onto the asphalt. As soon as you righted yourself, Rhett was grabbing you, hand tight on your bicep, dragging you across the road. Your boots crunched against gravel, but you couldn’t hear the sound over the roar of the wind.

It was so close you could feel it tugging at your clothes. A vortex threatening to swallow you whole. If it overtook you, you’d never make it out alive.

Together, you dashed across an old wheat field, straight for the Miller farm. It had been abandoned for years, but the storm shelter remained, and it was your best chance at survival.

You could see it just up ahead, jutting slightly from the ground. But your legs ached, and your lungs burned like fire as you struggled to take in gulps of air. So close yet so far. Just a little further.

You’d never been so terrified in your life. You understood now what people meant when they said their life flashed before their eyes. Yours did at that moment, as you ran alongside the man you loved.

Images of your family, memories of all the good times you’d had with Rhett, flashes of laughing and singing and being young and foolish and so full of wonder. Was it all for naught?

“C’mon, baby! We’re almost there!” His desperate shout filled your ears. He yanked you toward him and you nearly lost your footing, and for one horrifying moment, you thought you were going to fall, but Rhett caught you in his strong arms, continuing on across the field.

By the grace of the Almighty, you made it to the shelter. Rhett threw himself down, lifting the iron bar that was fastened across the rusted doors. Hinges squealed as he heaved them open, and he pulled you forward, urging you down the rickety old ladder into the abyss below.

You scrambled down, and he followed, slamming the door shut as he did so. When you reached the end of the ladder, your feet hit the floor unsteadily, and you yelped as your foot gave out beneath you, ankle twisting painfully. But your injury was the least of your worries.

In the inky darkness, Rhett landed beside you and reached out, grabbing you, pulling you close.

“Rhett!” You sobbed, burying your face against his chest as he cautiously guided you away from the overhead doors.

“I’ve got you!” He assured you, holding you tightly. He pulled you both to the damp ground, and you curled up beneath him as he laid his body atop your own. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

He held you, his large hands covering your ears as the violent storm raged above you.

Often, tornadoes were described as sounding like a freight train, and you would agree with that statement, having witnessed so many of them. But right now, as you huddled beneath the ground right below the savage phenomenon, it didn’t sound like a train at all.

It sounded like the world was coming to an end.

You weren’t entirely certain how long you stayed down there, pressed against the earth, as Rhett shielded you. It felt like hours. Days. Weeks.

And then, all at once, it stopped.

The world went quiet again. Nature went back to its natural order. The danger had passed.

You laid there for a few moments, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing. You were trembling. So was he. But you were alive.

“Are you okay?” Rhett asked as he lifted his body from yours, kneeling beside you.

You sat up, trying to find your voice. “Y-yeah. Are you?”

“I’m fine,” he breathed.

And then, “Oh my God. Perry, Bec and Lydia!”

You hurried to stand, and Rhett grabbed your arm, leading you both through the dark, feeling for anything that might be in your path. Once he’d grabbed onto the ladder, he ascended it first, grunting as he reached up to open the doors.

Daylight flooded the cellar, and you shielded your eyes for a moment before you took hold of the ladder yourself and began climbing.

As you both emerged, the sight you were met with was harrowing. The old Miller farmhouse was entirely decimated, blown flat to the ground like a house made of popsicle sticks. The barn was destroyed, too, pieces of red painted wood littering the surrounding property.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. That had to be an EF4. Maybe even a five,” Rhett said in utter disbelief, his eyes wide, jaw slacken.

A sob tore itself from your throat as you turned, fully taking in the level of damage around you. There was seemingly no sign of Perry’s truck.

“Do you think they found cover?” You asked, voice trembling.

Rhett’s face was grim, but he still said, “‘m sure they did, they’re smart, they’re probably just hunkerin’ down in a ditch somewhere.” Then he grasped your hand. “Let’s head out to the road and see if we can fine ‘em.”

You intertwined your fingers with his and followed, but your stomach was in knots. What if your friends had been consumed by the storm? What if they were dead?

As you walked, you both called out for them, hoping they’d hear and yell back. But your voices bounced off of the eerily silent countryside. Such a contrast to the chaos that had just transpired.

“They can’t have gone too far. They were right behind us,” Rhett spoke. You could hear the distress in his voice, although he was trying to keep himself steady for you.

You scanned the horizon, and that’s when you saw it. A long ways off, the silhouette of an overturned truck could be seen. Perry’s truck.

“Rhett,” came your whisper.

“I see it.”

Together, you broke into a run, sprinting across the road and into the field on the other side. Faster and faster, desperate to see what was inside the truck. Praying it was empty, that your friends had found cover.

You came to a stop once you were within a few feet of the truck, and Rhett held out his arm, glancing back at you as he caught his breath. “Just wait, I’ll check,” he told you.

You shook your head, breathing still labored. “No, let’s look together.”

Holding his gaze, a beat passed before he reached for your hand again. Together, you cautiously approached the truck, which was turned onto its side. It was severely battered, damaged beyond repair.

As you rounded the front, you peered down into the window and your blood ran cold. “Oh dear God.”

Rhett jumped into action, climbing atop the side of the truck. The driver's side glass was shattered, allowing him to reach in. “Per!” He exclaimed, gripping his brother’s shirt, tugging him upward. “Perry!”

But he got no response. The man was unconscious. A nasty gash marred the side of his head, crimson blood trickling down his face. He was terribly pale.

Beneath him, Rhett could see Rebecca. His heart sank like a rock. Just from the way she was positioned, he could tell she was not going to fare well. He couldn’t see if her chest was rising and falling or not. And when he squinted to look into the back seat, he saw Lydia, slumped over, but he couldn’t tell if she was dead or just merely unconscious.

“Are they alive?!” You couldn’t tell from your vantage point. All you could see was Perry and Rebecca. If Lydia was still in the truck, she was concealed in the back.

“I-I can feel a pulse, but Perry’s bleedin’ real bad. Call 911!” He didn’t give you any information about the girls.

“Rhett, the girls! Are they—”

“Just call an ambulance!” He repeated with urgency.

You did as you were told, hurrying to grab your phone from your pocket, hands shaking fiercely as you dialed the emergency number. You prayed you would get an answer, knowing the call lines would be flooded after the storm.

Moments later, an operator answered. Panicked, you explained your situation, begging them to send help. The woman remained calm, asking for your name and location, assuring you that assistance was on the way. You had no recollection of what you said to her. Everything was a blur, adrenaline giving you tunnel vision.

After you hung up the phone, Rhett jumped down from the truck. You threw yourself into his arms as he neared you, tears spilling down your cheeks. “They said they’re on their way,” you whimpered.

He hugged you close, and you could feel the way he trembled. “I didn’t…I didn’t want to pull him out. The EMTs should be the ones to do it, just in case anythin’ is broken.” While that was partially true, he was also terrified that if he started pulling everyone out, he’d find the girls were dead. It would bring reality crashing down upon him. The thought made his gut churn with dread, and he found himself praying to a God he didn’t even believe in, asking Him to spare his brother and his sister-in-law, and your dearest friend Lydia.

It took longer than usual, because so many ambulances had already been dispatched to aid those harmed in the storm. But as time ticked on, the more worried you became. “I’m scared,” you whimpered.

Rhett held you tighter, resting his cheek atop your head. He felt so powerless. “I know. Me too.”

Moments later, the wail of emergency vehicle sirens could be heard. Multiple ambulances and a firetruck approached, all pulling into the grass toward the scene. Rhett let you go, the two of you jogging ahead to meet the first responders.

“There’s three of ‘em in the truck!” Rhett exclaimed, “they’re all unconscious, from what I could tell!”

“We’ll get them out!” One of them assured you both.

You watched as they all rushed toward the truck, firefighters and EMTs alike. Helplessly, you remained on the sidelines, clinging to Rhett, fingers clutching the fabric of his t-shirt.

He wanted to tell you they’d be okay. That everything was going to be fine, that your friends were unharmed. But in his heart, he knew nothing would ever be okay again.

Perry was pulled from the vehicle first, still unconscious. Together, you watched as he was placed on a gurney, where an EMT hurriedly checked his vitals, searching for life.

“I’ve got a pulse, but it’s weak!” The young woman shouted.

He was alive. That was a good sign, right? Maybe it meant the girls were alright as well. You could only hope.

A saw was taken to the door, and it was removed so that the inside of the truck was more easily accessible. Then they pulled Rebecca out. She was so still, unresponsive as she was hauled down to a second gurney.

You heard a voice shout that they couldn’t find a pulse.

You placed your hand over your mouth, a grieved whimper escaping your throat. Rhett’s name slipped past your lips, and you buried your face in his chest, unable to watch. You could hear his sharp intake of breath.

Then Lydia was pulled from the wreckage. While you kept your face hidden against Rhett, he watched on, and he knew, just from the sight of her, that she was gone.

His grip tightened on you. It felt as if a dagger had been plunged into his chest. He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his eyes falling shut for a moment as the weight of what was happening settled upon him.

You lifted your head at that very moment, and you turned, realizing your best friend had been taken out of the truck. On instinct, you tried to pull away from Rhett. Tried to run toward the scene, to see for yourself if Lydia was alright.

But Rhett held you back. “No,” he told you.

“Let me go, I need to see if she’s okay!”

He repeated himself. “No.” He would not release you, no matter how hard you struggled.

Tears blurred your vision. “Rhett, please! I need to know if she’s alive!”

He grabbed both of your shoulders and looked right into your eyes. “Darlin’, stop! Just let ‘em do their jobs!” He didn’t want you near it. Didn’t want you to witness death up close and personal like that. It would haunt you forever.

Your knees buckled, and he caught you as you fell into him, wailing from the weight of your pain. Brokenhearted, Rhett cradled you in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut as his own tears made their way down his cheeks. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. It had to be a dream. A nightmare.

And then one of the sheriff’s deputies was approaching. Linden Haynes. “You two need an escort to the hospital?” He asked, voice low. Knowing you’d both want to go in support of your friends.

Rhett nodded, trying to find his voice. “Yeah…yeah. Thanks. I, uh, don’t know where my truck got blown to.”

Linden hummed, his face sympathetic. “No problem. We’ll find your truck somewhere. Once things calm down, I can see if we can get some deputies searchin’ for it.” He moved to walk away, motioning for you both to follow.

“Linden, are…are they okay?” you heard yourself speak.

He turned, trying to mask his expression, but you could see it in his eyes. He had witnessed the wreckage firsthand. He’d seen the EMTs and firefighters rescuing your friends. He knew.

“Let the docs and nurses at the hospital tell you that, they’ll know more than me,” was his response.

Defeated, you followed him to his squad car, your body still leaning into Rhett. You climbed into the backseat together, and as soon as you were settled, you buried your face in your hands, trying desperately to hold yourself together. But you were unraveling, and the dread was threatening to swallow you whole.

The hospital was in a frenzy when you arrived. So many people hurt in the storm. You heard murmurs of the tornado being an EF5, which made your eyes go wide as you looked at Rhett. It was a wonder you’d even made it to safety.

Sitting there in that hospital waiting room was the most excruciating moment of your life. Hoping your friends would survive. Knowing that they might not.

Rhett was on the verge of potentially losing his brother. And while his relationship with Perry had been tumultuous over the years, he cared about him deeply, and couldn’t stomach the thought of losing him.

You sat side by side on vinyl-covered chairs, holding each other’s hands in a death grip, startling anytime a doctor or nurse walked by, thinking one of them was coming to give you an update.

Finally, an update did come.

You had no recollection of ending up on the floor. But there you were, crumbled against the cool tile as Rhett tried to console you, while simultaneously wracked with grief himself.

They were dead. Lydia and Rebecca. They were dead, and they had been since they were pulled from the wreckage. Perry, however, was alive, but just barely holding onto life.

The doctor was a family friend. He offered to contact yours and Rhett’s respective families. It was all a bur. And then you found yourself in Perry’s hospital room, which was stone silent, filled with dreadful anticipation.

Your memory of that day was patchy at best. Your brain had filtered out some of the more traumatic parts, forcing you to forget. The weight of your anguish made it feel as if you were underwater, being pulled down by a cinder block tied to your ankle. No matter how hard you pedaled, you couldn’t come back up to the surface.

Late into the night, Perry succumbed to his injuries, too. He slipped away, with his family surrounding him. Worst of it all? His four-year-old daughter was left an orphan in the wake of her parents’ deaths.

You lost a piece of yourself when three of the dearest people in your life were taken from you. It sent both you and Rhett into a spiral. He blamed himself. You blamed yourself. It was something you could not move past. Every time you looked at him, it was a reminder of that fateful day a twister took everything from you.

You couldn’t bear it any longer. So you ran. You left Rhett. You left all you had ever known. And you told yourself you would never come back.

Present Day

Until now.

You were hoping to go undetected. You weren’t sure if you could handle seeing anyone from your past. Least of all Rhett. With the way you left things between you and him, you doubted he wanted to see you anyway.

But you should have known you couldn’t hide forever.

You had been planning to stay in your aunt’s house while you were in town, but when you arrived and saw the dire state it was in, you realized sleeping there wasn’t feasible. So you decided to stay at the only motel in town.

Before checking in, you needed to stop by the store to buy a few necessities that you had forgotten to pack. You wondered if anyone would recognize you. Had you changed much physically over the last six years? You thought you had, but maybe others wouldn’t notice the change.

You managed to slip into the store without being recognized. You went about your entire shopping trip, remaining anonymous. You paid for your things without a single soul uttering your name. But just when you thought you were home free, you saw someone who made you stop dead in your tracks for the briefest of moments.

Cecilia Abbott.

Your heart rate picked up, anxiety sizzling through your veins like a live wire. She hadn’t seen you yet, too busy bagging her groceries to notice. Perhaps, if you were quick enough, you could evade her and make your escape.

You almost did, too. Until you heard the sound of your name being called.

You flinched, pausing for a moment, debating whether you should keep going. But then she was descending upon you and you had nowhere else to go.

“It can’t be! After all these years?!” The woman exclaimed.

Slowly, you turned around, trying your best to put on a pleasant expression, masking your look of distress. “Cece, hi!” You greeted. You had no idea how this was going to go. Would she be angry at you for walking out on her son? Would she welcome you back to town with open arms?

She stared at you in disbelief, shopping bag balanced in the crook of her elbow. “Goodness, how long’s it been?” But she knew how long it had been. She never lost count of how many years had passed since the death of her child.

“Six years,” you heard yourself reply. You wanted to crawl out of your skin.

“Wow. I can’t believe it.” Cecilia shook her head. “It’s almost like seein’ a ghost! Never thought you’d come back.”

“I didn’t either. But I, uh…I’m here cleaning out my aunt’s place.”

Her face softened, and she shifted, leaning toward you. “I’m sorry. She’ll be missed around here, that’s for sure. S’ a good thing you’re takin’ on the responsibility of cleanin’ that house, though. She did let it go in her old age.”

You hummed in agreement. “Yeah, she really wasn’t there mentally the last few years of her life. It’s sad. But, I’m hoping to have the house looking good as new when I’m done with it.”

Cecilia shifted her bag of groceries to her other hand. “Say, you got a place to stay while you’re in town?”

“I was going to stay at the house, but it’s too much of a disaster. I’m just gonna get a motel room.”

You should have known what she would say next. Gasping, she reached out and touched your arm. “Nonsense! You should come stay at our house!”

Your eyes widened. She wasn’t serious, was she? After all that had transpired? “Oh, I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

But once Cecilia Abbott’s mind was set on something, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “No imposition at all! Home cooked meals, and a clean bed that doesn’t have bed bugs like that nasty ole motel does. The Bed Bug Inn, that’s what everyone calls it. Plus, we’re not that far from your aunt’s, just down the road. Closer than the motel is.”

She did have a point. But you couldn’t fathom the thought of stepping back onto the Abbott property again. You couldn’t face the demons you’d left there. “Cece, I appreciate it, but—”

“I insist. You at least need to come for dinner! I’m makin’ roast tonight, y’know, the one Rhett always loved? If you decide you still don’t want to stay after that, that’s fine. But you have to let me feed ya, I’m not gonna let you go hungry, girl.”

At the mention of Rhett’s name, your breath caught in your chest. “Oh, um… Rhett, how is he?” Your voice raised a little in pitch, and you cleared your throat.

“He’s fine. Still livin’ in the house with us, but he’s gone all the time. Storm chasin’ business keeps him busy.”

He was still chasing? “I can’t believe he’s still going after storms,” you spoke in disbelief.

Cecilia shrugged. “He never lost his love for it,” she mused. For a moment, there was a faraway look in her eyes, as if she was remembering something. Likely the way she had lost her son to the very thing Rhett loved doing.

Then she snapped out of it. “Anyway, come over for supper! Five o’clock!” Without giving you a chance to protest, she turned on her heel and bustled out of the store, leaving you with no choice but to take her up on her offer. You didn’t want to offend her by not showing up.

But could you handle it? Stepping back into the past, into a version of yourself that you had not been in six years. You thought of Amy, Perry and Rebecca’s daughter. She would be nine years old by now. Would she even remember you? Would she blame you for the death of her parents?

Surely not. She had been four when they died. You doubted a four-year-old had the emotional or mental wherewithal to blame you for the loss of her parents.

But it wasn’t Amy you were afraid to be reunited with. Not really. You were utterly terrified at the thought of seeing Rhett again. Would he be happy to see you? Would he be angry? Hurt? Confused? What would he say to you? How would you respond?

All these questions swirled through your mind as you sauntered back to your car. Maybe he wouldn’t even be home. But if you chose to stay at the Abbott’s, you would likely run into him at some point. Besides, you weren’t sure how long you were going to remain in town. You felt like you were taking advantage of Cecilia’s kindness. So, you determined that you would only go over for dinner. You would not stay the night.

With that thought in mind, you climbed into your car and headed back to your aunt’s house.

A few hours later, you were back in your car all over again, thrumming with anxiety, wondering if you were making the right decision. It would be so easy to turn back around, but you forced yourself to continue on, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.

When you turned into the Abbott farm, you were hit with a wave of nostalgia so intense you slowed your car to a stop, staring at the house in the distance. It was the same as it had always been. A cozy house boasting of a well-kept garden, a bran off to the left with a nice coat of bright red paint. Chickens milled about the yard. Horses played in the field. Cows lowed in the distance.

It still felt like home.

With a deep breath, you eased off the brake and urged your car down the long driveway. As you parked near the house, you caught sight of a young girl with honey-colored hair, swinging on the rope swing that was tied to the tree in the front.

Your heart clenched in your chest. She’d grown so much. It was a reminder that life had continued in your absence.

Upon seeing you, she hopped down, eyes alight with joy. “Gramma! Gramma!” She called, rushing into the house to alert Cecilia to your arrival.

You took a moment to steel yourself before you climbed out of the car, shoes crunching against dirt and gravel as you approached the porch. As you ascended the steps, you were once again greeted by the little girl. Amy.

“Hi!” She exclaimed. “I’m Amy. Gramma says you can come on in!”

You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Hi, Amy. It’s been a long time. Last time I saw you, you were this big!” You held your hand low, indicating her size.

“I don’t really remember you. But Gramma and Grampa do. They said you and Uncle Rhett used to date.”

You were slightly taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Uh, yeah…yeah, we did. That was a long time ago though.”

Amy shrugged. “I wish he was still dating you. You’re super pretty!”

“Oh…thank you!” Was all you could say in reply. She certainly was prone to saying whatever came to mind. However, she moved on from it quickly, motioning you inside.

“C’mon!” She said, waving you on, and you moved to follow her, stopping at the door to take your shoes off before you ambled into the kitchen.

The smell of food cooking made your stomach growl, and you realized only then that you were very hungry. A home-cooked meal would do you some good.

At the sound of your footsteps, Cecilia turned, her face lighting up at the sight of you. “You made it! I’m so glad. Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

You smiled softly, nodding your head. “Is there anything I can do to help?” You wanted to make yourself useful, rather than standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

“You can help me set the table!” Amy chirped, already walking to the table with her arms full of plates.

“Silverware’s in the drawer to the right of the sink,” Cecilia reminded you. But you remembered from the countless dinners you had been a part of here.

With a nod, you moved to gather enough cutlery for everyone, and as Amy set each plate down, you folded a napkin and placed the silverware upon it. You fell into a rhythm, stopping only to grab drinking glasses from the cupboard.

You noticed that the number of place settings was five. That had to mean Rhett was also joining the family for dinner, unless it was a place for someone else. You wanted to ask Cecilia if he was coming, but didn’t want to make things awkward, so you left it alone.

You were kept busy as she handed you different serving dishes full of various foods to put on the table. As you placed a basket of dinner rolls amongst the rest of the food, the sound of the back door opening caught your attention.

Your heart leapt in your chest, and you lifted your head, expecting to see Rhett. Instead, you were met with Royal’s look of surprise. Cecilia looked over at him and motioned to the sink. “Wash up, supper’s ready. We’ve got a guest.”

He nodded as he hung his hat on the peg on the wall, pausing to take off his muddy boots. “I’ll be damned,” he remarked, directing it at you. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Saw her at the market today, so I invited her over. Didn’t tell ya because you an’ Rhett have been in that darn pasture with no signal all day.”

Royal hummed gruffly as he walked over to the sink to wash his hands. “Storm wiped that fence clean out. We had to replace every last post,” he sighed, “took us all day.”

“S’why we need to hire some hands, Roy,” Cecilia lowered her voice, but you still heard her.

Clearly this was something they talked about frequently, because he huffed and shook his head. But he didn’t continue the potential argument. Instead, he turned, drying his hands on a towel. His eyes regarded you kindly. “Been a long time,” he murmured. “Good to see you.”

You managed a smile. “Good to see you too.”

“Rhett on his way?” Cecilia questioned as she placed the final platter on the table.

Again, your heart fluttered anxiously at the mention of his name.

Royal nodded, pulling out the chair at the head of the table and taking a seat. “Yeah, he’s right behind me, he was just puttin’ up the horses.”

“Alrighty, we’ll wait to say grace until he comes in then.”

There it was again, that deep feeling of utter nostalgia. Cecilia had always been a religious woman, and not a meal went by where she didn’t pray over the food. That aspect hadn’t changed at all.

“You can sit here!” Amy announced, patting an open chair next to Royal. “Me and Uncle Rhett will sit across from you.”

You’d have to look into his face. You wouldn’t be able to hide your expressions from him. Rhett had always been so perceptive, more so than anyone gave him credit for. He was always considered to be aloof by those who didn’t bother to get to know him, but you knew that was far from the truth.

There had been a time when you knew him like the back of your hand. You wondered just how much he’d changed, if at all.

Just as you took your seat at the table, the squeak of the screen door opening filled the room, and the scrape of boots against linoleum followed. Seconds later, there he was. Blue flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. Same brown hat he’d had since he was a teenager, which he pulled from his head to place on the hat peg.

“Uncle Rhett! Uncle Rhett! We have a guest!” Amy exclaimed.

He hadn’t turned yet. Didn’t know you were there. “Who’s that, li’l pea?”

“Your old girlfriend!” She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

He saw you then, and his eyes went wide. You swore the clock hanging over the sink stopped, causing time to stand still. Everyone else in the room faded into the background as Rhett became your sole focus.

Suddenly you couldn’t breathe, as if someone had taken their hands and squeezed the air right out of your lungs. In the background, you heard Cecilia talking, likely explaining that she’d seen you at the store and invited you over.

You doubted Rhett heard her, either. He was too busy staring at you.

Seeing him again brought so many overwhelming emotions to the surface. Pain. Sadness. Longing. And suddenly, it felt as if the walls were closing in on you. You needed to bolt.

Abruptly, you stood up, silently cursing yourself for your dramatics. “I–I’m so sorry, this was a mistake,” you squeaked, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor as you scrambled away from the table.

And then you were fleeing. Just like you had six years ago.

But this time, Rhett wasn’t going to let you go that easy. Shaking himself out of his momentary shock, his feet moved beneath him, carrying him after you. “Go ‘head an’ eat! I’m gonna talk to her!” He called over his shoulder to his family.

He threw open the front door, lurching out onto the porch. You were already at your car, wrenching the door open. “Wait!” He called out, dashing down the steps.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks. You didn’t want him to see.

“Would ya just– just stop!” He reached out, hand against your door, impeding you from opening it.

“Let go of my door, please.” You were surprised you had it in yourself to speak.

“Not until you look at me.”

You were afraid you’d fall apart if you did. “Rhett, please.”

A beat passed. Then another. You could feel his body heat, he was standing so close. You could smell the sweat and dirt that clung to him after a hard day’s work. But there was something else, too. Something sweeter. Like freshly baled hay.

Against your better judgment, you found yourself turning, drawn to him like a magnet. Your eyes finally met his, and you gasped softly. They were even bluer than you remembered. So clear and bright.

But there was so much emotion there, too. It swam within his irises, and you saw the glint of gathering tears. He drank in the sight of you, and his chest heaved as he took in a breath, then another. “I…I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispered, as if speaking louder would cause his voice to fail him.

“Me too,” you agreed, as quiet as he was. There was so much you wanted to say. But most importantly, there were a few words he needed to hear. “I’m so sorry, Rhett.” You succumbed to your tears, as they slid down your cheeks in hot trails.

His bottom lip quivered slightly, and he shook his head. “No, I…I should apologize. I shoulda been more understandin’. You were grievin’, same as me, and I wasn’t letting you do it in your own way. I made you feel like you had to run away, and I’m sorry.”

“Is that what you think? That it was your fault?” Your voice trembled.

He shrugged, sniffling softly. “S’what I always assumed. Thought it had to be somethin’ I did.”

The thought of him living with that these last several years made your heart ache. “It was never your fault. It was me. I couldn’t face what happened. I thought…if I left, it would be easier. I could move on faster.”

Being reassured that it wasn’t his fault made him relax slightly, the tenseness leaving his shoulders. But there was still a shadow of sadness on his face. “Was it easier?”

At that, you shook your head, scoffing slightly. “No. Honestly, I think leaving you made it worse. I’m so sorry I did that to you. I’ve never really been able to forgive myself for it.”

“Guess we both have a lotta things we couldn’t forgive ourselves for,” he murmured. Then he bowed his head for a moment, gathering himself before looking at you again. “For what it’s worth, I ain’t holding it against you. Losin’ the three of them was the hardest fuckin’ thing we ever had to go through. I don’t blame you for leavin’ to see if it would make you feel better. You did what you thought you had t’ do.”

A fresh wave of tears welled in your eyes. “Oh, Rhett.” Without a second thought, you found yourself moving forward, wrapping your arms around him. He was caught by surprise for only a moment, and then his own arms, strong and steady, came up to encircle your waist.

You stood there in the middle of the driveway, holding each other for what felt like hours. When you parted, you were both wiping at tear-streaked cheeks.

“S’good to see you again, by the way,” Rhett said. “I mean it.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you replied honestly. Now that your initial upset was out of the way, you realized it felt as if a weight had been lifted from your shoulders.

“What, uh, what are you doin’ back in town?”

“Cleaning out my great-aunt’s place,” came your answer, and he nodded in realization. “I ran into your mom at the store today, she invited me over. I didn’t really want to come, I was scared to face you again.”

He hummed in understanding. “She knew what she was doin’. She wanted us to talk. She’s a meddler like that.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke.

You couldn’t help but smile despite yourself. “I should’ve known it was a ruse. She’s convincing, that’s for sure. She’s also watching us right now.”

When Rhett turned, he found his whole family watching through the front window. Upon seeing him turn, they all rushed away from the window, dropping the curtain.

He faced you again, and there was a smile on his face. “I’m glad she convinced ya, then. Can’t tell you how good it feels to clear the air after all this time. Losin’ you was rough on me, but I’m happy you’re back, even if it’s only for a small visit.”

“I’m happy too. And I’m happy you stopped me from leaving this time.”

His eyes twinkled like stars, and he nodded toward the house. “Wanna head back in for supper?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Together, you walked back into the house. While there was so much you had missed in your time apart, and so much you still needed to reconcile with each other, you were relieved that the air was clear for the time being. You hadn’t expected Rhett to welcome you back with open arms, but you were thankful he had.

It broke your heart that he had spent so much time believing he was to blame. It was your own inability to face your grief that was the culprit, not this sweet, blue-eyed cowboy. Never him. But maybe there was a new beginning between you. A chance to let the past remain where it belonged.

When you stepped into the kitchen and took your seat at the table, the trio was pretending they hadn’t just been spying on you and Rhett. However, it was Amy who gave it away, giggling behind her hand.

“You guys’re menaces,” Rhett grumbled as he placed a serving of potatoes on his plate.

Cecilia tried to hide her smile, though ultimately failing. She looked at you, and her gaze was kind. “I’m sorry. Maybe I was a little…overzealous about makin’ sure you and Rhett saw each other again. But it worked, didn’t it?”

You couldn’t hold it against her. Without her meddling, you never would have spoken to Rhett. You likely would have done what you came to do and left town without a single glance in his direction.

Cecilia had known that it was a chance for you to reconcile with Rhett. Holding on to something that happened years ago wasn’t healthy. She saw the opportunity to ease her son’s pain, and yours, and she took it. Thankfully, it had worked out in her favor.

You couldn’t believe it had been that easy to reconcile with him. Even after you’d stormed off, upset, he’d still been willing to talk to you. It spoke volumes of his growth. Past Rhett wasn’t very good at communicating. But present Rhett seemed to have gotten much better at it.

Dinner passed without a hitch, although there was still some slight tension. No one spoke of Perry, Rebecca, or Lydia. You got the sense that Royal and Cecilia were avoiding the subject. Likely because Amy was present. You had no idea how much she knew about that day, but you had no desire to bring it up.

Conversation instead shifted to what you were doing with your life.

“Where you workin’ now?” Royal asked, leaning back so that Cecilia could take his plate and clear the table in preparation for dessert. She’d denied your offer of help, insisting you sit and talk, because you were a guest.

“I work for the National Weather Service, up in Silver Spring, Maryland.”

“No kiddin’?” He replied, eyes glimmering with intrigue. “What d’ya do there?”

You took a sip of your water before you answered. “I’m an analyst. I analyze weather data from all over the country. I work with a team and we try to predict, as best we can, what the weather is going to look like.”

“Sounds intense,” Rhett spoke up. You glanced over at him. He was leaning back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs.

Until his mother slapped her dish towel against his arm. “Stop leanin’ back in that chair. The legs’ll give out.”

He corrected his chair right away. You couldn’t help but smile at the interaction. “It is kinda intense. But I love it. Keeps me on my toes,” came your reply.

“Can’t take the storm chaser outta the girl, huh?” He hummed, catching your eye with a knowing look.

He was right. Although you’d stopped chasing storms, you still did just that, except it was from a much safer distance this time, through a set of screens. There was no chance of those around you dying grisly deaths brought on by a wicked twister.

“Guess not,” you finally agreed.

Before the conversation could continue, Amy happily interrupted, flouncing up to the table to set down a handful of dessert plates. “Gramma made your favorite, Uncle Rhett,” she announced, beaming at him.

He grinned, pulling her into his side as she squealed. “Did she?” He asked, laughter in his tone as he jabbed his fingers into her sides, while she laughed uncontrollably and tried to wriggle away from him.

You watched the exchange, and your heart went warm in your chest. But you were also hit with a wave of sadness. This sweet little girl was growing up without a mother and father. These three people in this room were all she had in the world.

“Y’alright?” Rhett’s voice jarred you, bringing you back to reality. You hadn’t realized that tears were making their way down your cheeks.

“I…I’m fine,” you answered.

“Alright, here’s some blackberry pie!” Cecilia’s voice rang across the kitchen, interrupting your moment of melancholy. But you were grateful for the distraction.

The pie was cut, and everyone was given a slice, along with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a cup of coffee. Conversation around the table shifted to Amy’s schooling, and she eagerly listed the number of weeks that were left of school.

But you could feel Rhett’s eyes on you from across the table the entire time. The intensity of his gaze made you feel as if he could see right into your soul. That was how it had always been. Looking at him felt like staring into the sun, at times. So bright and beautiful, but impossible to stare at.

That hadn’t changed, even years later. Same intense look.

When dessert was finished, Amy got up to help Cecilia clear the table. Royal headed upstairs to presumably get ready for bed. And Rhett stepped outside onto the front porch.

“Can I at least help you clean up for the night, Cece?” You asked, hoping to do something, anything to feel useful.

“Don’t you lift a finger. Amy and I have got it.”

“You sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure,” the woman insisted. Then, “Have you given any thought as to if you might stay here?”

You hesitated. “Oh, I, uh…I don’t know. I really don’t want to be a bother.”

She huffed, shaking her head. “I already told ya at the store, it’s no bother! ‘Sides, it’s gonna be dark soon, and it gets so pitch black out here, drivin’ into town isn’t safe. And if you stay, you’d be wakin’ up to a home-cooked breakfast in the mornin’.”

With a sigh, you finally relented. Mostly because you were too tired to argue with her. “You drive a hard bargain. Fine, I’ll stay.” It was a good thing you hadn’t taken your luggage out of the car yet.

Cecilia beamed. “Then it’s settled.”

“I’ll just go get my stuff from the car,” you remarked, already turning to put your shoes back on.

“Have Rhett help you. I think he just stepped out onto the porch,” she suggested.

With a nod, you made your way out the door, hinges squeaking as you stepped onto the porch, shoes thudding lightly against weather-worn wood.

Sure enough, Rhett was there, seated on the bench near the door. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he was leaning back, eyes fixed on the sky.

When you came out, his gaze shifted to you, and he smiled softly. “Hey,” he said, sitting up a little straighter.

“Hey.” An awkward silence soon followed. There was so much hanging in the air between you both. Words left unsaid. “Your momma asked me to stay the night.”

He hummed, nodding as he looked back out across the sprawling land that was the Abbott farm. “Figured she would. Her and that bleedin’ heart of hers.”

“She suckered me into it with the promise of a home cooked breakfast.”

He scoffed playfully. “You get a home cooked breakfast and I get a piece of fuckin’ toast.”

“I’ll share with you.”

His smile turned into a grin. Then he fell serious. “Speakin’ of sharing, you can sleep in my room.”

At that, you shook your head. “Oh no, that’s asking too much. Isn’t there a pull-out bed in the living room couch? I can sleep there instead. It’s where I used to sleep when I’d stay over, remember?”

“Boy, do I,” he hummed. When you were teenagers, Cecilia was insistent that you did not share a bed if you stayed the night. You’d sleep on the pull-out bed in the living room, far away from Rhett’s bedroom upstairs. It didn’t stop him from sneaking down to talk to you in the middle of the night, though.

He continued, “But ya already served your time on that old couch. I’ll sleep there. My bed’s all yours.”

“Rhett—”

“Hey now, don’t argue with me. We both know I always win ‘em anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms over your chest as you shook your head. He was right, after all. He’d always win you over with kisses dispersed all over your face until you relented with laughter.

“Fine. I’ll take your room then,” you replied.

He hummed in satisfaction, and silence fell between you again. It felt so strange, being back in his presence. You felt as if you didn’t belong here, on this porch with him in the late spring night. In your anxious imaginations, you had always assumed he’d never reconcile with you, so you never tried to reach out and make things right.

But all it had taken was one tearful conversation, and a sense of civility had been restored between you.

“Why did you forgive me so easily?” Came your question, spoken into the quiet air that hummed with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.

Rhett eyes flickered to you. “Because I spent too long wallowin’ in hurt, and I couldn’t handle carryin’ all of it anymore. I don’t wanna be stuck in the past. I want to move forward. Forgivin’ you is the best way to do that.” Then he added, “plus, I never could stay mad at you. Guess that still holds true to this day.”

Tears welled in your eyes again as you digested his words. You hated that you’d caused him so much pain. If only you’d been able to work through your grief instead of running from it. But that was in the past. There was nothing you could do to change it. However, you could use it to be a better person in the future.

“I’m sorry I—”

But he held up his hand. “Don’t need to ‘pologize again,” he assured you, gentleness in his tone.

You closed your mouth and nodded, and then you decided to take a seat next to him. Several minutes of silence passed again. Again, you were the one to break it.

“I’m glad I decided to come tonight. I almost didn’t take your ma up on it.”

“I’m glad y’ did too.” He turned his body toward you so he could look into your face. “Six years is a long time.”

“It really is. I can’t believe it’s been that long. And Amy…she’s gotten so big.”

“She has. That little girl’s the apple of Mom and Dad’s eye, I’ll tell you what.”

You couldn’t help but smile fondly. “Looks like she’s the apple of yours, too.”

Rhett made a noise of agreement. “I see ‘em in her. Bec and Perry, that is. She’s a bit of a firecracker. Takes after her dad in that way. But she’s smart as a whip, we’re talkin’ wicked smart, like her momma. And some of the things she says, the tone she says them in…god, it sounds just like Bec.”

“It must be so cool to see them live on in her like that,” you whispered.

“It is. But it’s hard, too. Thinkin’ about the way things would be if they were still here.”

“Does she remember them?”

He shrugged, shifting his gaze to the night sky above you, shimmering with stars. “Bits an’ pieces. She doesn’t remember whole details. Plus she was so small…I don’t rightly know what she pictures in her head when she talks about it.”

Your heart broke for the girl. “Poor thing.”

Rhett nodded his head. “I know. But she’s doin’ alright. Brings a lotta joy into our lives.” Even in the dim light, you could see the way his eyes sparkled with love. Family had always been so important to him. Even more so now that he’d lost part of it.

You had to swallow the urge to cry. “That’s good.”

A beat passed before Rhett changed the subject, eager to move on to lighter conversation. “So…weather analyst, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

That drew a shy smile out of you. “It’s no big thing. I have a whole team of people who work with me.”

“It’s a pretty damn big deal to me. You an’ that smart brain of yours. It’s no wonder you want on to work for the fuckin’ National Weather Service.”

At his compliment, you ducked your head, a little embarrassed. “I really like the job. It’s kinda stressful, though. Weather never takes a break like us human beings do.”

“You’re tellin’ me. You shoulda seen the storms that rolled through here last week. One right after another.”

That prompted you to ask the question you’d been dying to know the answer to all night. “Your mom said you’re still chasing.”

Rhett nodded his head as he shifted against the bench, wood creaking beneath his weight. “Yeah. It ain’t just me, either. I’ve got a whole team workin’ with me.”

Your gaze fell to your lap, where your hands were loosely clasped. “Was it…was it hard getting back to it, after they died?” You softly questioned. That was why you’d never gone back to storm chasing. You couldn’t bear the thought of doing so after all you'd lost.

“Sure was. I didn’t start back up until a year later. That first time I got back out there…man, I almost couldn’t do it. I just kept thinkin’ of them. But then it sorta turned into a way to honor them an’ keep their memory alive. So I’ve been doin’ it ever since.”

“That’s good you were able to get back into it.”

“How ‘bout you? Been out there runnin’ after any storms lately?”

“No,” you answered quickly. The thought made your stomach turn.

“Y’ should join us next time it storms,” came his suggestion.

“I’d rather not.” You were hoping he would drop it.

“C’mon, it’ll be like old times.”

“I don’t want it to be like old times. We lost three of our best friends during old times. I can’t…I can’t face another tornado. I’m scared to death of them now. I’ll never storm chase ever again.” You were on the verge of tears.

He got the message then. “Alright, fair enough. Didn’t mean to upset ya.”

You sighed, shoulders dropping. “You didn’t upset me. It’s just more of a sore subject than I realized,” you said. Then, “and now that I’m back here, I’m so scared more twisters will come through.”

Rhett understood where you were coming from. But he also believed in facing one’s fears. For the most part, at least. There were still some things that filled him with fear that he couldn’t bear to face.

“More will definitely come. They ain’t been that bad this season so far. Last week was rough though. Had a couple EF3s that hit some neighborin’ towns. We’ve been helpin’ out a lot. The team I’m workin’ with…they’re big into charity. We’ve been able to donate to people who lost their homes. We’re hopin’ to raise enough money to get building supplies that can help rebuild all the damaged homes.”

You raised a brow, surprised. Not over the fact that Rhett wanted to help people in surrounding communities, but over the fact that his team had done so much. That was more than you’d ever been able to do when you were chasing with Perry, Rebecca, and Lydia.

“That’s really amazing,” you remarked.

“Yeah. Hate seein’ the damage twisters can do, but I’m glad we can at least do somethin’ to help, even if it’s small.”

You had so many more questions about his storm chasing. But you also wanted to change the subject. Your heart was heavy from the old memories going through your mind. So, you asked about another thing that was part of the past.

“Did you ever go back to bull riding?”

Rhett let out a sharp breath, suddenly finding a small tear in his jeans very interesting, fingers sliding over the work fabric. “Hell no.”

“I always wondered about that. If you’d gone back to it after I left.”

“Nah. Never could stomach the thought of gettin’ back on one of them beasts.”

“Yet you’ll chase twisters with no problem.”

“That’s different.”

“How? Both could kill you.”

Rhett didn’t have an answer for that. But he did know he never wanted to experience what he’d been through in that arena all those years ago.

It happened before you’d started storm chasing together. He was gunning for a career in pro bull riding, and he was headed toward the top. He had it all. Until it came crashing down one night when he suffered a life-threatening injury when he didn’t get out of the way of an angry bull fast enough.

You’d never forget that night. And neither would he. You’d been volunteering at the rodeo. You were certified in first aid, and you were able to work alongside the on-site medics tending to riders with injuries, so you had access to the riders-only area.

But what Rhett suffered was no minor injury. The bull’s horn caught him right beneath the hem of his protective vest, impaling the soft flesh of his lower abdomen. You remembered so vividly the way you’d cried out his name. The way he’d been carried out on a stretcher.

You remembered tearing his vest off of him and seeing blood. So much blood. You remembered pressing your hands to the wound in an effort to slow the bleeding as he grew pale beneath you. You remembered begging him to hold on, assuring him that help was on the way.

You almost lost him that night.

The injury scared the hell out of him. It required surgery to repair the internal damage, and it took him out of riding for months. And by the time the doctor cleared him to ride again, he knew he couldn’t. Not after he’d stared death in the face.

He had a permanent scar on his abdomen, a reminder of what he had endured.

Rhett never wanted to experience that again. So he hung up his riding vest for good. But he was still a thrill seeker. And when you expressed an interest in storm chasing, he’d eagerly agreed, because it gave him a chance to feel alive again, just like he always felt when he was sitting on the back of a raging bull.

Now you had traded places. He was too afraid to mount another bull. You were too afraid to go after another twister. It seemed that you had more in common than you realized.

“Guess we’re both scared of something,” you remarked, wrapping your arms around yourself as the evening chill crept up on you like the chilled fingers of a ghost touching your skin.

“Guess so,” Rhett agreed.

Your conversation fell stagnant, and you found yourself growing sleepy. You had only just arrived back in Oklahoma that morning, and the night before, you hadn’t slept well. The exhaustion was beginning to catch up with you.

“I should probably turn in before I fall asleep out here,” you mumbled, followed by a yawn.

Rhett made a sound deep in his throat before he rolled his neck, joints cracking. “I’ll help ya with your stuff,” he offered as he stood.

You followed suit, motioning to your car. The two of you headed down the porch steps, where you popped the trunk, revealing your luggage. You watched as Rhett heaved the bags out of the car, his forearms and biceps bulging beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt.

You were reminded that he was still just as strong as ever. Lifting your suitcases hardly took that much strength, you knew, but Rhett was a farm boy. He’d been strong his entire life, thanks to lifting bales of hay and performing other tasks of manual labor. When he was riding bulls, his core and leg strength had been excellent. Those strong thighs of his allowed him to hold tightly to those raging animals.

He’d taken on some size since you’d seen him six years ago. His shoulders were more broad. His arms were bigger. His thighs were meatier. Or maybe his jeans were simply too tight, hugging the curve of his quad muscles.

In the kitchen, you hadn’t fully admired him. But here, beneath the night sky, illuminated by the glow of the porch light, you saw him. His stubbled jaw, his twinkling eyes, his small pink mouth the button nose you’d always loved.

You remembered teasing him and telling him he had an elfin nose, that he had inherited it from a mystical creature. You had adored the way his ears would turn red whenever you said it.

Oh, how things had changed. There had been a time when you couldn’t picture your life without him. And now, you’d been without him for so long that you’d forgotten what it felt like to love and be loved by him.

“Y’alright?” Rhett’s voice jarred you, and you shook yourself out of your reverie.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just sorta zoned out.”

The knowing look in his eye told you he’d caught on to the fact that you were staring at him.

“C’mon, I’ll take you upstairs.” With that, he slammed your trunk shut and gathered your bags again before he headed toward the house.

You trailed after him, closing and locking the front door behind you, assuming everyone was in for the night. Then you ascended the stairs, allowing Rhett to lead you down the hall, all the way to the end, where his room was.

He nudged the partially open door with his foot, and stepped into the dark confines, depositing your luggage onto the bed before he bent to turn on the bedside lamp. You were met with the sight of a surprisingly neat bedroom.

The times you’d been here in the past, his room had never been terribly messy, but random clutter would accumulate in different corners. He was never really the type to make his bed either, because he always said, “I’m gon’ sleep in it again, so why bother?”

But now, the bed was neatly made, and hardly any clutter hid in the corners.

“I ain’t been stayin’ here much, so it stays pretty neat,” he explained, as if reading your mind.

“Too busy storm chasing?” You asked.

“Yeah. Stay in a lotta motels when I’m on the road.”

You sauntered into the room, taking in the coziness of it all. Hardly anything had changed. His plaid bedspread was the same. His curtains still matched the bedding. Art pieces of cowboys riding bulls decorated the walls. A picture of Lane Frost hung just above his desk.

A sense of nostalgia washed over you. Being in this room felt like coming home.

“Welp…guess I’ll, uh, let you get to bed,” Rhett murmured. He paused in the doorway, as if he wanted to say something. “I’m glad you’re back, by the way.”

That brought a smile to your face. “I am, too.”

He rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “Anyway, ‘night.”

“Goodnight.”

He reached out to pull the door shut, leaving you in silence, alone for the first time since you had arrived at the house. You let out a breath, and lowered down to sit on the edge of the bed, allowing yourself to process everything.

Your arms splayed out on either side of you, palms skimming over the softness of the bed. You closed your eyes, and allowed the memories to wash over you. It was here, in this very bed, that you had lost your virginity to each other. You were young and in love and driven by your passion for one another.

Many times after that, you had made love in this room. And as you closed your eyes, it was as if you were reliving those memories. The feeling of his mouth on yours, and his hands on your heated skin. The way he would moan your name into your mouth when you shifted your hips against his own, searching for delicious friction, so eager to have him inside you.

As your eyes fluttered open, you were struck with a feeling of emptiness. How long had it been since you’d been with anyone in such an intimate way? Your job hardly left you time for romantic relationships. You hadn’t really put yourself out there, because you knew your busy career would likely deter anyone who wanted any sort of future with you.

As you readied yourself for bed, you thought about how alone you had felt these last few years. Alone in your grief. In your pain. At least Rhett had his parents to lean on as they endured the loss. You had no one who truly understood.

Silver Spring was a perfectly nice community to live in, and you had made some good friends during your time there. But nothing compared to the community you once had here in Wabang. No one compared to Lydia, your dearest friend. Your bond had been a sisterly one. You were kindred spirits. You’d never been able to find that again in any of the friends you made in your current home city.

But now that you were back in Oklahoma, the sense of familiarity was nearly overwhelming. You were home. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

That night, you got the best sleep you’d gotten in a long time. Rhett’s bed was comfortable, and the house was quiet. All that could be heard outside was the distant howl of a coyote, and the sounds of nightlife creeping about.

When you woke the next morning, it was to the sound of a rooster crowing. You lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, relishing in the feeling of being rested. Your body didn’t ache. Your head wasn’t swimming with tiredness. You were at peace, which was something you hadn’t felt in ages.

You could hear the sound of the Abbotts milling about the house. Cecilia was likely in the kitchen starting breakfast. Royal was probably already outside, getting a head start on the day’s chores. Rhett, too, who’d always been responsible for checking on the animals and making sure they were fed.

Not wanting to walk out in your tank top and sleep shorts, you were quick to throw on some clean clothes before you headed across the hall to the bathroom to wash your face and make yourself look somewhat presentable.

When you finally made your way downstairs, you were hit with the smell of food cooking. The coffee pot hissed and sputtered in the corner, nearly finished with its brew cycle. Amy sat at the table, doodling in a notebook. When she saw you, her face lit up.

“Mornin’! I was wondering when you’d come down! You slept for a super long time.”

“Amy,” Cecilia cautioned.

“It’s okay,” you assured her, before turning to Amy, “I needed the rest.”

“Well you came down just in time! Gramma’s making pancakes.”

“Sounds good!” Came your response, as you moved to grab a glass from the cupboard to fill with water. Your mouth felt parched.

“How’d you sleep, hon?” Cecilia asked as she stirred a bowl of pancake batter.

“Like a baby,” you said, bringing your glass to your lips to take a sip. You watched as she poured the batter onto a hot skillet, bubbling with melted butter. “Just so you know, I don’t expect you to make breakfast for me every day. I know you only make big breakfasts on Saturdays and Sundays, I don’t expect pancakes and eggs and bacon every day of the week.”

It was Thursday, so it wasn’t a typical day for her to make breakfast for the family. The weekday mornings were always called “fend for yourself” mornings, where the family was responsible for preparing their own respective breakfasts.

“Nonsense! I’m happy to do it, you need fuel if you’re gonna be cleanin’ that house all day,” she insisted.

You smiled gratefully. “Thank you. Really, it means a lot.”

She ushered you to the table, assuring you breakfast would be ready momentarily. You chatted with Amy once you settled into your seat, and just as breakfast was being put on the table, the screen door squealed open, and in stepped Royal, lifting his hat off his head and placing it on the peg on the wall.

He greeted you, nodding in your direction. “Mornin’,” he said as he took his seat at the head of the table.

Cecilia placed a cup of black coffee beside his plate, and he thanked her with a wordless hum. Typical morning small talk followed as everyone began filling their plates. But the quiet chatter was soon interrupted by the screen door opening again.

Rhett hurried into the kitchen, boots scraping against the floor as he made a beeline for the table. You could see a wildness in his eyes, and it made your heart rate quicken. Your gaze flickered to the kitchen window, where you could see distant gray clouds.

“Gotta take breakfast to go, storm’s brewin’ over in Cimarron County,” he announced as he reached over Amy’s head to grab a pancake. He shoved a few pieces of bacon inside and folded it up like a taco. “Team’s on the way here to meet me.”

“Please be careful!” Cecilia called after him as he turned on his heel to head back to the door.

He grabbed a backpack that was sitting on the bench in the entryway, presumably packed with necessities. “Always am, Ma,” he replied. Then he looked at you, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “You wanna come?” Hope was in his tone.

His offer shocked you. You certainly didn’t expect it, not after what you had told him last night. “No, I…I’ll stay here,” you answered.

“Alright, see ya soon!” And with that, he was off, door slamming shut behind him.

You weren’t sure what drove you to do so, but you found yourself surging up from your seat, feet carrying you quickly to the door. You flung it open and rushed out onto the porch. “Rhett!” You called.

Midway to his truck, he stopped, whirling around. “Yeah?”

“Be safe!” He’d just come back into your life. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

His face softened, and he smiled. “I will be. I promise.” Then he turned and continued on to his truck. Still that old GMC Sierra with the light bar on top. It had been blown off the road during the twister you’d narrowly escaped, but somehow, the truck was perfectly fine, and just needed a few repairs to render it driveable again.

Seeing that it had survived after all this time gave you hope that Rhett would make it back safely home again.

He was gone for three days. You learned of his well-being through Cecilia. He would always text her after a storm passed to assure her he was okay. He was so good about giving her peace of mind.

In his absence, you busied yourself with sorting through the overwhelming clutter in your great-aunt’s house. It provided a distraction from your worry.

Living in Silver Spring, you’d had no cause to worry about Rhett. He crossed your mind often, yes, but you had no idea he was still storm chasing, and therefore remained blissfully ignorant.

Now that you were back home, all those old memories had resurfaced, and you were forced to face the fact that you still cared deeply for Rhett. The thought of him dying out there made your stomach turn.

At least when you’d been chasing with him, you were together, and he would die by your side if something did happen. Being apart from him now, you had no idea if he was okay or not, aside from updates from his mother.

You were forced to come to terms with your feelings. Why did you feel so strongly about this? Yes, you cared about what happened to him, just as anyone else in his life did. But there was something more.

You realized that perhaps you were still in love with him.

However, you buried that realization deep. You couldn’t rekindle your romance with him. You had moved on, made a life for yourself, had a career you loved. You needed to leave your relationship with him in the past, and move forward with only a friendship between the two of you.

Easy as pie, right?

You hoped so.

Three days later, just as you were arriving back on the Abbott farm after a long day of cleaning and organizing, Rhett returned.

Relief washed over you from head to toe when you saw that old Sierra coming down the driveway. But he wasn’t alone. You could make out the silhouette of a woman sitting in the passenger seat. Behind the truck, a Ford F150 followed closely behind, and beyond that, an old RV.

So this was the team he’d been talking about.

Your gut fluttered at the sudden anxiety of meeting new people. You knew you looked worse for wear in your cleaning clothes. You’d been sweating all day, and you were planning on heading straight for the shower when you got into the house.

But it would be rude to just turn and go inside, so you stayed put, waiting until all the vehicles came to a stop.

Rhett jumped out first, slamming the truck door shut behind him. He was wearing his hat, and he was grinning. “Made it back in one piece,” he assured you.

You couldn’t help but smile in return. “I can see that,” came your answer.

Your eyes flickered beyond him as the woman in the passenger seat climbed out. She was beautiful, in the most natural of ways. No makeup adorned her face. Her eyes were large, the deepest shade of brown you’d ever seen. Her hair, a deep chestnut color, was curly and unkempt, pulled back into a ponytail.

Her deep brown skin glimmered with perspiration. You could hazard a guess that the air conditioning in Rhett’s truck was broken. It always had been finicky.

“Hi,” she spoke, reaching out her hand to shake yours, “I’m Zara Marshall. Nice to finally meet you! Rhett told me all about you.” Then she added, “good things, of course!”

“Nice to meet you, too. I didn’t realize you all were coming. I would’ve at least tried to look presentable.”

“Oh, you look beautiful, don’t even worry about that.” She blew a stray curl out of her face.

“Zara here is the genius behind all our chases,” Rhett boasted.

The woman looked at him and beamed, shaking her head. “Oh, hush. I’m no genius.”

An odd feeling blossomed to life in your chest as you watched their banter. The easy way they interacted. It wasn’t jealousy, was it? It couldn’t be. You had no right to be jealous. Not after you were the one that left him six years ago.

Your moment of distaste was interrupted by the sound of car doors opening and closing. The rest of the team was getting out of their vehicles, clearly eager to stretch their legs after driving for so long.

“You have to meet my wife!” Zara exclaimed.

Oh.

How silly of you to entertain the thought of jealousy when the woman wasn’t even interested in Rhett.

Another woman came rushing over to the three of you, tall and lean, shoulder-length brown hair hanging loosely against the middle of her back, Tattoos decorated different parts of her body. Mostly her hands and wrists, and a few on her neck. When she smiled at you, it was warm like sunlight.

“Hi!” She said, “I’m Jeslyn.”

You shook her hand and told her your name. Then you were quickly introduced to everyone else.

There was Finn, handsome as could be, with bright green eyes and auburn hair. And then there was Danny, with eyes that were just a little less blue than Rhett’s, and graying curls that fell against his forehead. He couldn’t have been older than his early thirties, but he was already going gray. It suited him.

They were all so personable, and their welcome was warm. It made you feel at ease instantly. You should have known the people who chose to associate with Rhett were good people.

You learned that they were all staying for dinner, per Cecilia’s insistence. It was a flurry of organized chaos as everyone offered to help set up the tables outside, rather than crowding in the small kitchen to eat.

While they were busy with that, you slipped away to take a quick shower, eager to wash the sweat and grime off of your body.

You turned the water as hot as you could stand, stepping under the spray and closing your eyes. You hadn’t expected to be so exhausted. Your shoulders and arms ached from scrubbing and heavy lifting. Your legs were sore too.

The steamy water helped loosen your tight muscles considerably, and once you were finished, you breathed out a sigh of satisfaction. Now you felt a little more prepared to face a dinner table full of people.

But when you stepped out of the shower, you realized that you had forgotten something very important. A towel. Swearing under your breath, you stood in the middle of the bathroom for a moment, debating what you should do.

The linen closet was right across the hall. If you could sneak out there unseen, you’d be able to grab a towel and slip right back into the bathroom unnoticed. So, you cautiously opened the bathroom door and made sure the coast was clear before you dashed for the closet, yanking the door open and scanning for a towel.

To your horror, the sound of footsteps approaching could be heard, and you gasped, reaching for your towel, but you weren’t fast enough. A split second later, Rhett appeared at the top of the steps.

He froze, eyes widening, as you let out a squeak of surprise. Out of respect for you, he quickly turned away. “Shit, sorry!” He apologized.

Wordlessly, you clutched your towel and scurried away, slamming the bathroom door shut. On the steps, Rhett let out a breath, and he couldn’t help but shake his head. He hadn’t seen you naked in years. Of course the first time would end up being an awkward moment like the one you’d both just been subjected to.

He hadn’t seen much, in his haste to give you privacy. But he’d seen enough to make his brain short-circuit for a moment. Mentally, he scolded himself, but he knew, now that he’d seen you in that way, he wouldn’t be able to get it out of his head. Especially because there had been a time when he knew your body, inside and out. He’d had you in the most intimate of ways. And that was something he would never forget.

“Get it the fuck t’gether,” he grumbled to himself as he turned back around, heading toward his room, where he wanted to grab a clean shirt before you came back. He simply couldn’t entertain thoughts about you naked. It would do him no good.

He shook the encounter off, and quickly changed his shirt, tossing the old one in the hamper. He stopped to glance in the mirror that hung above his dresser, running his hand haphazardly through his hair, which was slightly tousled from all the activity of the day.

Then, quick as he came, he strolled out of his room and back down the steps before you ever stepped out of the bathroom again.

Meanwhile, you were hurriedly going about your post-shower routine, your mind spinning. You knew you were making this into a bigger deal than it needed to be. Perhaps you should be grateful it was only Rhett, who’d seen you naked many times before, rather than his parents or Amy.

But you still had an odd feeling swirling to life in your gut, a feeling that you didn’t want to face, because if you did, that would mean admitting you’d never gotten over Rhett.

You pushed it down again. Choosing to deny, deny, deny. It would simply go away if you didn’t acknowledge it.

With that, you headed out of the bathroom and back into Rhett’s bedroom, where you set your shower items down and made sure to hang your towel on the hook mounted on the back of the door.

Then, with a deep breath for courage, you made your way downstairs.

There was a flurry of activity happening. Cecilia was prepping Sunday dinner, while Zara and Jeslyn were gathering plates and silverware to set the table outside. Danny, Finn, and Rhett were carrying chairs outside.

Royal and Amy were in the living room, where she was very intently watching him whittle a figurine out of wood. Cecilia had likely shooed them out of the kitchen because there were enough people in the way as it was.

For a moment, you stood there, in the middle of the house, taking in the sights and sounds, and it transported you back to the past. Sunday dinners with the Abbotts were always your favorite. Lydia and her family would join, and everyone would eat outside, weather permitting, just like they were going to do today.

Many a good time was had around the large oak table that Rhett had built with his own hands when he was in high school, in woodworking class. One of the of the few classes he thrived in. The craftsmanship was beautiful, and it was still in good condition to this day.

“Hey, y’alright?” Rhett’s low cadence filled your ears. You looked up to find him standing near, gaze soft.

“I…yeah, I’m fine,” you assured him, “just reminiscing.”

He nodded. “Mm. Sure this brings back a lotta memories for you.”

“It does,” you agreed.

He lingered for a moment. Then, with the lowering of his voice, he said, “I, uh, I’m sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to walk in on ya like that.”

You cleared your throat, shaking your head. “No, don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”

“Good. That’s good.” He let his hands rest upon his hips, grimacing at the awkward silence that followed.

“Guess I’d better see if your mom needs help,” you finally volunteered.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. I’m gon’ make sure the guys set up the table right.” He took a few steps backward before he turned and sauntered out the door.

You breathed out a sigh, mentally berating yourself for the awkwardness. You hoped it wouldn’t linger for the rest of the day.

Thankfully, it did not. Once dinner was ready and everyone was gathered around the table, the atmosphere melted into one of warmth and laughter. You didn’t feel like an outsider. The group of friends treated you like one of your own, and it did wonders to put you at ease.

“I thought you’d like t’ hear this,” Rhett’s voice caught your attention from across the table. “Zara here’s workin’ on a way to stop twisters dead in their tracks.”

That definitely piqued your interest. You looked at her, where she sat between Rhett and Jeslyn. “Really? How do you plan to stop them?” You asked her, leaning forward in your seat.

Tornadoes were impossible to stop. To your knowledge, no one had succeeded in doing so before. They were so unpredictable, one couldn’t possibly figure out when and where one was going to touch down fast enough to stop it.

She sprang into her explanation. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s never been done before. But Jes and I have spent years coming up with a solution. There’s a lot of heat and moisture at the center of a twister. My theory is if you can cool down the center to the freezing point, you can stop the twister.”

You stared at her, eyes widening. There was no way it could work. Was there? “How would you cool it down?”

“Essentially, we release liquid nitrogen into the core of the tornado and it brings the temp way down.”

“Have you tested it out yet?” You inquired. You were still skeptical, but fascinated at the same time.

Beside her, Jeslyn piped up. “We started small scale tests when we were still students at OU. Me, Zara, and some classmates built this machine that uses heat and moisture to simulate a tornado. Our nitrogen tests worked on it, but seeing as that was only a small, contained event…”

“You’d need a lot more nitrogen for the real thing,” you finished for her.

“Yep.”

Zara continued where Jeslyn left off. “During the run we did this week, we decided to actually test it out and see if we could stop a twister. But…it failed miserably.” She laughed ruefully, and the rest of the team joined her, reliving the memory.

You were struck with an odd feeling. Fear of missing out, maybe. Which shocked you, because you’d refused to go on the chase in the first place, because you couldn’t face your fears. Now you felt left out? It didn’t quite make sense to you.

Maybe you did miss storm chasing, after all.

“It’s hard to gauge how much nitrogen we need, especially because every tornado is different. We’ve been working on collecting as many tanks of nitrogen as we possibly can, but we also didn’t want to use up our whole reserve. We used half of it on what turned out to be an F3. Didn’t do shit,” Zara continued to explain, motioning animatedly with her hands as she spoke. Her face was incredibly expressive.

You decided you really liked her. You could understand why Rhett enjoyed chasing with her.

“So, how does that work? Like, do you set tanks of nitrogen on the ground and then open them and hope for the best, or?” You had so many questions, and you simply couldn’t hide your fascination.

“We use that,” Rhett said, pointing over at his truck parked in the driveway. Hitched to the back was an open trailer, with several tanks of liquid nitrogen situated inside, metal gleaming in the light of the setting sun.

“But how do you open them? Does someone have to open each one before the twister hits?” You suddenly became very aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and you shrank slightly. “Sorry, I know I’m asking a lot of questions.”

“No, you’re good!” Zara insisted, “it’s just, we’re all used to people telling us we’re crazy instead of actually showing interest.”

“I told ya she’d think it was cool,” Rhett said to her with a smile. He caught your eye. He still knew you well, even though time had driven you apart.

“Basically, opening the tanks is up to us,” Finn piped up from beside you, motioning to Danny, who sat on the other side of him. He took a swig of his water before he continued. “We made these special remote control valves. As long as we’re within range, we can open the valves with the touch of a button and release the nitrogen into the air.”

“Honestly, it sounds crazy. But also brilliant,” you said, completely in awe. “You gotta show me all the equipment after dinner. I’ve never heard of anyone doing this kinda thing before.”

Part of you still doubted what they were trying to do would ever work. It went against all odds. Even if they did succeed in stopping a tornado, the method wasn’t necessarily feasible for stopping others in the future. It would require countless tanks of nitrogen and a lot of manpower.

But just to be able to say one had stopped a tornado was a feat in and of itself. You couldn’t hold it against Zara for trying. It was clear she was passionate about her work and believed there was a possibility that it could be successful.

The conversation around the dinner table soon shifted to other things. You noticed that none of them asked you about your storm chasing past. You wondered how much Rhett had told them, and if he’d instructed them not to ask about the details, at risk of upsetting you.

It was very considerate of him, if he had.

After dinner, everyone helped clean up while Cecilia ushered Amy upstairs, against the girl’s protests. “You’ve got school in the mornin’, early bedtime isn’t optional!” Her grandmother insisted.

But Amy had to make sure she said goodnight to everyone first before she made the reluctant trudge up the stairs. Oh, to have the innocence of a child again, unwilling to go to bed because all the adults were still awake.

The evening carried on, and once the dishes were washed and the table was cleared, you were led outside to see all the equipment Zara had told you about. And what a setup it was.

The trailer attached to the back of Rhett’s truck was full of nitrogen tanks, sealed with remote controlled valves. The trailer itself was also remote controlled, according to Rhett.

“Come see,” he motioned for you to follow as he opened the driver’s side door. He pointed at the center console, where there was a board of switches, framed by labels indicating what each switch was for. “Danny and Finn helped get this up an’ running. If we need t’ let the trailer go, all I gotta do is press a button and it’ll release. S’how we get the tanks in the path of the twister.”

You stared in amazement at the device. “How? Like, how do you figure out when to release the trailer? And how does it not just get blown away?”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Figured that one out too.”

He led you to the side of the trailer, where he pointed at a compartment positioned directly between the wheels. “Soon as I get the trailer in place, I flip a switch and stakes lower outta this compartment here and into the ground. Usually we’re cuttin’ it close, but I can get the truck positioned in the path of the twister. Then I get the trailer settled and get the hell outta Dodge.”

“Then I hit the remote control for the tanks and release the nitrogen into the air,” Finn piped up eagerly.

“Meanwhile, Zara and I are tracking the storm pattern and trying to figure out exactly when to release the trailer,” came Jeslyn’s explanation.

You stared at all the equipment in total wonder. These people had thought of everything. More than you or Rhett ever had when you were chasing. Your operation then had been very bare bones, and really, you were just following storms for the fun of it.

But this? This was an entire science experiment, and it was fascinating. Despite your refusal to chase again, you were very curious about what all of this would look like in action. If Zara ever succeeded in stopping a twister, she would make history.

That was something you almost wanted to be a part of. Almost.

Later that night, you found yourself curled up in an Adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as everyone sat around the fire that Rhett had built in the old fire pit. The place held so many memories. Namely, the night Rhett had asked you to be his girlfriend. It was right here.

He remembered that night, too. You could tell he was thinking about it when he caught your eye from across the fire.

Around you, the group settled into comfortable conversation. The kind that happened when old friends got together. Anything and everything was discussed as the night gave way to inky darkness, the stars twinkling above, like glitter spilled across a black velvet canvas.

Before she’d retired for the night, Cecilia had warmed some apple cider on the stove, and a mug of it was currently situated in your hands, its taste spicy and comforting. You enjoyed listening to Rhett’s friends tell stories of different storms they’d chased, reliving all the exciting times they’d had together.

You wondered if you would be running with them, too, had you stayed here instead of moving to Silver Springs and taking your weather analyst job. Would it just be you and Rhett, or would fate have still decided to bring these people into your life?

Their passion was admirable. Zara was a very driven individual, hellbent on making a difference. “If I could at least slow down a twister, even if it doesn’t fully stop it, think of all the lives we could save. That’s why I do all of this. I wanna protect people.”

That was just it, wasn’t it? Saving lives. You thought back to the fateful day you had lost Perry, Rebecca, and Lydia. If you’d had a way of slowing down that twister, or even stopping it altogether, perhaps they would still be here.

But you couldn’t think that way, because it was already done. There was no way to go back in time and save them.

The thought made your chest ache, and you had to swallow the wave of grief that rose in your throat. Rhett caught your eye over the flames, and shot you a reassuring look, almost as if he knew what you were thinking.

To your relief, the subject soon changed from storm chasing, and moved on to lighter things.

“Hey, rodeo’s on Saturday. We were all thinking of going together. You should totally join us!” Jeslyn suggested, nodding in your direction.

“Yeah, you should!” Finn agreed.

That piqued your interest. “Sure, I’ll still be in town, so why not?” You hadn’t been to a rodeo in so long. Not since Rhett’s last ride, which had ended in disaster.

Jeslyn grinned over her mug of cider. “Great! We’re gonna have so much fun. We’ll take care of your ticket, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

You raised a brow in surprise. “Really? You don’t have to do that.”

Everyone protested at once, insisting that they wanted the rodeo ticket to be their treat. You were touched at their generosity, and accepted the offer gratefully. Might as well make the most of your time in Wabang.

Soon, it was time for the group to disperse and head in their own respective ways. Rhett threw some sand over the dying embers, while everyone else folded up their chairs to store back in the barn. As you walked the group back to their cars, Zara turned to you, her face kind.

“I know you’ve got your reasons for choosing not to chase, I want you to know the invitation for you to join us is open, in case you ever change your mind,” she told you.

You weren’t entirely sure what came over you then. Maybe it was your desire to make a difference. Maybe you were just foolish. But for whatever reason, you were emboldened enough to say, “y’know what? I’ve got a proposition.” You stole a glance at Rhett to make sure he was listening. “I’ll go on a chase with you guys if Rhett agrees to ride at next weekend’s rodeo.”

You knew Rhett. He had a competitive nature. He was going to say yes. Everyone’s eyes landed on him, awaiting his answer.

“Shoo-ee, you gonna accept that challenge, Rhett?” Danny asked with a grin, fully invested.

Beside you, Rhett grimaced. “Ain’t no way they’ll let me in the ring,” he protested.

“Does Beau still oversee the bull riding contestants?” You inquired.

You and Rhett both knew that Beau would agree to letting him ride, because only Beau Wilson was crazy enough to allow such a thing.

“Yeah,” Rhett answered your question. He was well aware of the direction this was going.

“Then I’ll go talk to him. He’ll get you a spot in the ring. If you can handle it, that is.” You gave him a pointed look.

“I can handle it, darlin’.” Despite the determination in his tone, the nickname settled over you like a warm embrace. He hadn’t called you that in so long. “So if I do this, you swear you’ll go on a run with us?”

“Pinky swear.” You held your hand out, pinky up.

Rhett eyed your hand for a moment before he linked his pinky finger with yours. “Fine. You got yourself a deal.”

Finn and Danny whooped in excitement, while Zara and Jeslyn looked between you and Rhett, bewildered. “Who would’ve thought you’d be the one to get him back on a bull? We always say he should try riding again, but he always says no,” Zara explained.

You looked at Rhett, and he ducked his head, hand lifting to scratch the back of his neck. You swore you saw his ears turn red. “Guess he just needed some friendly competition,” you replied.

Not long after, goodbyes were said, and the group parted ways, climbing into their vehicles and driving off, leaving you and Rhett standing there in the driveway. Immediately, you realized that your proposition was a bit preposterous.

“Oh my god, if you don’t want to ride, you don’t have to. I don’t know why I said that, I just…”

But he waved his hand, shaking his head. “Nah, I’ll do it. It’ll do me some good to get back on a bull. Just like it’ll do you some good to face another twister. Might help us both process some shit,” he reasoned.

You let out a breath. “Maybe so.”

You both turned to walk toward the house, and he asked you a question as you went. “What made you change your mind?”

You paused, glancing down at your feet before you looked at him. “I dunno, all of Zara’s talk about saving lives…it got me thinking. It would be so cool if it could work. Imagine all the people she could save! She’s making a difference, and I want to be a part of that.” And then, “maybe if…if we had something like that six years ago, Perry, Rebecca, and Lydia would still be alive.”

Rhett’s boots crunched against dirt as he absently kicked a few pebbles out of the way. “Don’t go spiralin’ into the ‘what ifs’. Universe saw fit to take ‘em, so it did. No machine could’ve stopped it. Not that kinda twister.”

You studied his expression. “Do you believe in Zara’s project?”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I do, but there ain’t no way it would stop an EF5 tornado. We’d be fucked if it hit us.”

“It’s still worth a try, though, isn’t it? If it works, and if she can get it going on a larger scale…she could save entire towns from being destroyed! Think of the history she’s going to make!”

Rhett’s mouth curled into a slight smile. “There she is.”

“What?”

“My storm chasin’ gal. You’re back.”

You shrugged. “I guess so. But just know this isn’t a permanent thing, ‘kay? I’m only going out there with you guys to see how Zara’s invention works. After that, I’m going back to Silver Springs. To my job, where I don’t have to live off of McDonald’s and Whataburger every day and stay in shitty motels while I wait for a twister to just fall out of the sky.”

He bit back his ever-widening grin, shaking his head. “Sure thing. I’m just glad you decided to face your fear, s’all.”

Facing your fear. That was what this was, wasn’t it? You knew that if you could do this, it would show you that you were capable of moving past your grief that still felt crippling at times. But you couldn’t help but wonder; when staring into the face of a tornado, would you be able to stand your ground, or would you let your fear send you running like a frightened child?

You would soon find out. But you didn’t realize just how soon.

taglist: tagging those who expressed interest or asked to be tagged (lmk if you wanna be added or removed)

@withahappyrefrain @rhettabbotts @ryebecca @peachystenbrough @attapullman

@sebsxphia @delopsia @damrlova @fragilefearnie @floydsmuse

@fairyheart @hangmanapologist @lovinglyeternal @likearolloftape @bobfloydsbabe

@nobody7102 @mearslot @torturedpoetspsychward @floydsglasses @hearteyesforlewis

@shamelessghostwagonwobbler @cloudofbutterflies92 @keep-on-burnin @ravenmoore14 @queenbbarnes

@phoenixhalliwell @lyn-js @sunsetsimpsblog @ixxvixcviii @shinycupcakebaker

@frequentnosebleeder @atoncments @eolsens @casuallyclassless @desert-fern

@perfectprettypisces @parcetamoldaisy @zirrocom @rhettsgirll @just-in-case-iloveyou

@ada--44 @sydney-malcontent @9ullmans @bradshawsbitch

@callsignmedusa @antiquitea @ohmyeyesmyeyes @spidervman @oddlymighty-witch @dreams-in-anthracis

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott imagine #we own the sky

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accio-victuuri · 3 days

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THE MOON REPRESENTS MY HEART 🌙 + Friday Madness

i just think that me freaking about gg singing this song and leaving after that is not right. this song deserves it’s own post and the importance of the Moon’s symbolism between them should be repeated. personally, i was surprised cause i cpn’d about a possible interpretation of showing off moon photos when they do it, then i thought of this song. now you have gege performing it. the universe has clowned me once again. and you have him as performer #8. Bo. are you kidding me? yes, this is a CCP signed-off event. the song must have been an approved piece to perform live but that doesn’t mean GG did not have a say in picking this track. as for him being the 8th one, a coincidence. destiny can’t help but relate them to each other. lol.

you can say that it’s perfect for the theme of mid-autumn festival and it’s a well loved song — yes, that’s right. but we’re all cpfs here who have a long history with 🌖 and GG finally singing it now seems like a “sign”.

this song’s relevance started with a fake rumor:

I would like to add that the moon should be the one that Wang laoshi watched a video of. After watching it, he said, "Do you believe me, I can also dance this for you?" The background music was "The Moon Represents My Heart" I think it should be posted by Xiao laoshi, but this happened a long time ago on the stage, but it should be related. I don’t know about choreography. I was busy with other things at that time. This is what I know.

THIS HITS DIFFERENT NOW. imagine yibo dancing to this. i will lose it. 🤯🤯🤯

and it doesn’t help that xz had a teaser video released by BRTV today:

send the moon to you // "I want to take a picture of the moon for you but it never comes out”

this is why we love fake rumors, one way or another, the similarities come up or parts of it come true.

then the matching photoshoot prop. also their studios posting 5 minutes apart. yes it makes sense for them to post in the same time span cause the content released around the same time too. but xzs is 20:40. 8:40. 8= Bo and 40 on the clock points to 8.

Seriously, XZ. come here. i just wanna talk. you are being so loud today sir. 🤡🤡🤡🤡

AS FOR THE PERFORMANCE ITSELF.

Outstanding. As expected of GG. 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

There is something so soft and shy in the way he performed it. As if he is confessing to the person he loves how much he feels. This person knows — but not this way. Not this deep. This is him finally saying what his love is like.

youtube

He is also happy. This love makes him whole. It’s so nice to see him this way!

@rainbowsky already mentioned the way we are excited and crying because of it’s connection to Leslie Cheung which is the main thing in conversations. is this xz’s way of dedicating the song to the love of his life in public?

and the lyrics need no further interpretation, it’s such a sweet and simple song about one’s devotion.

so it’s not just xz singing this love song and us clowning. it’s years of clues and references — which now feels like a lead up to this “confession”. 💕

P.S: my main boxiao and moon post is obviously not updated for some time. so just search for “moon” on this blog for other references but y’all know tumblr will still not show everything.

P.P.S: i wanna bring back the moon landing watch. one of the strongest moon cpn out there that honestly feels like an urban legend now the way we never saw it again. lol. it was too loud they probably decided that wyb shouldn’t wear it again in public 😅😅😅😅

END.

#yizhan #bjyx #Youtube #there is no science here i’m just clowning like i always do #I AM STRUGGLING THE CPN IS SO STRONG

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cece693 · 3 days

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Enemy (Edward Cullen x Werewolf GN! Reader)

Summary: Imprinting was supposed to be a good thing, not for you though. Fate seemed to be mocking you by having your imprint be a leech—Edward Cullen, to be more specific.

tags: gender-neutral reader, reader is a werewolf, post-Eclipse, Edward is your imprint, mentions of wanting to be dead, no established relationship

You were on enemy land, yet you didn’t care. Let them come. Let them do their worst. Maybe it’d be a mercy, a reprieve from the torment you’d been living. The trees around you stretched endlessly, their branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of ghosts, haunting you with every step you took into Cullen's territory.

Imprinting on a vampire—it should’ve been your death sentence. An abomination, they called it. The whispers, the disgusted glares, the sneers from your packmates. Your family wouldn’t even look you in the eye. So, why not wander where you weren't wanted? Why not provoke those you should be avoiding?

A snap of a twig echoed through the forest, and you halted, every muscle tensing. You knew he was there. You always knew. It was a curse, this damn imprinting, a cruel joke from the universe to force you to feel everything for the last person you should.

“Edward,” you spat, the bitterness in your voice impossible to hide. “I know you’re watching me. You may as well come out.” Silence stretched and then he emerged—graceful, quiet, like a shadow having been given a form. His golden eyes were fixed on you with such an intensity, it made your blood boil.

“You shouldn’t be here.” he said, his voice irritatingly soft, like he actually cared about your wellbeing.

A laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and bitter in the stillness. “And where should I be, huh? With my pack? My family?” You took a step toward him, your fists clenching at your sides. “Because let’s be honest, they’d prefer me dead. I imprinted on a vampire, Edward. That makes me as good as a traitor to them.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, defiance burning in your eyes. “And you—you hate me, too. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

Edward’s expression tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact. That infuriating calm, as if nothing could shake him. It only fueled your anger. “I don’t hate you.” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t lie,” you snapped, shaking your head. “I know you do. How could you not? I broke up your happy little life with Bella, didn’t I? You were supposed to be with her, not be tied to…” You gestured toward yourself with a bitter laugh, “…whatever this is.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—pain, perhaps regret—but it was quickly replaced by his usual composure. “Bella and I were never meant to last,” he said with great honesty in his voice, catching you off guard. “We loved each other, but things changed. We changed. It was my choice to let her go.”

“Your choice?” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes. “Then why are you even here, Edward? Why bother with me? I’m just a mess—your sworn enemy, for crying out loud. If you hate this as much as I do, then do us both a favor and end it.”

He moved so quickly that you barely registered the motion. One second, he was standing a few feet away, the next he was in front of you, his hand gripping your arm with a surprising gentleness that left you frozen. His eyes bored into yours, a fire burning in their depths. “I told you, I don’t hate you,” he repeated, his voice edged with a hint of frustration. “And you’re not a mess, not to me.”

“You’re…” He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “You’re my imprint. I didn’t ask for this, nor did you, but here we are. And I…I can’t stand to see you like this. I won’t lie and say it’s easy,” he admitted.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. We can’t change what happened, but we can try to make something of it. Maybe we start with being friends?"

You barked a laugh, though it was devoid of humor. “Friends,” you echoed, tasting the word like it was foreign. “You think we can be friends?”

“It’s a start,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “And maybe, in time, it can be more. If we both want it to be.”

The vulnerability in his words caught you off guard. You expected pity, maybe even indifference, but not this—this honest hope that things could be different. You let out a shaky breath, feeling some tension drain from your shoulders. “Alright,” you murmured, the fight leaving you. “Friends…We can try.”

A small, tentative smile crept onto Edward’s lips, and for a moment, warmth spread through your chest, easing some of the ache that had settled there. It wasn’t a solution, not by far, but it was a beginning.

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remotewatch · 1 day

Text

can’t hit it one time, multiple

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 2.9k wc

minors dni but still get involved and stay informed politically let me be clear

summary: volunteering is so rewarding! being a part of a cause you believe in, educating first time voters, getting dicked by the campaign’s eye candy on your lunch break; it’s got everything!

cws: shameless classic 1D style smut, bus rocking, wrap it before you tap it on THE Harris campaign reproductive freedom bus (is it legally actionable to call it by its govt name), whatever the hell is going on with the JD videos cranked up to 100, reader calls him both diva and a slut, both not totally serious, his tripod is your wingman, this Barbie tastes like clementines, semi public sex I GUESS, sub!jack SOMEWHAT

many thanks to my editor (and co-writer this time around) @mystardustmelodyyy for the organizing and romantic flair 🩵🗳️

additional thanks to Jack and the team for the inspirational Philly content, do keep it up !!

Although your day of volunteering had been nothing terribly exciting so far- setting up chairs, guiding people to their seats, a LOT of directing lost families to the bathroom- the whole town hall was thrumming with a sense of hope that felt nothing short of electric. You didn’t realize how busy you’d been until you finally got a chance to sit down and make up some gift bags. That took no time at all, leaving you a nice free chunk of the day to wander around and soak up the atmosphere. There had been rumors of a free gelato truck, and the empty breezeway pointed to them being true. The sharp thwap of sambas slapping onto marble snapped you out of your daydreaming; almost empty, apparently.

As you rounded the corner, you spotted the source of the racket: America’s most polarizing nepo baby. Filming… a stunt of some kind? He takes a running start into a front flip, landing close enough to his tripod to throw it off balance. After repositioning it and trying again, his shoes slip in a puddle on the floor, forcing him to splay out a hand to avoid falling onto his ass.

You were well aware of Jack’s work; your feed was convinced you were precisely his target demo and had been pushing his content onto you since July. Maybe it wasn’t totally off base. Regardless, watching him struggle to land a perfect somersault was much more endearing than the finished videos. When he stands up for a third attempt and manages to tangle a tripod foot up with his pants in the process, you’re unable to suppress a fit of giggles.

“Are you winning over there, diva?”

Jack looks a bit sheepish when he first glances up but recovers quickly. He adjusts the tripod and hits you with the same smile your algorithm insists makes you weak.

“I think it’s still too close to call.”

“Did you want some help with the…whatever it is you’re recording?”

One of the tripod legs abruptly gives out, the clatter echoing around the breezeway. Jack winces and nudges the fallen hunk of fiberglass with his shoe.

“Yeah, that would be great, if you don’t mind.” Five long strides over to you and he’s pressing his phone into your hands, camera already open. “If you’d just follow- well, you saw what I was trying to do.”

You can’t say if it’s the pressure of a live audience of him being fed up with his previous attempts, but Jack flips perfectly into frame this time, proceeds immediately to an immaculate standing backflip, then takes off towards the other end of the breezeway without so much as glancing at the camera. He leaps up and clicks his heels a few steps in, only turning around when you’re starting to wonder if he’s just ditching the shoot altogether.

“How was that?” He shouts on his way back over.

“Looks good!” You have no earthly idea what he was going for, but it fits right in with the absurdist athletic vibe he’s been rocking with between his more overt political content.

“Aw, that’s great. Thank you!” he beams at you after looking over the footage (you try not to focus on how small the phone looks in his hands). “The lighting is perfect too.”

“Oh, good!” Thank god. “Did you need help with anything else?”

Jack rolls his eyes mischievously like he's considering letting you in on a huge secret. “I was actually going to film a thing or two for JD if you’ve got an extra minute.”

“For that? Absolutely!”

His grin stretches wider to match yours at that response, and you realize you’re smiling at each other like two idiots.

“I’m Jack, by the way.”

He repeats your name back after you introduce yourself, and you wish he’d do it again so you can keep watching his lips move saying it.

🔹🔹🔹🔹

This time, Jack gives you slightly more direction, guiding you to hold the phone at an angle just high enough to skew provocative as he leisurely strolls backwards through the hallway. You don’t need to coach him into angling his head just right to catch the afternoon sun in his eyes; he’s got the bambi look down pat.

“JD, I really miss you. Won’t you come home so we can be a family again?” He motions just out of frame for you to aim higher, but you’re already adjusting the shot before you see his signal. “You said I shouldn’t be voting because I’m not a dad like you. Is that true, JD? Or are you making up stories again?”

Jack glances backward to check if there’s enough room for him to keep up his pace, then breaks for a second to ask “Alright, one more?” The two octave difference almost makes you drop his phone, but you keep it together and nod.

His eyes crinkle up adorably when he smiles. “Sweet.” Then he’s back to business, eyefucking the camera like he just got out of prison.

“JD, I thought you knew everything, and you told me that I should never lie. How am I supposed to trust you if I don’t know when you're telling a story or not?”

You stick your bottom lip out and mouth “more”; he happily obliges. Jack looks every bit the foxy little public servant as he peers out at the lens from under his eyelashes.

“Can you help me understand, JD? I want to understand. I just need a little help. Can you show me?” Christ, he’s practically purring. Thankfully, he snaps back to director mode before you can get too lost in the rhythm.

“You think that was too much?”

“I think you could do a little more, to be really honest.”

His eyes narrow knowingly. “How so?”

“...You could go down on your knees.” You’re half joking at the most and still think you’ve crossed a line, but sure enough, he’s kneeling down and crossing his ankles like it couldn’t come more naturally to him.

He’s still plenty tall enough to bite your pant zipper, and you quickly shove the thought aside.

“Like this?”

“Yeah, perfect, just like that.”

This time, he might as well be on mute for all the words you’re processing. It’s all slow blinking doe eyes, curls bouncing with every emphatic head tilt, his tongue stretching out to wet his lips between sentences. The “Can you show me?” rocks straight through you and breaks the spell when Jack glances up at you. His expression shifts from mockingly innocent to coquettish for just a scorching, enduring moment, then he’s back on his feet, back to the bubbly, personable demeanor you’d expect from him.

“Thank you again for the help. She was NOT playing nice today.” he nods back at the tripod.

“Oh, it’s no problem! I love your work.” He waves a hand modestly.

“I love your work! You actually came out here and helped! It’s so much more important than what I do. Is this your first event?”

“It is! It’s my first time.”

“Well, we love first timers around here.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” The implication hits you a beat too late, so you pad it with a restrained “It’s really interesting to see the behind the scenes of it all.”

Jack rocks back on his heels, his eyebrows drawing up playfully.

“Have you seen the bus?”

“Of course I’ve seen the bus!”

“No, I meant the inside of it. Did you want to see that?” He allows himself the forwardness of a head tilt.

What else could you say?

“Yeah, I really would.”

🔹🔹🔹🔹

Bless the gelato truck, because there’s not a trace of human activity on this side of the building. You’re barely paying attention to the formality of a tour Jack’s giving; his enthusiasm is adorable, but the way his fingers spread as he’s pointing out every feature in the bus is making your mind wander.

“Shoes on or off?” you manage to ask.

“Oh, whatever you want. We’re not strict.” Off, then. “As you can see, this is where the magic happens.”

Once you get to the middle of the bus, the combination of campaign paraphernalia and scattered phone chargers, melatonin gummies, and cold brew cans feels like you’re getting a peek into something thrilling. There’s a map of tour stops tacked up with current polling results on a small whiteboard to the side. It’s close, but no doubt doable. You’re so swept up that you nearly smack your head on an open cabinet door when you turn back to face your host. His hand shifts back along its edge to cushion the impact before you can think to duck, and the heat from it makes your cheek tingle.

“Careful, it’s tight in here!” he teases.

It’s hard to shake the feeling of trespassing.

“Are you sure I’m good to be here?” Jack turns back from replenishing half empty swag baskets to smile reassuringly.

“No one needs it until one. When do you have to get back?”

“My break ends at one thirty.”

“I guess it’s our bus, then!” He fetches you a sparkling water from the minifridge and cracks open his own like he owns the place. You elect to remain standing and lean against one of the chairs opposite, certainly not because you want to have him looking up at you for as long as possible.

Jack is all long limbs and tanned striations as he stretches out on the bench seat like a cat, his wingspan nearly spanning its whole length. When he arches slightly to get comfortable, his shirt catches under his pecs and makes your mouth go dry. You wonder if you’re staring too much.

“So, do you have any other directing experience, or do you just have a knack for giving orders?” His head lolls to one side, soaking up your attention. One of his feet moseys it’s way over to you, and you uncross your ankles before it has a chance to nudge them in that direction.

“I think you’re just good at taking them.” Is that a blush you’re seeing? Jack breaks into a giggle that reads almost wistful.

“I was expecting you to tell me to roll over and balance a treat on my nose.”

“Anything for the campaign, right?”

“I mean, of course, but it's still those day to day interactions that are going to win this for us.”

“Yeah, the canvassing especially is really rewarding, I didn’t expect this many people to be undecided. I guess some of them still need a little convincing.” You plop down next to him, closer than you’d ever dare if he wasn’t flushed clear down to his shirt collar. Somehow, your right leg finds itself intertwined with his. He’s a fucking furnace, even directly under the AC unit.

“Not me though; I know exactly what I want to do.”

The corners of Jack’s mouth curl up without a shred of hesitation. He squints at you again before taking a slow pull of his Perrier, Adam’s Apple bobbing like it's begging you to bite it. His middle fingertip trails lazily around the rim as he sets it down. One last lip smack, then he’s pressing them onto yours and flooding your nose with the smell of clementines and sea salt.

The buzzing in your brain reaches a fever pitch when he drapes an arm around your waist to pull you closer. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your hand wanders up to cradle his face and press a thumb to his chin. A gentle push down to open Jack’s mouth and his tongue is snaking its way in, the obscene length of it sending sparks straight down to your clit. He breathes a contented, relieved moan into your mouth when your leg swings over his hips to straddle him, then little stilted mewls as you start rocking back and forth.

“You’re a little slut for democracy aren’t you? You tease, panting against his jawline.

“Who, me?” he grins and drags his hands up your thighs to settle on your ass, thumbs playing with your waistband.

You can feel your nipples hardening as you reach one hand out to steady yourself against the window. The bracing cold glass is delicious, but you flinch back when you spot people trickling back into view, gelato cups in hand, a few racing over to pose with the bus.

“Don’t worry; they can’t see you,” he chuckles along your sternum. Jack scooches too far forward trying to get a better angle to rut against you and nearly slides you both off the seat. You hear a whispered little “oh, shit,” before he scoops you up with one arm and shifts to stand, the other grabbing a spare water on his way to the rear of the bus. He collapses onto the deep sofa without missing a beat, but looks back up at you for reassurance, as if he’s somehow being presumptuous. You don’t even see it; you’re too busy yanking at his jeans like a madwoman after feeling how hard he is.

Concerns assuaged, he manages to pull both of your pants off without incident, only an accidental kick to the end table. Jack lets out a cackle when his hand slides low enough to feel you drip down his wrist.

“And I’m the slut for democracy?”

“Oh, shut up!”

You stretch behind him to the bin of condoms marked ‘F•CK PROJECT 2025’ on the far windowsill, shamelessly letting your breasts drag over his face in the process.

“It would really be a shame if we didn’t do some quality control, since we’re already here.” You trace one along his lips until they part to accept your gift.

“Such a waste,” Jack mimics you, if a bit muffled, as his incisors shred the foil wrapper. “And,” he adds cheekily with a shrug, “we’re fresh out of plan B.”

He’s already slid it on by the time you realize he’s unclipped your bra somewhere between here and the door, and you waste absolutely no time slipping him inside, so warm it makes you shudder. His eyelids flutter when you sit down fully; he’s whining like the bus is soundproof the second you get to work, all strained little whimpers and cut off syllables as you bounce in his lap. There’s not a minute to waste, and it’s showing in the breakneck pace you set. Jack’s movements are just as frantic, bucking up hard enough to threaten to throw you straight off this ride.

Desperate to see how far down he blushes, you slide your arms under his shirt, heat blooming up to your shoulders as you do. He gets your hint and tugs it off; you waste no time planting both hands on his pecs and letting your fingers run wild through his chest hair.

Meanwhile, your shirt and bra get caught on your elbow in the process of shedding them, and your left knee skids right off the couch while you’re distracted. Jack catches your shin effortlessly and plants his foot to keep his balance; you actually spot him smiling at his own reflexes. He rolls you both over without slipping out, chuckling a little “didn’t I tell you to be careful?” into your ear. He moves to let your leg down, and you throw it over his shoulder to keep him pinned flat against you before he can do so. The new angle restricts his range a bit, but he’s already shoving a hand down to strum at your clit, face millimeters from yours for the perfect view of just how much you’re loving it. He murmurs cockily when he sees you holding back. “Won’t you let me hear you?” There’s no way you’ll attract attention if you’re just moaning into his mouth, right?

It’s all too much; Jack’s whole body draped over you like a fever that won’t break, the way he’s panting down your throat every time you clamp around him, the little calluses on his occupied fingertips and how they maintain their perfect, unbearable pace no matter how much you thrash around. You can barely squeak out a “fuck, Jack, please-,”

His “I know, I know,” sounds just as ragged and that tips you right over the edge.

Jack’s composure completely unravels with the first pulse. His eyes screw shut and his hips still as deep as he can get to ride it out with you. You’re shaking and frothing like a can of Pepsi- sweet and sticking all along his slicked-flat happy trail as you lift your leg a little higher and over the back of his neck to pull him in closer. The beads of sweat on his forehead drip onto yours when he falls into another messy kiss, aftershocks buzzing comfortably through you both.

His phone timer jolts you out of your shared stupor.

“What is that?”

“12:30,” he groans into the couch cushion. “Sit tight, I’ll get you a towel.

🔹🔹🔹🔹

Jack is steaming your dress pants in one sock and his Hanes like its second nature, and it’s making a strong case for the hottest thing he could possibly do. In a few minutes, he’ll go out the front of the bus and stir up the crowd while you exit through the back.

“Take a bev for the road if you’d like.” He slaps the minifridge pointedly.

“Thanks, you’re such a good host!” you hadn’t moved from where you were laid out on the sofa; it was too much fun watching him get flustered from the compliment, “This was fun, getting to know you and all.”

“Yeah it was,” his tone is achingly sincere as he smiles back at you, face getting flushed all over again “...Not to be too bold, but could I get your number?”

#jack schlossberg #jack schlossberg x reader #freak nasty #if his blush isn’t visible through his tan #don’t tell me #i want to believe

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emyn-arnens · 3 days

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In Darkness Buried Deep

Frodo & Sam | G | ~900 words | @lotrweek day 5: "here with me" | AO3

Frodo’s skin melted like wax. He burned and burned until there was nothing left of him but ash that floated away on the wind.

But even so, he still burned. His spirit, laid bare before the Eye, caught fire and trembled. The flames licked at him, all consuming, until he was hollowed, worn thin like clothing worn to mere threads that when held up to the sun cannot hide its light.

He shook from the force of the transformation, trembling and bare before the merciless Eye. His hand burned.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam’s voice pierced through the veil of horror. “Mr. Frodo!” He shook Frodo.

Frodo scrubbed a hand over his face, his mind still caught somewhere between nightmare and waking. His hand curled around something warm. It flared against his fingers but did not burn, and a light pierced through the last lingering webs of horror.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Frodo, but we have to be getting on.” Sam peered at him closely, worry stitching his brows together as tight as a seam. He paused and looked closer at Frodo, his eyes fixed on Frodo’s chest.

Instinctively, Frodo clutched the Ring with his free hand. It was cool and soothing against his palm. He drew away from Sam, mistrusting the look in his eyes.

Sam’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Do you remember Bilbo’s song in Rivendell about Eärendil? When I heard it, I never would have thought that one day we’d have a bit of Eärendil with us.” He nodded to Frodo’s chest.

Frodo looked down at his hand, still held against his chest. In it was the star glass. Sam must have tucked it in his hand while Frodo slept, sensing the dark paths Frodo wandered in his sleep. And unknowingly, Frodo had clutched the star-glass to his chest, as if it were a ward against the darkness. The glass now burned as if it were living flame, casting its light about them in a pale bloom and forcing the gloom of Mordor to recede.

“I never would have thought I’d be part of one of the great stories. Me, a gardener! But it makes the task easier, doesn’t it, to think of Eärendil helping us, even though he’s sailing where we can’t go, up high above the clouds in his star-ship, and we’re down here, picking our way along paths no sensible hobbit would take.”

Something long-buried unfurled in Frodo’s heart. “Yes, Sam, I suppose it does.”

Sam paused, thoughtful. “I suppose you could even say Eärendil was sent to us, just as the Valar sent him in his star-ship to help Middle-earth long ago. And maybe that means that even now the Valar still watch and send help, even though they’ve removed themselves from Middle-earth and dwell where no man can go.” Warmth spilled over Sam’s brown face like sunlight shifting between clouds.

“Why, think of it, Mr. Frodo!” he cried. “Maybe they’re helping us, even here in this dreadful land of rocks and fumes. Us! Helped by the Valar!” He stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders and beamed. “I wonder what my old Gaffer would have to say about that! That I’m putting myself above my station, most like, and taking part in things grander than us plain folk should be involved in. ‘Sam Gamgee,’ he’d say, ‘if you head weren’t stuffed so full of nonsense and foolishness, you’d do better remembering your place.’” Sam rocked back on his heels. “The Valar!”

Frodo's lips moved in the memory of a smile, the movement foreign and wearying. The star-glass, warm against his palm, still shone in his hand, light welling between his fingers. He clasped his hand tightly around it, then slipped the star-glass beneath his tunic against his heart and took courage from the warmth seeping into his heart.

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander from the dark land they passed through. His mind stepped toward the familiar places of home, as it had when he was imprisoned in the tower, but their names were nothing more than memories with no meaning, and he saw nothing but darkness. Still, the names, though featureless, were a faint comfort, and he let his mind linger upon them, remembering why he had set out on this hopeless quest. The Brandywine, the market at Bywater, Woody End, Hobbiton—they had meant something to him once, and he seized hold of them.

He stirred. “Thank you, Sam,” he murmured and withdrew the star-glass from his tunic. The light in it had gone dark, and it looked now like nothing more than a phial of clear water. “Keep this safe for me.”

Sam helped him to his feet, and Frodo peered at the barren land, pitted with rocks and craters and ringed by a red sky, that stretched before and around them. His feet moved with renewed purpose, and his heart no longer hung as a weight in his chest. And though he could not bring himself to hope, for the embers of his hope had died to ashes in his chest, he could reach out and clasp Sam’s hope as a rope leading him through the darkness.

#lotrweek #lotr #frodo baggins #samwise gamgee #lotr fic #tolkien fic #fotfics #my fic #q

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seraphdreams · 9 months

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ran and corruption kink……..thinking about how he slowly gets you used to fucking anywhere and anytime….and about getting shy, little you used to his advances…..about how all he has to do is kiss you so sweetly on the face, whispering silk and candy and all things soft and sweet to you. nuzzling himself in your neck. sweet, sweet, and soft lips caught in a charming but dangerous smile against your skin because you’re so cute. shrinking and shriveling up into yourself like a tiny little turtle retreating back into its shell. but this time, this time, you try to accept him and his sweet words and his silky voice that makes you so ticklish and squeamish, and hot all the way down to your neck. this time, you don’t try to run from him to a safe distance away until you cool down. this time, you stay there and take it. take it until he can finally cradle you. take it until his tongue is finally down your throat and you’re clutching his nice expensive dress shirt till it wrinkles. take it until you breathe in his cologne and it makes your head dizzy with him. take it until you’re all wet and hot between your legs and ran is cupping his big hand over your mound, lithe, slender fingers surprisingly sturdy and firm on your cunt. he can feel you pulse and throb and he knows you’ll take his fingers like a good girl.

……….wow sorry for the horny word vomit, i miss him too.

(also hello, happy new years! wishing you health, safety, happiness, and success and growth. as well as a free palestine, sudan, yemen, congo, tigray, and many other countries suffering from occupation or interference from the western world.)

dior… you have me grasping for air… because why is this so?

it’s almost as if ran trains you that way. he uses those weaknesses you have for him as a weapon to get you right where he wants . . specifically speaking, giving into ran in situations you’d never even think of — the elevator ride from the top floor of his abode to the very bottom . . it gives him an ample opportunity to whisper those silky sweet nothings in your ear, kiss n bite at the flesh of your neck , and allow you to grind greedily over his palm . . had it been early into the pining stage of your relationship, you would’ve gotten all hot n bothered at the thought but now it’s your reality.

#first thirst of the year!!! from my lovely wittle diorie🥺#i luv u so bad #i hope for nothing but great things for you this year #all you’ve been striving to and more #i wish for the oppressed to receive the justice and freedom they deserve #i wish for them to be protected #and to live on their land with no one saying they can’t #greed is a hell of a disease #seraph.replies!#dior.dreams!

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lunannex · 1 year

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The day people stop mischaracterizing Kaveh and Alhaitham is the day I will finally be happy

#alhaitham isn’t mean he’s just very blunt #kaveh isn’t a helpless damsel in distress #i mean #he IS in distress #just not in the way you think #people dumb-down kaveh so much it’s so annoying #he graduated with honors!!! yeah he’s a little gullible but he’s not fucking stupid #also this whole ‘kaveh wouldn’t know how to function without alhaitham’ bullshit #besties he was practically taking care of himself after his dad died because his mother fell into a very deep depression #and THEN she moved to fontaine and he was living alone #he went to school and GRADUATED TOP OF HIS DARSHAN #everyone wanted him to work for them after he graduated #he built a palace and YEAH now he’s in massive debt #but like??????#he landed himself in that position and he’s TRYING to get back on his feet #i’d say he’s pretty independent idk #yeah yeah alhaitham pays for all his drinks most of the time #and he helps kaveh out a lot in other ways as well #but the point of their dynamic is that they’re mirrors to each other #you can’t really have one without the other because their stories are so intertwined and they help each other grow #they keep each other in check #luna talks #anyway #i’m very upset :)

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wishmemel · 11 months

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@4sat0ruu took pics for u today <33

#i just loooveee living in this barren piece of land with nothing to do #and no one to meet #and only snow #and more snow #it’s like being in antarctica #u r so lucky i’m not showing you all the brown slush from the cars 😭😭#you’re getting the nice pretty view #sigh #even megumi wouldn’t like this #or maybe he would idk #my delusional self wants to say he would just so i can picture us having cute little ice skating dates #even though i can’t ice skate.#and i headcanon that he can’t either #but he’s sooo ice prince coded #i love that #꒰ soon you'll get better. ꒱

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fakeoutbf · 1 year

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#hi i’m gonna ramble a little feel free to skip over this #i’ve just felt so lonely these past few weeks #like the closest friends i had both went out of town and neither told me and i had to find out through instagram #and like idk if it’s my fault for always being so closed off and not reaching out to ppl more or if they just … don’t wanna talk to me #and i’m happy that they’re doing stuff that makes them happy and that they’re doing well but like #they both have bfs which is fine but that means that they almost automatically have someone else to do shit with #and they have closer friends too so they hang out with them more i guess #all this to say i don’t really have anyone i’m close with so i just … don’t have anyone to do that stuff with #like a coworker was saying they wanted to go to the beach with their cousins or siblings or they went on vacation with friends recently #and the only person i’d wanna do those things with is my mom … and then we can’t go bc we’re broke and have other things to pay #and i wish i could travel on my own but it’s not safe here and ngl i don’t have money to go out of the country besides needing paperwork etc #all this to say that: did i fuck up choosing a bsf in hs that was thousands of miles away that now i don’t have a genuine connection with #anyone in the same area i am?? should i have opened up more to ppl overall?? should i have tried harder??#or is it just fucked up that the only ppl i know who like the same things i like and who bond with me over them live so far away??#like is it me?? am i the problem??#i just wanna go to the beach man … i wanna go on vacation and relax and not think about fucking dying alone #no one even cares about me i swear #if i got fucked up in a car crash or something and landed in a hospital or fucking dead for all i know who would even care

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kavehater · 6 days

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Lord give me energy today eueueue

#dora daily #sm things piling up but my brain says NO #I can’t even do basic things 😭#it’s genuinely so hard to talk to others #aaaaaaah #the reason is bc I’ve forced myself into contentment with the prospect of being alone cause there’s just so much I can do that would bring #me joy in solitude but #that’s what I’ve always been doing part of the reason I talk a lot is bc that’s how I am in my head #like things firing at 100miles per second bc that’s how I used to keep myself entertained when I was younger #when everyone would have buddies and I wouldn’t #and it works now bc everyone takes ten business days to reply that it’s completely made me genuinely grossed out of social interaction #but I can’t live in La La land forever #pls if only kaveh existed I wouldn’t need another means of socialisation eueeuue #everyone is so impossible to understand; coming from a girl who has always been called utterly INSANE for how hard she hyper focuses on #small cues and signals and detecting discomfort and whatnot. I turn my brain off for one second and yet again the same shit happens it’s so #unfair that everyone can be relaxed and I ought to be on high alert 24/7 #I also find it hilarious and pathetic when people pretend to be people smart but they’re really not … it’s genuinely embarrassing #like bitch when you get to my level then we will talk istg …#Istg if this is the autism thing everyone’s been telling me im screwed cause #I don’t want yet another issue #but it’d make sense like how people seem to draw away despite there being nothing wrong with me #how people tend to agree with everything someone else says but the moment I do it it’s heinous #how I have physically had to learn social cues and trial and error #with the errors altering my brain chemistry #that unwavering sense of justice that makes me so very uncomfortable if not fulfilled that I shut up about so I can actually hold down #friends. God knows how every interaction I have with a person is so orchestrated so almost artificial and ‘yes-man’ core that I don’t even #believe said person likes ME bc idek who I am and bc if I don’t agree w #everything no matter how many times someone says I won’t get mad …. trust me they do they’re all liars and manipulators even if they don’t #intend to #the scary fascinations I’ve had when younger

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cupiare · 1 month

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i love lessons and not learning anything from them and getting pissed off at the same things again and again and agaaaaaain

#p #why can no one respect boundaries these days what cesspool of feral animals have i landed in #and then also telling me what to do. We have ourselves a problem here #idk why everyone just assumes i’m easily persuaded and/or ‘playing hard to get’#i’m not playing ?? 😭😭 why r u ignoring what i say and then acting surprised i get pissed of wwwhhy can’t you just take me seriously #LIKE I DONT GET ITTTTTT AND IM STILL THE PROBLEM????)-&2929&/2&/2@&2@2 IM ILL TEMPERED IM FUSSY IM WHATEVER ..??’wkwkw #animals. in the worst of ways.#i have to lock myself up and live like a monk i can’t keep raising my blood pressure like this

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imaginedisish · 2 months

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Lover, You Should've Come Over (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Get ready to cry. This is based on a request I received yesterday where the reader gets jealous of Jean. I tried to take this in a different direction just because I feel like this is a popular trope that has been done by many fantastic writers. It's also inspired by "Lover, You Should've Come Over," by Jeff Buckley. Hope you guys enjoy.

Summary: You've been pining after Logan since you joined the X-Men, and you're convinced he'll never love you back. He’s obsessed with Jean—always has been. Or...maybe he's not.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI, Oral (f!receiving), fingering, PIV (unprotected...pls WRAP IT UP THIS IS FICTION!), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, f!reader/afab!reader, telepathic!reader, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan (kinda? yeah.), non-canon compliant (you'll see what I mean...no spoilers), cursing, angst, feelings, implied mutant trauma (kinda a given in X-Men), probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,197 sorry

Wanting someone you can’t have—it’s that crying in the shower, pulling your legs into your chest, screaming into your pillow kind of heartache. You’ve come to know the feeling intimately. It’s an awful, horrid, stomach-churning kind of pain.

But you want him. Despite all the pain, you want him. Logan Howlett. You can’t seem to keep him off your mind. For the few months you’ve been one of the X-Men, Logan has been a constant. He’s always there—whether it’s to train or just to talk. But you know he’ll never want you. You see the way he looks at Jean. You wish you didn’t. You wish you were oblivious to that sort of thing. But you don’t need to use your telepathy to reach inside his mind for proof—you just know.

You keep holding on, savoring every moment, every interaction you have with Logan. You sit on the lawn of the mansion with him, watching the sunset. You’ll come down to the living room late at night to find him sitting in front of the T.V. and join him. Sometimes he’ll drape an arm around your shoulder. He’ll draw circles into your side as you drift off. You’ll wake up the next morning back in your bed, Logan having carried you there long after you’ve fallen asleep.

You’ve decided you’ll take all he’ll give you, even if it means nothing to him—even if it's platonic.

But tonight, you wish something would come up through the floor and swallow you whole. A void, a black hole maybe. That would do the trick. Disappearing would make everything so much easier. The second-best thing to disappearing is sitting in the kitchen of the mansion, alone, with a pint of ice cream. You decide to practice your powers, moving the silver spoon with your mind, concentrating as you dig the spoon into the top of the pint and into your mouth.

You hear a warm, familiar chuckle from the doorway as the spoon lands on your tongue. You look up, and there’s Logan, arms tucked across his chest. “Wish I could do that.”

You can’t help but smile around the spoon as he strides over to you, taking a seat on the stool next to yours. You slide the spoon out of your mouth and rest it on the napkin next to the ice cream. “Hey,” you mutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

His shoulder brushes against yours. He’s so close it hurts. You try to shove the pain down and enjoy the moment.

“Was hoping I’d run into you down here. Thought maybe you’d be in bed already,” Logan says, his eyes locked on yours.

You shake your head, doing your best to keep that fake smile plastered on your face. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You can see the sudden concern appear on his face. “Everything okay?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. Fuck, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s catching on.

“Yeah,” you murmur, looking down at the ice cream. “Just still having a hard time adjusting.” It wasn’t a lie. You had always struggled with your powers, longing to hide, to shove them down. Your whole life, you were either a freak or something to be used—whatever was most convenient in the moment. The struggle between visibility and forcing yourself to be “normal” was an impossible battle. You were no stranger to being taken advantage of or being experimented on.

Logan was the first person who understood that—understood you. He made you feel seen in a way that no one ever had. It’s part of the reason you’ve fallen so hard for him.

His hand is suddenly on your back, yanking you from your thoughts and back to reality. “I’m here,” he whispers. “Whatever you need, anything.”

Anything. You wish he really meant it.

“Thanks, Lo.” You smile up at him, letting your eyes linger on his lips for just a second before looking back down at the ice cream. “Want some?” You ask, nodding at the pint.

“Only if you feed it to me the way you did when I walked in.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he taps the spoon. You side-eye him incredulously. “I mean it. Wanna see you do it again.” There’s a husk in his voice, a shift in his timber that sends a chill down your spine. You try not to think about it too much as you pick up the spoon with your mind.

You guide the spoon inside the pint, scraping the top, and lifting it up towards Logan’s mouth. He opens wide as you lead the spoon inside, his tongue hitting the bottom as his lips close around it. The implications of the moment don’t dawn on you until he’s grabbing the spoon with his hands and sucking on the metal. There’s something undeniably suggestive about this.

Heat rises to your chest as you replay the image of him taking the spoon into his mouth in your mind. It’s so intimate, so domestic. And, certainly, something else—something that makes you tick, that makes that familiar fire grow deep within your belly.

But—like always—the moment doesn’t last long. You wince, feeling someone itching against your thoughts, prodding at your mental shields, begging to be let in. Suddenly, there’s another voice in your mind.

I gotta try that myself. You flinch at the sound, taking the spoon from Logan’s hand and shooting it across the room to where you sense the person’s presence. You turn around, and there’s Jean, resisting the spoon’s trajectory with her mind.

It's almost pressing into her skull, shaking in mid-air, ready to break her skin. You gasp and drop the spoon, embarrassed to have registered her as a threat. “I’m so sorry,” you say, watching as Jean crouches down and picks up the spoon. “I didn’t know that was you in there, I swear.”

You expect Logan to stand from the chair and rush over to Jean, but he stays next to you, glued to your side, the palm of his hand resting gently on your back. “Jean.” His voice is firm, almost cold and harsh. “What was that?” You’re surprised at how curt he’s being with her, surprised he remembered that you’re sensitive to people probing around your mind, even if it’s friendly.

Jean mutters a curse. “I was just communicating with her. I didn’t think she’d—”

Logan stands, his hand still steady at your back. “Don’t do that again. Ever.” His voice is louder now, heavier.

She whispers an apology, setting the spoon on the counter and walking towards the doorway. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says. “I should’ve remembered given your…” she pauses, searching for the word, “past…that it wouldn’t be a good idea.” She takes another tentative step. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, and she slips out.

Logan settles back into the stool next to you. You’re shocked that he’s still here, that he hasn’t run away yet. You can hear him breathe—in and out—gentle, long breaths. You close your eyes and listen, the sound calming you down. You’re still expecting him to leave, to walk away, but he doesn’t.

“You okay?” He asks, your eyes fluttering open, his voice hanging in the air. His head is tilted to the side, worry painted across his face.

“Y-yeah. I’m fine,” you stutter, your voice cracking. “You don’t have to stay with me. You can go check on her if you want.” You nod towards the doorway—to wherever Jean wandered off to.

“And why would I do that?” Is all he says in return, furrowing his brows.

You put on that fake smile again. “I almost jammed a spoon into her forehead because she spoke to me telepathically.” You shake your head. “Don’t really think my reaction was particularly friendly—or something that good people do.” You break eye contact with Logan and look to the other side of the kitchen. “Plus, you two are…close.”

“Hey.” His voice is firm again, but gentle this time, reassuring. His hand slips across your back and rests on your waist. You’re so shocked by the contact that you almost miss what he says. “First of all, she knows better. Charles warned her about what you’ve been through. And second…” He trails off, smirking at you. “I’d rather be with you.”

Oh? Oh. He’d rather be with you.

“I just thought, you know, you and Jean were…” You’re too embarrassed to finish the sentence and too nervous to hear him say the words you’ve been dreading most.

He shakes his head, that smirk still spread across his lips. “No, it’s not Jean I want. Never has been.”

Your breathing becomes shaky—your heart beating rapidly in your chest. “If it’s not Jean, then—”

Logan cuts you off as he suddenly moves. His arm lifts from your waist as he stands, turning your stool around so your back is against the cold countertop. He’s gripping the arms of the stool now, caging you in. Your mind is hazy—you can’t concentrate with him this close.

“You think I do the shit I do with you with Jean too, hm?” He’s towering over you, his head cocking to the side, his voice self-assured and confident. “Think I’m watching movies and sunsets with her? Carrying her to bed, too?”

You’re overwhelmed, dizzied by his words, his size, him. “Just thought that—”

“Just thought what?” He cuts you off again. “That I didn’t want you, darlin’?” He brings his lips to the shell of your ear, one hand moving from the counter to your hip. “Wanted you this whole time,” he huffs, goosebumps rising on your arms. “Only you.” He presses a kiss to your ear, and then just underneath your jaw.

“Logan,” you whisper. “W-want you too,” you choke out, your hands coming up and around his back. “B-but someone’s gonna walk in on us.”

He’s ignoring you, biting your pulse point lightly and licking the pain away. “Let them,” he husks, refusing to stop. You instinctively bring your hands up to the nape of his neck, your nails digging in slightly. He groans at the contact, his chest heaving against yours.

“One of the kids is catch us in here, or somebody else,” you mutter, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. “W-we should—”

“Go to my room.” He finishes your thought.

“Please.”

And then he’s picking you up from the chair, his hands under your thighs, grabbing your ass. You wrap your legs around his waist as he prowls out of the kitchen. He looks both ways as he crosses the hallway and makes his way to the stairs. There’s no one in sight. He carries you up the steps and down the hall to his room, practically breaking down the door as he swings it open and slams it shut.

And then he’s laying you down on his bed, crawling over you, pressing his forehead against yours. “Wanted you in here sooner,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from yours. “Hoped you’d come over one night. You should’ve.”

His lips crash down onto yours before you can find the words to say. He’s starving for you, swallowing your moans as his hands slip under your shirt, his nails digging lightly into your sides. “So fucking beautiful,” he rasps against your lips. Everything is desperate and rushed, hands pawing at bare skin in the dim light of his room.

Logan tugs on the hem of your shirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the side as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He curses under his breath, looking you up and down.

“Logan,” you whine, arching your back. You need his hands on you again, his lips. Something. Anything.

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes, his fingers hooking inside the waistband of your shorts. “Gonna take care of you.” He yanks them down your legs, leaving you in just your bra and panties.

He pulls off his own shirt, tossing it carelessly, letting it get lost on the floor. He settles back down over you, balancing on his forearm as his free hand finds your waist. He slides up to the bottom of your bra, teasingly pulling on the fabric before slipping his hand behind your back—skillfully unclasping the bra with one easy motion. You arch your back again, the bra straps sliding down your arms as Logan tosses the bra to the floor, too.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, his hand tracing the curves of your breasts, massaging gently. “Perfect.” He captures your lips in another kiss as his thumb ghosts over your nipples, just barely giving you the relief you need before pinching softly. The pressure feels so good, so right, but it’s not enough.

He draws circles around your nipples with his thumb, the sensation feeding the aching fire between your legs. Your hips involuntarily lift off the mattress, meeting his. “Need me that bad, huh?” He is always so incredibly cocky, even now—especially now. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and what to do next.

Logan grinds his erection into your core. You can feel how big he is, the weight of him heavy against your cunt even in his jeans. You clench around nothing, whining his name as his strained cock teases your panty-clad pussy. “You want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter, biting your lips as his hand leaves your tits and sweeps down your stomach, stopping just above your clit. He slides his fingers down just a bit more, feeling where your arousal seeps through your panties.

“Already soaking for me, sweetheart.” The bassy timber of his voice stokes that flame deep within your belly. Without warning, he’s hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your legs. “Can’t wait anymore, pretty girl,” he whispers. “Wanna taste this pussy.” He kisses your belly button, leaving a trail down the rest of your stomach as his mouth travels to where you need him most.

There’s something depraved about the way he’s crawling down your body, taking in every inch of you. He spreads your legs apart with the palms of his hands—his thumbs brushing against your bare skin, licking teasingly at your inner thighs as he settles in between them.

He pauses, looking at you under hooded eyes. You can see the want—no, the need—in the way his muscles flex and how he works his jaw. But he’s hesitating, his breath hot against your core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your eyes searching his for his next move.

He finally presses a kiss to your clit. “You don’t understand how you make me feel,” he mumbles against your heat, licking a long stripe through your folds and back to your clit. “No idea how long I’ve fucking wanted you.” You throw your head back, whimpering his name as he laps again and again. He’s starving, and you’re the only thing that can satiate his hunger. His tongue swirls around your clit, flicking it, taking it in between his lips and sucking hard.

Your hips lift off the mattress and Logan quickly moves to hold them down. “You’re not going anywhere, darlin’,” he grunts against you, the vibration of his voice going straight to your core.

His free hand slips up the inside of your thighs, teasingly climbing higher and higher, his nails skimming your flesh. He’s toying with you, leading you on, taking his time. His fingers finally ghost over your folds, exploring you, stroking up and down as his tongue laps at your cunt.

Logan prods your entrance with two fingers, slipping in just a bit, testing the waters. “Please,” you beg, pushing your hips down in an attempt to sink his fingers deeper into you. He stops you, his hand still firmly holding your hips down, refusing to give you the release you’re dying for.

“So fucking impatient, aren’t you?” He tuts. And then he’s shoving two fingers all the way inside you, down to his knuckles. “Such a pretty pussy.”

“F-fuck!” You cry out, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he sets a relentless pace. He’s drinking you in, sucking roughly, his long fingers pumping in and out with a vengeance.

“’This what you wanted, pretty girl?” He asks condescendingly in between laps. You’re too fucked out to form a sentence, your legs trembling underneath him. You know he’s loving this—loving that you’re a wet, needy, whimpering mess.

Your walls squeeze around his fingers, your swollen clit throbbing as he laps at you. You’re so close already. “Lo,” you call out, fisting the sheets of his bed. Everything in here smells like him: pine and mint and musk and tobacco and that thing that’s uniquely Logan. It’s all so overwhelming and overstimulating. You’re ready to fall apart, to melt into nothingness. “S-so close.”

He squeezes your hip. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes, his pace unwavering as his fingers fuck into you, scissoring inside you, drawing you closer to your climax with that come-hither motion he does so well. Your walls flutter again. “That’s it,” he coos. “Wanna feel you come—wanna know what it tastes like.” He licks harder, faster. “Let go for me, darlin’.”

He pushes you over the edge, pleasure warming your belly as you let go. It washes over you in waves, his fingers still pumping in and out, his tongue still hanging on to the taste of you. You ride it out, his thumb brushing your hip, coaxing you through it. His fingers slip out of your cunt, but his head is still buried between your legs. You shudder as he licks long, slow stripes through your folds.

“So fucking sweet,” he growls, still starving for more. “Not done with you yet.”

Fuck.

But you need more—need his cock deep inside you, pounding into you. You need him in front of you, his lips on yours.

“Logan,” you whine, your voice shaky and trembling just like the rest of your body. He finally lifts his head, his hair a disheveled mess, your juices glistening on his lips and his chin. The sight of him makes your breath hitch in your throat. There’s a feral, needy look in his eyes. He’s starving for more of you, and you’re not quite sure he’ll ever get enough.

But he can see your chest heaving and the desire in your own eyes. He knows what you need—he always does. He sits up on his knees, staring at you while he slowly unbuckles his belt. The tension is palpable, the clinking of his belt against the hardwood floors cutting through it like a hot knife—the only sounds the melding of your quick breaths and the shuffling of bed sheets as Logan finally comes up to meet you.

He's balancing on his forearm as he unbuttons his jeans, undoing the zipper and shoving the denim and his boxers down his legs. You swallow at the sight of his cock springing against his stomach. You had felt his erection before, but he is far bigger than you ever anticipated.

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself in between your thighs. You instinctually spread your legs for him, inviting him in. He nudges against your entrance, taking his time.

His forehead meets yours, your chests flush against each other’s, panting in sync. You’re both waiting with bated breath, his tip slipping inside, but stopping short before going any farther.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Thought I’d never have you,” he confesses, pushing his tip a bit further in. “Would’ve given up anything for this. Would’ve waited forever.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur. “I’m right here. I’m yours.”

“Mine?”

“All yours.”

And then he’s pushing deep inside you, down to the hilt, bottoming out. He swallows your moans with a kiss, biting your lip, drawing blood, and licking it away. “All fucking mine.” He stays buried inside you, unmoving. “Wanna stay inside you forever, sweetheart,” he growls, your heart bursting at the thought.

He pulls himself all the way out and all the way back in, stretching you out, working you open. You look down in between your bodies and watch as his cock disappears inside of you. “Feels s-so fucking good,” you stammer, already drunk off him.

“Like watching me fuck into you?” Logan husks, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours.

“Y-yes,” you whimper. His muscles flex as he ruts into you. He takes the hand that was on his cock and brings it in between your bodies, his fingertips quickly finding your clit and giving it a soft pinch. Your back arches off the mattress at the sensation.

Logan hums at your reaction. “So sensitive,” he groans. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.” You can feel him losing control as he rams into you, his thrusts growing harder with each pump of his cock. He’s drawing firm, fast circles into your core.

It’s all too much, him, his cock, his fingers. Your skin is on fire, your nipples pushing against his chest—the friction absolutely delicious. You’re already so close, just a few steps away from the ledge, and you’re ready to fall.

“Know you’re close, darlin’,” Logan moans in between kisses. “Can feel you squeezing me.”

You hum in response, but Logan refuses to let up. His pace is beyond brutal, pounding into you over and over again, his fingers working your clit in tandem. Your muscles contract around him, gripping tightly.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking tight, so fucking warm.” His praises are more than you can handle. “You gonna come on my cock, just like this?”

“Yes, fuck, Logan!” You’re a babbling mess, his name the only thing on your mind, on your lips, hanging in the air like it’s a sacred prayer. Everything is him, and it always has been. In this moment and in every other, he is your end and your beginning.

“Let go for me, sweetheart. Know you can do it for me.” His deep voice is all you need to walk you through it. You’re breaking down, coming on his cock, the pleasure coursing through your veins, spreading like an untamable fire.

He’s stroking your clit long after you’ve come, still snapping his hips into yours, still working up towards his own orgasm. His pace is getting sloppier, but he shows no signs of stopping. You can feel yourself growing overstimulated, his cock rubbing against your walls, his fingers circling your clit. “S’too much,” you whine, your nails digging into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Logan presses himself closer to you, as close as he possibly can be. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart,” he coaxes, not letting up. “Know you can take it.”

You’re breathless, clinging onto him helplessly. You’re clamping down on him again, taking him deeper than you did before. He’s hitting that sweet spot with every thrust. “Lo,” you whimper. “I’m gonna—”

“I know, darlin’,” he grunts. You can feel him throbbing inside you. “Let it happen, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The tension is snapping again, breaking in half as he pulls another orgasm from you. You shudder as you come for a third time, overstimulated and beyond fucked out. You know he’s close behind, his hips slowing down, his forehead pressed against yours. He slips his hand away from your clit and around your back, pulling you closer to his chest. It’s so intimate, so perfect.

“F-fuck,” he mumbles. “Where do you want me to—”

You hold him closer. “Stay,” you whisper. “Want you inside. Wanna feel you come.”

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, plunging deep inside you, his muscles tensing as he fills you up, your name on his lips. His thrusts slow, pumping in and out every now and then before finally stopping.

You stay like this for a few minutes, his arm keeping you tight against his chest, his cock still buried inside you and your foreheads still pressed together.

He brings a hand up to your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. You sigh, your eyes fluttering open and closed.

He shakes his head. “I always wanted you,” he says, his voice low and raspy. “The whole time. It was only ever you.”

His words could make you cry. It’s everything you’ve ever hoped to hear. You smile, his hand finding its way to the crook of your neck, his fingers lightly stroking your sensitive skin. “Can’t believe I didn’t see it,” you breathe, your voice laden with sleepiness. “I never knew. Thought you’d never want me.”

“I’ll always want you.” His cock finally slips out of you, leaving you feeling empty. His legs tangle with yours, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “Would’ve waited forever for you, darlin’.”

“Forever?”

“Longer.”

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venomnyx · 27 days

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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

#logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #james logan howlett #wolverine #x reader #deadpool and wolverine #honda odyssey #logan x reader

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