#intellect solutions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darklilithian · 3 months ago

Text

midheaven.

─ ཐི ⋅ ♰ ⋅ ཋ�� ─

the midheaven represents one's career, legacy, and public image. it also showcases details towards our achievements, the persona we withhold, and the type of careers we often find ourselves drawn to. it's located in the tenth house cusp which highlights core themes that are related to hard work, discipline, and challenges. it is directly opposite from the imum coeli which represents how one's desires or needs appears to be within their private home and domestic life.

⁺₊ ʚ aries

native is known for their pioneering spirit within the public eye as they are a natural-born leader with a strong ambition to accomplish their goals. independence is something that comes naturally to them and they prefer to work alone on their own accord at a quick pace. they may not be receptive towards having to receive orders from others, which could cause conflict within the workforce if they work with other people. they can be competitive individuals with an intense desire to succeed and are able to adapt to their work at a resilient pace due to their strong work ethic. they are easily able to possess a natural authoritative nature that can grant them multiple opportunities to rise towards higher positions in their career and even lead one of their own. it's important that these natives take upon leadership roles that will fuel growth in their career and inspire others in some way. they are likely to thrive in a career that ignite a deep passion and encourage them to take charge as their own individual boss.

⁺₊ ʚ taurus

native is known for their hard work within the public eye as they are persistent to achieve their goals. for them, through their work to enjoy the finer things life has to offer. they are drawn towards work that inspires their creativity and fulfills their pleasure towards luxury and beauty. they are likely to have a steady, slow approach towards building a career. they are very determined to succeed but may also be susceptible towards burnout or laziness if they are not motivated. with a refined taste for aesthetics, they relish partaking in work that inspires them to use their knack of knowledge related to art and beauty where they can showcase it to others. they can create and maintain a sufficient amount of income through various creative ways, including those that does not require much effort to do so. it's important that these natives create foundations that offers them a strong, evergrowing flow of income that'll provide security in their life. they are likely to thrive in a career that offers them stability and long-term financial growth that are able to last for future generations.

⁺₊ ʚ gemini

native is known for their excelled communication within the public eye as they are very skilled at expressing their own thoughts and ideas with others. their effective social skills allows them to effortlessly network and connect with other people. they easily cultivate strong connections that can be of great benefit to them in the long run and have a quick wit that grants them the ability to solve complex problems with very unique solutions. they enjoy being mentally stimulated with work that requires them to think outside of the box and are likely to delve into a series of research that grants them more knowledge. they are quite curious and enjoy learning new things that challenges them to further expand on their own intellect. if there is too much unfocused energy, there could be a sense of indecisiveness within their career. it's important that they take any distracted energies they may withold and transfer them into productive projects that will provide them prosperity with their work. they are likely to thrive in a career that encourages them to showcase their intellective and creative ideas or concepts with other people.

⁺₊ ʚ cancer

native is known for their empathetic approach within the public eye as they are intuitive and can easily pick up on the emotions of those whom are in their environments. they are protective over the people they care about and are likely to keep their home or private life hidden from the spotlight. if underdeveloped, they can come off as overly controlling or possessive towards their loved ones. they desire emotional fulfillment within their work, which can definitely be lead as the driving force in their career. there is an emphasis on how emotions and stability is a staple piece for how they decide to show up in their work. they may have experienced hidden anxiety due to an overwhelming pressure when it comes to taking on far more than they can handle. their compassion can become their demise if there's failure to check in every now and then on their own well-being. it's important that these natives feel emotionally safe when it comes to their work. they are likely to thrive in a career where they can use their empathy and intuition to contribute to those in need.

⁺₊ ʚ leo

native is known for their confidence within the public eye as they inspire others with their work. they are deeply ambitious with a willingness to put in much work to become successful in their careers. they are clever and inventive with the way they create their work, which often captures many people's attention. they don't often shy away from challenges that are presented to them and face them instead with true courage. their commitment is one of their greatest advantages that lets them overcome hurdles, which also inspires people to do the same as well. there could be one-sided competition from competitors who are jealous towards the amount of positive attention they receive from others. too much self-indulgence could also occur if they happen to become overly obsessive with having the spotlight. it's important that these natives maintain a balance between their desire to be recognized and their desire to fully express themselves in creative ways that showcases their truest self. they are likely to thrive in a career that allows them to incorporate inventive concepts into their creative pursuits that is able to inspire the masses.

⁺₊ ʚ virgo

native is known for their diligence within the public eye as they acquire a keen attention to details that can be used to solve complex problems. they are very committed towards their work and put in a lot of effort to perfect them. they are extremely intelligent and enjoy learning new things can be applied, especially if it can help improve the lives of others. they are likely to create methodical steps that allows them to pursue their goals in an efficient way, and their practical and analytical approach allows them to maintain a steady focus on their tasks with no distraction. their hard work can lead to them mastering their career and obtaining achievements in the long term through determined efforts. perfectionism can result in over-criticism towards themselves and their work, which can deter their focus from accomplishing goals at a sufficient pace. it's important that these natives understand that perfection is not necessary when it comes their work, true authenticity is what makes art complete. they are likely to thive in a career that require them to use their logic and critical thinking to help people improve in their own lives.

⁺₊ ʚ libra

native is known for their diplomacy within the public eye as they seek to maintain fairness amongst people. they are a diplomat who likes to immerse themselves in the different viewpoints and perspectives that people have because it allows them to gain a broader comprehension of the way others think. their capacity to understand differed opinions and beliefs of others makes it easy for them to bring groups of people together, which can be a great source of healing for many. being surrounded by aesthetics that are pleasing to the eye could inspire them to delve into innovative ideas where they make art of their own. their sociable nature can come with some negative effects, potential people pleasing tendencies could result in them being taken advantage of by those with negative intentions. they need to ensure there's a steady balance between their desire to connect with others while making sure they do not fall victim. it's important that these natives utilize their natural charm and social skills to create art amongst bringing people together. they are likely to thrive in a career that encourages them to delve into the creative arts or maintain harmony amongst the collective.

⁺₊ ʚ scorpio

native is known for their transformation within the public eye as they've faced much changes that have showed drastic impacts in their career. they are a mysterious enigma who's quite secretive when it comes to discussing their private life that goes on behind the scenes. they are independent and could care less for authority or being told what to do. they're either extremely loved or hated by people, and many strong opinions can be based off of their mere existence alone. they feel most alive when they're chasing after goals that grants them some kind of profound transformation in their own life. passion runs in their veins and these individuals will stop at nothing to achieve their desires. although their intense drive can be of great benefit to them, it can also lead to excessive burnout once they finally master whatever they were chasing after to begin with. it's important that these natives partake in work that inspires them to undergo deep metamorphosis related to the complex aspects that human existence has to offer. they are likely to thrive in a career that involves death, transformation, and uncovering utmost dark hidden truths.

⁺₊ ʚ sagittarius

native is known for their expansiveness within the public eye, as they crave gaining knowledge that they are able to share with others. they are very optimistic and withold enthusiasm towards learning more about the world around them. their versatility can provide them with multiple opportunities to cultivate significant success in their career. they often seek much adventure and building connections with people from different cultures. they become dissatisfied if they are in an environment that attempts to restrict their ability to explore or learn from a fresh perspective. they are easily adaptable to situations or spaces that are new to them due to their easily acceptable nature and can meet many people they are able to become closer with over time. their versatility can lead to many triumphs in their careers, but it can also lead to having no particular aim when it comes to finding the right path to pursue. it's important that these natives acquire the wisdom that they've gained through their experiences to educate or even enlighten people who can learn from their information. they are likely to thrive in a career that grants them with the freedom to travel and expand their perspectives about the world where they could share with others and teach them.

⁺₊ ʚ capricorn

native is known for their ambition within the public eye, as they are resilient towards achieving long-term goals. logic, discipline, and structure are potent themes when it relates towards the way they decide to approach their work. their strong ethic makes them very notable individuals who are often acknowledged for their accomplishments due to their precise dedication. they undergo significant growth through their career that can drastically reflect their career status or reputation from the collective. they are competitve and are able to find much strength in powering through challenges or roadblocks they face with courage. taking on a series of different responsibilities comes to them easily because they like to feel a deep sense of responsibility when it comes to their work. although their immense drive can provide much success in their career, it can lead to much losses as well in their connections if they isolate themselves or neglect their loved ones. it's important that these natives establishes a strong sense of duty within their work and become a leader. they are likely to thrive in a career that values discipline and practicality which provides them with long-term success.

⁺₊ ʚ aquarius

native is known for their innovative nature within the public eye, as they showcase groundbreaking ideas that changes the world. they are very innovative and often create unique original ideas that challenges the status quo. the traditional path is not one that they're quite fond of, instead they aspire to create their own that truly aligns within their desires. they are good at problem-solving in a way that may require them to think outside of the box and create fresh, eccentric ideas. people usually find themselves inspired by them due to their distinctive nature when it comes to the way they show up in their work. their originality brings great benefits, but it also brings quite some challenges as well. for instance, they may not mesh well with authority due to clashes when it comes to traditions that challenges their nonconformist beliefs. it's important that these natives challenge progressive concepts that inspires the collective to think on a newfound level. they are likely to thrive in a career that supports originality and making a change or impact in the world in a significant way.

⁺₊ ʚ pisces

native is known for their creativity within the public eye, as they have quite a dreamy-like essence that can be used to tap into their work. they are very imaginative and enjoy the concept of using art to express themselves in a mystical way enchants others. they are compassionate and can be drawn towards fields where they are able to use their intuition to help others in need. they prefer to work alone and on their own time that they desire to do so. they either work at an irregular pace or if they're truly passionate, do so with more efficiency due to having more focus on their work. they are likely to undergo various shifts in their career that changes and reflects their self-growth on a deep transformative level. if they are distracted, they may have a harder time adjusting to a career that fits best for them and can spend quite some time looking for the right fit. it's important that these natives hone their intuitive skills to partake in work which uplifts and services others. they are likely to thrive in a career in which they can express their creativity and positively affect others.

915 notes · View notes

idkwhylou · 3 months ago

Text

Seeds of fate

Summary : It’s been four years since you’ve married the general Acacius. Four years of loneliness because of war. But when he comes back to Rome, he’s pushing you away, thinking it’s the best solution to protect you from him—or so he thought.

Marcus Acacius x younger!reader/f!reader

Warnings : sexism, mentions of patriarchal norms, mentions of war and violence, blood, injury, dagger, arranged marriage, age gap (reader is 20), angst, no y/n, reader has hair and wears dresses

Words : 8,7K

A/N : thank you so much for the 100 followers !!! I’m so thankful and happy, many people seem to enjoy my fics. I received many private messages that really touched me. To thank you, I’ve decided to write about our favourite general Marcus since the fic with Joel seems to have been well received (and I shouldn’t say it but I’m working on something else 🫣)

+ "Puella" means girl or young woman, but if used in a patronizing or dismissive way, it could carry a condescending tone. Sometimes used in a way that implies immaturity or inferiority.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Four years.

Four years had passed since you saw the great General Marcus Acacius for the first and last time of your life. Chance or aim, in both circumstances, it was in his hands that your fate was sealed on your wedding day. A political alliance. It had seemed like just another arrangement, one among many. A lineage, they said. A duty. You hadn’t even had the chance to know him before that fateful day. Before that, you had only glimpsed him from a distance, his presence like a looming shadow. Distant but always hovering just outside your reach. But even then, you had no idea what he would mean for your life—or you should say loneliness.

Your father had died when you were young, leaving your mother to raise you. She, a cold, calculating woman, had married him for status. Despite her frigid exterior, she had been a loving mother, doing her best to ensure you received an education that many women of your class could only dream of. Yet, her obsession with control and perfection left you feeling isolated. You had excelled in learning, but in a world that valued women more for their beauty and breeding than their intellect, it wasn’t enough. You knew the Empire would never accept a woman with an education, a woman who could think for herself—worse a woman with an opinion. And so, suitors bypassed you. Your education, your intellect, became your curse. What use was a well-educated woman in the marriage market when men wanted docility, not independence ? For years, you endured loneliness, your worth seemingly reduced to the absence of a proposal. But in Rome, things get known very quickly. The pressure of your single status weighed on you, and the whispers of society only grew louder. It felt like an impossible situation to escape.

Four years of persistent loneliness. He was a man of war, a name spoken in hushed tones across the Empire. The wedding ceremony had been hasty, almost mechanical. And that night, as you sat alone, abandoned on your wedding night, you felt a pang of bitterness in your heart. He had left. His absence, though predictable, stung all the same. Why had you ever expected anything different ? Why had you foolishly imagined that on the one night that was supposed to be yours, he would remain ? That he would offer you even a sliver of attention ? The truth was, neither of you wanted this union. An union born not of love, but of political necessity. You were a stranger to him, and he to you. His absence didn’t hurt because he was gone. It hurt because his presence had never been there in the first place.

Four years of silence, of him never returning, of him never acknowledging your existence beyond the formality of a political union. You had been marry to a complete stranger who seemed to drift further away from you every day. You had been left in his villa, forced to navigate a life that was foreign to you. What did it mean to be a wife to a man who had never truly been yours ? At first, you had wondered what kind of man—now husband, if you could even call him that—was he ? How did he live off the battlefield, off the horrors of war, off the atrocities of his title.

You searched for signs, clues, anything that might reveal his true nature. But there was nothing. Nothing never came, nothing never showed. He never sent you any letter. What little news you had of him came from outsiders, but it was scarce. The thought of the General not returning had already crossed your mind, what would you become ? A widow at just twenty. How sad. His villa was cold and impersonal. But sometimes you spent time in his bedroom, as if some sort of connection was going to be made that way. The room was surprisingly small, sparsely decorated, and quite dark. What caught your attention, however, was his bed; vast and very wide. You vaguely remembered his physique after so many years, but you remembered his broad shoulders, dominating almost the whole room when you walked down the aisle.

Four years of pressure. The social pressure of being the wife of Rome's most respected General. During those years you had noticed the looks of envy and jealousy from the other women. If only they knew what your life truly was. They only saw the outward status of being the General's wife. They didn't know that this title was a prison, not a privilege. A tragic curse that had woven itself into the fabric of your fate, binding your heart to a life of endless longing, where love was a distant star forever hidden behind the clouds of duty and silence. The men, saw you as a prize to be claimed, not as a woman with a voice. Your worth was measured in your marriage, in your connections, not in who you were. They were predators watching their prey, ready to pounce on you at the slightest bit of bad news. Repugnant, hypocritical and absurd. Their insalubrious, almost perverse side made you sick.

Four years since you became a woman. You had grown but not in the way you had once hoped, but in ways you had never imagined. You became a real woman. Not by choice, but by necessity. You were only sixteen when you married the General. You were so young, innocent, inexperienced, naive. Since he left, you had learned more than you ever thought possible. You had learned to live without love, without even the hope of affection. You had learned to fill the silence of your nights with your thoughts, to distract yourself from the aching void of your life. Your mother, your only role model, had failed you. She had abandoned you to this cold, solitary existence. Leaving you to wander through the empty hallways of the villa. Searching for something, anything that would give you purpose.

You had become the wife of Rome’s most respected general, but in truth, you were little more than a shadow. Your role was to be a wife, to bear children, to play the part society had given you. But you were more than that, weren’t you ? You had learned to think, to question, and yet, in this life, thinking was not something a woman was allowed to do. And so, you carried on, pretending to be the perfect wife, the dutiful woman. But deep inside, you knew you could never live up to the expectations placed upon you. And as much as you tried to bury your discontent, it always resurfaced, the weight of your life pressing down on you with every passing day.

Four years.

And today, after all these years, the General was finally returning to Rome.

You stood far from the Imperial Palace, out of sight of the bewildered crowd outside, cheering the General's glorious arrival. The two emperors at the top of the stairs were watching with a winning smile the rise of the man who had once again enlarged their Empire. They had offered you to welcome your husband, but such a reunion—which you could almost called meeting—was best held in private, far from any pressure or unwelcome glances. So, you waited patiently in the central atrium, dreading his arrival. You felt the anxiety consume every cell of your body. Then suddenly, in the darkness of the setting day, the General appeared. He strode confidently forward, oblivious to the stares cast by his servants and slaves. But when his gaze landed on you, he slowed down. His eyebrows furrowed and you rose from the chair you’d been sitting on, letting him observe you more easily.

“General.” You greeted him as he stood still, continuing to scrutinize you intently.

His hands clenched behind his back, the weight of war still pressing against his shoulders. Yet, when his eyes found yours, something else burned within him—something just as dangerous. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, held you captive, as if the battlefield had shifted, and you were now the center of his war. It was a look that consumed, devoured, seared through the space between them. A fire of longing, rage, and restraint all at once. His jaw tightened, his breath slowed, but his eyes—his burning gaze—never wavered. It was as if he was holding back an inferno, as if you were the one thing in this world he could not afford to want. You should have looked away. Should have fought against the heat creeping up your spine. But it was impossible. His stare was a touch without contact, a whisper without sound. Marcus seemed satisfied with what he saw. You could feel your heart trying to get out of your chest as he watched the woman you had become. You blinked and looked at his torso. He was dressed in bright white, contrasting with his matte skin, which made him stand out even more tan. He exuded a symbol of honor, and the gold details that adorned his armor indicated his high status. Your observation was cut short by him clearing his throat, you raised your head suddenly.

It had been four years. Four years since he had last seen her—the woman they had bound to him in name alone. Back then, you had been little more than a stranger, a girl with downcast eyes and quiet steps, a mere formality before he had turned and marched off to war. But now… now you were standing before him, and you were not the girl he had left behind. His breath stilled, his world narrowing to the space between them. It wasn’t your posture, now poised with a grace that demanded acknowledgment. It wasn’t the way the candlelight traced the curve of your cheek, nor the way the years had shaped you into someone striking. It was your eyes. They met his without any hesitation; steady and unreadable. No longer wide with uncertainty, no longer seeking permission to exist in his presence. They held stories he had never been there to witness, strength forged in his absence. They belonged to a woman who had learned to stand on her own, without the name she had been forced to take, without the man who had never been there. And for the first time, he truly saw you. Not as an obligation. Not as the quiet girl he had left behind. But as something untouchable, something dangerously real.

Something he had never been prepared for.

“I'm exhausted and need rest for tomorrow night. It seems to me you are capable of being left alone. Good evening.” He didn't even give you time to reply as he left, his shoulder brushing yours as he headed for his room. You blinked, realizing you had held your breath.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

All the most influent and powerful people were gathered at the Palace this evening to celebrate the General's return, but above all his success. One more conquest for the glory of Rome. You had opted for a delicate green stola, embroidered with brilliant gold details. Your hair was pulled back into a bun, fixed with a gold pin. The journey had passed in a heavy silence, as if you could almost hear the thoughts of the General beside you. Since his arrival last night, you hadn't spoken to him, and he hadn't sought any contact with you, not even a simple compliment.

When you entered, all eyes were on you. You observed the same jealous glances from women. However, the men's misplaced and disturbing glances no longer seemed to appear because of the man standing behind you. Placing his hand on the small of your back, he was pushing you forward into the room. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, lingering like an ember against your skin. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Leaving behind a whisper of heat, chased away by the creeping chill of his absence. Turning your head in his direction, he shifted to announce that he had to talk to senators, telling you to go and get yourself a drink. You obeyed. It wasn't appropriate for a woman to attend such discussions, and you knew it. But what bothered you was not the societal exclusion you suffered because of your gender, but the fact that the General was certainly using these discussions as an excuse to avoid being alone in your presence.

Marcus had no interest in talking to these men, each more corrupt than the last. Coming back from war, he had only one desire : rest. But duty called again. He couldn't bear to be in your presence, and what annoyed him even more was the fact that he couldn't explain why. Yet Marcus preferred to flee, get as far away from you as possible. There was something in your eyes that unraveled him, a quiet power that left him unsteady. But last night, when you rose to greet him, even the sound of your voice unsettled him, like a whispered temptation. And then, again, your eyes. That spark. It flickered with an allure he couldn’t name, pulling him toward you with a force as inevitable as the shepherd’s star guiding a lost soul through the abyss of night.

Yet, he dared not follow. That light could be an illusion, a siren’s call meant to lure him to ruin. He told himself it was a danger he must resist. He could not let himself get close. He could not afford this mistake. He just couldn't. Because, in the end he would hurt you. You became everything he could desire—worse everything he needed. You were a beautiful woman, seem too clever for your own good and he felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous.

Everything seemed so much easier when he left you at the altar.

And yet, all evening, his gaze kept returning to you. He couldn’t help it. You drifted through the room like a shadow, untouched by the warmth of conversation, unmoved by the lively murmurs of the other women. Instead, you lingered at the edges, watching the world pass you by, detached yet entirely present. Wherever he went, whatever group he entertained, there was always a remark, a knowing glance, a murmured congratulations, a question too bold to be polite. He brushed them off, let them roll past him like waves against stone, but still, their words clung to the corners of his mind.

By the time he had made his final rounds, exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Tomorrow would be relentless. Meetings, obligations, a mountain of responsibilities that left no room for pointless indulgences like this wretched feast. He had no reason to linger. When he scanned the room one last time, he didn’t see you. A strange unease coiled in his chest. It was foolish, irrational. You couldn't have gone far. Then, a draft, a sliver of night air slipping through the open balcony doors. His heart beat once, hard. He wasted no time. And there you were. Just as he had expected. Your back was to him, your figure framed by the moonlight as you leaned against the balustrade, your gaze lost in the vast darkness of the imperial gardens. The night stretched before you, heavy, endless, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered were you searching for something in the abyss, or simply waiting for it to swallow you whole ?

The soft breeze that had risen carried away the fabrics you were wearing, a warm blast of air caressing Marcus’s cheeks. One of your locks had fell from your bun, and the way it tickled the nape of your neck was a bewitching sight for the General. The way you held yourself, making your body curve- but he came to his senses, remembering why he was looking for you. You could hear his heavy footsteps behind you. It had to be him, but you refused to turn around. So, still in dead silence, he settled down next to you, imitating your position. His scent came first to your nostrils, then out of the corner of your eye you could catch a glimpse of your proximity. Your gaze remained fixed on the basins as you felt his cold gaze on you. He couldn't look away, trying to memorize your profile in his mind, as if you were going to disappear at any moment.

“It's getting late.” He broke the silence in a husky voice.

You didn't move.

“I've got a lot of work tomorrow. We should go home.” He continued in a harsher tone.

You turned your head slowly in his direction, keeping a neutral expression on your face. “After ignoring me all night, the only time you acknowledge my presence is to order me home ?”

The General's eyes turned dark. He didn't like your tone nor your provocation. He straightened up, towering you with his body. “It is not about that-”

“It is not ? Then what is it about, General ? You can't ignore me and think I'm not going to blame you.”

He was surprised by your answer. He didn't spend time with many women, but none of them would dare, even think of talking like that to their husband. He could feel the patience evaporating from his body at your attitude and couldn't help but sigh loudly. You imitated his position and crossed your arms, revealing a defensive feeling he didn't like at all. “You are my wife. You are supposed to obey me.”

You let out a scoff at his remark, shaking your head. How dare he use that argument after four years without even considering you as such. “You have no right to tell me what to do, General.”

“I am your husband. I don’t know what you’ve been up to for those four years. But from now on you will learn to listen to me and submit like any wife should do.”

“I am not a child anymore !” You threw your arms down in frustration.

“I know ! And that's the problem!” He shouted.

You took a step back, the air between you thick with the tension you could no longer bear. His presence was looming. But it was your own breath that betrayed you, shaky, uneven, as though it carried the weight of your surrender. Without meeting his eyes, you turned your head just enough to avoid the intensity of his gaze, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile thread. “You're right. It's getting late.” You murmured, your voice barely audible, soft with the resignation that had crept into your heart. The fight drained from you, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat. The struggle, the back-and-forth, it wasn’t worth it anymore. He had won. Turning away, heading home, felt like the only escape—an act of survival, a way to dodge the storm brewing in his eyes.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Since that night on the balcony, Marcus had avoided you entirely. He rose early, just before the sun, to eat a quick breakfast in solitude, careful to keep from sitting with you. Always, there was an excuse, a meeting, a task, a reason to leave the domus and avoid crossing your path. And when night fell, he came home late, long after you had retreated to your room, as if by some unspoken rule, he could no longer share the same space with you. He hadn’t liked the way you had spoken to him. The soft defiance in your words had stung him more than he cared to admit. But when he had reached for your eyes, only to see you turn away from him, he understood he was the one to blame.

It was too late.

As he had feared, he had ended up hurting you. It seemed that was the only thing he was truly capable of. Killing, hurting, and being violent. Giving him something as delicate as you had been a fundamental mistake. He was a man of war, scarred and hardened by his past. He could not afford to show weakness. The walls he had built over the years were not just to protect him; they were to shield others from the damage he could cause. He was a weapon, a force of destruction, and he could never lower his guard. He had always lived alone. He had never tolerated the presence of another in his home, especially not a woman. It was safer this way. For your own good, he had to stay away. Keep his distance, to protect you from the inevitable harm he would bring. He was a brute, violent and bitter. If it wasn’t his words that would hurt you, then it would be his hands. And that, he could never forgive himself for.

One evening as he returned from a long and exhausting day, thinking that you were certainly already asleep, Marcus walked unconcernedly to his office. But then, as he entered the room, his gaze fell on you. On tiptoe, you reached for a book when you noticed his presence. You stopped your action and quickly retrieved the books you had placed on his desk into your hands.

“I was planning to leave” You explained, not wishing to find yourself in the same room as him.

But just as you were about to leave, you stumbled into the carpet, causing you to topple forward. Spontaneously, Marcus took a step forward, stretching out his arm to catch you. But you were quicker than him and caught yourself on his desk. However, when your hand met the furniture, you let out a cry of pain. Marcus watched as you suddenly withdraw your hand, which was now bloody red. You looked down at your trembling palm, dropping the books from your other hand. Your face grimaced from the pain as you took your wrist in hand, squeezing it to try to stop the tingling of your cut. The General's gaze shifted from your hand to his desk on which lay a dagger, now also dyed with a touch of red. He approached you but before he could take your hand in his, you pulled away, letting your noisy breathing be heard.

“I'm fine.” You said through your clenched teeth, trying to make him believe that you could take care of your wound on your own. But you should have known that he wouldn't let it go. He was one of Rome's greatest generals after all, thus he was used to wounds.

“Come here.” He ordered, positioning himself in front of you so you couldn't run away.

“I told you-”

“Don't make me repeat myself.” Again, that harsh tone, the unmistakable edge of rising anger in his voice. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he fought against the urge to snap, to lose control the way he had before. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes as you met his gaze, weighing your options in the silence between you. He held out his hand, and before you even realized it, your feet moved forward, as if your body knew what your mind couldn’t decide. He gripped your wrist with a force that sent a jolt through you, pulling you closer with brutal efficiency. A low groan escaped your lips at the contact, the animosity of his touch sending a sharp reminder of his power. His eyes flicked down to the cut, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. And then, softly, almost in contradiction to his actions, he whispered an apology.

“Sit.” He ordered; the command sharp but not unkind.

You sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense air, which made him growl. He turned to pull something from the drawer. When he returned, he held a small bottle and a white cloth in his massive hands, his movements almost mechanical. Without a word, he set a second chair in front of you and sat down, never once meeting your gaze, though you could feel the tension in him. Your eyes lingered on his every gesture, tracing the carefulness of his movements. And though he knew you were watching; he couldn’t bring himself to look back. The silence was heavy, yet somehow, his restraint felt like a battle in itself. One he fought quietly, desperately.

Taking a breath, he reached for your hand. It felt so small, so delicate in his grasp. His fingers were rough, but there was an unexpected gentleness as he inspected your wound. It wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood. Enough to make his brow furrow in concentration. He placed the back of your hand on his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin, and dripped the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth. His focus was entirely on you now. Though his gaze remained fixed on the task at hand, not daring to look up. And in that stillness, you could feel the struggle within him to keep his distance, to remain untouched by whatever was rising between you both.

“It may sting, I warn you.” And without giving you time to retract, he passed the cloth over your wound.

“It burns !” You cried, quickly withdrawing your hand.

“I warned you-”

“No. You said it would sting.” You spat as he clicked his tongue in frustration, looking at you through his lashes.

You clenched your jaw, silently offering your hand back to him. He resumed, his movements steady, as if the silence between you both spoke louder than anything else. When the fabric met your palm again, a low groan escaped your throat, the sting of the cloth against your wound causing you to clutch the fabric of your tunic with your other hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a second, with an almost apologetic glance. Yet, he couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile at your discomfort which caused your unwilling submission. If only you knew how much he had endured all these years. Stretching his arm, he rested the back of his hand on your thigh, the pressure solid and deliberate.

“Squeeze it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give in, holding your ground. But when the now-pink cloth brushed against your bruised skin, you couldn't help it, your hand shot out, gripping his hand tightly, squeezing with a force that betrayed your pain. Without a word, Marcus quickly resumed his task, focusing entirely on the wound, not sparing you a glance. Your eyes shut tight, and a small wrinkle formed between your brows. He smiled faintly, as if the sight of you, vulnerable yet defiant, pleased him more than it should. He tried to be gentle, not wanting to hurt you further. Every time he applied pressure to your wound, your hand squeezed his a little tighter.

Once he finished, you opened your eyes and without a word, withdraw your hand from his, your fingers trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. He slid his palm along your thigh, quickly squeezing it before pulling his hand away. As Marcus got up to put his things in order, you stayed seated, still reeling from the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, and then, in one swift motion, stood up. Without saying a word, you turned and left the room, the books you had come for forgotten in your haste.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The days that followed were filled with little moments between you. Marcus took his time in the morning so that when he finished breakfast, you would appear in front of him. You would wait a few more minutes before going to bed, like that night in his office. He would start wandering around the gardens when you came out of them. You would never put the books you borrowed from him in the right place. He would leave you the figs the maids brought him from the market, and you would leave him the pomegranate seeds you had meticulously removed from the fruit. And with each seed he would put in his mouth, he would think of you. The unspoken longing to devour you, a desire he dares not confess. In the quiet of the moment, he feels your gentle heart, soft against the bitterness of his words. Yet neither of you spoke to the other. The silence still echoing through the walls of the villa. A silence that wasn't empty but filled with answers. He was screaming, suffocating, suffering. But he was beautiful. Beautiful because he made sense in a way that only the two of you could understand.

This evening, you found yourself invited to a meal at one of the senators' domus, surrounded by politicians and their wives. The General sat beside you, engaged in conversation with the men next to him, his attention fully directed toward them. But as his head turned away, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him. You were so rarely this close. Your eyes traced his side profile, a study in sharp angles and quiet strength, so noble it seemed as if it had been sculpted in stone. His nose, proud and commanding, was shaped like that of an eagle—majestic, a symbol of his power, his unyielding dominance. You couldn’t help but follow the line of his jaw, sharply defined, down to the strength of his neck, where veins pulsed with a vitality that matched his presence. Your tongue brushed over your lips, though you didn’t even realize you had done it, so captivated by him.

As he moved his hands while responding to a question, your gaze fell to them. They were so large. So strong. You had noticed before how small your own hands seemed when placed next to his, but tonight, you couldn’t look away. They were mesmerizing. Agile and dexterous, his hands spoke more than his words ever could. Despite the countless battles they had endured, there was a gentleness to them. They were immense, yet somehow comforting. You recalled, almost involuntarily, how those same hands had once enveloped your wrist. Their grip firm but tender. You tried, for a fleeting second, to recall the feel of his touch on your thigh. The warmth, the subtle power in his proximity. But it had been too long, too much time had passed, and the memory now seemed distant, slipping through your mind like sand between your fingers.

“Puella ?” One of the senators called out to you.

You suddenly lifted your head in his direction, choosing silence over confrontation, unwilling to let the way he had addressed you escalate the tension. A smile forced its way onto your lips, though it felt stiff, almost out of place. Marcus glanced at you from the corner of his eye, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor, the quiet disapproval that lingered between you. It would be a lie to say he didn’t care, but he was well aware of the fine line he had to walk. He knew better than to challenge the authority of one of the senators.

“One of your little forgetful moments, I presume ?,” He scoffs, glancing at the General on your right. “Tell me, I heard you were interested in politics ?” He asked with a false innocent tone, letting appeared on his lips a witty smile.

You felt the General tense up, but you didn't pay any attention, "Yes. Since I was very young actually," You tried to look confident, letting him feign a certain self-confidence you didn't possess.

You stood upright, head held high, as the senators around you all burst out laughing, some of the women following too. You frowned, "I told you so !" Cried one as if it was the most surprising news they'd ever heard until now.

"You know, it’s not usual for a woman like... well, like you." Said one of the women at the end of the table, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.

"How can you let this happen my friend ?" Another addressed the General directly.

He didn’t even flinch. The comments came and went, unchallenged, unaddressed. He said nothing. Offering no defense, no protection. Marcus knew exactly how this would unfold, so he straightened his posture, smoothly steering the conversation elsewhere, his focus never once drifting toward you. You told yourself you didn’t need his reassurance. But a disapproving glance, or just a flicker of acknowledgment, would have been enough to settle the storm inside you. He didn’t even offer you that. The women beside you, exchanged knowing glances and whispers. Their judgment clear in the way their eyes flicked to you, sharp and uninviting. You didn’t dare meet their gazes, choosing instead to fix your attention on the glass of wine before you.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

"Why did you not stand up for me ?" Were the first words out of your mouth once back in your—his villa.

The first words since that evening in his office, the first words since all those gestures, the first words since his heavy silences, and the first since he allowed those people to make fun of you. They hung in the air, charged with everything unspoken. Every second had felt like a thousand. And now, with those few words, you were breaking the silence that had stretched between you both, but it didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it made the gap between you even wider.

"I beg your pardon ?" The General turned to you.

"You heard me. You let them speak without interrupting." You positioned yourself directly in front of him, closing the distance between you until he had no choice but to meet your bitter gaze.

"What did you want me to say ?"

You frowned, "You're supposed to be my husband, General. You're supposed to protect me, defend me and assure me."

"Isn't that what I'm doing already ?" He crossed his arms over his chest as you let out a sneer, you felt animosity building inside you.

"No ! You let them talk about me like I was an idiot ! Doesn't it bother you that they talk about me, your wife, like that ?"

You let yourself be swept away by the flood of emotions, while the General remained unnervingly still, as if untouched.

“Maybe they’re right.” He added, his tone dry, void of any warmth, signaling that he wasn’t in the mood for a fight tonight.

His words struck deep, sharper than any physical wound, sinking into your chest like a dagger. It felt worse than the cut on your palm. His words were as bitter as pomegranates, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. You parted your lips, ready to speak, but before you could form a response, you closed your mouth again, the words choking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, fixing him with a hard, burning stare. Letting the humiliation radiating from you. He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to retort, his gaze expectant. But instead, you turned your back to him, and walked away, heading for your room. He watched you disappear into the shadows, the sway of your hips a silent defiance in the stillness of the night.

Once out of sight, he turned his head, staring at the floor before muttering to himself as he started walking. He could still feel the anger burning in his chest, his eyes dark and his jaw set. The argument reverberated in his mind. Each word rekindling the embers of his irritation. As he passed the massive table in the center of the room, his blood boiled with a final burst of uncontrollable rage. With a brutal gesture, he thrust his hands under the heavy, carved wooden tabletop and, with disproportionate force, toppled it over. The table flew violently across the room and crashed against the wall. The silence that followed was oppressive. Marcus, short of breath, stared for a moment at the mess he had just made, his fists still clenched. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. Leaving behind the chaos of his anger. That night he had trouble falling asleep, remembering the words he had said to you. How stupid he had been. Maybe he was made for that after all. Maybe he was just good at being a heartless brute. Maybe he was only capable of hurting you.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

He was even angrier now. Weeks had passed without a single sign of life from you. He searched for you. His eyes scanning every corner of the villa, but you were nowhere to be found. Remorse gnawed him from the inside, relentless and consuming. He let himself be swallowed by the torturous silence you had cast upon him. Marcus was going mad. You appeared in every corner of his mind, but when he looked closer, you always disappeared. He thought he could hear your voice echoing through the hallways near your room, or imagined he could smell your scent wafting through the gardens, amidst the fragrance of all the flowers, hoping to run into you there. But despite everything, he refused to apologize. He had to wait. He had hurt you, and he understood you needed time. But his patience was running thin.

Sometimes, late at night, he would stand outside your bedroom door, his heart racing as he silently begged you to come out so he could reassure himself that you were still there. When the hope of seeing you faded, he would press his ear to the door, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of your breathing. Yet every time, there was nothing. As if you knew he was there, standing behind your door, and you deliberately chose silence. Finally, he overheard the maids talking about how you would leave very early in the mornings, just before he awoke, and return only after he had left the domus. Marcus was offended. The humiliation settled deep in his chest like a stone. Suddenly he stopped. He stopped searching for you, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped calling for you, stopped pleading. The silence between you both had grown too thick, too suffocating for him to bear, and he let it swallow him whole.

You entered the Imperial Palace dressed in a deep, ruby red, almost crimson. A rich, intoxicating shade of red that mirrored the one worn by the General as you walked through the grand doors. Once again, the emperors had insisted on your presence at their lavish gathering, and tonight promised to be a long night of debauchery. Without sparing him a glance, you quickly distanced yourself from the General, making your way toward a group of women he vaguely recognized. From where he stood, he watched you. The way your lips moved when you spoke, the delicate gesture of your hands as they lifted in the air, the soft strands of your hair brushing the nape of your neck with each movement. A pang of jealousy gripped him as he watched those women at your side, the one who had the privilege of your attention, your thoughts. But deep down, Marcus knew it wasn’t his right to feel this way. He had no right to claim you. He deserved your indifference, even if it tore him apart.

Marcus watched the various couples around him, a growing sense of regret weighing heavily on him. The way men stayed close to their wives. He had long believed it to be the other way around, that it was the women who clung to their husbands. But tonight, the General realized just how wrong he had been. It wasn't this senator's wife who clung to her husband; it was him who desperately sought contact with her. The way their arms intertwined was almost instinctive, as if it were a need they couldn’t live without. She remained patient while he spoke with others, her hand discreetly pinching his arm as if to remind him of something, of their bond. They were almost one, their connection so fluid, so intertwined. She needed him, but it was clear, he needed her even more. Marcus looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, so unfamiliar to him.

The time crawled painfully slow. Marcus wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. His mind wandered, constantly searching for a way to approach you, to break the silence between you, without risking your anger or your indifference. Then he saw you. No longer with a group of women. You were now with a man he didn’t recognize. You were close, too close. Closer than you had ever been with him. His jaw tightened, but he made no move to intervene. You didn’t need him to disrupt your conversation. This man was certainly giving you the attention you had lacked since you and Marcus stopped speaking. The General poured himself another glass of wine, nearly draining the first one in a single gulp. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his eyes kept falling on your figure. And every time, he clutched his glass a little tighter.

Then someone approached him, and he forced himself to listen, trying to focus on the words being spoken. But he couldn't care less. He knew he had to maintain his distance, just as he had done for weeks—or almost. But when the man beside you casually brushed his fingers against your shoulder, whispering something in your ear, Marcus could feel something inside him snap.

That was it.

He apologized to the person next to him, abandoning his glass of wine on the banquet table as his steps toward you became almost mechanical. His heart pounded, and each stride he took felt heavier than the last. He couldn’t let this happen. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. You had every right to ignore him, to turn your back on him in public or private. But this. This closeness with another man ? It was unacceptable. It wasn’t a matter of duty anymore, or the image he needed to maintain. It was primal, instinctual. He couldn't stand another minute of this.

You were supposed to be by his side. Where he needed you.

His pulse raced as he tried to keep his composure, to avoid causing a scene or drawing unwanted attention. With a calm that only barely masked the fury seeping through him, Marcus placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, possessive and commanding. Surprised, you turned to him, eyes wide, not fully understanding his sudden action. But his gaze was locked on the man in front of you, burning with silent aggression. The other man didn’t flinch, unaffected, but Marcus was determined. He wanted to make sure he felt the threat hanging in the air.

"Enough." His voice was thick with restraint, rough and edged. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, a sign of just how tightly his control was slipping.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the shift in the atmosphere, the tension growing around you. You had to act fast. Apologizing to the man, you grabbed Marcus’ forearm, tugging him away from the scene and pulling him into the dark, quiet refuge of the imperial gardens. Once out of sight, you released your grip, turning to face him. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned skin, casting shadows that deepened the lines on his face, making him appear even more untouchable. But there was no way avoiding what had just happened. What he had just done. The way his gaze had shifted from that cold indifference to something sharper. The tension in his voice. The possessiveness that had suddenly flared up.

Weeks of silence between you, of him distancing himself, and now he acted as though he could claim you whenever he wished. His sudden impulsiveness rattled you. Part of you—a part you hated—had felt a strange, almost delighted thrill at seeing that crack in his mask. Seeing him lose that grip he always had over his emotions. He had been so cold, so distant for so long, yet now he had the audacity to act as if he could control you. As if you belonged to him. You stood there in the dim light, emotions swirling inside you, at war with yourself.

You were angry, yes. But you were also confused. Part of you wanted an explanation, but you already knew what his response would be. Deflecting, denying, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what just happened. It would always be this way with him, wouldn’t it ? Walls so high you could never break through, a fortress so impenetrable that even your desire to understand him, to reach him, would only cause you pain. And yet, as always, you would keep trying. Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how much he pushed you away, you were still compelled to try.

His fists were clenched, he knew what was coming. "Why ?"

"Why what ?" He kept a calm tone despite his previous anger, but his eyes gave him away. You approached him, crossing that distance you always left between you.

"You had no trouble ignoring me for weeks, but tonight..." A lump formed in your throat, "tonight you act as if it bothers you that someone is actually paying attention to my presence. I am not one of your trophy, General."

Marcus didn't answer right away, unable to look you in the eye. His silence was heavy, but then he murmured softly, "Because it bothers me."You froze. He was finally admitting what he felt. A fragment of truth he had never dared speak. This revelation had the same effect as a torrent of waves carrying you far out to sea, stirring and shaking you in every direction. But Marcus couldn't bear the softness of your gaze weighing down on him. He felt exposed, disoriented. His head seemed to be spinning, but not because of the wine. He hated feeling vulnerable. Gods—he had no right to. As a general, he had the duty to display courage and self-assurance. But tonight, he wasn't on the battlefield.

Tonight, he was facing you. And surprisingly it seemed far more complicated than any battles he had in his life, all the deaths on his conscience, all the blood that had spilled were nothing compared to you. The great General, who had conquered kingdoms and crushed rebellions without hesitation, now stood before the one battlefield he feared the most—his wife. You were no enemy, yet you were the first to shake his resolve. No sword nor spear could wound him as deeply as your silence had. No siege could break him like the way your eyes searched for answers he could not give. He had faced death, had laughed in the face of men who swore to end him, yet before you, he felt small, unarmored. For the first time, war did not rage around him—it raged within. You were the greatest battle of his life, not to be conquered, but to be understood. And for the first time, he did not know if he was ready to fight.

Immediately he looked away and added more coldly, "But that doesn't change anything."

But you refused to let him get away with it; you were ready to take the risk. You put your hand on his arm, forcing him to face you. "Of course it does.”

The atmosphere was heavy. Too much left unsaid, too many accumulated feelings. For the first time in months, you were speaking to each other with such honesty, even if it was in anger. You were close, too close. Marcus' gaze slid over your soft lips before he abruptly turned his head away, forcing himself to step back.

"You should leave."

But you didn’t.

The silence was burning like the desire that kept growing in his heart. The General had turned away, but he was tense, like a wild beast ready to pounce. His fists still clenched, his gaze hard and his shoulders stiff. You weren't moving. And yet you should. But you weren't moving. Instead, you reached out and silently grabbed his wrist. A simple gesture, but one that had the effect of a thunderclap. Marcus in turn felt swept along in this torrent of waves that he couldn't control, and he hated it. He hated himself right now. He hated how you succeeded to destroy those walls.

"Tell me it doesn't matter... Tell me what you did tonight doesn't matter, and I will go."

He said nothing. Letting his silence answering for him. You moved a little closer to him, until you felt the warmth of his body. He remained frozen. Unable to move. Unable to flee. His brown eyes burned with the weight of unspoken torment. Brimmed with frustration that crackles in its depths, a storm restrained behind the prison of his lashes. Desire, raw and unrelenting, smoldered beneath the surface. An unbearable ache. A war between pride and yearning. His eyes, once steady as a soldier’s blade, now betrayed him. His armor, once impenetrable, felt fragile beneath the weight of your presence. He feared lowering his guard. Feared that if he let you in, he would hurt you once more with the sharp edges of his own restraint. And yet, the distance between you was an agony he could no longer bear. To hold you was risking breaking you, but to stay away was to break himself.

"Marcus..." you murmured.

He looked up at you. It was the first time you had ever called him by his first name. You had always kept a certain distance. Since the first day when he had returned. That very first time when you had called him by his title. Not his name. His title. He never thought he would enjoy the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. The satisfaction of hearing it roll off your tongue, caressing your lips just to smack him in the face. He had spent months keeping his distance, pretending that this marriage was just a political alliance, refusing to admit that you had taken a place in his mind, in his body, maybe even in his heart. You were the first and last thing on his mind every day.

That evening in his office, he had let himself get carried away but hadn't regretted just for once his gesture. The way his hand gripped your upper thigh with a quiet desperation, a touch that burned like a sin whispered in the dark. It was neither gentle nor cruel, but something far more dangerous—an unspoken confession, a plea he could not voice. His fingers pressed into your skin as if trying to anchor himself, torn between the damnation of holding on and the salvation of letting go. That moment of intimacy had soothed him, leaving him in the days that followed with an intrepid desire to consume you like the seeds of the pomegranate. Letting your juices spill all over his hands and lips.

Tonight, there was no escape.

In a sudden, almost brutal gesture, Marcus grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you. The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was overflowing with anger, desire, everything he held back for too long. You didn't try to resist him, you responded to his kiss with the same feverish intensity. There was no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. You had enough of these games, these pretenses. Your fingers clung to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, terrifies he might retreat into the shadows once more. But he didn't. Not this time. His grip was firm, his mouth insistent, devouring the distance that had long kept you apart. The line had been crossed, and there was no turning back—only the ruinous, intoxicating fall into each other.

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #angst #marcus acacius x reader

864 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 3 months ago

Note

How about Aventurine, Dr Ratio, Sunday and Blade who find out their partner has sleep apnea? They have a heart attack for a hot minute when you stop breathing and then your breathing again and now they can’t sleep lol

The Fear of Losing You

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Blade x Reader, Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Health Scare, Relationship Dynamics, Sleep Apnea, Protective Partner, Emotional Turmoil, Recovery.

Warnings: Contains mentions of sleep apnea, Mild panic/anxiety, Partner health concerns, and Emotional reactions to a health scare.

A/N: I would've had a heart attack too in this case, tbh 😭🙏

It was a peaceful night, the kind Aventurine rarely allowed himself to enjoy. He lounged next to you, his eyes occasionally flicking to your relaxed figure as you slept. A subtle, comfortable silence hung between the two of you—until it wasn’t.

The absence of your breath hit him like a stone to the chest. His heart froze. For a split second, time seemed to slow as he watched, terrified that he would lose you. His sharp mind immediately began calculating the worst-case scenarios, his fingers twitching to shake you awake. But nothing—no sound, no movement.

His hands hovered over you before finally shaking you gently, his voice quivering for the first time in what seemed forever. "Hey, hey... breathe, breathe!"

When you gasped awake, he exhaled in a rush, his breath shaky. His heart thudded violently in his chest as relief washed over him. You were alive. You were fine.

But he couldn’t shake the dread that had lodged itself deep in his ribs. Despite the calm look on his face, his mind couldn’t stop racing. He stared at you for the remainder of the night, watching you sleep in that peaceful, unaware state. As dawn began to break, he found himself unable to sleep—not because he feared losing you, but because he couldn't unsee the terror that had coursed through him when you stopped breathing.

He would never admit it, but the incident made him rethink everything, even the reckless games he played. The only certainty now? His inability to rest until he knew you were safe again.

It was late when Ratio sat by your side, having just returned from a long meeting with the Intelligentsia Guild. His hair brushed against his face as he settled in, gazing at you with a slight frown as you slept. For someone so intellectual and confident, he didn’t understand the complexity of your fragile sleep. Perhaps, it was a flaw in his vast intellect—he had never expected something so mundane as sleep to become a battleground.

Then, in the dead of night, a horrible silence gripped the room. Ratio froze, his sharp eyes narrowing as he observed the stillness, his pulse quickening. His breath caught in his throat when you stopped breathing. His mind immediately began to calculate the problem. Could he revive you manually? Was there something he missed in his extensive research on physiology?

In a panic, he rushed to your side, shaking you firmly. "I—I don’t understand this. You—"

A gasp escaped your lips as you jerked awake, eyes wide with confusion. Relief flooded him instantly, but he couldn’t help the flurry of thoughts that began to invade his mind. He was too intelligent for this. He had to solve this. Immediately. No amount of books or academic achievement had prepared him for this.

You, still groggy, noticed the frantic look in his eyes. "What’s wrong?"

His lips parted to explain, but nothing coherent came out. He had no words. Just the tight grip on your hand, the fierce need to ensure your breathing never stopped again. The remainder of the night was spent beside you, his mind whirring with logical explanations, though no solution seemed quite right. As dawn came, he found himself unable to sleep. How could he, when his brilliant mind was no longer sure of something as simple as human breathing?

The quiet hum of the night was soothing, and Sunday had allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation as he rested next to you. The celestial aura that surrounded him flickered softly in the moonlight, but as he watched you sleep, a feeling of unease began to coil in his chest. His wings twitched gently as the stillness of the room settled in.

Then it happened. The unnerving silence.

For a moment, it felt as if the entire universe had held its breath. His eyes shot open, golden irises wide as he searched your form for any sign of life. His own breath caught in his throat when he realized you had stopped breathing entirely. His wings fluttered in an anxious rhythm, and a rush of panic rose up his spine.

"Please," he whispered, voice shaky, as he gently reached out to shake you awake. "Breathe, please breathe."

Your eyes fluttered open, your gaze dazed and confused, but the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over Sunday was palpable. His wings, trembling slightly, folded tighter around his body as he took a deep breath of his own.

"I… I didn’t realize," he muttered softly, his voice holding an unusual weight of vulnerability. The weight of the fear he’d just felt. For the first time in a long time, he felt deeply human.

Sunday couldn’t fall back asleep. His mind was too restless, haunted by the thought that he might have lost you, even though he had no true explanation for why you’d stopped breathing. The thought of being powerless over something so fragile made his celestial demeanor falter, leaving him restless and wide-eyed as the night passed by.

Blade’s eyes were narrowed as he lay on the bed next to you, watching over you with a detached sense of vigilance. Though his existence had long been consumed by revenge and a cold desire for his own demise, there was something about you that remained a quiet sanctuary, something he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.

But as the night deepened, a sudden, terrifying silence cut through the air like a blade. His eyes flashed open in an instant, his entire body frozen in place. His heart slammed against his ribcage as he watched you, utterly still. Too still.

His mind raced. No… He could feel it. You’re not breathing.

Without thinking, he was by your side, shaking you violently, desperate for any sign of life. His hand trembled, the broken sword beside him forgotten in his panic.

Then, you gasped, eyes flying open as you caught your breath. The world shifted back into place, but for a moment, Blade’s soul felt like it had been ripped open. The terror in his chest was inexplicable, something he couldn’t fight or shove away.

"Don’t ever do that again," he growled, his voice rough, but the sheer desperation in his tone betrayed him.

You looked at him, confused but still dazed from sleep. He was already pulling back, his eyes dark with something unspoken—something almost resembling fear. Blade, the immortal, the weapon, the destroyer—was afraid. And for the rest of the night, he lay awake, staring at you with unsettling intensity, unable to unsee the brief glimpse of what losing you would truly feel like.

As the night dragged on, Blade couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, too haunted by the prospect of loss. And so, he remained wide awake, the quiet terror of that moment embedded in his bones.

554 notes · View notes

akutasoda · 10 months ago

Text

'do you think that this, us, ever could be something more'

synopsis - you both have painfully obvious feelings for eachother but both of you are hesitant to take that step until they decide to brave their feelings and confess in their own way

includes - dr ratio, argenti, jiaoqiu, aventurine

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, slight angst (mainly aventurine), pining, wc - 2.2k

a/n: guys i promise im working on requests :))

dr ratio ★↷

ratio detested you, namely the way you constantly refuted his words and theses. nonetheless, he adored nothing more than seeing you everyday - he'd say you were the one competent mind to converse with in an average day but you both knew deep down that it was purely because you enjoyed each other's company.

your friendship with the doctor was one of the most unlikely, others at the intelligentsia guild couldn't imagine anyone developing more than a simple coworker relationship with ratio. to some, even maintaining something as simple as a coworker relation was an arduous task.

however, you never saw the issue. ratio was a dear friend, it's merely the fact that he naturally gave off a rather off-putting first impression thanks to his slightly gloomy and eccentric nature. deep down he still retained these qualities but he could be a lot more caring in his own way.

although, for all his intellect, ratio struggled to maintain a grasp on his own emotional intelligence. a fact that could maybe be said for you as well, although compared to ratio you simply didn't know how to, or even if you should bring up the undoubtedly growing feelings for the doctor.

ratio knew what he was feeling, simply a release of oxytocin that caused those fuzzy feelings when he was around you. however he couldn't quite piece together the idea of you being behind those feelings, why your friendship wasn't enough, longing for something more than what you two currently had.

he'd never confide in anyone about his dilemma - he didn't need unwanted outsiders budging in on his personal issues. although, ever since he started looking for solutions, he started noticing signs that had previously gone unnoticed. namely how you acted around him.

a major concern between two crushes is the possibility of unrequited feelings. veritas would prefer to avoid such mistakes and push any potential feelings away if that was the case. so he often dwelled on the possibility of such. but it appeared that all the signs he misconstrued as friendly gestures and behaviour from you, could in fact be taken as more romantic.

he observed more as he had to be one hundred percent and in his quest, his mind slowly became more aware of his own feelings and why they only seemed to blossom more around you. ratio hated it. his feelings were like a gnawing feeling, constantly playing on his brain and it got to the point where he couldn't focus on his research - he would blame you, but he blamed himself more.

veritas knew he had to do something about it. and so he did. ratio was never one to beat around the bush, and so he took a direct approach to his confession - as soon as he could, he sought you out and told you about his feelings. relief washed over the doctor's unknowingly tense form when you told him about reciprocating such feelings.

you couldn't help but note his slight embarrassment afterwards, made evident by the heavy blushing which he quickly covered up by wearing his plaster head.

argenti ★↷

the encounter between the two of you among the cosmos was one of the more fortunate ones. a fleeting moment within the universe that set a start for the tale of a friendship that would last practically forever.

in his opinion, meeting you on his journey felt like a blessing from idrila themselves. in argenti’s eye's you were practically breathtaking in any way, everything about you from your mere presence to your voice to your appearance. it was only natural that he wanted to know more about someone such as yourself - and he was forever grateful he indulged his curiosity.

a blossoming friendship was easily formed between the two of you, one that had solid foundations to continue headstrong, even becoming something more should that be the path you took together. for all his charms, argenti made a true friend - someone that was always there for you in your corner, supported you, a pure soul that listened intently, someone that cared.

and for someone that seeked the aeon of beauty, it was hard for him to miss seeing the beauty of which were his feelings. flurries of emotion that could hold a powerful grip on someone's heart and actions if left unchecked and untended to. so as soon as those signs of warmth and calmness appeared strongly around you, argenti knew what it was.

that infatuation and pure admiration for you could only suggest that he subconsciously longed for something more than a friendship. in truth, argenti was devoted to idrila. he found beauty in practically everything, followed idrila’s teachings diligently and so he never truly imagined having someone else in his life that meant more to him than an aeon he devoted his life to.

but it couldn't be ignored, those feelings couldn't be left to simmer in the back of his mind as deep down he knew he wasn't content to sit by and keep the current relationship with you - although if that was what you wished, he would gladly sacrifice his own feelings just for you. however argenti was one to take risks.

a direct approach to voice the beauty of his feelings for you, should you decline them then so be it, but he wouldn't know until he tried. comoared to his usual gestures which could often be described as “grand” or “charasmatic”, a confession from him would be noticeably more gentle and intimate.

a moment of pure safety, he'd waste no time in reciting to you exactly what he wanted to say with a smile of lovestruck fondness as he presented you with a rose, all the thorns layed upon it's stem signalling the dedication and sacrifices he'd be willing to make for you - it's petals in full bloom.

jiaoqiu ★↷

being friends with jiaoqiu was never easy, although nobody exactly said it was easy. the pink foxian had the tendency to be rather cunning, mischievous even, and these traits only seemed to double when you actually got closer to him.

however, some could argue that eventually one would get used to jiaoqiu and everything he'd do or say - to an extent, they wouldn't be wrong but it still never made it any easier on most days. (un)fortunately you still put up with him as he was still a dear friend in the end.

jiaoqiu did have people he acquainted with or even people he was friendly with but ultimately he still had very few he would truly refer to as friends. he spent most of his time serving his dedication to helping the merlins claw and that was mainly his sole priority, jiaoqiu was determined to treat her.

so naturally, those closest to him did end up being those close to feixiao in the first place. yet he still found time to spend with those he held dearest, which was either you or moze and feixiao.

however, it didn't go unnoticed to either you or jiaoqiu that there was something there. something that couldn't be described as a simple friendly relationship, yet neither of you addressed it and continued on with your lives as if that feeling wasn't there in the slightest.

jiaoqiu knew very well that he longed for something more with you. you were the only person which drew out these warm feelings from him that had been killed during his time in the field and yet you had a way of bringing them back to him.but he simply couldn't cime to terms with it.

he'd withdraw from practicing medicine once before due to a broken heart, and deep down a part of him feared that you would make that a second time. so he tried to drown away those fuzzy feelings and tell himself over and over that you two were simply just friends, nothing more despite the clear longing urge to be that made him feel an immense sadness at the idea of never being something more.

and so jiaoqiu was hesitant. he wasn't dumb and he knew exactly how he felt for you, and he even could pick up on the way that you felt the same but somewhere in his mind he'd convinced himself that it was simply his own wishful thinking, not your true feelings. however, his hesitancy couldn't last much longer as he cursed you for affecting his work.

he'd be more of a fool to continue on without coming to grips with his blaringly obvious feelings for you, he knew it would eventually eat him from the inside out. and so jiaoqiu would begrudgingly find a way to confess, still letting that nagging fear affect just how he'd do so.

he'd catch you in the morning, handing you a personal meal for lunch like he occasionally did when he had free time in the morning. except this time, your gaze would immediately notice the small note tucked away within, one that you wasted no time in reading it's contents.

a part of him regretted giving you a note as the anticipation weighed heavy upon his mind, but otherwise he knew his nerves would've got the best of him. jiaoqiu specified in the note about his feelings, and how if you were to reciprocate them then you should come find him. this way he could avoid the painful rejection if it so came to that. until then, he waited in anticipation, still fearing your answer.

aventurine ★↷

he had coworkers, he had business partners who lways got the short end of the straw in a deal with him, and he had acquaintances. someone could even say they were the bare minimum for being a good use as stoneheart for the IPC. however, he did have some people that were closer than that, namely veritas and you.

and to reach that level with him was no easy feat. the man known as aventurine had put up many walls, facade after facade all in order to keep what little of himself left safe. the small parts of him left untouched by experiences that were painfully his and yet he could fool himself into believing that they belonged to an identity that no longer existed.

sometimes ‘aventurine’ didn't feel like him. it wasn't. if anything it was another defense that the past identity had let be forced upon him to help scramble for something good in his life. for someone blessed with luck, it never felt like it.

but his luck finally brought him something pure, something that finally felt like luck. and that was meeting you. a light that shined ever so brightly in his life despite all else, evoking feelings from him that he swore he buried when he bid goodbye to his past self. yet you dredged them from the darkest depths of himself, the parts that he feared and constantly kept hidden from himself.

however, old habits die hard. the very moment aventurine became conscious of what had bubled to the surface of his facade, he desperately tries to push them away. those warm, fuzzy feelings that he felt around you meant only weakness to him - something that you could choose to exploit.

his feelings were merely a chip. a means to use and manipulate at his disposal. they got in the way majority of the time, they could reveal ones desires or wants unknowingly and that never led to anything prosperous - especially in a high stakes gamble. but they were a chip for him and him only.

nevertheless, how could he possibly ignore them any longer when it seemed that his own brain was working against him. it made him feel all the more vulnerable, especially because of the idea of him confronting them just to have his heart painfully stomped upon and have his feelings left to painfully mull over into bitter sadness and reject.

fortunately, aventurine was quite the adept one at reading other people - a skill he'd learnt very quickly. so the hopeful part of him observed how you acted around him, picking up on the obvious signs that he previously misconstrued as friendly or simply ignored. eventually, he decided that the gnawing feeling needed to be sorted.

and so aventurine decided it was best to finally let down those final walls and comfess. because he was putting himself in a vulnerable position, he would get straight to the point. people may guess that he would go all out for a confession but that would be the last thing he'd do.

admittedly he let a small part of his fear get the best of him but he would still build up the courage to request to see you and confess face to face. he truly didn't know what he would do if you turned him down but he'd figure that out if it happened. it wouldn't go unnoticed by you that he held one hand behind his back at all times during his confession - the only time in ages that he'd been completely honest with his feelings to someone he trusted.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

#—stellaronhvnters.#x reader #x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #dr ratio x reader #ratio x reader #argenti x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #aventurine x reader #hsr dr ratio #hsr argenti #hsr jiaoqiu #hsr aventurine

1K notes · View notes

joelsgoldrush · 7 months ago

Text

➽ summary: To love is to cherish, to endure, to fight. But to love is also to forget—at least, for you and Logan. Despite countless attempts to erase the part of yourselves that yearns to find completion in each other, you always end up back where it all began: the moment your eyes first met his—the moment everything changed.

➽ word count: 12.4k words

➽ warnings/tags: mdni smut 18+ angst. fluff. feels. enemies to lovers. petnames. multiple focalizors/POVs. memory loss. x1 logan. mutant!reader. flashbacks. dirty talk. oral (f and m receiving). fingering. thigh riding. unprotected p in v. missionary. doggy. creampie. cum swallowing.

➽ a/n: inspired by “eternal sunshine of the spotless mind”, one of the most hauntingly beautiful (and life-changing) films ever made. i took some creative liberties when it came to charles' powers, so just follow along. i’d love to know your thoughts on this one, hope you like it as much as i do! <3

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned.

Alexander Pope.

Logan thinks Jean is speaking to him, but her words dissolve into fragments, lost before they reach him. Her reddish lips shape the vowels and consonants with precision, yet the meaning is drowned out by the pulse in his ears. She’s agitated, her long strides barely matching his pace, heels striking the wooden floor in a staccato rhythm.

A few children peek their heads out from their rooms, curiosity tugging at their expressions as the tension unravels in the hallway. Had it always stretched this far into eternity? It feels as though he’s been walking it for centuries now.

If Jean Grey is the embodiment of grace and intellect, then Logan carries the weight of all the world’s stubbornness. It clings to him like a birthright. Defying her beliefs—or anyone’s—is as instinctual as breathing. She’s trying to dissuade him, to talk him out of this reckless act: asking Charles to meddle in what she’s called his personal issues. He suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on the steady cadence of his steps toward the man’s office, each one heavier with purpose.

Jean’s voice grows sharper, her warnings echoing in his mind. This is a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll want to undo it. Don’t be stupid, Logan. Don’t do this to her—don’t do this to yourself.

But her protests are futile. The cards have already been laid out. Only meters from the door, he comes to a sudden halt. Jean, caught mid-stride, almost stumbles into his back. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers across her face. Maybe, just maybe, she’s convinced him to reconsider. A tentative smile begins to form on her lips, until he turns to her with a look so unyielding, it steals the breath from her lungs.

She has never seen him like this. This resolute, this… haunted. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed so tightly it seems etched in stone. There’s no trace of relief or satisfaction in his expression. Only the grim determination of a man about to pass a point of no return.

Why is he doing this? Soon, there will be hands prying into his thoughts, a marauder pulling apart his memories. Think about her. Now think about this moment. What do you remember? Each memory bearing your name, inked into his unconscious, will be inspected, cataloged, and then erased.

A mind already scarred will be stripped even further, the void swallowing everything. It has to come from a place of self-loathing, he thinks, because no reasonable explanation suffices. Perhaps he’s always been this broken, this damaged, and it was only a matter of time before he sought refuge in the very solution that had once been his calvary.

“I’ve made my choice,” he says with a tilt of his head which aims to deliver a tacit message: stay back. Don’t follow me. I have to do this. I need to.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks to himself, to willingly want to forget, to crave oblivion. To stop caring.

His fist hovers over the door, but he doesn’t have to knock. Charles’s been waiting for him. His voice resonates behind Logan’s eyelids, calm and inescapable. Come in.

“Coward.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he steps into the office, leaving her behind.

The first time you saw him, he was a contained storm, seconds away from coming undone in front of a rather small audience. Hardly the most convenient introduction.

You were in Charles’ office, attending one of his Physics lessons—not because you needed to. He’d already taught you these principles long ago, in a different time, under different circumstances. But lately, Charles had been trying to delegate some of his responsibilities, hoping to carve out time for the pressing matters that demanded his full attention. Ever the sweetheart, you’d offered to help, stepping in to take over this class.

Which is why you spent those past few weeks studying him—not just his teaching style, but the way he presented the topics: the analogies he drew, the subtle inflections in his tone. You’d promised yourself perfection, committed to live up to his standard, and that was exactly what you were working toward.

The sound of a door slamming shattered the flow of the lesson. A man burst into the room as though escaping from some unseen predator, shutting the door with a loud, final thud. He didn’t turn to face you. Instead, he lingered by the door, chest pressed against it, his ragged breathing filling the silence. The students abandoned whatever fragments of attention they had left for the class—this new stranger was far more compelling.

And, truthfully, he’d caught your attention, too.

You hesitated, fists clenching slightly at your sides, bracing for something you couldn’t name. A familiar voice cut through your thoughts, grounding you: This is the man I’ve been telling you about.

Apparently, this was Logan Howlett in the flesh. You certainly didn’t expect Charles’ newest recruit to look like this.

“Good morning, Logan,” Charles greeted him when the man finally spun around. From this distance, you could see the tension carved into his features, the crease in his forehead betraying his distress. Charles, still composed, redirected his focus to the students. “I’d like your definitions of weak and strong anthropic principles on my desk on Wednesday, all right? That’ll be all.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, gathering their belongings in a flurry of notebooks and murmured goodbyes, barely sparing you a glance as they shuffled out. You offered them a tight-lipped smile, lifting a hand in acknowledgment, but your attention was drawn elsewhere. Logan was looking at you—or rather, through you—with a gaze that felt assessing. You never quite met his eye.

He stood there barefoot, dressed only in a sweater and sweatpants, his breath still uneven. Disoriented. His eyes swept across the room, his expression distant yet guarded, as though he was questioning the reality of it all. Considering the way he carried himself, it almost seemed like this was his first encounter with other mutants—but you knew better.

At some point, Charles decided to break the tension. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he began, his tone inviting. “Would you like some breakfast?”

But, of course, his cordiality and kindness were dismissed, being met with a gruff, “Where am I?”

“Westchester, New York,” Charles replied evenly, maneuvering his wheelchair closer. “You were attacked. My people brought you here for medical attention.”

You hadn’t been part of the mission that led to this moment; that had been Scott and Storm. In fact, you hadn’t even met Logan or the girl they’d brought with him—Rogue, as you later learned. Although at the time, rooted in the aftermath, you stepped forward, bridging the distance between yourself and Logan. You extended a hand toward him, offering your name with a cautious smile. “Nice to meet you.”

The gesture lingered awkwardly in the air, refusing even the pretense of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on yours, piercing and unrelenting, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was his way of dissecting you. Then his gaze shifted back to Charles, impatience dripping from every word he uttered. “I don’t need medical attention. Where’s the girl?”

Oh. So that’s how he wants to play this. You withdrew your hand, doing your best to mask the sting of rejection as you pivoted on your heels and returned to your place beside Charles. “Jerk,” you muttered, low enough that it almost drowned beneath your breath, fussing with your sleeves in a vain effort to seem unaffected.

He didn’t miss it. His expression hardened, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Come again?”

To end the exchange right there, Charles cleared his throat, effectively steering the conversation into a different direction. Seizing the opportunity, he wheeled himself closer to the brown-haired man, his composure intact. What you admired about him was his self-control, something you’d tried to master in the years spent under his guidance without success. Yet, you couldn’t fathom how he managed not to tell Logan to just fuck off. “About Rogue, she’s doing fine.”

Logan arched a brow, his sneer cutting through the air like a blade. “Really?” You couldn’t grasp how he could hold so much bitterness toward a person he barely knew. His voice was thick with condescension, and a dozen sharp retorts swirled in your mind, each one eager to escape your lips. Your mouth parted to respond on Charles’ behalf, but he beat you to it.

“You’re in my school for the gifted. For mutants.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the dense air. Even the act of breathing felt strained, a soundless tug-of-war for the air around you. “You do know you’re not the only one with gifts, don’t you?”

“Is that what you tell those kids?” Logan’s scoff was a window into his beliefs. “That they have gifts?”

“It’s no more than the truth.”

“Yeah? Truth my ass.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” The words escaped you before you could stop them, fury flaring in your chest. You stepped forward, the crackling heat of frustration coursing through your veins, ending in your fingertips. His blank stare only fanned the flames. “We took you in. We saved your life. How about showing a little fucking gratitude?”

Logan advanced, and his eyes bored into yours with a stinging glint of smugness. “I don’t remember asking to be saved.”

Your jaw tightened. You could’ve cracked a tooth as well. “Well, the least you can do is not act like a complete prick.”

A hand encircled your wrist, its grip firm but soothing. Charles’ touch anchored you, grounding you back in the moment. Your breath faltered, tearing your gaze away from Logan’s eyes to meet Charles’ calm expression.

“Don’t be so hard on our guest, my dear,” he murmured, as if the hostility in the room didn’t exist. It could’ve also been that he was too practiced at disarming it. He didn’t bother to glance at Logan, speaking as though the man was just a shadow. “Give him some time. He needs it.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you bowed your head. You sidestepped Logan without another word, avoiding his presence like he was a flame that threatened to scorch. The tension clung to your skin, and you flung the room.

From that day on, Logan becomes the only subject you seem capable of discussing.

It’s everything about him—his walk, his voice, the sheer audacity of his existence—that drives you to the brink of madness. You tell yourself to let it go, to not let it eat away at you, but your mind refuses to cooperate. Each day, it does a stellar job of reminding you that you now share the same roof as a man with forks for hands.

Logan is, undeniably, the source of your every frustration.

“He’s an idiot,” you grumble around a bite of your lunch, settling into one of the chairs in the kitchen. Scott, Ororo, and Jean are gathered around the table with you, savoring a rare break before the afternoon classes pull them back into their routines. “I can confirm it.”

“Trust me, we know,” Ororo snaps, her tone more cutting than you expected. The words catch you off guard, and you pause, napkin halfway to your lips, to lift your eyebrows in surprise. “Look, I’m sorry,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “but could you please talk about something else? It’s been Logan this, Logan that, for weeks now.”

“I think I understand what she means,” Scott chimes in, his tone lighter, nearly playful. You lift your hand for a high five, and he obliges with a grin, stealing a laugh from you.

“See? He gets it!”

Leaning back in his chair, your friend shakes his head. “I must admit I don't like the guy either. He’s—”

Jean’s elbow shoots out, jabbing Scott in the ribs just as Logan crosses the kitchen threshold. Scott’s indignant “Hey!” is muffled by your exaggerated cough, though it does little to mask the smirk threatening to break across your face.

How does the saying go? Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Logan’s eyes sweep across the room, his silence louder than the faint hum of the refrigerator. He strides toward the cupboard with methodical ease, and Storm bites her lip to stifle a laugh once she catches you watching him far longer than you should have. His back muscles tense and flex as he stretches his arms, the white tank clinging tighter with every movement.

“Please, don’t stop talking just because of me,” he remarks, his voice gravelly as he rummages through the cupboard, his focus presumably on some elusive snack. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

Your response comes out of instinct, words laced with irritation. “It’s hard not to,” you retort curtly, putting down your sandwich with a firm slap of your palms against your jeans.

That gets his attention. Logan turns around to confront you, a flicker of amusement twitching at the edges of his mouth. It’s that toothy smile of his that sets your blood simmering. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

You jump to your feet, matching his intensity. “Such a pity I can’t say the same about you.” Without missing a beat, you step closer, snatching the bag of chips he’s holding. Hiding them behind your back, tilting your head in mock innocence, and then saying, “Oops.”

His brows draw upward, though his tone stays measured, as if speaking to a child. “C’mon,” he replies, making a half-hearted grab for the bag. “How old are you? Twelve?”

Unable to suppress the grin threatening to break free, you rest your back against the counter. “We both know you can do much better than that.”

Already preparing yourself for the lecture Ororo’s going to unload on you the moment he leaves, you watch as Logan exhales sharply. His irritation is palpable in the way he leans in, one hand planting itself on the counter behind you, his frame eclipsing yours. The proximity is electric, his scent, a mix of leather and something woodsy, fogging your senses. Hazel eyes, so deep you could drown in them, peer down at you, as he attempts to strip away every layer you’re desperately trying to hold together.

Safe to say, it’s working. Damn it.

“Alright,” he finally says, tapping his fingers against the cool surface. “What do you want from me?”

Your galloping heartbeat is a major detail you choose to ignore, instead turning to the others for support. With an exaggerated motion, you point to each of your friends in turn. “Ororo and Scott were the ones who found you that day,” you start, trailing off, “and Jean ran a ton of tests on you to make sure you were okay. Have you even bothered to thank them for their hospitality?”

You believe you can joke with him—it’s how you usually bond with others, how most of your friendships have started. But you can’t help questioning if Logan can even get your sense of humor. The room falls silent, and his eyes flicker, just briefly, to your friends.

“You’re right, you’re right. My bad, princess.” One of his big, manly lands on your shoulder, the pressure of it too casual, too familiar, working the muscle there. Your fingers slacken around the bag of chips, the feeling of his touch making it harder to maintain your grip. “Guys, I’m deeply sorry for my lack of amiability. Hope you can forgive me.” The sarcasm is thick in his voice, but it’s the sensation that clings to you, that doesn’t seem to fade—the warmth of it seeping through the layers of your clothes, pressing into your skin, stubbornly refusing to fade.

His hand leaves only when he yanks the bag from your grasp, and the warmth that had been just beside you evaporates with his retreat. In an instant, he’s already pulling away, his parting words a careless “See you around,” tossed over his shoulder.

No one dares to speak after that. Because to speak would be to acknowledge what has just happened. Your stomach has turned into a knot, that kind of knot sailors make that are impossible for beginners to undo. Logan’s fingers left a burn in your shoulder. Can you still smell him, the trail he left? Scott is the first to speak after a minute or so. “What… was that?”

“I have no clue,” Jean says between bites, staring reflectively at you. “Care to elaborate?”

Your tongue feels heavy, your throat parched. Even if you tried, a rational explanation wouldn’t come.

Ever since you were a child, you had yearned to grow up, to experience love as only adults could. In your young, unformed mind, it all seemed like a simple equation: adults dated; adults embraced love in the flesh; adults reveled in freedoms that children could only dream of, waiting patiently for their time to come.

And you did grow up. You did fall in love. But now he’s forgotten you, and nothing could have prepared you for that kind of ending. It wasn’t the closure you would have chosen, not the goodbye you imagined for you and Logan.

You find yourself caught in the in-between—not quite a child, yet not fully an adult either. Because surely, an adult would know how to handle this pain. An adult would find a way to cope. But you feel small. Weak. Hopeless.

It leaves you wondering just how much you are willing to forsake.

More weeks go by, and Logan remains in the mansion, defying the departure you’d expected. Part of you is relieved. He moves through the halls like a shadow, his eyes always on Rogue: checking on her, observing her interactions with the rest of the students at the mansion. She’s thriving, really. Blending in with her peers, forming bonds, especially with a boy named Billy. They are quite the pair.

Yet, despite Rogue’s happiness, Logan can’t seem to shake the grim air that surrounds him, an aura that emanates a quiet kind of disgust.

One night, you’re flipping through channels in the living room, stopping when an old love movie catches your attention. You place the remote down on a cushion, and pull your knees up to your chest, the murmur of the characters’ voices the only sound in the otherwise hushed room. You don’t think anyone else is awake at this hour.

“Can’t sleep?”

There he is again. Always intruding, always finding his way back to you. The predator creeping into the vixen’s nest. He moves closer, slowly, and you lift your gaze to him, replying, “Actually, I’m a sleepwalker.”

Your comment earns a half-smile from Logan as he drops onto the couch beside you, his leg brushing against yours momentarily, worn denim against bare skin. His attention shifts to the TV, to the grainy images of the film playing out. You steal a glance at him, tracing the hard lines of his side profile.

“Feelin’ romantic tonight?” he asks.

“Not precisely,” you retort, fingers toying with the frayed edges of the blanket pooled at your feet. “There’s nothing else on. Sometimes you have to make do with what’s there.” Your gaze drifts back to him, lingering just a second too long before you add, “What about you? Any ghosts keeping you up?”

“You could call them that,” he says after a pause, his face still angled away. It must be easier to speak to you with this thin, invisible wall between you. “I have nightmares.”

“So you’re the one screaming at two in the morning?”

“Exactly. That’s me.” He ends up meeting your gaze, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, harboring an emotion he doesn’t voice. “M’sorry if I ever woke you up.”

“I’m usually awake at that time, too.” Your eyes flick to the screen. The couple in the movie bursts out of a building into the rain, their body language unmistakably revealing the heated argument unfolding between them. The man, clad in a raincoat, removes it to cover the woman, his supposed girlfriend. She’s visibly upset, but accepts the gesture nevertheless. “You can always knock on my door if you need anything. Unless I’m snoring—then I’ll be useless.”

Logan clicks his tongue, his focus shifting to the film as well. The man shouts, ‘Because I love you, for God’s sake!’ He casts a glimpse in your direction, his expression unreadable. “Same goes for you.” The woman in the film responds with a strangled, ‘Then prove it!’

“Anytime?”

“Anytime.”

The man cradles the woman’s face before kissing her. She throws her arms around his neck, and the music swells, evolving into a much more melodic song. A chorus of angelic voices replaces the earlier tense harmony. The camera lingers on every angle of their kiss, every desperate touch, as the world outside their embrace ceases to exist.

“This is cheesy,” Logan mutters, his heel bumping against the floor in repeated, short motions. Is he nervous?

“Yeah, so cheesy,” you reply quickly, pulling the blanket over your lap and curling into yourself. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about kissing you, not even remotely, but you are.

A quiet yawn escapes you, and you rub your fist against your eyes, sleep beginning to take over your body. Logan catches it, his own yawn following like a reflex. “Looks like the movie’s workin’ wonders,” he quips.

You let out a drowsy giggle. “Shut up,” you murmur, but then he’s inching closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. His warmth seeps through, and after a few seconds of hesitation, you allow yourself to lean into his frame, resting your head on his arm. It’s awkward, your neck already protesting the angle, but you accept it. You’ll take the stiffness tomorrow without complaint, because this moment is worth it.

It won’t last long, though, this rare tenderness. These nights, the quiet ones, are when Logan opens up the most—when Jean and Storm aren’t around, when it’s just the two of you. That’s when he approaches you, like a wary black cat testing the waters. But he doesn’t need to tread carefully. Not with you.

“What if I were to fall asleep… hypothetically?” Your eyelids grow heavier with each blink, the pauses between each one stretching longer. Your cheek nuzzles against him, seeking warmth, and you feel the subtle tug of his hand as he pulls the blanket over his legs as well.

“Hypothetically,” he begins, rasping his words near your temple, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Within moments, sleep claims you. You never find out what happens after that, but he stays, trailing quietly behind. No nightmares or shadows from his past dare to haunt him that night.

It was inevitable that an encounter like that would spiral into something more. You weren’t naïve. You could connect the dots, and the picture was clear: Logan wanted you, too. Desire often walked a fine line, and from hatred to something else, it’s hardly a leap—just a small, barely perceptible step. It could change with the shift of light, from dawn to dusk. But you’d need the strength to cross that line, to be bold enough to make the first move.

And now, with the sun already dipped below the horizon, taking its long-awaited rest after a full day of burning up in the sky, you find yourself alone in the kitchen, though you hadn’t started that way. Scott had lingered for a while, insisting he didn’t mind keeping you company. You’d thanked him with a polite smile before subtly nudging him out. It hadn’t taken much—just a few hints. Simplicity at its finest.

At the table, a neat pile of student papers spreads before you. Your pen dances across the pages, leaving corrections and grades in its wake. It’s then that he appears. He doesn’t speak at first, but his presence saturates the room like a shadow stretching across the floor. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him; it must be the unspoken familiarity of how he fills a space. Or maybe it’s just how attuned you’ve become to his every movement.

Logan leans in behind you, close enough that you feel the heat he radiates at your back. His low hum sends a shiver down your spine as he peers over your shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late to be playin’ the teacher?”

Your grip on the pen tightens, a small tremor in your fingers giving away the tension pooling in your stomach. You exhale softly, blowing on the fresh ink. “Would you prefer to have me doing something else?”

Smugness prickles at the edges of your words, but the resolve in your chest is faltering.

“Now that you mention it…” His voice dips, grating next to the shell of your ear as his chest brushes your back. His presence is magnetic, the scrape of his beard scratching your skin while he tilts your head to one side. His fingers sweep your hair over your shoulder, lips mapping the nape of your neck, tasting your fevered skin. “I might have a few ideas in mind.”

Your breath hitches. You try for composure, but it wavers in your reply. “Really?” you ask, because playing dumb always has its merits, after all. “Want to show me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand moves deliberately, tracing a sensual, teasing path up your abdomen. His palm settles over one of your breasts, his thumb brushing the sensitive peak through your sweater. “I don’t think you’d want me to do it here,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion. “Too public for what I’ve got planned for you.”

You disentangle yourself from him, slipping off the chair with an unsteady grace, but Logan doesn’t give you time to find your feet. He smashes his lips with yours, the force of his kiss almost sending you reeling. His tongue presses insistently, seeking entry, as if the urgency in his touch could dissolve every barrier between you. He grabs your cheeks, holding you in place as though you might slip away, drawing you so close there’s barely space to breathe.

You’re caught off guard, not knowing where to put your hands, searching for purchase. The cold metal of the refrigerator handle digs into your lower back as he backs you against it, his groans reverberating through your mouth like a growled confession.

“My bedroom,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “Take me to my bedroom.”

Logan obliges, intertwining his fingers with yours. Together, you ascend the stairs, your laughter mingling in the noiseless night when he missteps and stumbles, momentarily breaking the spell. But he recovers quickly, finding your room in mere seconds.

The door clicks shut behind you, and he presses you against the wood with a force you’d never experienced, his hands sliding down to grip your ass and knead the supple flesh with a possessive fervor. It all helps to feed the fire pooling in your core.

“Quiet, baby,” he whispers, slipping his fingers beneath the back of your sweatpants. His nails trace fiery lines along your skin, igniting your every nerve. “Don’t want anyone wakin’ up to those pretty sounds you make. They’re just for me, right?”

You nod frantically, longing for more, arching into his hands as your hips grind against his, your body moving with a will of its own. The friction is exquisite, a tantalizing promise. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his words laced with unfiltered hunger. “I’ve thought about havin’ you like this ever since I met you.”

His confession sends a surge of pride through your chest, an ache that feels equal parts affection and astonishment. Ever since the beginning? When he could barely look at you without scowling, his disdain practically tangible? “You hid it well,” you reply, breathless as you trace the outline of his erection over his jeans. The way it twitches under your undivided attention makes your pulse race. “I thought you hated me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “I thought the same about you,” he counters, before crushing his lips to yours once more. This time, you can’t help but smile into the kiss, your bodies moving as one, the pent-up tension between you unraveling in waves. “Guess we were both wrong.”

Your pants hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. It should embarrass you, how desperate and utterly needy you sound, the pleas spilling from your lips like the filthiest confessions. But the hunger in you is too vast, too insistent, drowning any possible flicker of shame. Decency was abandoned the moment you crossed that threshold. Logan nudges your legs apart with his knee, and the instant you feel him against your center, a contained sigh escapes you, half-resignation, half-surrender. Thought dissolves, leaving only instinct as you rock against him in slow circles, seeking relief.

“When was the last time someone took care of you?” He toys lazily with the waistband of your panties, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t give him an immediate answer, choosing instead to grind harder against his thigh, your breath hitching at the pressure. “Don’t go all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head to mouth at your collarbone, the scent of his cologne heady and intoxicating. “Judging by the way you’re basically humpin’ me, I’d say it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember,” you blurt out, your head thudding against the door when his teeth nip at the delicate curve of your neck. Your pulse thrums beneath his lips, and you’re seconds from biting your tongue just to keep from crying out. “Stop teasing.”

Logan’s lips quirk up into a wicked smile against your skin, his knee retreating only to be replaced by his fingers, trailing them along the fabric covering your heat. “I like it when you get bossy. It reminds me why I like you so damn much.” He tugs the fabric of your underwear aside, the cool air hitting your wetness for only a moment before his fingers glide over your arousal, testing your patience. One digit slides into you, curling slightly as his palm presses over your mouth, muffling the whine that falls from your parted lips. “So wet for me, princess.”

Your legs shake under the weight of sensation, threatening to give out as you lean into the door for balance. His fingers move inside you with a sharp rhythm, hitting that spot with each furious thrust. The pressure builds, hot and insistent, and it’s overwhelming, but then he drops to his knees, and the sight alone sends a jolt through your core.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds is molten. He laps at you with long strokes, his pace never faltering, pumping his digits in sync with the flick of his tongue, coaxing every sound you’ve tried so hard to stifle. “Oh, fuck. Logan—”

He groans against your core, his eyes remaining locked on your face, soaking in every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His focus is relentless, as though your reactions fuel him. You rake your hands through his hair, clutching at his dark locks with haste whenever his wet muscle lavishes extra attention on your clit, the intensity of his ministrations making your voice break, a choked gasp dying on your lips.

Your climax teeters on the edge, faster than you anticipated. “Close,” you manage to huff, the obscene noises he elicits driving you wild. “I’m gonna come. Please, come here—”

Logan detaches himself from you, standing tall with a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s set on pushing you over the edge with his fingers alone. His lips crash against yours, biting and licking, swallowing every desperate mewl that falls from your mouth, spit glistening down his chin. Three knuckles deep, coaxing your body to respond, your walls tighten around him, shuddering as he corners you against the door, the sharp edge of pleasure sending your knees buckling. Your orgasm washes over you, rendering you boneless in his hold. Limp and spent, you can barely return his kisses, panting harshly against his mouth, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

As you steady your breath, a satisfied smile tugs at your lips. Your eyes flicker down to his slick palm, and a rush of pride floods you. "That was amazing," you breathe, your fingers, trembling slightly with anticipation, reaching for his belt to tug at it. “My turn now.”

He ends up with his back pressed against the headboard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. You’re positioned between his legs, stimulating him over the fabric of his boxers. “It won’t take too long,” he says, and you feel the weight of his words more than hear them as you pull him free, revealing the hardness beneath. He’s already swollen, the tip wet with precum that coats your thumb as you stroke him once, feeling the heat pulse beneath your touch. A shiver runs through him, his legs stiffening as though on the edge of restraint. Bewitched by the size of him, you lean forward to slip the leaking head past your lips. “Jesus Christ.”

It’s difficult to take all of him at once, but you push through, your mouth stretching to accommodate his size. As you work him with your hand, your tongue traces the veins that snake along his length, feeling him throb. Logan’s body betrays him, his fists tightening around the sheets as if holding on to his last thread of control, desperately keeping his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck up into you.

“Honey, pull out,” he warns, stroking your back. “M’not jokin’. You’re gonna make me come.” But you don’t stop. Instead, you deepen your movements, cheeks hollowing as you take him with more enthusiasm, pushing him toward the back of your throat. When he realizes what you’re doing, a moan escapes him, laced with a dark laugh. “Filthy girl. So that’s what you want? To choke on my cum? Should’ve asked for it sooner.”

Not long afterwards, you feel the first splash of his release hitting your tastebuds. Ropes of his seed flood your mouth, some of it dribbling out to stain the corner of your lips. He watches, his thumb gently swiping over the edge, collecting what’s spilled, his eyes never leaving yours as he moves.

“Show me,” he asks, still breathless. You lean closer, your faces a whisper apart, and then you part your lips, revealing the evidence of your devotion like a masterpiece on display. His fingers find your chin, holding you there as he bites into his lower lip, the pressure turning the skin pale. “Now swallow,” he commands, and you obey, the motion deliberate, your satisfaction mirrored in the curve of his grin. He kisses you languidly, as if savoring the moment. “Where have you been all my life?”

The question invites countless answers, but you choose to murmur, “Down the hallway.”

“Logan, are you even listening?”

Charles’ voice slices through the playful moment, forcing Logan’s hands to still against your sides. The team sits around the table, embroiled in serious discussions that demand focus and discipline. Yet Logan’s fixation on you has rendered him deaf to anything beyond the sound of your laughter. Not a single word of the last hour and a half has stuck, his mind entirely preoccupied by the warmth of you perched on his lap.

He’d insisted he was much more comfortable than any chair, and you’d indulged him, leaning into his chest as his fingers danced teasingly along your ribs. “Of course I am,” Logan drawls, though the way his hand resumes tracing lazy circles on your stomach says otherwise, his entire attention remaining fixed on you.

“I don’t think you are,” Charles counters, leaning forward with both palms flat on his desk. His sharp gaze locks to you, narrowing faintly. “Do I need to seat you two on opposite ends of the room, or can you manage to behave?”

You stiffen in response, the easy comfort of moments ago evaporating. Sliding off Logan’s lap, you settle into the nearest chair, your departure catching him off guard. Your eyes meet his subtly, and you offer him an apologetic smile. Beneath the table, your fingers squeeze his knee, a silent reassurance. Finally, you direct your attention to Charles, straightening in your seat as if to demonstrate your newfound focus.

Logan, however, is less cooperative. His arms cross over his chest, and a crease forms between his brows, the picture of rebellion. Nothing that Charles says registers in his brain. All he can think about is how much better it felt to have you on his lap, where you weren’t bothering anyone. He contents himself with watching you now, contemplating your profile and the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your notebook.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. It’s not the same. You’ve been dating for a month, much to the surprise of everyone in the mansion. It’s as if the idea of the two of you together had never even crossed their minds. Not even Rogue believed it when she came to ask Logan if the rumors were true. He hadn’t known how to respond to her, caught between mirth and disbelief himself.

It’s been decades since he’s felt this alive. He’s head over heels for you in a way that’s exhilarating. Seeing you, even across a crowded room, lights a fire in him, and he has to actively fight the urge to walk over, pull you close, and kiss you senseless right there in front of your friends.

As the meeting finally draws to a close, Charles asks him to stay for a while. “I just need to have a quick word with you,” he says, waiting until the others leave.

Once you’re out of earshot, Charles sighs, shaking his head like an exhausted parent addressing his wayward child. “Look, I’m glad you two worked through your differences,” he begins, a note of cautious joviality in his tone, “but this... well, this is the opposite of that.”

Logan exhales wearily, rolling his eyes before he can stop himself, and regretting it instantly. Don’t shrug him off, his inner voice scolds him. “C’mon, Charles. You’re overreactin’.”

The man arches a brow. “Am I? Watching the two of you cuddling during a meeting feels like chaperoning teenagers. Honestly, I must admit you’re even worse than them at times.”

That remark lands harder than Logan expects. He opens his not-so-smart-mouth, ready with a retort, but no words come out. For once, his quick wit fails him, leaving him standing there in uncharacteristic silence.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Charles’ eyes fall shut. “Just… try to be more present, alright? And don’t distract her, or yourself, too much. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Later, when he recounts the conversation to you, you start pacing nervously across his bedroom, your teeth worrying at your nails.

“Maybe he’s right,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

“Darlin’—”

“I just don’t want him to be angry with us,” you cut him off, arms dropping to your sides in defeat. Turning toward him, you sit down on the edge of his bed, your shoulder brushing his as your eyes bore into the carpet. “Do you think we should... give each other some space?”

Your suggestion feels like a punch to his gut. He sits up straighter, hands finding their way to your hips as he guides you onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. “I think we’re fine the way we are,” he says, tipping his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in a loving gesture, coaxing a small smile from you. “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Are you happy with me?”

You nod—once, twice, like it’s the only answer you could possibly give. “I love you,” you whisper, the words trembling, your lips curving into a smile that he feels against his own when he kisses you.

“God,” he grumbles against your mouth, long fingers tightening on your hips. “I never get tired of hearin’ that.” Logan cups your ass through your clothes, rocking you against him, and a groan escapes his throat as your center presses against his half-hard cock. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice wanting.

“I love you,” you breathe, your head falling back when his hands move to unbutton your shirt, his touch reverent and greedy all at once. “I love you so much.”

Before you know it, he’s rolled you onto your back, hovering above you as he peels away the layers between you. He can’t comprehend how he got so lucky, how he gets to have you like this every day, so pliant and eager beneath his body. Your whimpers grow softer, more airy, but even then, you’re still whispering how madly in love you are with him.

This is a memory he’ll hold on to when Charles inevitably asks him to reconsider—to think about what’s best for both you and him. Fragile moments like this will slip through his fingers, but for now, they’re his to cherish.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

It turns out that love doesn’t come neatly wrapped in perfection. No—it’s a chaotic blend of tender glances and fiery clashes, of whispered promises and cutting comebacks. It’s arguments that sting as much as they heal, moments that don’t glitter but still matter, making the difference.

“Fuck off!” you snap, shoving the door against its frame, trying to shut him out. But Logan’s hand wedges in the gap, his strength effortlessly outmatching yours. “Get out, Logan.”

“No.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” he grits through clenched teeth, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Behind him, Jean calls your name, but he doesn’t turn. “Not now, Jean!” His voice echoes down the hall, and the sound of her retreating steps leaves the air tense.

You’ve already crossed the room, standing by the window. The sunlight filters through, painting your silhouette in warm flickers. Outside, the kids are in their break, passing a ball, their laughter carried by the breeze. Logan moves toward you, his presence heavy, and you hold up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going on that mission,” you say firmly.

“No, you’re not.”

Your head snaps toward him, a storm unraveling in your gaze. “Charles wants me there. The team wants me there,” you shoot back, jabbing a finger into his chest with each word, “and most importantly, I want to go. You don’t get to decide for me.”

Logan doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch. He can’t understand how you don’t see his side of things, how the thought of you being in danger like this twists his insides into knots. “I can’t lose you.”

“Logan—”

“No, you don’t get it!” The words burst out of him. “What if something happens to you? What if you get hurt, and we can’t get you back in time?” His fists clench at his sides, fighting the need to pull you into his arms, to feel that you’re still here with him, still safe. “It’d kill me, because I love you with everything that I am. Just thinkin’ about losin’ you makes me sick.”

Your expression softens, but only for a moment. You take a step in his direction, closing the space between you. There’s no hesitation in your tone when you speak, leaving space for conviction. “I had a life before you, Logan. I’ve been here since I was a child, learning how to fight, how to survive. I’ve gone on missions for years—missions that were just as dangerous as this one. I don’t need you to protect me like this.” Your voice wavers, just barely. “I appreciate that you care, but I’m just as capable as you are.”

How long can someone hold their breath? Logan doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until your arms encircle his waist, your embrace melting the tension that’s been coiling in his chest. You bury your face against him, your breath steadying, and he draws a long breath, pressing his lips to your forehead like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a softness that feels almost out of place after the heated exchange.

“You get so bossy sometimes.”

"I thought you said you liked me bossy," you answer, your voice low, laced with mixed feelings, as you look up at him through hooded eyes.

Logan’s lips twitch into what aims to simulate a smile, but it’s weighed down by the sadness pooling in his gaze. It doesn’t reach the crinkle of his eyes, doesn’t carry the warmth it usually does.

“I do,” he says, his voice rough, barely audible, brushing a thumb across your cheek. The words hang between you, carrying a plea for things to feel less heavy, for this closeness to fix what words can’t.

The arguments come more frequently now. The love hasn’t faded—of course, it hasn’t—but it feels buried beneath the noise. You and Logan clash over everything, over nothing, over things neither of you can quite name, all the fucking time.

It’s a cycle that none of you can seem to break, passion feeding the fire until it burns too bright, too hot. One of you always storms out, slamming doors or throwing words that linger in the air like acid smoke. And yet, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how lost you both feel, the love is still there. Aching, waiting for the dust to settle.

You tell yourself it’s just a rough patch. That love like this isn’t easy, that it’s supposed to be messy. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too long after another fight, you can’t help but wonder how much more the two of you can take before something breaks for good.

Lust becomes your apology, an untamed collision of anger and desire that you can’t resist. It’s not gentle—it’s frenzied and blazing. The bed creaks beneath you, the sounds of your moans and the slap of his hips against your ass enveloping the room. Every thrust drives you closer, the ferocity of it making your head bump into the headboard, but all you can think about is how full he makes you feel.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry out, drooling all over the pillow, ass high up in the air as Logan continues to pound into you. He pulls out all of a sudden, making you gasp in protest. That’s when you feel his tongue against your slit, eating you out from behind, spreading your cheeks to see just how much further he can go. Your hand flies back, pressing him into your skin. “So good, baby. F-fuck.”

There’s no leaving him, not even in your wildest dreams. When he spills inside you, you always ask him to hold you close, whispering for him to stay there. To keep you full of him. And he does, fusing your body with the mattress, his weight anchoring you to the pleasure he knows how to grant you.

But then, it’s morning. The sun filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets, and you’re tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist. You stare at the ceiling, your mind crawling back to the fight, to the anger that seemed so vital only hours ago. You have to force yourself to remember why you were so mad in the first place. As his hand slides over your hip, pulling you toward him, the memory slips further away.

Dating Logan means understanding the darkness he carries, the nightmares he has almost every night. Usually, you’re woken by his movements, his rambling, the tremors that run through his body. You’ve perfected a way of rousing him gently, pulling him from the grip of whatever horrors his mind conjures without causing him more harm.

Though tonight, you must’ve been drained. You didn’t notice the moment the nightmare began.

“Honey? Oh, fuck. Wake up, c’mon.” His voice pulls you from the depths of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open and adjust to the dim light, the first thing you see is Logan, sitting rigid, staring at your arm as though it’s breaking him apart. The pain in his gaze is nearly palpable.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice groggy as you sit up, still partly disoriented. “Logan, are you okay?”

Then you see it: Blood. Dark stains seeping into the sheets, trailing from a jagged cut running the length of your forearm. It isn’t deep, and oddly, it doesn’t even hurt that much. But Logan looks stricken, his eyes flickering between your wound and his own hands.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,” you assure him as you fumble to grab the ruined sheets, bundling them up to contain the mess. Reaching for the lamp on the nightstand, you switch it on, bathing the room in a golden glow. That’s when you notice the droplets of blood on his knuckles, the torn skin where his claws must have pierced through. This has never happened before. Neither of you know what to say or how to react. When you reach for his hand, he recoils, shaking his head like he’s trying to will the scene away. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“I knew it’d happen eventually.” He’s spiraling, rising to his feet. A man trying to escape himself. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his chest and back, his body tense with the effort of holding his pieces together. Turning to face you, his expression is the embodiment of torment. In his eyes, it’s as though the prophecy has been confirmed, irrevocably, by his own doing. “I hurt you. I told you it was going to happen.”

“Why are you acting like this?” you ask, pushing yourself off the bed to meet him. You’re tired, too tired to be arguing like this. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure? You said the same thing before, and now look. Look at where we are.”

You’re at a loss for how to calm him. The exhaustion weighing on you makes your thoughts sluggish, and you’re afraid of saying something you’ll regret. But giving up isn’t an option—not with him, not because of this. Slowly, you step back and spin in place, letting him see you fully, the wound and all.

“You see? I’m fine,” you insist. “I’m not hurt. Please, Logan, believe me when I say I’m okay.”

He doesn’t respond, but the uncertainty etched into his face lingers. For a moment, you think you’ve reassured him, as he lets you guide him back to the bed. Together, you pull the sheets up to cover your bodies, and he leans into the pillows with a weary sigh. He mutters something about being sweaty, so you don’t rest your head on his chest as usual, settling into the curve of his shoulder instead. The rhythm of his breathing, uneven at first, begins to steady.

At some point, the warmth of his body disappears. You stir faintly, but your mind is too clouded by sleep to register it as anything more than the remnants of a rather vivid dream.

Logan remains standing, staring at Charles, refusing the invitation to sit down. “You told Jean,” he says, and the other man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even attempt to deny it. “I asked you to keep it between us.”

“I thought she might help you reconsider,” Charles answers, looking more serious than usual, his piercing eyes fixed on Logan. “Logan, I still don’t believe this is the right path for you. It’s not the solution to your problems. You can’t run from her, from this—relying on forgetting won’t bring you peace.”

Who really knows what’s best for him? Logan certainly doesn’t. After all these decades of walking the earth, what has he truly learned? His long life feels like a cruel irony, offering time without clarity. What use is immortality when you’re paralyzed by indecision, unsure of what you truly want?

“I can’t leave her. At least, not willingly,” he explains, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the arm of a chair, the gesture lacking finesse. “She’ll get over it. She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“You’re deciding for her.”

To that, Logan has no reply. He only looks away.

“When I got here, you told me you’d help with whatever I needed.” Logan crosses the room, lowering himself into a chair by Charles’ desk, his posture stiff. He lifts his chin slightly, trying to convey a confidence he doesn’t actually feel. “This is what I need you to do. Today.”

“Let’s start with your most recent memories and work backward from there.” Charles rolls himself closer, his chair nearly brushing Logan’s legs. “There’s an emotional core to every memory, and when you eradicate that core, it begins to degrade. By the time I’m done, those memories will have withered, as in a dream upon waking.”

Logan’s throat tightens at the description. There’s no comfort in Charles’ words. It doesn’t sound like a dream. It sounds like a nightmare.

“Do you want to proceed?”

“Yes.” Logan’s reply is immediate, though it scrapes his throat like gravel.

Charles nods once, solemnly. “Then tell me your most recent memory of her.”

I think I was preparing a class when she burst through the door, uninvited. I’d been trying to keep my distance from her, because of... well, all of this. But it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave, so I let her stay. She came up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and asked if I had much left to do. I told her everything else could wait. Big mistake.

We were lying on my bed. Somehow, we always ended up there, tangled together. It wasn’t strictly... sexual. There’s something profoundly vulnerable about sharing that space. Snuggling, you could call it. Now that I think about it, she likes resting her head on my chest. Says it’s the best way to hear my heartbeat and find out if it matches hers.

“Focus, Logan.”

Yeah, I know. You’re right. Anyway, she asked me if I believed in soulmates, and I laughed. Obviously, she thought I was mocking her, so I had to convince her I wasn’t. I just thought the question was funny.

“Why did you laugh?”

Because it was exactly the kind of question she’d ask. She hadn’t before, but I’d been waiting for it. She told me she thought soulmates existed, and that I was hers. And I laughed again, and she threatened to leave. I held her tighter.

I told her I didn’t know if soulmates were real. I didn’t have that kind of certainty. What I did know, I said, was that I loved her. That was the only thing I was sure of. Soulmates or no soulmates, I loved her. I was right where I wanted to be. Those were my exact words.

“When did this happen?”

Yesterday. Before she left with Ororo and Scott for their mission. That’s why I’m choosing to do this now.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you again. Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Yes, Charles. Please, don’t ask me again.

Throwing open the mansion’s entry door, you let it swing wide as you step inside. You could use a shower, but right now, all you care about is finding him. Where is he?

Before starting your search, a cluster of students rushes toward you, their arms wrapping around your waist. Their laughter fills your senses as they chatter excitedly, hugging you tightly. “We missed you!” A boy exclaims, and you can’t help but smile, ruffling his hair.

“Have you seen Professor Logan?” you ask, crouching to meet the eye of one of the younger girls.

She grins, her innocent smile spreading, and she points toward the kitchen. “He’s in there.”

You thank her and make your way to the kitchen, your heart beating a little faster. You find him standing by the counter, slicing bread. His movements are methodical, his posture calm, but something feels off. You pause in the doorway, scrutinizing his face for a sign, any sign, that he’s happy to see you.

But his gaze flicks to you for only a brief moment, cool and detached, before returning to his task.

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting your head. His shoulders tense, and he doesn’t stop cutting. “I’m back,” you add, stepping closer, hoping for some sort of acknowledgment.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, and when he does, his voice sounds flat. “I see.” He opens a drawer, pulling out a fork. “Good for you, I guess.”

The words hit you like a slap. A joke, surely. But why? You take a hesitant step forward, your brows furrowing. “Logan, why—”

Before you can finish, a hand grabs yours, yanking you out of the kitchen. Startled, you turn to see Jean, her expression pale and stricken.

“Jean?” you ask, confused. “Is this another one of Logan’s pranks?”

Her lips twitch, and tears glisten in her eyes when she swallows thickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I tried to stop him. I really did. But he—he wouldn’t listen!” Her hands tighten around yours, quivering. You’ve never seen her like this before.

“Wait—slow down,” you urge, your stomach twisting.

“I swear, I tried to talk him out of it,” she pleads, each of the words she utters rushing out like a flood. “You know how stubborn he can get.”

It doesn’t take too long for her panic to feel contagious. The pit in your abdomen deepens as you glance back toward the kitchen, where Logan stands just out of sight.

Something is wrong—terribly wrong.

“Jean, what did he do?”

Despite all his wisdom, Charles had known this moment would come the second he agreed to help Logan.

The door to his office flies open, slamming against the wall with a force that reverberates through the room. You storm in, your strides long and charged with anger, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Madness blazes in your eyes. “You did what?!”

“My dear—”

“You erased me from my boyfriend’s memory!” The words erupt from you, shaking the very air. You fling your arms wide, your fury spilling over. Before he can respond, you turn on his bookshelf, yanking ancient, cherished volumes from their resting places. One by one, you ignite them, flames devouring their fragile pages in an instant.

Then, there’s a momentary pause—a flicker of silence before you seize another book. This one you hurl in his direction, not quite at his face, but close enough to graze the air near his shoulder before it hits the floor with a heavy thud. The sound echoes, a physical punctuation to your rage.

“You made me disappear! He doesn’t fucking know who I am!”

His expression, pained and weary, holds no exasperation—only regret. “He asked me to do it.”

“What kind of an answer is that?” The question hangs underlined by the tears that stream down your face. Your voice breaks, the pain behind it cutting deeper than any accusation. “You could’ve said no, Charles. How many times have you denied me things?”

“You didn’t see him in the way I did, he was—” He stops himself, faltering. No words can repair what he has already destroyed. “I’m sorry.”

You stand there, breathing hard, the space between you filled with smoldering ash and a silence so loud it feels suffocating. The remains of his books lie scattered, the faint scent of burnt paper lingering in the air. Charles watches you, but he doesn’t move to stop you. He doesn’t fight you.

The fury ebbs, leaving behind a hollow ache that takes its place in your chest. “If you’re so willing to erase love like it’s nothing, then do it for me, too.”

Charles’s brows knit together. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I? Logan doesn’t remember me. I walk into a room, and he looks right through me. Like I’m a stranger, like I never mattered. So tell me, what’s the point in remembering him if he’s already forgotten me?”

“I don’t believe forgetting will give you the peace you’re looking for.”

“Is that what you told him as well? Clearly, it worked out well.”

Touché.

“I’ve already hurt you enough,” he whispers.

“And you’ll keep hurting me if you don’t do this. I can’t carry this alone.” You kneel in front of him, clutching the edge of his wheelchair. “If you could take it away from him, you can take it away from me, too.”

Charles stares down at you, his mouth tightening, as if the weight of your words presses down on him. His hands, usually so steady, shift uncomfortably in his lap. It’s clear he can’t believe this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation, faced with the same desperate request. “Are you sure?”

You nod your head. “He wanted to forget me. Now, I want to forget him.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. “All right,” he says softly, though his voice carries a sadness he doesn’t try to hide. “But I need you to understand… once it’s done, there’s no going back.”

“That’s the point.” You wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, as though erasing the tears could also erase the doubt creeping in.

“Then sit,” he counters, motioning to the chair Logan sat in days ago.

You hesitate for a moment, the finality of the act looming large. Slowly, you lower yourself into the chair, gripping its arms with all your earnest. Charles wheels himself closer, and the reality of what’s about to happen sets in.

“Tell me your last memory of him,” he says gently, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes, and the image surfaces instantly: Logan, holding you close, whispering that he loves you. No soulmates, no destiny—just love. You let out a shaky breath, your heart breaking all over again as you begin to recount it. “The last time he looked at me like I was his whole world.”

Charles nods, his expression unreadable, placing his hands on your temples. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I had to leave the next day, so I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. My things were already packed. I walked into Logan’s room and asked him if he was busy. A week isn’t a lot, but ever since he moved here, we hadn’t been apart from each other. I was anxious about that. I thought it’d be so hard to fall asleep without him at night. What—oh, God, what’ll happen now?

“I need you to keep going, darling.”

Don’t call me that.

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

I convinced him to lie in bed with me. I had my head on his chest, and he kissed my forehead. His beard scratched me in the right way. It never hurt or bothered me. I had once dated a guy who had a beard, and it was just so uncomfortable. But that wasn’t Logan’s case. He would kiss me and hug me, and it felt like the best thing in the world.

There was a question I’d been meaning to ask him. It was about soulmates, and the existence of them. I thought Logan was my soulmate, and I said it to him. I asked if he believed in them, but he laughed. He told me he wasn’t making fun of me or anything, just that he thought the question was funny.

Logan said he didn’t know whether soulmates existed or not, but he knew for a fact that he loved me. He didn’t care about anything else. He loved me. He really did. Do you think he loved me, Charles?

“Yes. I do believe so.”

Then why did you take that away from me?

“I’m sorry.”

I hate you.

“I know.”

Your head pounds, an ache that feels like it’s splitting you in two. It’s a pain unlike anything you’ve ever known. Your vision blurs, forcing you to blink repeatedly until the world around you sharpens into focus.

Four blank walls. The stark, colorless void offers nothing but the oppressive weight of emptiness. This must be your mind, stripped bare. Somewhere in the depths of this space, Charles is at work, pulling threads and unraveling every memory of Logan.

You push yourself off the cold floor. A soundless shift disturbs the space—a door appears out of nowhere, its frame faintly glowing, and without hesitation, you reach for the handle and swing it open.

On the other side is a fragment of your past: that night months ago, sitting in the living room, watching a movie. Logan had decided to join you. The memory pulls you in, and suddenly, you’re no longer standing—you’re on the couch. Your clothes have altered to match that night. Logan sits beside you, the warmth of his presence impossibly real.

This moment feels untouched by time, but deep down, you know the truth. Charles is erasing it even as you relive it. Soon, this too will vanish.

The scene begins to warp. It’s no longer the movie on the screen. The couple has been replaced by you and Logan. You’re watching yourselves from a third perspective, your bodies framed by the flickering light of the TV. It’s deeply unsettling, but in this fragmented state of consciousness, it doesn’t feel worth questioning.

“Logan?”

“Tell me.”

You grab a cushion and smack him on the arm, the motion instinctive. “You idiot!”

“What was that for?” he asks, laughing as he takes the cushion from your hands, tossing it aside. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You erased me from your memory!” you accuse him, even as you know the futility of it. He’s merely a fragment, a faint echo of who he once was to you. A lingering shard of memory caught in the tangled wires of your brain, sparking as it teeters on the edge of a short circuit. “You’re not even real, are you?”

“No,” he admits, his voice tinged with something like regret. “I’m just in your mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. You’re just what’s left.” You lower your gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How long do you think it’ll take Charles to erase you?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. The words you long for, the closure you might crave, are swallowed up. His lips vanish mid-formulation, and then you’re staring at a blank void where his mouth used to be. The rest of his features begins to fade—his eyes dissolve into nothingness, followed by his nose, his brows, the lines of his face. All that’s left is the space where he once sat, and even that feels tenuous.

You’re on your own now. The memory of him—of that night, the first time you truly shared an intimate moment—has been swept away like smoke in the wind. You collapse onto the floor, trembling as sobs tear through you, your hands pressed tightly against your face, attempting to contain your anguish. “I don’t want to forget you,” you choke out between hiccupped breaths, the sting of tears burning your eyes. “I never asked for any of this.”

“I know,” a familiar voice murmurs behind you, and there he is—Logan. This time, he’s wearing his suit. His claws are unsheathed, gleaming. “I shouldn’t have done it first. I don’t know what I was thinking’.”

You push yourself to your feet, drawn to him. When you move to hug him, he takes a step back, raising his claws as if to protect you from getting harmed. “I can’t retract them. If I hug you, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, pressing forward and slotting yourself between his arms, ignoring the danger. Your face finds its habitual place against his chest, and you inhale deeply, inhaling his scent. “I just want you.”

His arms fold around you hesitantly, careful yet incomplete. You feel a sharp pain, a searing slice along your ribs that rips a scream from your throat. The agony is blinding, drowning your world into darkness.

When you open your eyes again, you’re somewhere else entirely. The bed feels soft beneath you, the sheets tangled around your legs. Logan is there beside you, his body warm against yours, both of you naked under the sheets.

“You’re lost in thought,” he says, his voice tender, taking a strand of your hair, twisting it gently before tucking it behind your ear. “You alright?”

His face won’t stay still. Beard, no beard. A moustache that fades as quickly as it appears. Hair long, then short. Sideburns one moment, smooth skin the next. He’s a shifting mosaic of himself. You realize you can’t remember what he looked like the last time you saw him.

“I’m forgetting you.” Your fingertips trace the curve of his cheek, memorizing each detail. “I don’t think I can stop it now.”

He’s seconds away from crying, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both desperate and resigned. “Stay here with me,” he whispers against your mouth, his hands sliding over your arms, your stomach, your legs. “Don’t let me go.”

“You did it to me first,” you say, voice thick with emotion, pulling him closer, down until his body presses fully against yours. His weight feels real, but you know it’s not. Nothing about this moment is.

His voice breaks, repeating the same mantra. “Stay here with me. Don’t let me go.”

The touches multiply. It’s no longer just his hands on your skin. It’s as if the entire universe is reaching for you. The cacophony of touches, the overlapping voices—“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”—swirls into a suffocating chaos.

Logan begins to blur, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His face fades first, then his body, until all that remains is a ghost of his shadow. Then even that is gone. The bed disappears beneath you, leaving you adrift in an empty expanse. You can’t tell if you’re still there, or if you’ve vanished with him.

You exhale slowly. Silence, at last.

The second first time you see him, he’s sitting alone outside on a weathered bench, his shoulders slightly hunched. He’s completely alone, and you pause a few steps away, studying him for a moment. He doesn’t seem like someone you would’ve missed at the mansion. Charles mentioned he’d recently joined the team, a mutant who had spent too long wandering the earth.

You clear your throat, trying not to overthink it. “Mind if I take a seat?” you ask, your hands clasped behind your back as you wait for his reply.

He shifts to one end of the bench, leaving you more than enough room, though his movements seem cautious. You sit down, exhaling softly as an awkward silence stretches between you. His demeanor isn’t exactly inviting, and you wonder how to bridge the gap.

After a moment, you stretch out your hand, offering a polite smile, giving him your name. He glances at your hand, then takes it. “M’Logan,” he says simply, though you already knew that from your previous talk with Charles. His fingers are rough, calloused, yet they linger a beat longer than necessary before letting go. “The other day, I was in the kitchen, and you walked in. You were acting… strange.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Really?” Your gaze flickers between his face and your hand that still feels warm from his touch. “I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?”

Logan hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I thought so… but maybe not.” His lips press into a thin line, shrugging. “Never mind. I could be wrong.”

Tilting your head, you study him. There’s something familiar that you can’t quite place. “Have we met before? Outside this place, I mean. It’s just… I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t figure out where.”

His eyes meet yours then, like your question has triggered something dormant. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxing as he lets out a low chuckle. “Funny you’d say that. I wasn’t planning on bringing it up, but… I got the same feeling.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.” His lips quirk into a smile, one that matches yours.

Inside the mansion, Charles and Jean watch the scene through the window. Jean folds her arms across her chest, her expression caught between awe and disbelief. “This is crazy,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

“Don’t get me started,” Charles replies.

“They don’t know what happened, but they still feel it. Like they’re connected.” She peers down at Charles, her voice quieter now. “You erased everything, didn’t you? Every memory, every trace.”

Charles keeps his eyes on the scene outside, his features softening as he watches the two of you talk. He sighs, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re asking me for an explanation I don’t have. I guess some things… refuse to be forgotten.”

Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.

Friedrich Nietzsche.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

870 notes · View notes

yandere-wishes · 5 months ago

Text

｡ ₊°༺ Pink Pony Club ༻°₊ ｡

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆Yandere! Dr Phosphorus x Reader ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

⋆.𝄞𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓟𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓡𝓸𝓪𝓷𝄞˚.⋆

✮★✮ Oh Mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels it's where I belong, down at the Pink Pony Club, I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club. ✮★✮

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He lets the music roll over him, allowing the drums to melt over his flames and bleed into the marrow of his black bones. When you dance, you have to focus on the turn out of each step, on the wave of your arms, when to stiffen when to loosen. It makes it all so easy to forget the pain of being constantly on fire. To forget the melancholy that festers inside you. When the adrenaline is this high, you can only make out the strobing neon lights and the dazed amusement of the crowd.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ It's hard to hate the music and the lights, to shy away from a crowd so easily fascinated by the gleeful macabre. It's really the most sanity-inducing thing you can cling to when your body has turned into the thing you once loved. When you've become your research after watching your old self die in a furnace at the hands of those who once wielded all the power in the world. Funny how we make our own monsters, funny how the thing that kills us, is nothing more than the very man we once tried to kill, now engulfed by his own invention. Phosphorus spins, left leg, right leg, jump, and twirl.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The dancing, the music, the clapping, the lights, it's all so perfect for melting away the terrible things that slither inside him, to burn away all those good memories until the kill and the luxury are all the remains. It's getting just too easy to forget his son's face, to forget the smile his wife gave him on their wedding day.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's a moment between moments when the world seems to stop. It's only then that he notices you, or rather notices what you're wearing. It's the dress he thinks, pink like the mushroom clouds he'd once adored, like the sunset framing devastation. Or maybe it's the way you have your hair so cruelly tied. Tight circle above your head like an atom waiting to explode. In a flash it's over, someone is handing him a drink. Another sitting on his lap. And he's thrust harshly back into reality, back to a world of trying to forget.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus is and always will be a man of logic. A man of science. He lets his fingers glide over the stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills. To think he'd spent his whole life begging for a quarter of all of this. Begging for scraps of funding to save the lives of thousands. It had all been so important once. Still, he can't help but let his mind wonder, what could he build with all of this? What could he solve, discover, create? He tells his men to lock it up in the safe, he's not ready to go back to all of that just yet.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The next time Phosphorus sees you, he's half sunken into the plush couch of the VIP lounge. It's been a long day, a long tough day. Everything had gone wrong and all so right in the same breath. This time your dress is the shade of clouds marred by the blood of a dying sun. He should know this shade from the history books he'd used to read, the shade of skylines behind ancient temples. Back then he'd been trying to understand. Understand what he's not quite sure, he'd been so desperate to pry every little answer from the world. To chew their solutions, breaking them with his teeth and spitting out his own variation, his own thesis. He'd been so utterly convinced of his own intellect, convinced that reading Saadi at the same time as the latest research paper on Nuclear decay meant understanding the world.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He watched with staunch fascination as you tried to dance. Following your friend's steps, heels stepping awkwardly completely out of tune. You bend your knees, sinking to the floor. And Phosphorus can't think of any excuses for why his cheeks feel hotter than usual. Why his eyes are permanently affixed to the sway of your arms.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He thinks you look just like nuclear fission dancing in the limelight with your friends. Like you've split your own body to create them. Little atomic nucleus dancing under his microscope. You look perfect, your toned legs amplified by the radioactive pink of your heels. Long neck he'd love to kiss decorated with a thin string of gold. You don't look a thing like the other girls at the lounge, you look like an experiment beckoning him, seducing him into cutting you open, and observing how you explode.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's been following you keenly, trying to see what happens next. It's the fourth week in a row that he's forgotten about dancing for the crowd, about the girls who used to hang off his arms. He's too devoted to this experiment. "Nuclear scientist finds atomic bomb inside ancient temple from the bronze age". Phosphorus examines the sway of your hips, the bob of your head, and the crude kicks of your legs. There's something wrong with those heels, they're too thin, too high, inviting everyone to stare at you. But he's quick to shove them away, circling you from afar. He can't let anyone tamper with his experimentation. Certain matter performs differently when it knows it's being observed. So he allows the notion of invisibility, making you feel unobserved, safe in your own ignorance.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He hasn't felt this alive in years. This ecstasy tastes utterly sweet, pure saccharine. It's the same thrill as watching your particles stabilize after days of trying to find the right frequency. Watching them organize into the right motion. And isn't that what you are? An ionized atom. After all, what is dancing if not ionization, if not trying to lose a part of yourself you can no longer bear?

⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's late tonight, rivals had somehow bled in and were after the safe from Phosphorus' newest heist. He'd burned them to a crisp and danced on their ashes until they flew away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's late, too late in fact. When he rushes through the door, men nervously run behind him. His eyeless sockets fall upon an uttermost dreary sight...

⋆☠︎︎⋆ The problem with people is that they never truly appreciate beauty. They treat it as if it's something to conquer something to tame. They never bother to understand it, to study it from afar whispering prayers of gratitude for bearing witness to this new discipline. The man's body is too close to yours, head following your lips, as you awkwardly try to sidestep. The moment you try to flee he grabs your wrist. You scream, no one ever hears screaming through the bass and the rhythm.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's smoke in your eyes, sickly-sweet honey in the back of your throat. It's all too acrid but at least the hand assaulting your wrist subsides. The thing in front of you glows green, an acidic neon green that feels too familiar in shade. You watch as the skeleton seizes your shoulders, such a warm touch hearthlike in every way. He pulls you closer till all you can smell is null and all you can feel is smothering warmth.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never quite quiver under his touch, never fully shy away when he cups your jaw and tilts your head. It's like you want the radiation, want to feel his nuclear essence bleeding into you. Maybe then you'll be whole. Maybe then neither of you will need the music, and the lights, and the crowd to feel whole.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never belonged in the clubs, it was painfully obvious you could never mold to their dances, their music. Your heels never fit right. Phosphorous knows he's been trying to do the very same for all so long. Neither of you needed to kill off your electrons, to throw them away to ignorant nobodies who would sooner hurt you for their own voracious motivations. "Give me your electrons and I'll give you mine." Phosphorus tucks your head into the crux of his shoulder, "I'll fuse with you so you'll never need anyone else."

⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus' hands mirror yours, swaying overhead before falling lower like the cascade of a wave. Side step, side step, stop, and bend. He thinks this is better than any club, any choreography he could do by himself. He feels so whole dancing only for your eyes. He feels so happy having you dance only for his eyes. Your palms touch as you circle slowly. Dancing like the airy rotation of electrons. There's no more dancing at the Pink Pony Club.

⋆☠︎︎⋆ What do you call a dance that feels like merging two atoms? What do you call it when your heart feels like the denotation of a bomb? He presses his lips to yours slowly, feeling the nuclei crash, a nuclear reaction, his tongue hum between your teeth endeavoring to melt away your fear. His fingers, dance across your hips heating up, leaving burning hearts and hand prints, claiming you as his, making you death just like him.

Lost the request for this but thank you so so much to the sender!! 💞💋💞💋

639 notes · View notes

ikamigami · 9 days ago

Text

Jsjznnxnxnx thank you so much 💗

I realized I know why Harley strikes me as honest despite that he told us in QnA that he manipulates us with his words.

It's because he believes in things he says. Ofc he's biased but what he told us about Poppy is what he actually believes to be true that she like her father is a backstabber.

And you know we can't call it a manipulation if a person believes in the things they say to us.

Ofc Harley is full of himself and he sees himself above everyone else.

But there's something about him that doesn't allow me to say with 100% certainty that he's a narcissit like many people seems to believe so.

Cause honestly I think that the only person Harley is lying to is he himself.

He didn't even say that he hates Elliot the most even though I bet everyone thought so. And yet.

And he was shocked by Dr White's betrayal. He said that he thought that he saw his vision.

And even if he hates Leith the most he said that he's two-faced and a backstabber.

So do you want to tell me sir that at some point you thought that you could trust any of those two?

Even if you already had trust issues after Elliot backstabbed you?

Idk I'm probably grasping at straws but Sawyer seems like he's looking for any form of connection but because he is the way he is everyone denies him.

He even tried to get us to understand him. But why?

I get it. He was trying to manipulate us.

But there was something in his answers in QnA.

I just can't shake off the feeling that Sawyer seems to act like a kid. As if he just stuck at one point in time and never actually grew up.

And the fact that he's so distanced and almost detached emotionally from his past - childhood especially - I'm pretty sure that he went through something traumatic that he represses and is socially and emotionally stunted.

He still displays sociopathic/psychopatic and narcissitic traits but he seems plenty delusional.

Not only in grandiose way that he has a mission to find immortality and lead humanity into the future.

But also in a way were he still expects that he'll finally find understanding. Despite his paranoia and that Elliot betrayed him and that his coworkers used to laugh at his fears of world ending soon he still thought that someone saw his vision. He still was surprised that someone betrayed him.

Despite that he projects his trauma on everyone around him he still felt that he could trust someone at least about work and then was shocked at the betrayal.

He's biased as hell but he's honest.

And I think that he was still afraid of dying. Is it because he's so obsessed with himself? Maybe. But a part of me thinks that this is something that goes deeper. This fear is a core part of him hence his paranoia about world end.

And I believe it's due to his childhood trauma. Whatever his parents did to him caused him to be like that.

And I believe that Elliot kicking him out of YGP hurt so much also and maybe even mainly because he had to go back home. He wrote that he thought that Elliot cared.

This is something that stood out to me. Cared about what?

Because lines like "I thought he understand" and "nobody understands" are just your really simple lines of someone who will soon become a villain.

But "I thought he cared" it reveals to us that Sawyer liked Elliot. It's a line that comes from the kid that yearns for connection. That yearns for care and love that he never received at home.

I feel really bad for him.

He was betrayed so many times and he hoped for something still...

That's why he works as the main antagonist of horror franchise. Cause he's a tragic character that is so broken that he turned into a monster and he'll torment everyone by projecting his trauma and hurt.

And it's also tragic because he would never change because no one would help him because he's done so many awful shit.

I love him <3

#your post about him liking the color grey correlates to how emotionally constipated he is #this is what I love about Harley's characterization: His actions are always calculating. analytical. yet the root of his actions are done-#-out of emotions.#my hc is that he has the need to “immortalize” himself by cementing his name in science history by achieving the impossible:#find the solution for immortality #it's literally been proven two times that he was kept alive solely for his intelligence #and maybe. just maybe. he could somehow connect with people through his vast knowledge #anyways pls never stop being the Kowalski of Harley 🙏#harley sawyer #ppt harley sawyer #dr harley sawyer #harley sawyer poppy playtime #poppy playtime harley sawyer #the doctor poppy playtime #ppt the doctor #prev tags #first of all #thank you xnnxnxnxn #and second thing #yeah i 100% agree with you #harley wants to connect with someone but if no one wants to he'll force himself on others just like he did with yarnaby #and also despite the only thing that others see in him is his intellect everyone treats his achievements as their own #he has nothing and i think that he had nothing at his home too #hence why he wants to prove himself to everyone by achieveing immortality #everyone will remember his name after that and finally they'll respect him #cause even if they see his intellect they don't treat him fair or as an equal #they treat him as a tool even before they turned him into an experiment #everyone rejects him so he'll force himself on everyone and they'll love him and respect him and they'll finally see him #he's just perfect for horror antagonist

71 notes · View notes

astrologydray · 29 days ago

Text

!!!Pallas in the signs!!!

Pallas reveals how you observe, interpret, and respond to complexity. She governs mental brilliance, intuitive defense, healing strategies, and the wisdom of patterns—blending intellect with instinct in unique, creative ways.

♈ Pallas in Aries

You solve problems through bold action and immediate insight. Your wisdom is direct, courageous, and often centered on initiating change or defending yourself and others.

♉ Pallas in Taurus

Your intelligence is tactile and patient—you see patterns in nature, beauty, and stability. Solutions come through grounding, embodiment, and financial or artistic strategy.

♊ Pallas in Gemini

You’re a verbal strategist—quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and brilliant with language. You see mental patterns instantly and communicate with genius-level adaptability.

♋ Pallas in Cancer

Your insight comes from emotional intelligence and memory. You defend through care and protect through intuition, often sensing a problem’s root before it’s spoken.

♌ Pallas in Leo

You’re creatively strategic—your wisdom shines through performance, boldness, or storytelling. You solve problems by inspiring others and leading with heart.

♍ Pallas in Virgo

You’re a master of detail and practical analysis. Your strategic mind works best when fixing systems, healing others, or organizing chaos into clarity.

♎ Pallas in Libra

You use diplomacy and aesthetics as tools of wisdom. You see relational patterns instantly and excel at solving conflicts with grace, fairness, and finesse.

♏ Pallas in Scorpio

You perceive what’s hidden—your intuition cuts through the surface like a blade. You’re a psychic strategist, uncovering emotional truths and outwitting through depth and secrecy.

♐ Pallas in Sagittarius

You think in symbols, stories, and big-picture visions. Your strategy is philosophical—you solve problems through belief, teaching, or global perspective.

♑ Pallas in Capricorn

You’re a structural strategist—your mind works like an architect of goals and legacies. You solve problems methodically and protect through discipline, control, and long-term planning.

♒ Pallas in Aquarius

You are a pattern-seer of systems, ideas, and networks. Your mind works like a lightning bolt—solving complex problems through innovation, rebellion, or group consciousness.

♓ Pallas in Pisces

You possess poetic, spiritual intelligence—you solve problems through dream logic, empathy, or divine inspiration. Your pattern recognition is subtle, symbolic, and often visionary.

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #astrology observations #astrology community #astrology degrees #astro #astroblr #astrology content #astrologyposts #asteroids in astrology #astrology aspects #zodic signs #zodiac #astrology insights

304 notes · View notes

dastardly-imbecile · 21 days ago

Text

RIGOR MORTIS

AO3 HERE

Jealousy petty enough that you know it’s childish, but still, you look at Simon—always straight-backed, at attention, watching Price with something that approaches reverence, worship for the hands that shaped him from the great primordial mire and brought him to this glorious cage of esse—and you wonder what he has that you lack. --- As the good Doctor's research assistant, you must take care of both him and his monster. | Frankenstein AU OR this is all an excuse to make a throuple, isn't it?

---

Wordcount: ~7k

TW for dubious consent

The good Doctor Price likes many qualities of yours: your quick, nimble fingers, your obedience, your willingness to get down on your knees when he asks you to. Sometimes, you can delude yourself into thinking he also admires the quickness with which you pick up mathematics in science, how you can replicate the circuitry of a machine with a glance, how you can lean over his shoulder and whisper, timidly, the solution to an equation before he finishes writing it down.

Most of all, though, you think he likes your ability to hold a skull by its decaying hair and suppress your gag.

Certainly, at the moment, that’s your most useful skill. Price does not spare you a glance—only a murmured, “there, keep still,”—as he sews careful sutures into the space between head and neck. The head was taken from a prisoner’s cemetery—those executed via guillotine. You do not know what crime the man went under the blade for, but it doesn’t really matter, not anymore, not when his face has decayed to the point of being unrecognizable as human. A gaping hole where a nose would be, eyes picked apart by carrion birds, and lips peeled dryly back to reveal yellowed teeth in blackened gums.

Not ideal. You tighten your grip around the remnants of his hair and try not to look at the maggot peering out from his left eardrum. Avert your gaze, examine the rest of his half-body. His chest is in marginally better condition—taken from some fallen soldier, muscles well-defined, if bruised. Hip narrows down to a sexless pelvis, lean legs that you do not know the origins of. No hands, wrists cut off in flat longitudes of bone and tendon and nerve.

Price finishes the last suture. Looks at you with that characteristic pleased look that has your chin inching forwards, smile brightening.

You’re not a stupid girl. He wouldn’t employ you if you were, no matter how much he likes you to act pliably obsequious. He knows that you know that, and he knows you love him most when he praises you for your intellect, not only the fineness of your features, not only the warmth of your mouth and your quiet, docile moments.

All that and more runs through his head, easily read in his eyes, when he turns to you. Gestures a single calloused hand towards the severed wrists.

“Find a good pair of hands for me, Pet. That’s all I need.”

You nod eagerly. This, you will do. In a world where your kind, those of the fairer sex, are either housemaids or whores, you’ll do anything to stay in this rare position—in which you are not only an assistant to a greater man, but sometimes his muse. Sometimes—during late nights, in which he’s hunched over some problem of physics and electricity, trying to puzzle out the supernatural intricacies of the biological—you sidle up to him, whisper a solution that has his eyes widening, and you feel like an equal.

So you will serve. You will please him, however he desires ((even if you prefer when it’s tasks like these, and not those that require your other womanly wiles (though, you’ll never complain, in that case, either.))

—

You spend a month roaming the city streets, pattering over the rough brick inlays and listening for words of gossip. Doctor Price has given you a handful of money on top of your usual monthly stipend—in case you must do something so uncouth as bribe a mortician, as pay your way out of a constable’s scrutiny—and your hands fiddle with the clean, crisp bills.

It is one of those weeks in which you are distant from each other, which is not necessarily bad. You endure plenty of long stretches of partnership, crammed into a lab from dawn to dusk, midday to midnight, until you cannot smell anything but formaldehyde and leather, cannot see anything but dancing numbers and the crook of his smile. The perennial cycle of the binomial must be naturally balanced out by reserve, by your brief detachment into singular units.

He spends his days penning through stacks of papers and fiddling with beakers of chemicals, working through the more conventional of his experiments—those that he displays to his fellows at the international symposiums, those that aren’t contained and rotting in the cellar beneath the house. You spend your days flipping through newspapers, sitting in patisseries, watching the ebb and flow of life, trying to pinprick where it falters, where you can reach in and staunch the flow.

Nights, he spends in his study, penning letters to his distant, faceless family. You pad through gated cemeteries, toe at the freshly-dug graves. Peer through the window of the morgue, cataloguing the bodies within; trail behind the undertaker’s cart, handkerchief held delicately over your nose.

It is practically a carnival of hands, that week, a catalogue, narrows your view to a single pinpoint. Strolling through the market, you look not at the shopkeepers’ wares but instead at the conditions of their fingers. When a handsome gentleman stops you in the street, whispers at you some honey-steeped woo, you brush him off with a smile and an admiring glance at his manicured fingernails. Gloves and rings, wrinkles and wrists, all the intricacies of the human body distilled to twenty-seven bones and thirty-four muscles.

More than anyone else would, you take the job seriously, which is another reason that Price keeps you under his wing. He’s told you, many times, that it is not the eyes that are the window to the soul, but instead the hands—you may know everything about a person in the space between those five fingers. The callouses and dirt of a laborer, the grease stains of a factory worker. Know the washerwoman by the lye-beget cracks, know the noble by the pristine skin, as smooth and pale as cream. Spot the restless with their fiddling fingers, the murderer with the flecks of blood beneath the nails.

The hands of the common, you rule out immediately. Too rough, skin sloughed away to reveal bone, jaundiced and colored with the grime of a hard life. Head of a prisoner, chest of a soldier, legs of some unknown class, you want something fine, something unique, perhaps even noble, for this final piece of the puzzle.

You consider, briefly, finding a woman’s hands—you like the leanness, the slender fingers—but no, the image of a man must be entirely preserved. Besides, you think Price may see that as a bit of a slight—as putting too much of yourself into his glorious creation, diluting it with a feminine soul. Eve needs Adam’s rib, but Adam eschews all but what lays between her legs, perfection already, beget by the hands of God.

As the week ekes on, you get closer. A sewer’s hands, a painter’s, a jeweler’s—that last one, you almost take. The fingers are long and svelte, well-proportioned, and there is just the right balance of callous and burn, teetering on the edge between pampered and industrious. The type of hand that knows both the sting of the flame, the thrum of the saw; and the heavy weight of gold, the feeling of opulence in the palm.

Almost. Almost, but you shy away at the last moment, some dim part of your mind whispering that you can find better.

Sure enough, it is on the seventh day that you do. Price watches you leave the dwelling with the same light, good luck, as always, but you can smell the impatience brewing, even if it has not yet materialized. He found the head in two days, the chest in three—he understands the necessity of perfection, but does not always adhere to those values. Sometimes, you fancy yourself—if not a better scientist—then, a better artist, a better eye for purpose than function.

So, you set upon the streets with a mission. It is not yet midday before you find it, find the body in the morgue—a surgeon, cold and pale upon the table. Young, for both his occupation and his death, perhaps a decade and a half over you, yourself. If pressed, you could not name a single feature of his face, not the color of his hair nor the hue of his eyes, whether he smiled in death or snarled or wept.

There is another thing to focus on.

You look, and you know that they’re perfect.

A physician’s hands. As dextrous as the jeweler’s, perhaps even moreso, hands well-worked. Same balance of both worlds, but instead of burying themselves in fire and metal, these fingers have known the body. Have known the push of the liver and the warmth of the blood, have touched the womb from the outside, performed some perverse violation of the art of birth—leave the mother through nature and instinct, return with the cold precision of a scalpel and the impersonality of rubber.

It fills you with a brief joy to imagine.

There is, as well, a connection to Price that you think he will appreciate, if not consciously. Doctor maker, Doctor monster. On those sleepy fall nights in which he indulges in the bottle, he tells you, sometimes, about his family—always his cousins, nieces and nephews and siblings. Never a wife, never a child. The topic is always skirted around with a reserved sort of sensitivity, despite the fact that you’re sure he would have both, if he could, if there was not some unknowable obstacle.

So perhaps you will not make the monster into a son, with these hands, but you will connect them in a way you think he’ll be pleased with.

Acquisition is a far easier task than location, funnily enough. You slip the morgue’s night guard a fistfull of crinkled bills, a coy smile and the promise of more, if he waits. Spend a few hurried minutes sawing at the hands with one of the Doctor’s serrated blades—less bloody, this many days dead—and shove them into a burlap sack.

When you return home, under the cover of night, you first change your clothes from the formalin-soaked gore, scrub your hands down, and proceed down to the bereavement lab, where you upend the bag’s contents upon the great white table. Arrange the hands neatly, five fingers all splayed out, and only then do you ring for Price.

With careful anticipation, you watch his face as he crests over the stairs, as his eyes alight upon your gift. First a contained interest and then, as he draws closer, it melts into flat-out intrigue. When he stands before the table, lifts them up and turns them about in the light, and you babble something about doctors and meat and dexterity, he smiles, turns to you. Wraps a single hand around your neck to tug you closer, brush a kiss over your hairline.

“Good, Sweet,” he murmurs, “I knew you could do it. Good.”

You bask in his praise, as you have always done. Meet his eyes, and without needing to be asked, sink down to your knees.

The mixing of the flesh and the theoretical is not too uncommon for Price. When he’s not in the mood to hear your input—or, when the problem he’s puzzling out is too complex even for you—he sometimes likes you under his desk as he scribbles overhead, finding the derivative of cosecant while you find the same in the gleam of his shaft, the heavy weight against your tongue.

“A moment,” he says, moving swiftly off to one of the great refrigeration cabinets lining the room. He opens it to extract, of course, the half-man, the thing that is lining up to become his magnum opus: frost clouding his limbs, vaster than any human man would have the right to be.

Price’s been refining it, in the time you’ve been gone. The face is still scrappy, almost repellant to behold, but he’s grafted upon it some other soul’s aquiline nose, refined the lips and cleaned the teeth to just off-white. It is eyeless, but you don’t miss, upon the shelves, a jar with two white orbs suspended in gray-green formaldehyde.

With a grunt, he hoists the limp body up, carries him to the table and drops him with a limp thud. As he grabs a long silver needle and a spool of suture thread, you undo the buttons on his pants, slowly ease them down. Move to his boxers next, fingers looping under the waistband to tug them away for ease of access.

If it were not for the hardness of his cock, you would not have thought he was aroused at all. Above you, his hands move with the practiced ease of someone who is utterly focused—threading the needle in a single thrust, picking up the hand and lining it up with the wrist. You hum in satisfaction when you see that it’s a perfect fit.

It’s that that finally pulls an iota of attention towards you. He reaches down with a languidness that approaches absent, buries his hand in your hair and pushes you gently forwards, until your nose bumps against the tip of his cock.

Right. The time for your scientific contributions is over, for the moment. Now, all it is is the widening of your mouth, the movement of your tongue as you flick it over the slit, lapping up salty drops of precum. He moves his hand back up to the creature, but not without an approving sort of pat, as gentlemanly as one would do to a dog.

You lean forwards, taking more of him into your mouth, until he hits the back of your throat. Give him a light suck, tongue running over the most prominent of the veins. With your own hands, you reach up to cup his balls, squeezing them as gently as one would an overripe fruit. Not the most appetizing of metaphors, but you’re not in the mood to think of something more palatable.

As you close your eyes, tears trailing off the edges, pushing his cock further into your throat, you almost laugh to imagine what your mother would think of you now. Somehow, you suspect she’d be less distressed over the image of you on your knees than she’d be over the visage of you in a lab coat, hair done up and graphite stick in hand.

“I’m almost through with this side,” Price says, and you take it as the cue it is—hold your breath, move forwards, sucking and licking as much as you are able, cup his balls in the way you know he likes, after a thousand other nights in the lab. As his hand above ties off the final knot, his stomach stiffens, and he lets out the only indication of enjoyment this whole night, a low grunt that quickly dissipates.

You have no opportunity to do anything other than swallow, as he unloads into the hollow of your throat. Another moment of rapturous tension before you cannot take anymore, before you must eject yourself backwards, draw a desperate heave of air into your lungs. You look up at him, trying to catch his eye, searching for approval in this art of yours as well.

He does not meet your gaze, but he does extend a hand down—it smells faintly of rot and alcohol, of the sharp and the dull comingling into one—and uses his thumb to wipe a stray tear from your cheek.

“I can handle the rest alone,” he murmurs, “thank you, Pet. Get some sleep.”

Obediently, you stand, brushing the concrete dust from your skirt. Proceed up the stairs and leave him to the darkest experiments of mankind. Down a glass of water to cleanse your mouth—necessary, if you’d like your tongue to taste any sort of pleasant come morning—but still, you mourn that bit of reminder, the tactile proof that you are loved, if only in a half, twisted way.

—

It is not until the end of the month, until the autumn season begins to slide into an entropic sort of winter, that you’re called back into the lab. Also not entirely unusual, though the span of time is longer than you’re used to—but you find other ways to amuse yourself. Go rummaging through the market for dresses that you’d never find an opportunity to wear, spend morning hours people-watching in cafes and readjusting your comprehension of the human body from the phalanges to the face.

Otherwise, you get to exercise the intellectual side of your mind by maintaining Price’s experiments, balancing chemical pHs and feeding the lab rats, marking down long lines of decimal-counted data. Even grade the rare student’s paper, when it passes across your desk. You’re sure that they—these gilded young men, hailing from rich families in distant, green lands—would throw quite the fit, had they known a woman’s hand gave them that red-inked, merely satisfactory, but that’s part of the fun.

In all that time, you hardly see hide nor hair of the Doctor. A passing in the halls, wherein you do not have enough time to note any of his features except for the bags beneath his eyes. Half of a meal, during which he hurries out midway through, and you pack up his dinner for the next day (and, a week later, must throw it out, because he never came back for it). A quick suck in his study, where he leaves before you’ve finished swallowing, and you must wash blood out of your hair, scrub the crimson handprints off your cheeks.

The night he finally calls you down, the sky is midway through birthing a storm—lightning striking indiscriminately at the ground, thunder speaking tongues of the ancients to the cosmos. His facial hair is thick and unruly, and his lab coat looks as if he has spent the entirety of the past month sleeping in it, but you cannot help the excitement bubbling in you as you descend the stairs—all this dishevelment only speaks of better things to come. He only ever loses track of his carefully-maintained facade when there is something bigger to worry about.

Below, the basement is far messier than when you left it. The air is wet and heavy, permeated with a haze of decay. Every possible surface is crowded with opened jars, pooling discolored liquid, tools coated in gore.

Most obvious, though, is the body laid out across the white table. Wrapped around its limbs like coils of chain are thick cords of copper wire, all of which spiderweb out to long, rodlike structures. As you draw closer, you’re able to make out more of its features, and they tell the story of work.

Its—his, you suppose—face has graduated from ragged to defined, bones shaved away in some places, augmented in others, patchwork skin grafted over the wounds. Hair threaded like a wig, some dirty-blonde color that looks too smooth for its host.

The rest of his body hasn’t been spared alterations either. Already-muscled chest padded out to gargantuan proportions, biceps almost as large as your head—when standing, the man must near seven feet. All decay cut away, replaced to a corpse in pristine condition.

You hide a small smile when you notice he’s barely altered the hands, if at all.

“What is this?” You ask, as Price buzzes around the room, checking the wires, flipping switches in small black boxes. He turns to you, and you do not miss the half-manic look in his eyes.

“The boundary,” he says, looking up as if he can see through the basement floor, “that has never once been breached. The recreation of life, as God never intended.”

You draw in a quick breath.

“What can I do?”

He shoots you a smile. You cannot tell whether it’s fond or patronizing. Probably both, but you choose the latter.

“Watch, Pet.”

Thunder booms overhead. He steps back, moving to the doorway. A moment—the pounding of rain, the aftershocks of a storm, the buzzing of indeterminable power—and then, the room lights up.

Every cord of wire flares bright white, and the body upon the table begins to jerk, spasming and seizuring with a force that would crack a normal human’s spine. Price rushes forwards, places a hand upon the chest, and though you know the art of science—frog legs twitching at electric shock, exposed muscle convulsing with a bit of salt—it looks, for a moment like magic.

Moreso, when the lightning fades, and the body is still twitching, when its head slams each cheek against the table and…

And it is the hand that moves first. The twitch of the fingers, breaking free from the stiffness of quietus—and then, they clench into a fist. Price steps back.

It fills you with a horrible, heady sort of terror to watch. You stumble back, pressing a hand against the wall, as you watch what you feel humans were never meant to behold—the cleaving of the veil, the swing of the elbow and the slow opening of the eyelids, revealing the rutilence of half-life behind them. Your stomach churns, pushing nauseous bile up your throat, and you must turn, retch some vile green liquid onto the ground.

Intellectually, you prepared for this—no good result could come out of six months of collecting corpse parts, after all—but it is different to watch, as different as voyeuring a murder versus feeling the knife across your own throat. If it hurts this much to watch, you cannot imagine how it feels to engender—to bring life back to the dead, to buoy along the soul like Charon and his ferry. It would have driven a lesser man mad, you suspect. John Price is not lesser. Nor, at times, do you think he is a man.

Certainly, he doesn’t look the part now, wild-eyed and laughing and cursing all at once, spitting the language before humans knew languages up at whatever Gods he purloined this soul from. You shy away, despite yourself.

Upon the table, both hands move in unison. Even Price backs away a step as, with the clumsyness of a newborn foal, the monster pushes himself up to a sitting position. You resist the urge to put a hand over your face as he looks around, head ticking slow as a clock’s hand. Some animal instinct kicks up in your hindbrain, archaic warning of predators before humanity divined gunpowder from the womb of the earth.

He opens his mouth, closes it again.

“...Where?” He croaks out, eventually, the word so mottled by disuse that you only translate it when Price answers.

“Life,” he says, “you are alive.”

He tilts his head. Surprisingly innocent, childish, but then—you suppose that this man, large as he is, is an infant in the technical side of things, in the eyes of God, if God dares to peer at this small crescent of His earth. If you were Him, you would let this storm rage until forty days of inundation wash all traces of this from the land.

“I… I. I am? Am?”

Above, the rain lessens. Looks like you have once again escaped the merciful wrath of your maker.

“Simon,” Price murmurs, reaching out to brush a single finger down the space between his eyes, as one might anoint the holy with ash, “Simon.”

“Simon,” he repeats. Slowly, he turns, and the dully-rising dread peaks when his eyes land upon you. They are a strange, electric blue, as striking as the storm that birthed him.

Price says your name, but you don’t hear it, caught in the nexus of those eyes. The monster repeats it as well, and it’s only when his scarred lips form the shape of your soul that you snap back into reality.

“Your hands,” you say, swallowing past the lump in your throat. He looks down at them, as if he’d not realized he had these limbs. “I gave them to you.”

You chance a look at Price, afraid that he will anger at your presumptiveness—really, you only found them, it’s him who gave them—but all he does is nod, a paternal sort of pride painted clear on his face.

“And I, the rest. Price. Doctor.”

“Doctor,” Simon says, and this one comes with a low, hungry sort of growl. You must concentrate on not letting your legs give out beneath you, not letting the rasp of his voice shake you to the core.

—

There is much to do during winter—a deceptive amount, especially with the new addition to your household. In the early days of spring, Price tells you, he has a yearly symposium—the largest, the glitziest—and there is only one creation he will be presenting.

And so, besides the normal jobs, now, you must contend with the monster stalking your home. At the best of times, Simon is unnervingly quiet, an unknowable presence that lurks in the corners of the house, watching you with those eyes like midsummer noon. At worst, he trails hardly a step behind you, hands so close that they brush the small of your back.

Hard to tell which one of you he takes to more. Spends more time with you than Price, of course, but that is simply because you have been set to the task of glorified governess. Smarts at you, at times, because you know your skills are higher than teaching a half-man the alphabet, but he takes to it surprisingly quickly. By two weeks' time, he can tear through any book you give him, discuss it in that gravelly, halting voice (that is, if he deigns to speak, which is not often). Mathematics, similarly, he soaks up like a sponge—arithmetic in two days, algebra in a week, trigonometry by the end of the month and calculus in three.

Sometimes, when you perch upon the plush chair in Price’s office, teaching him in one subject or another, he seems to be hardly listening at all—fixes that queer gaze upon you, hands fluttering like caged birds, like he wants to grab something, twist something, break something.

Quite the contrast to his manner around Price. Him, he watches as well, but there is a shade of devotion to his gaze that is off what he gifts to you—he is utterly still and utterly proper, always a polite distance away, speaks when ordered to and seems to leave you by the wayside. It smarts at you in the same way that catcalling men do, that your crisp University rejection letter did—the idea that you are somehow, automatically lesser, that you do not deserve that same measure of respect despite your competence.

Perhaps it’s loyalty to his maker—nothing personal. Still. You cannot help it if you’re a bit snippier, next time you’re instructed to teach him something as inane as the history of the Greek city-states. Cannot help it if you try to meet his gaze, which is both bright as flame, and dark, dull as pennies, avert your eyes almost immediately.

Spring approaches. There is a strange, thrumming energy in the air that you cannot quite capture, no matter how many times you attempt to revert to homeostasis. Help Price in the lab, and he is there, standing in the corner with hands behind his back. Spend time for yourself, those rare snatches that you can flee into the city streets, and it simply makes his presence all the more suffocating, when you return home.

One night, you seek some release of your own, huddling under your sheets and running a finger through the slickness between your legs, only to see the gleam of blue in the darkness, the shape of someone in the doorway.

“Out!” You shriek immediately, bolting up, smoothing your nightgown over your thighs. It is not even so simple an issue as a casual glance—he must have opened your quarter doors, stood there for who-knows how long.

When you complain as much to the Doctor, he simply hums in acknowledgement. Does not even bother to look up from his newspaper.

“It’s his way, Pet. He watches. Doesn’ mean he knows what he sees.”

Your neck bristles, and you turn to see him standing a ways behind you, watching, listening. “Price, Sir-”

“Relax,” he says, “lock your door, next time, if it bothers you so much.”

You know that it’ll be no use arguing. Don’t bother to say you did, don’t bother to point out whatever smug satisfaction radiates from his broad shoulders.

It is as if you are a moth, and Price, your lantern, your light, has been dimmed. Sometimes, taken entirely. Strangely, you find yourself missing those quiet moments in which he’d take his pleasure from you—now, all his time is monopolized by the hulking creature. Wherein once you would have had a brief snatch of free time, now, he stands in the lab and runs a magnifying glass over the expanse of his back, takes small samples of skin from his chest to biopsy in spinning machines.

He plays into it too, you’re sure, though not sure enough that you can call it out without fear of appearing hysterical. Tilts his head up and exposes his neck in the way you know that Price likes, in the way that you perfected. Rasps quiet questions about his family, about his life outside the bounds of a lab, those that you have always wanted to ask, but have never mulled up the bravery to do so.

When Price answers—muses on a childhood among the Swiss alps, talks briefly of some beguiling young love who he does expand upon—Simon fixes you with those eyes and you can swear he almost smiles.

It all makes, of course, for a tense carriage ride to the Symposium, held in the center of Ingolstadt. You join, as you enter the city outskirts, many other carriages, all carrying scientists of varying ages and echelons, all carrying a menagerie of experiments. Tall machines of glittering copper that spin and squeal, animals with too many heads and too few limbs, anywhere on the spectrum from stark white to tar-black, great bushels of papers that are marked from top-to-bottom with lines of text crammed tightly as ants.

Price leads you through the streets with a hand upon your waist, the other wrapped around Simon’s arm. Two equal measures of possessiveness that somewhat shift your idea of the balance of power—he puts the same level of control over both of you, exerts it like a driver might the carrot and the stick, a scale balanced by a ton of feathers and a ton of hearts.

The day of the Symposium is a blur of motion, sights and sounds and lights, until, suddenly—before you can even really think to process it—you are standing in the centre of a grand amphitheater, Price to one side and Simon to the other. His voice is strong as nails, carries to the edges of the space, as he details the process of resurrection—makes the act of the unholy into a simple recipe, a checklist of ever-increasing sins.

It’s not until Simon steps into the limelight that the crowd gasps. Even without the necessary backstory, he is a striking sight—man of scar and gnarl, standing tall enough that he could hold the earth on his shoulders. Somehow, it puts him in a suddenly different light, than the one of half-vertigo, half-abhorrence—you can find traces of the grandiose in the space between his shoulderblades, see some ancient regality in the strongness of his features.

He raises his hand as Price withdraws a long knife, so sharp that the edge is invisible. You bite your lip as he carefully steeples the blade against the skin and then draws a slash that has the crowd clamoring. Blood, red as jewels, seeps from the wound, but before your eyes, it closes, drawn tight by the suture of some invisible angel.

After the dramaticism of the presentation, you flee back to your quiet room in the inn. Night falls, is long-past, by the time the Doctor returns—you’re sure he spent much of that time explaining the further intricacies of drawing life from the earth like thread from a spool. Simon, of course, trails behind him, but you’re gratified to see Price direct him into his own room.

When he approaches you, you fall upon the bed, already assuming your position, eager to let him fill the ache that has had an entire season to fester. He does not, however, seek the warmth of your mouth—but, instead, undoes the clasp of his pants himself, and tells you, with a low voice, “undress.”

Your heart picks up pace. In all the five years you have served Price, he has taken plenty of climaxes in the warmth of your mouth, under the pressure of your fist. More rarely, has coaxed one out of you with the help of his fingers and his mouth. Only twice, though, has he truly fucked you—some hang-up that you have never questioned him about. Something that transcends the expected boundaries of the master-apprentice, the bounds of the illicit, and makes it into something that approaches a partnership. Puts you on the level of equals, somewhat, exposes a soft vulnerability that Price does not trust you enough to show.

Today, though, you suppose he is exhilarated by a successful demonstration. Perhaps, also, on the glass of whiskey he no doubt had while talking business with his fellow men. In any case, it’s enough that, when you extricate yourself from his undergarments, he starts immediately upon your neck, sucking wet bruises into the skin. Moves to your clavicle, where he plants one right in the hollow center, and then down to your breasts, where his mustache tickets the sensitive skin enough for your nipples to harden. You wrap your hands around the back of his head—perhaps, the only time you have ever felt in control of this man—and allow him to take his measure from you.

When his fingers dip into your slit, he groans. “Already, Pet?”

You can only whimper in response. When he withdraws from your breasts, you are suddenly near the point of shivering—but it only lasts a moment, as he lines up his cock with your hole, too desperate to continue his ministrations. Desperate for your gloved embrace, desperate for this to end—as with the previous two times he has had his fill of you, you can already sense that some vulnerable part of him is withdrawing into the darkness, that he is already half-regretting letting you take so much of him.

When he thrusts into you, all that goes fleeing from your mind. He fills you to the brim, hips locked together, and though his kisses tastefully avoid your mouth, you take your pleasure where you can get it—this case, in the nips upon your throat, your earlobes.

And then, everything freezes.

The door to Simon’s room is open. He stands there, watching you with an unpracticed curiosity, and you freeze immediately, hands splaying against Price’s forehead and chest.

“Stop,” you say, “he’s- he’s watching, he’s-”

Price doesn’t pause. Quickens, if anything, another powerful thirst that blows your words out from under you. Leans down, to whisper in your ear, “let him.”

When rapture washes over you, when your walls begin to stutter, and he pulls out to spray his spend across your stomach and breasts, your eyes are still locked onto Simon’s.

—

Back at home, things are different, a buildup that escalates over the course of a week. Simon, now, does not only deign to follow—sometimes, you turn, to find him near-pressed to your skin, breath fanning out against the back of your neck. Dinners are somehow both more and less awkward—you are suddenly acutely aware of the balance of power in the room, the idea of the Doctor and his hounds. The hunter and the chaser, the killer and the lapdog.

But you do not know what it is building up to—at least, not until you stand in your room, one hazy afternoon, perusing your books, and turn to find Simon—as per usual—close enough to stab. This time, he blocks your exit from the room.

“Excuse me,” you say sharply. He does not move—simply tilts his head down, regarding you with those peculiar eyes.

“You,” he says, voice deep and husky as laudanum, “you and the Doctor.”

Your skin prickles with discomfort, with the memory of being watched.

“...Yes.” An attempt to sidle around him is quickly aborted by the shuffle of his body, and now you find yourself cornered against the wall.

“What he does t’ you,” he says, drawing a step closer, chest now practically pressed against your face, “You must… must find a way.”

You blink up at him. He lifts his hands, flexing his fingers.

“A way for what?”

“Y’ gave me these,” he says, reaching for the hem of your skirt, and you are suddenly acutely aware of the pace of your breath, “find me a cock, as well.”

The sentence is so absurd that it takes a moment to process—and, the instant it does, you’re trying to move, dodge past him. “I-”

He catches you before you can spit a denial, hand around your throat, the other coming around to your waist. Effortlessly, he lifts you, pinning you against the wall, bringing the one at your neck to traverse under your skirt, hemming you in with his body.

“Can do so much,” he grunts, fingers navigating past your undergarments, “with only this, Dove, imagine-”

His finger sinks into your hole, aided by the slickness. You let out an inarticulate sort of cry, half-speech, half-moan, still wriggling in his grasp. The memory of his body flashes before your eyes—the smooth stretch of skin, between his legs, missing the masculine that characterized the rest of his bulk—but the thought flees as he adds a second finger, driving it deeper inside of you. Simply one of them, those long, surgeon’s instruments that you hand-picked, is enough to fill you—two borders unbearable.

It’s enough to make you cry out. “I can’t,” you manage, but he shakes his head, growls something about need.

You feel a third finger probing at your folds, and gather the last of your wherewithal to yell, “Price!”

Simon does not quite laugh, but the rough exhale of breath might be a chuckle on any other man. He draws his fingers back, then thrusts them back in, curling them into your warmth.

Just barely visible over his shoulder, you see the crest of the Doctor’s head, see the way he halts at the door. Steps into the room with a far more measured pace, circles around Simon to observe you with the same idle detachment that all of his specimens get.

You can’t summon the breath to plea. Useless, in any case, as he places a hand upon Simon’s arm.

“She likes it,” he says, “when you touch the clitoris. It should be higher.”

You jolt when Simon finds it, shockwaves pulsing at the rough brush of his thumb. You sob something, back rubbing up against the wall with the intensity, but all he does is smooth a hand over your hair, coo a few gentle words.

“Shh, Pet. This is what I made him for.”

You throw your head back, not caring that it collides against the wall, as Simon slowly adds a third finger into your hole, stretching it beyond its limits.

When you climax, it’s with a special sort of violence, that that pumps adrenaline into your heart, exacerbated only by the four pairs of hands running down your skin. Good thing you are being held up, because all the tension bleeds out from each joint, rendering you into jelly and pigfat.

“Come, Simon,” Price says, and he spares you only a single further glance, as you’re lowered, not ungently, to the ground, left to recover yourself and reorient your mind, recover the memory of this encounter in the first place.

—

It’s not a surprise when he calls you down to the laboratory. When Simon is naked upon the table and Price stands behind him, a hand upon his shoulder. Nods to you, benevolent smile upon his face.

“I have a new job for you. Did so well on the last one, Pet.”

Your eyes flick first to Simon’s hands, then, to the space between his legs, the emptiness. Swallow once, trying to harness the saliva to quash the arousal burning behind your naval.

“Of course,” you say, dipping your head once, “anything, for you.”

You’re not sure who you’re talking to. You’re not sure if it matters. You’re all, in the end, one entity, lightning and flesh and eyes that pierce you like a butterfly to a pinboard. If this is another chance to seek approval, to prove worthiness, then so be it. There are, after all, many things to like about you, but it all narrows down at this moment to your ability to perform (though, of course, the body of a courtesan and the mind of a virtuoso don’t hurt, either).

#please forgive my egregious violation of lab safety #x reader #cod #call of duty #cod x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #john price #john price x reader #price x reader #cod smut

367 notes · View notes

technovillain · 3 months ago

Text

my d.e. fanskills set

these are based on my own personality. so just allow me to be nerdy and vaguely vulnerable for a second.

INTELLECT

SCAFFOLD: call back to past solutions to problems. You are a seasoned professional who can make a Venn diagram of any two situations. This is always appropriate. Cool for: Architects, Think-Tankers, Technical Support

IDEOLOGY: apply your truths. Bring those Philosophy 101 facts to the forefront and show everyone you know how the system works. Fuck the man. Fight the power. Cool for: Soapboxers, Revolutionaries, Activists

REFERENCE: recall previous facts and information you have stored in your head. Cool for: Scholars, Expert Witnesses, Archivists

THREAD: tie unrelated things together to form new concepts or truths. Easily led astray by distraction. Cool for: Conspiracists, Investigators, Crossword Champions

RACONTEUR: tell a story, be it true or false. Is the web you weave convincing? More importantly, does it baffle and dazzle the mind? Cool for: Authors, Compulsive Liars, Dungeon Masters

EVERGREEN: your childlike, everlasting hunger to learn more, and to learn everything. A potted plant frustrated by its root space. Cool for: Finger-Painters, Those Who Pine, Renaissance Men

PSYCHE

APRÉS MOI: look forward to the consequences of the future. See yourself return to the clay and find what remains. Cool for: Dark Poets, Forensic Scientists, Prognosticators

MOTLEY: a fool from a fantasy world. Thinks nothing of the mortal realm and encourages escapism through imagination. Cool for: Spiraling Entertainers, the Absent-Minded, Nincompoops

SOLICITUDE: show compassion and understanding to those around you. You've been there before, reassure them. Cool for: Village Elders, Veterinarians, the Lonely

MATRYOSHKA: connect with versions of yourself long gone. Different names, the shunned, the dearly missed, hold court with them all. Cool for: Introspects, Therapists, Those with Identity Disorders

L'APPEL DU VIDE: think of all the ways it could go wrong. Usually unnecessary and distressing, occasionally enlightening. Occasionally allows you to get into the mindset of a lunatic. Cool for: People on the Edge, Paranoiacs, Health & Safety Inspectors

BREECHES: you're a big boy, you're a grown up, these are facts that you can believe all the time. People take you seriously. You are confident. Cool for: Fragile Egos, Self-Proclaimed Big Boys, Younger Siblings

PHYSIQUE

GUTS: something is stirring in your stomach. Can you handle it? Cool for: Daredevils, the Honest, Dumpster-Divers

SWIVEL: scope out the room. Locate danger and emergency exits. Trust no one. You aren't paranoid, you're just being more cautious than everyone else. Cool for: Bodyguards, Runaways & Fugitives, Petty Criminals

FLOODGATES: Hold it in. Don't cry, don't emote, don't let them know what you're thinking. Cool for: Feeling-Bottlers, Chronic Tough-Guys, Judiciaries

MULTI-TOOL: be resourceful with your tools. Use everything for multiple purposes, get all the juice out of every fruit in your basket. Cool for: The Frugal, Those Who Hate Doing the Dishes, Tailors

ITCH: encompasses most primal desires. Destruction, feasting, sexual gratification, violence. Cool for: Vandals, Hedonists, Party Animals

VIGOR: the overall state of your immune system and physical health. Your body is a well oiled machine. Cool for: Health Nuts, Olympians, Hypochondriacs

MOTORICS

FLOAT: sneak around, light as a feather. Leave the environment undisturbed. You are a gentle breeze. Cool for: Jewel Thieves, Eavesdroppers, the Forgotten

IGNITION: the adrenaline-fed movements of a maniac. How scared are you? How badly do you want to run away? Cool for: Prey Animals, the Guilty, Cowards

FLUIDITY: loosen your jaw and unclench your fists. You're in control of the situation, and none of this will matter a year from now. Cool for: Yogis, Enlightened Monks, Trusted Leaders

PANACHE: move your body in all the right ways. You are unthinkingly perfect at knowing where to put your hands and feet. Cool for: Masters of Charisma, Dancers, Impressive Show-Offs

CROSSHAIRS: make precise and accurate motions with your body and the tools that you wield. Cool for: Court Stenographers, Sharpshooters, Sign Interpreters

BRUNT: bear a heavy load. You don't need any help with this. Your muscles and joints are forged of steel. Cool for: Heroes of the Working Class, Shot-Putters, Powerlifters

#fan skills #disco elysium #i have no good tags to put on this #you're just going to have to look at it and tell me i'm a cool person thanks #i worked hard on this :]

237 notes · View notes

novafire-is-thinking · 9 months ago

Text

Medic, Maverick, Maniac, Murderer: Understanding Pharma

First thing’s first: I love Pharma, dearly.

In all the time I’ve spent evaluating his character, I’ve mainly focused on what can be worked out about who he is as an individual: his core sense of self, psychological drives, subjective worldview, etc.

When all else is stripped away, who is Pharma?

This treatise is the product of obsessing over Pharma, analyzing canon (and extras), and reading as many different perspectives on his character from fans across the fandom as I could find. The post is long, so for those of you who balk at the thought of reading a shortfic’s worth of Pharma thoughts, feel free to read the TL;DR (Conclusion) at the end and then decide if the full read is worth your time. Also, a premium reading experience is available in the form of the original Google Doc version.

As you read, keep in mind that this is primarily a mix of psychoanalysis, evidence-based examination, and speculation—not moral, ethical, or sociological commentary. The goal is to examine Pharma’s psychological drives and core values, and each of his appearances in the context of those. All other types of evaluation are up to readers.

Now, take your victim blaming-allergy meds (just in case); remove your black-and-white thinking caps; and leave your personal morality lenses at the door.

Psychological Drives & Core Values

Why does Pharma act the way he does? What gives him a reason to keep living? What are his personal priorities?

At the beginning of the Delphi arc, First Aid establishes Pharma as a “control freak” and someone who “thinks he’s an expert on everything.”

Now, First Aid has a habit of complaining about his bosses, but on both points, there’s canon evidence to back them both.

Expertise and Intellect

Throughout the Delphi and Luna 1 arcs, it’s established that Pharma is a skilled and brilliant doctor.

He once performed a 4-way fuel pump transplant, donating his own fuel pump in the process. (see above panel)

Later, he invented a soundbomb that left an echo laced with a virus and invented an antidote to that virus:

And on Luna 1, he was on the edge of finding a cure for Cybercrosis, based on the fact that Swerve was able to formulate a cure from his notes.

More than being a doctor, Pharma lives for intellectual and scientific achievement as a physician scientist. He feels most alive when he’s able to solve complex medical problems, and when his achievements are recognized by those whose opinion he considers important.

This is Pharma’s 'why.'

And even though he’s arrogant and enjoys praise, it’s not his primary motivation. He doesn’t need it in order to set his mind to whatever he’s interested in, although he’ll seek it from those he values most (i.e. Ratchet).

Pharma sees himself as less of a doctor, and more as a scientific innovator or medical maverick. The practice of medicine is primarily a catalyst for his creativity and intellect; it’s not an end in and of itself like it is for someone like Ratchet or First Aid.

First Aid’s observation of Pharma can be better phrased as, “[Pharma] thinks he’s an expert on everything medical”—because he’s not so driven by achievement and admiration that he’ll grovel at the feet of strangers and get good at something he doesn’t personally find interesting. The only time we see him express a desire for praise is when he’s around Ratchet—someone he holds in high regard for both personal and professional reasons. This makes sense since Ratchet is one of the only people who can give Pharma any kind of competition within what he considers to be his area of expertise.

“Each day we go to our work in the hope of discovering—in the hope that some one, no matter who, may find a solution of one of the pending great problems—and each succeeding day we return to our task with renewed ardor; and even if we are unsuccessful, our work has not been in vain, for in these strivings, in these efforts, we have found hours of untold pleasure, and we have directed our energies to the benefit of mankind.” —Nikola Tesla

Ego

Without question, Pharma has an inflated ego, but having an inflated sense of self doesn’t automatically mean a person is a full-blown narcissist or that they are totally uncaring.

Every personality trait exists on a spectrum. Yes, Pharma is arrogant, but the presence of arrogance doesn’t automatically and completely cancel out all “positive” traits. (For fun, check out studies on Dark Tetrad and Light Triad personality traits.)

People are complex. Arrogance can coexist with genuine kindness, ruthlessness can coexist with deep compassion, etc.

Whether Pharma exhibits genuine kindness is up to each reader’s interpretation of what little canon material exists, but the point is: Pharma’s arrogance doesn’t automatically rule out the possibility of authentic “positive” traits.

Controlling Tendencies

Pharma is comfortable pulling the power card and using it to dump what he sees as uninteresting parts of medical practice on those below him:

“So Fisitron’s writing about the Wreckers’ elbows now, is he?” said Delphi’s Chief Medical Officer. “Come on, First Aid - get to it. You’ve got a Fader in Row 2 downstairs.” He squeezed the air with his finger and thumb. “He’s about this far from shutdown.” —from Bullets by James Roberts

However, there’s nothing in canon indicating he’s power-hungry in a megalomaniacal sense. He’s not Starscream or Megatron; he doesn’t seek political or social power. In fact, he seems perfectly happy hiding away in a lab or medibay by himself so he can direct all his energy toward solving issues and achieving the so-called ‘impossible’ within the field of medicine:

The ways in which Pharma exercises power and control are through his expertise, and his administrative/management skills. That’s it.

Self-confidence

Pharma’s arrogance and controlling tendencies don’t seem to be a mask—like he’s trying to compensate for some sense of lack (in those areas). Yes, he fears failure, and yes, he displays some insecurity when Ratchet questions his competence. But at every other point and in every other way, Pharma is unapologetically self-confident. He’s fully self-assured of his intellectual prowess and problem-solving capabilities; he knows what he knows, and he also knows what he doesn’t know.

Pharma’s arrogance and desire for control don’t stem from a hidden lack of confidence or a hunger for power on its own. They stem from the fact that he genuinely sees himself as the best person for the work he does. He trusts himself above anyone else to solve problems that come his way—medical or otherwise (within limits).

Elitism vs. Superiority

I’ve always read Pharma as having an elitist attitude, but not in the social stratification sense:

elitist (adj.) relating to or supporting the view that a society or system should be led by an elite.

There’s no evidence that Pharma believes an elite class of people should hold the most power. Instead, Pharma’s “elitism” is actually an individualistic sense of superiority. It’s centered on him alone, and is tied to his capabilities as a physician scientist and surgeon.

Pharma sees himself as the best of the best and makes sure everyone knows it—sometimes through his words, but mostly by his conduct in the field of medicine. This, paired with Pharma’s natural temperament, doesn’t exactly make him socially popular—inside or outside of medicine:

One could argue that the “personality” Lockdown is referring to was a result of all Pharma had suffered at Delphi and Luna 1, but just as easily, one could argue he was always a bit difficult to get along with, and that his traumatic experiences merely magnified his already-present psychological patterns. Personally, I like the latter interpretation because it’s a flaw that makes Pharma a more interesting character no matter his mental state.

Everyone reacts differently to real and perceived social rejection. Some are so concerned about it that they’ll try anything to belong; others genuinely don’t care, and they continue as usual; and still others cope by shifting their mindset and developing a sense of pride in being an outsider.

There’s no evidence for this in canon, but I believe it’s within reasonable characterization boundaries to headcanon Pharma as being in the second or third category.

With either of those two mindsets, a sense of superiority can develop, or even be an inciting factor. Either someone sees themselves as genuinely superior to the majority and doesn’t mind when this alienates them from people, or they convince themselves they’re superior because the pain of accepting they were rejected for who they are is too much to handle.

Whatever the case, the point is, having an “elitist” attitude isn’t necessarily rooted in a sociological or ideological belief. Sometimes, individuals just see something in themselves that—to them—justifies a sense of personal superiority. A quick glance at Pharma’s canon appearances makes it clear he holds such a view of himself, at least to some degree.

Morality and Compassion

When Pharma first shows up in canon, he’s working at the New Institute. A lot of questionable things took place there on a regular basis—things Pharma would have been aware of, to some degree. However, his presence at the Institute doesn’t automatically mean he agreed with everything happening. Depending on how strongly someone feels about something, some people are content to disagree in silence. Not everyone who seeks employment considers it a priority that the establishment they work for aligns perfectly with their moral values. After all, there are other reasons to take a job: financial benefits, exclusive educational and career opportunities, pure convenience, etc.

I’m not here to say either way whether Pharma’s willingness to turn a blind eye to the events at the New Institute was wrong or right; that’s up to each reader to decide for themselves. However, Pharma’s choice to remain employed at the Institute for some time can say something about him as a character: his priority as a doctor and person is not to take care of everyone he encounters, or to act as some kind of moral or ethical authority.

This isn’t to say Pharma won’t ever stand up for something he regards as right or push back against something he sees as wrong, “off screen.” It’s just that everything in canon points more to a tendency to choose his battles instead of acting immediately on any moral sense the way someone like Optimus or Ratchet might.

This also isn’t to say Pharma doesn’t care about saving lives, but from what little is shown of him before Delphi, it’s hard to say how much he cared. Ratchet confirms later that Pharma was an excellent doctor for most of his life, but all that tells us is he was an excellent doctor; it says nothing about his internal attitude toward his work or patients.

However, inferences can be made based on doctors in our own world:

Being a doctor—especially one in trauma care—is far from easy. It takes a lot out of a person, and there are very few people who last in the profession for a long time. Most medical professionals fall into one of the following categories:

People possessing a strong will that’s coupled with an unwavering passion for taking care of others (the public’s favorite)

People who naturally have, or develop, an ability to switch their empathy off and on at will, or build walls around it—also possessing a strong will (the ideal)

People who naturally have a limited capacity for empathy (the one the public hates to acknowledge)

People with a strong social and professional support system (the necessary, but underutilized and underappreciated factor)

Of course, even if a person has one or more of the above, burnout can and does still happen, but individuals who have at least one have the best chances of surviving and thriving amidst the demands of the majority of medical professions.

As far as is shown in canon, Pharma never had a strong support system—either circumstantially or by choice—so something else was keeping him in medicine.

Pharma shows concern for both Tumbler (Chromedome) and Hubcap:

But even though he obviously cared enough to step in, neither instance makes a strong case for a capacity for empathy beyond the “average” or “norm.” Performing a job well is a lot different from being personally invested in the work.

Based on everything up to this point, and this later comment from Pharma, about Ratchet…

…Pharma has probably never shared the same I-care-about-everything-and-everyone view of the world. Instead, it’s more likely that Pharma holds a more rational view of his work and patients.

One of the first things learned in medicine, especially in trauma medicine, is that you can’t help or save everyone, and to hold yourself to that standard can destroy you quickly if you have a certain temperament or lack healthy boundaries for your empathy.

“There are times when it may seem as though I view sick or injured people not as living, breathing humans with feelings and emotions and people who love them, but simply as cases, as problems to be solved. And that is absolutely true. It's not that I don't have empathy, but the hard fact is that as a doctor, and especially as a trauma surgeon, too much empathy can get in the way of your job and cause you to make decisions based not on sound medical judgment but on your own emotions. Sure, I've seen things that even years later can still make me choke up when I think of them: a little girl shot and killed, a shattered young Marine who shouldn't have died but did. But you can't choke up in the ER or the operating room. To be effective as a trauma surgeon, you have to put a layer of Kevlar around your heart.” —Dr. Peter Rhee, Trauma Red: The Making of a Surgeon in War and in America’s Cities*

Pharma may have learned this difficult truth earlier than Ratchet and developed a practical way of managing his empathy that comes across as “cold.” He may have always had an ability to put up walls around his spark. Or, he may have always had little to no capacity for empathy.

The fact that the morality lock on Tyrest’s portal prevented Pharma from passing through proves he felt guilty for what he’d done, and JRO confirmed this. Therefore, it’s safe to assume Pharma had some level of empathy for his former patients, suffering moral injury when he felt he had no other option but to start killing them.

Still, looking at Pharma’s psychological drives and his behavior throughout canon, it’s clear compassionate care and morality are subordinate to his other values and interests.

*I highly recommend this book, and learning about Dr. Rhee in general. He’s a huge inspiration of mine, and one of my main sources of inspiration when writing Pharma. Level-headed and capable, strong-willed, selectively empathetic, an excellent scientist, etc. He lives for the thrill of practicing medicine both on the floor and as an expert in his field who pushes trauma medicine to new heights through his research. He also takes great pride in his hands. Seriously—the man spent an entire paragraph and a half talking about his “good hands” and how they were one of two reasons he decided to go into trauma surgery. The other reason was that he “liked action and excitement, liked the feeling of being able to walk into a tough situation and take control.” (Sounds familiar…)

Delphi

First thing’s first: we don’t know how much Pharma did or didn’t know about the DJD before agreeing to take the Delphi assignment.

That far into the war, he would have known something about the DJD and their ways of terrorizing traitors and Autobots, but for whatever reason, he took the assignment anyway. Perhaps Prowl assured him the situation on Messatine would be monitored and that the security team would be enough. Perhaps he underestimated the DJD’s capabilities, or scale of territory, and thought he would be able to handle things on his own. Perhaps Prowl gave him no choice. Maybe it was all of these and more.

Whatever the case, according to JRO, Pharma didn’t hate Delphi before the incident with the DJD.

Word of god remains a touchy subject in fandom, but in this case, it’s important because it says two things:

The DJD left the Delphi medical team alone for some time.

Being on the edges of DJD territory didn’t automatically mean isolation and harassment by their hand.

On the second point, First Aid was free to come and go from Messatine as he pleased, seeing as he attended a medical conference at Kimia five years into his assignment at Delphi:

Five years ago [mid-Delphi assignment], the leader of the Wreckers had cornered him at a medical conference at Kimia, the space station that doubled as a weapons research facility. —from Bullets

And five years after that, he was able to not only contact Springer without delay about one of Agent 113’s bullets he’d discovered in an Autobot badge…

He raced upstairs to his computer terminal and typed in a certain frequency code for the second time in his life. A face appeared on the screen and grinned. “It’s me,” said First Aid. “And you're never gonna guess what I’ve got for you..!”

…but he was also able to meet up with Springer to hand off the bullet:

“Your friend has a funny way of making contact,” First Aid had said when he’d got in touch three days earlier, and he was right.

It’s not known if this handoff happened on or off world, but either way, the DJD didn’t interfere.

At some point, Tarn set his sights on Pharma and the Delphi team. Knowing the DJD, one can only imagine what Tarn used to show off his team’s capabilities and convince Pharma the best option was to cooperate.

In striking a deal with Tarn to keep the DJD away from Delphi, Pharma established his territory and ensured his continued security and the safety of his staff. As long as Tarn got his T-cogs, Pharma could continue on in relative peace. He could work his magic on bots that ended up at Delphi, carry out his management duties, and work on whatever projects or research he may have been conducting in his free time.

For whatever reason, after he first came into contact with Tarn, Pharma didn’t call for help. Communications were still operational, as Pharma wouldn’t have suggested contacting High Command about the Duobots if the team was aware of any comm malfunctions:

Also, First Aid later confirms that communications were fine until the Big Bang (soundbomb detonation):

It’s always possible the DJD was monitoring the radio waves, but secure subspace frequencies exist, such as the Datalog Network First Aid used to send the datalog containing the death statistics:

Speaking of which, assuming First Aid sent the datalog with the statistics right when things started to get ‘weird,’ and before the Big Bang shut down comms, it only took—at most—a few days for them to reach Ratchet and Swerve on the Lost Light:

But back to Pharma not calling for help: for all of Prowl’s intel, contingency planning, and fretting over the security of Autobot territories, I find it hard to believe he would have stuck an Autobot medical team on the fringes of DJD territory without giving them some means of securely contacting the outside in case of issues.

But even if Prowl didn’t give Pharma a secure way to contact him or anyone else, and even if Pharma was convinced the DJD was monitoring regular communications, there were other ways he could have reached out for help. After all, the team wasn’t alone on Messatine. Like Pharma said, Prowl continued to send bots to defend the nucleon mines:

The Autobots had been mining nucleon for millions of years at this point, so I doubt the mined nucleon was just sitting in storage on Messatine; shipments of the stuff would have been sent off-world to wherever the Autobots needed it. Why not send a message for Prowl with someone leaving with one of those shipments? A message meant only to be sent over a call when absolutely certain they were out of range of the DJD’s potential monitoring.

Or, why not order in off-world medical supplies and send a message back with the delivery bot(s)?

There are two possible answers to this. One takes into account JRO’s word on the subject; the other is more intricate and speculative on my part, but it leads to the same place. So whatever your stance is on the validity of word of god, there’s an answer for you.

Answer one (word of god)

Simple as that. Pharma was aware of the scope of the DJD’s capabilities and relentlessness, and determined he was trapped prey.

Answer two (no word of god)

There are a few possible reasons Pharma didn’t call for help right away:

He was convinced all his other options would take too long and/or would still lead to him being put under suspicion. After all, being found to have harvested even a single T-cog from an already-dead patient for the DJD could have raised concerns that would lead to Pharma being investigated and/or having a mark put on his record.

He underestimated the severity of Tarn’s addiction, and was certain he could keep up with the T-cog demand without resorting to other means of harvesting, not realizing Tarn’s quota would increase later on.

He was already paranoid as a result of whatever mind games Tarn had set in motion at their first meeting, making Pharma think escape was futile.

Word of god or no word of god, there are clear reasons as to why Pharma ended up trapped. Most likely, it was a mix of all of the above.

Whatever was going on in Pharma’s mind before, he ended up in deeper trouble. Tarn increased his demand for T-cogs, and Pharma couldn’t keep up. By the time this happened, even if he had wanted to call for help, it was too late to do so without implicating himself. He reasoned his only option was to start killing patients to harvest their T-cogs.

Soon, Pharma was so consumed with fretting over whether he’d be able to meet Tarn’s next demand that he didn’t have time or freedom to do anything else except worry and feel guilty. His whole life revolved around Tarn’s addiction; he was no longer in control, and could no longer enjoy whatever it was about Delphi he’d previously enjoyed. Perhaps the facility itself enabled Pharma to research cures and perform scientific miracles of medicine.

Being at the mercy of Tarn—convinced the DJD would find him no matter what—would have been pure psychological torture on its own, but also knowing that any small chance he did have of getting help would end in him losing everything would have added to his suffering. Pharma became desperate to reclaim control over his life and began planning an escape.

Now, JRO has said that Pharma didn’t originally plan to use the rust plague on the DJD…but canon says otherwise:

Of course, Pharma could have been lying to make himself look better in Ratchet’s view, but based on everything he’d been through up to this point with Tarn, it’s more likely he was telling the truth and had tried to eliminate the source of his suffering first. After all, wiping out the DJD would have been the simpler, cleaner option.

When the Duobots refused to detonate the soundbomb near the DJD, Pharma’s objectives shifted. He had to get Delphi shut down in a way that would:

Convince the DJD the shutdown was legitimate.

Pharma knew chances of escaping the DJD at all were slim to none, but he was desperate. Getting Delphi shut down would cut off Tarn’s supply of T-cogs and allow Pharma to escape Tarn’s immediate control, but the shutdown had to be “legitimate” to prevent Tarn from retaliating and hunting him down later. Leaving Tarn even the slightest chance of regaining control was too risky, so Pharma had to make sure his plan was as airtight as possible.

Cover up the patient murders.

If the truth got out about Pharma killing patients, he’d lose his medical license and most likely be put away for life. Being cut off from the practice of medicine and his intellectually stimulating work as a doctor would mean losing more than a job and a reputation. It would mean losing everything in which he’d anchored his sense of identity and life’s meaning. His refusal to consider any other options wasn’t just about ego and preserving his image as an excellent doctor; it was about preserving any kind of meaningful future he saw for himself.

Pharma needed a plan that would fulfill all of the above. Turning the engineered virus on the medical facility was the most effective and efficient solution. Anything else would have made him suspicious in the view of either Autobot High Command or the DJD, and neither of those would have ended well for him.

Because of his goal to preserve his reputation and future in medicine, he couldn’t even risk revealing anything to First Aid or Ambulon, who would have seen to his ruin. They became nothing more than loose ends that had to be tied up, and based on the fact that Pharma only prepared one vial of the vaccine, his original plan involved him being the only survivor:

He probably would have had no problem making more of the vaccine for anyone else who survived, but he wasn’t counting on it. He wanted a totally clean slate; in letting his staff die with most of his patients, he would be getting rid of any and all evidence and reminders of his failures. He may have cared about First Aid and Ambulon before things got bad, but somewhere along the way, he decided either it wasn’t worth it to go through the trouble of finding a way to save them without raising suspicion, or he didn’t want to risk them putting together the pieces later on.

Of course, when Ratchet showed up, plans changed.

Ratchet

Ratchet is not the kind of person who seeks first to understand or be understanding. He’s inclined to trust what’s in front of him over anything abstract, and tends to look at the results of someone’s actions over trying to find any kind of ‘why’ behind them. Also, unlike Pharma, he operates from a strong moral sense, and reacts quickly and strongly when something or someone goes against that internal moral sense.

Ratchet’s reaction to finding out what Pharma did may seem hasty and harsh, but it makes perfect sense on a human level. There is no such thing as unconditional love; everyone has personal and moral lines (boundaries), and they’re different for each individual. When the most rigid of lines is crossed, that’s it; walls go up and the offender is cut off, no matter how strong the relationship may have been.

Ratchet obviously knew Pharma well enough to think he could try talking some sense into him, but then Pharma revealed that he’d crossed one of Ratchet’s lines: murdering patients. Any willingness Ratchet may have had to try to understand vanished. By the time Pharma started trying to provide a ‘why’ for his actions, Ratchet’s moral judgment had already shut down any chance of understanding what could have possibly led Pharma to kill patients. It didn’t help that Pharma seemed totally unapologetic and outright proud of his plan. For Ratchet, the ‘why’ didn’t matter anymore. What he saw was what he trusted, and what he saw was a friend who’d become his idea of a monster.

Now, Ratchet and Pharma’s relationship is one of the most confusing IDW relationships I’ve had the pleasure and pain of dissecting.

It is notoriously difficult to determine the depth and strength of a relationship from the outside. However, I’ve decided to go ahead and address it anyway because it has the potential to provide insight into Pharma as an individual.

If I were to sum up Pharma and Ratchet’s relationship in a single word, I would use “ambivalent.” The first time I read MTMTE, the thing that stood out to me most about their relationship was the drastic differences between how they each perceived the relationship.

In one sense, there’s the idea of Pharma basically being Ratchet’s crazy stalker ex, which is tossed around in fandom a lot. While I personally dislike seeing it regardless of context (yes, even as a joke), I do see how JRO’s writing choices set things up in a way that makes it easy to superimpose that trope.

In another sense, there’s the idea that Pharma and Ratchet were always close friends, and that what happened at the end of the Delphi story was a betrayal of both sides that came out of nowhere and whose consequences were taken too far.

I disagree with both. Personally, what I see at the end of the Delphi story isn’t an obsessed ex gone mad, a sudden betrayal, or a badly executed backstabbing. What I see is a breakdown of an already-complicated and poorly-maintained relationship: true feelings being revealed, long-repressed bitterness being forced to the surface, carefully-hidden cracks being split wide open.

Most people don’t have an accurate understanding of how much or how little they truly know the people in their lives, often overestimating how well they know a person until something surfaces and blindsides them.

According to JRO, Ratchet was oblivious to Pharma’s romantic interest, and throughout canon, it’s easy to see Pharma was more invested in the relationship than Ratchet ever was.

The question is, did Ratchet ever care about Pharma at all? And if so, to what degree?

Yes, Ratchet calls Pharma “buddy” and “friend,” but the former was sarcastic, and the latter means something different to each person. Also, in light of the circumstances, Ratchet could have just been saying “friend” in response to Pharma saying it—an emotional appeal more than anything.

However, Pharma must have been aware of Ratchet’s lack of relational investment because during the confrontation at Delphi, Pharma’s first reaction wasn’t to appeal to their friendship (ex: “But you know me!”). Instead, he appealed to their shared profession:

Then there’s the exchange of insults:

This is what I meant earlier by “true feelings being revealed.” Ratchet may have just been trying to match Pharma’s insult, but it’s unlikely it was merely reciprocal because while Ratchet is snarky at times, he’s sincere in that snark. There’s almost always some truth in his verbal jabs no matter how unserious they seem, and he’s never cruel for cruelty’s sake.

So, if Pharma saw Ratchet as an inferior doctor, and Ratchet saw Pharma as an inferior Autobot…it’s reasonable to assume there was always some deep-rooted competition and conflict preventing them from being super close.

Possible suspicion surrounding Pharma’s conduct as an Autobot paired with a tendency to misjudge the nuances of relationships could explain why Ratchet was so quick to decide Pharma was a lost cause. Maybe Pharma’s actions at Delphi confirmed something from the past that Ratchet had brushed off for whatever reason.

In any case, Ratchet seems to have been largely unaffected by the Pharma he found at Delphi. While leaving Messatine, he emphasizes that he’ll miss Pharma’s talent.

Not “who he used to be.”

Not “what we used to have.”

Just…“his talent.”

Later, on Luna 1, Pharma mentions that he and Ratchet were inseparable, but that could mean a few different things:

Best case scenario: Pharma and Ratchet sought each other out on equal terms.

Worst case scenario: Pharma followed Ratchet around.

Somewhere in the middle: the job forced Pharma and Ratchet to work in close proximity most of the time, and while Pharma intentionally ran into Ratchet more often than necessary, Ratchet also sought out Pharma every now and then.

Whatever the case, working with someone every day doesn’t tell you anything about who they are as a person, and the amount of time spent with someone doesn’t automatically correlate to how deep the relationship is or how well the people know each other. It’s not like either Pharma or Ratchet are shown to be good at expressing their personal feelings outside of extreme circumstances.

Ratchet does bring up late-night conversations of the past:

But while this indicates there was something deeper between him and Pharma, because neither of them were ever shown to be super open with their true feelings, it’s unlikely the conversations were full of touchy-feely talk. In all likelihood, the conversations were mostly medicine and war-related, with the rare spark-to-spark talk sprinkled in. Also, considering everything up to this point, one has to wonder if those talks ever meant anything to Ratchet, or if he was just digging for something that might stall Pharma’s torture.

Maybe those late-night conversations did mean something to Ratchet, but whatever the case, Pharma didn’t take the bait. He knew Ratchet was trying to stall by making an emotional appeal, and perhaps he was convinced the conversations hadn’t meant that much to Ratchet.

Looking at all of this, it’s hard to believe Ratchet ever cared about Pharma as more than an interesting work friend. But even if he had cared more than he let on, it wasn’t enough to overcome the doubts he had about Pharma’s character.

As for whether Pharma truly cared about Ratchet, I’m convinced he did, but in a mostly unhealthy way, and with a strong undercurrent of one-sided rivalry. At some point, Ratchet had been an equal and a source of challenge, and he probably listened to Pharma pretty often. It’s reasonable to assume Ratchet was one of the only people—if not the only person—able to handle Pharma’s intense temperament and challenge him in a meaningful way, providing some semblance of friendship for Pharma.

However, one last thing that stands out is that, when telling Ratchet why he’s torturing him, Pharma didn’t say anything like, “Because you hurt me” or “Because you turned against me—your friend.” Instead, he said it was for “ruining things at Delphi” and because “you declared war on my body.”

Either Pharma wasn’t being entirely honest, or Ratchet’s friendship didn’t mean as much in the first place as he’d previously implied. It’s possible the ‘Because you hurt me’ was implied in “for ruining things back at Delphi,” but why not say it outright? Perhaps it was a fear of vulnerability and admitting there was ever a relational need at all.

At the end of the day, it’s difficult to say for certain how close Pharma and Ratchet were, but it’s clear they were never on the same page and there were always barriers between them.

Luna 1

Revisiting the matter of Pharma’s morality taking a backseat to other priorities, his time on Luna 1 further underscores this. Again, Pharma chooses his battles and is unwilling to put himself at great risk for the sake of others, but a closer look at the situation with Tyrest reveals there wasn’t really anything he could have done for the Cold Construct population even if he had wanted to. It would have been him against Tyrest, an army of Legislators, and a bunch of Decepticons. Pharma knew his limits, and seeing as his goal was self-preservation, it was perfectly rational for him to go along with Tyrest’s grand scheme.

Besides, it doesn’t look like he was given much of a choice:

Although, knowing Pharma, he still would have demanded to know beforehand what he would get in return for the pain, and evidently, Tyrest held up his end of the deal since Pharma had access to the Luna 1 tech collection.

As for Tyrest’s plan to wipe out the Cold Construct population, there’s nothing indicating Pharma’s decision to turn a blind eye to it was rooted in malevolence or bigotry—just rational apathy: ‘I can’t stop Tyrest, so why concern myself with the outcome?’

Again, you can’t save everyone; Pharma had all he could do to save himself.

But it wasn’t all horrible. I would even go so far as to say Pharma found some happiness on Luna 1. Tyrest didn’t care about him, but he didn’t need Tyrest to care. Everyone else there hated him, but he didn’t need to feel like he belonged or was admired. At this point, Pharma’s only interest was Tyrest’s Luna 1 tech collection, and that meant playing nice so he could keep his reward. Back at Delphi, he probably assumed he’d never again practice medicine the way he’d loved; being brought to Luna 1 was an unexpected, yet welcome, second chance.

Even so, Pharma had his moments of cruelty. Back at Delphi, he had easily-identifiable reasons to kill patients—both the ones whose T-cogs he harvested and the 20 more he tried to kill when he shot the life support machine. But on Luna 1, he had no reason to be cruel, yet he chose to be. By this point, he’d mastered the ability to almost completely ignore or subdue his conscience.

In the case of Ratchet’s torment, one could argue Pharma only drew it out for retaliation purposes; it was personal for him.

As for cutting Ambulon in half, it was obviously meant to be as gruesome as possible, yet also quick. But personally, I don’t think it was about Ambulon; it was more about hurting Ratchet. Due to the fact that Ratchet’s identity is wrapped up in his compassion and his ability to be helpful as a doctor, one of the most effective acts of revenge would be to do something that makes him feel utterly helpless.

Also I wonder if, subconsciously or consciously, Pharma was attempting to recreate the sense of helplessness he felt back at Delphi under Tarn’s watch: “Do you see, Ratchet? Do you now understand how it feels to have control ripped out of your hands? To be totally helpless?”

Next, for some reason, Pharma was invested in the promised execution of Getaway and Skids:

He had no personal connection to either of them that would give him a reason to be interested, so maybe Tyrest told him he could perform the execution and/or have the corpses for medical experimentation. Either way, Pharma would have had a chance to use some of the tech in Tyrest’s tech collection, possibly explaining his excitement.

Of course, any chance of an execution disappeared when the final showdown went wrong.

When Pharma tried to escape to Cyberutopia and discovered he couldn’t pass through the spacebridge forcefield, he gave up. He’d been caught; he would no longer have access to Tyrest’s tech collection; Ratchet and every other self-righteous Autobot would never forgive him; and the morality lock prevented him from escaping. By all appearances, he would never again be able to engage in that which gave him a sense of meaning. He had shrunken his world down to his obsessive interest in a specialized field and one significant, yet unrequited relationship. With both of these lost, his world collapsed.

Yes, guilt played a part in Pharma’s despondency, but because he seems to have been in denial of said guilt, it’s more likely his despair was primarily due to the fact that he saw no future for himself. He had nothing left to live for.

In light of this, Pharma’s flippant comments to First Aid make sense. He wasn’t being insensitive as much as he was goading First Aid. Pharma’s not stupid. First Aid had a massive rotary cannon on him, and Pharma knew exactly which emotional buttons to push to get him to pull the trigger.

Pharma wanted to die.

Adaptus

First, let me emphasize that Adaptus did not take possession of Pharma’s body. Instead, Pharma was the unwelcome guest:

How Pharma ended up in Adaptus’ new body is a mystery, but whatever the case, Pharma didn’t pass on to the Allspark. Whether or not he had a choice can only be speculated.

First Aid had blasted Pharma’s head clean off, so whatever happened must have been related to the spark. Perhaps some residual spark energy was trapped in a body part that Adaptus repurposed, leaving Pharma tethered to the new body unwillingly.

Still, Pharma managed to assert his will and override Adaptus for a brief moment. Considering Adaptus was basically a god, this is impressive.

Based on Adaptus’ surprise at being interrupted, it seems he didn’t know Pharma was there. Why Pharma hadn’t tried to assert himself sooner is a mystery. Maybe Adaptus’ scheme was entertaining; maybe Pharma actually liked the company; or maybe he’d been waiting for an opportunity to get revenge on Tyrest for everything done to him back at Luna 1.

Sure enough, just like with Ratchet back on Luna 1, Pharma’s vengeful streak came out as soon as there was an opportunity.

Unfortunately for him, this left him vulnerable, and Tyrest took advantage of the confusion:

Conclusion

When someone reduces their world to narrow personal interests and one or a few very special people, their grip tightens around what little they have. They often become obsessive and possessive of the few things that make them feel alive, and their view of the world becomes increasingly more subjective and detached from the outside world. Pharma seems to have fallen into this trap.

Even so, in the context of the circumstances, several of the decisions he made were rational—even if coldly so. Oftentimes, “extreme” rationality and self-preservation are villainized in fiction, and characters like Pharma who don’t automatically put themselves at great risk for anyone and everyone are villainized, or at least looked down on. Their choices are often regarded as less human, but rationality and self-preservation are just as human as compassion and self-sacrifice.

Ultimately, Pharma was trapped and pushed over the edge into “insanity” by Tarn’s cruelty, but his own choices made from a place of pride determined how he fell, and how far he fell. It was a perfect storm of Tarn’s mind games and Pharma’s intellectual arrogance, excessive self-confidence, obsessive nature, and stubborn grip on the kind of future he wanted for himself.

Pharma is yet another Icarus who flew too close to the sun and paid dearly for it, and while JRO/the narrative could have given this Icarus better wings, that doesn’t change the fact that he chose to fly so high.

***

Many thanks to anyone who made it to the end of this monster of a post.

-tosses a Rodimus Star at you-

#idw transformers #idw1 #maccadam #MTMTE #lost light #idw pharma #pharma #tf idw character analysis #tf idw meta #dr. fancy hands #nova’s nerding out again

731 notes · View notes