#should never have made that second save...

[romanitas]

#this gets to a thing about rogue one that i think got terribly lost in the way everyone talked about it for all these years#everyone was like 'oh it's star wars but grounded! it's gritty! it's the everyone dies movie! it's full of antiheroes!'#because all that was what struck me first and why i loved it so much on first (and second and third and fourth and fifth...) watch#but it's only partially true! because yes the characters are force-less (debatable) nobodies without much plot armour who will die#nameless and suddenly and not come back as semi-helpful force ghosts later#but the universe still operates on star wars rules. and so they DO have some frankly improbable luck when the force (or the plot) wills it#and they kind of DO have a little bit of force (or plot) armour EXACTLY AS LONG AS THE MISSION NEEDS THEM#and in that universe a man who should be at BEST paraplegic for life climbing up ten metres of a structure not meant for climbing#and turning up in time to save the person he loves? it works and you accept it because this is still star wars#deep down this still operates on fairy tale rules. it makes sense because all is as the force wills it#it serves the theme. and the theme is HOPE IN THE DARK#because star wars in general and rogue one specifically is that even when all looks lost there will always be. a new hope. somewhere#so of course he comes back! because they've both fought so hard and there has to be hope in their ending!#it's a better story than cassian dying on impact on a metal grate. it's a better story than jyn flicking a switch and then killing krennic#and dying next to his corpse when the death star hits!! the theme is HOPE star wars is a fantasy fairy-tale! and that's what makes it GOOD!#this story understood both that a) this is star wars and the rules are different from real life even if you do tell a darker version of it#and b) a death in itself isn't a story yet. and often even if a death is more realistic the better STORY is if he climbs#it's still tragic!! Cassian who is a murderer and a liar most of his life gets to be the knight in shining armour#but it's painful and he's actively dying and it only wins them a few minutes#but in those minutes!! they are together!! and their work is done! and they are in someone's arms in the sun on a beach!!#and that is hopeful and tragic and romantic and Star Wars. it's OPERA. and andor was afraid to be those things#and that's why i never felt a smidge of what this movie made me feel when i watched it tags by @ruby-red-inky-blue

Friendly reminder that the Rogue One writers easily could’ve actually killed Cassian with that fall in the data tower and ended the film with Jyn defeating Krennic and transmitting the plans alone just as the Death Star obliterates her. Instead they wrote it so that Cassian climbs up 10+ stories with a broken back to save Jyn from her mother’s murderer and they have a whole moment in the elevator as the last survivors of the Rogue One team (probably the last two people alive in the facility) and then die together in each other’s arms on the beach; in other words, they wrote the most romantic possible ending for them. Absolutely nothing Mr. Gilroy says post-Andor will ever change or undo any of this.

[bewitched-hours]

Aight here me out

Yandere forsaken with a experiment reader

Okay at first they didn’t know we were an escaped experiment and this is about the timespan they become yanderes but after one round we went missing

And now they find us again but now only seeable in a certain map (the labs) (which is fanmaded) and only can be heard through the intercom, certain computers and tvs as we act as a guide for them while being quiet serious, we help them survive the multiple experiments who act as the killers for this map while they find us files which we collect at the end using shadowy claws.

And blah blah this happen again and again until one day the door where the claws come from is opened where we are in our Robloxian monster glory And gosh I can’t tell you how much they

Love it.

While we began explaining the lore behind this map

It was made by the spectre to mock us about our past as a experiment and the certain other experiments that we couldn’t save, we are technically the oldest experiment there having been there the longest since we could remember, and etc and a lot of horrors happened to us even at a young age

We also explain how we managed to get majority of the other experiments out before we eventually passed out in the forest after getting away from The multiple tranquillisers that got shot into our body and the amount of blood we lost.

And I can’t kid you when I say, they just got more possessive of us from that explanation even more reason to try to get more files and such as it’s helps us to find a way out of forsaken for everyone and other things.

Okay, okay, totally not giving me vibes from another popular game so how about a femme Sebastian design~ (No because Sebastian Solace has such a god-tier design and I will say I'm biased because I just love non-human looking characters more-)

Reader gets She/They-

You thought you could live a normal life?

You thought you escaped?

Well, not according to the Spectre. It had grabbed you when you took shelter in a flower field inside a dark forest and placed you in the survivor cabin, intending to see how you work.

To your surprise, you looked... Normal. Like the spots of scales and aquatic limbs that had been scattered across your body as it had been in the process of slowly twisting and growing never even existed.

The other survivors were quick to notice you and invite you to be their friend. You were taken aback still but... It was nice...

You tried to enjoy their company, letting it slip you weren't good with understanding social circles(because you couldn't remember the last time you had friends but they didn't need to know why) and otherwise making yourself comfortable.

Although the lack of separate cabin for you should've been the first red flag...

The second one came when you had begun your first round. The Spectre had put you in the category of a survivalist which fit but... Way to tell you what a loner you were...

Oh well, at least the rest of your team was happy to help you out. They were confused at your abilities being so... Aquatic- But you managed to convince them you had worked at an aquarium. Not like your clothes didn't fit anyways...

You were ready to celebrate your victory when the killer somehow felt the need to not only spare you but inform you the generators were already all done. Odd but you figured you'd take the victory no matter how weird it was.

And then... You were back in the lab.

You panicked, attempting to feel your way around in the darkness that surrounded you until you noticed you had changed.

Your legs felt stretched and fused together, your skin was warm and covered-

Oh... Oh no... Oh no no no no no-

You were fully transformed! That's why you felt one more eye opening than you should!

Your body was covered in scales and fins and... Oh god...

You steadily got a hold on your surroundings as a weak light flickered above, your eyes quickly adjusting to look around the room.

You were so much bigger than you thought and- was that a computer and microphone on the desk beside you?

Picking it up and pressing a button on the side, a loud screeching could be heard that you recognized all too well...

You were connected to the intercoms, TVs, even computers all around the facility...

"Is anyone out there?" Your voice rang out as you looked around. "I've got no clue if I'm reaching anyone with this or where exactly I am but I do welcome you to..." You used your third arm to shuffle through some documents as you wondered if the Spectre had at least given you a different name to call this horrible place by.

"... The Lab? Huh... Well, I suppose I'll be your guide regardless since I know this place." You sighed in exasperation, wondering internally how you knew that this was part of the Spectre's doing... But was there time to wonder?

"If you find any computers, you can use them to send me a message, I think. This room somehow has air ventilation but windows so I really have no way of getting out with how large I am now and the only door here is firmly sealed shut with some weird shadow claws covering it. Just... Don't expect me to look like a regular robloxian if you find a way past them." you sounded almost annoyed at your last sentence, deciding to look through more documents as you were careful to not let your claws tear the papers apart.

Eventually though, you spotted something odd. "Weird... Apparently whoever you are, you're supposed to collect files and these claws hand them to me through the door? ... Huh-" You blinked at the paper a few times in disbelief.

It also spoke of why the Spectre decided to make this map and place you in it but... You didn't want that information out there and the more you read, the more you felt a pit form in your stomach before pressing the button on the microphone again. "Okay, I know who you lot are now and although I'm glad to be speaking to people I know, I can also tell you that your abilities may have been tampered with due to the nature of the lab and you apparently can't harm each other even if you were on opposing sides before..."

Another exasperated sigh escaped you as you thought on the chaos that must be going on between the killers and your friends. "But there is a reason why none of you are the real killers on this map... It's because the other experiments will be. The files will explain more about them and you're apparently getting access to my hideout when you have them all. I'll help guide you as much as I can but I can't see where you are so you can use the various computers to send me messages and the TVs I can use to warn you on the experiments that are after you."

"... I wish you luck, friends." You finally put down the microphone and took deep breaths, shaking your head in slight frustration before taking in your new form.

It was disgusting... You looked nothing like the person they befriended and yet you still had your voice somehow.

If you didn't know any better, you'd even dare to call yourself a parasite in your own body.

Your own file was probably out there, with your name and all... And by the Spectre, did you dread them finding it.

Your mind couldn't help but wander to wanting a cigarette. But you told yourself you were clean now. That you didn't need your unhealthy habits anymore.

Not because you were happier, but because you already felt miserable enough and no amount of nicotine would ease that misery.

Unbeknownst to you, the rest of your friends and the killers had begun working together in favour of finding you. They were determined to free you in any way they could and the Spectre was probably giddy watching them all maneuver through the lab and escape the other experiments.

You knew which ones to warn them of. You were the oldest experiment. The first one. You watched them become the monsters they are. Their minds turning into predatory thoughts alone and erasing any semblance of who they once were. Only leaving behind creatures of pure violence.

You could tell when your friends found your door whenever the claws would hand you a stack of files. "Wonderful work, my friends." You'd praise them with false joy, wanting to motivate them even though you were worried over how many of them must already be downed.

"Seems you came across the more aggressive ones." You sighed, hands twitching as you quickly scanned through the papers. You weren't even sure if they were still at the door but might as well pretend. "Listen, I can't see the timer or anything so I won't know when you'll be back or not and I can't exactly hear shit through this barrier..."

The lights in your room flickered, prompting the anglerfish lure on your head to light up in surprise. You knew what was coming and loudly warned them to hide as you almost desperately tried to listen through the claws. But they wouldn't let a sound get to you.

But with kindness from the Spectre, the claws would disappear when your friends were gone, allowing you to explore the facility that once tortured you and tried to make you one of the monsters you now warn your friends off.

Your body slathered through the darkened halls, symbolic for how truly alone you were. Experiments littered the floors at random in a deep slumber and you were even a little grateful since you weren't interested to find out what creatures were mixed into your DNA nor were you interested to know if the other experiments would attack you.

But everytime your friends returned, the Spectre teleported you back to your 'safe haven' to continue on the collection of files and one-way communication through the door.

You gradually began missing their voices. They could send you messages through the computers but sometimes hearing their voices would've been more comforting.

They were getting close to finding all the files and a familiar pit formed in your stomach again. You were a giant aquatic monster with a file detailing all of your crimes in your attempted escape. Knowing the Spectre at this point, you were certain it would want to drive you anxious with the thought that your friends would feel betrayed at your lies. But you refused to give it that satisfaction.

You attempted to stay positive instead, murmuring to yourself words of affirmation and promises that your friends would still want to interact with you despite the fact that you looked hideous and would only be at eye level with them by basically laying down and propping your head up with your arms like a schoolgirl.

You were a top-tier predator but you somehow didn't have a need to eat or drink... Probably just the Spectre's doing so you could be holed up in your designated room without complaint.

When the claws suddenly disappeared but the light continued to stay bright, you were taken by surprise. Had they found the rest?

You waited. Seconds turned to minutes before you placed a clawed hand at the door and felt the cold metal against your scales as you pushed it open, watching your friends' faces fade into view with the last stack of files stacked neatly in Builderman's arms.

You didn't emerge though, opting to instead invite them inside as you fidgeted with your big hands and waited for their reactions.

But instead of betrayal or disgust, you saw joy. Builderman gently placed the files onto the desk you had gathered previous ones on but kept your own as everyone else began huddling around you and only questioning your wellbeing. It honestly kind of flustered you to see them care so much.

"You're... Still wanting to be friends...?" You asked cautiously, watching them all go silent but nod with softened expressions as Shedletsky chuckled.

"Of course! If anything, you just look more awesome than before!" The others seemed to agree with him and your face flushed a deep shade of pink at the fact even the killers seemed to enjoy your look. "But haven't you seen my file??" You questioned in shock, staring at Builderman as he nodded calmly.

"We did, but it's not like we blame you." You tilted your head in confusion but allowed him to explain. "You did what you had to. You needed to escape your circumstances and peace wasn't an option." He eventually handed you back your own file to see what the Spectre allowed them to see about you, your ear-fins slightly folding down as you realized it was strangely vague and hiding details.

"But this isn't right! I've been in this place since I was a child!" You blurted out in frustration, earning you shocked looks before they all seemed more concerned but you didn't see the glint of obsession in their eyes. Or maybe you ignored it.

Hesitantly, you let them all rest against your tail to tell them everything.

How the Spectre likely mocked you with this 1:1 replica of the place you loathed growing up. How you were a mere pawn to them in achieving their goals and why you were so hyper-paranoid most of the time. How you managed to save most of the other experiments because you saw them almost like a true family. How many tranquilizers and the blood loss you tried to suppress until you passed out in a forest.

But also how you were glad to no longer deal with being injected with random liquids or undergoing surgeries for experiments.

To say they felt all the more possessive was an understatement... But you were too emotional to notice... Or maybe you were still being ignorant...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[cerisereids]

𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗬𝗼𝘂- 𝗦.𝗥. (𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗣𝘁. 𝟰)

Pairing- Dad!Spencer x Mom!Reader

WC- 0.6k

Summary- The fallout from part three.

Contains- Spencer groveling, hurt/comfort, makeup from their fight

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !!

Night Changes Masterlist | Previous Part | Birthday Party Event

Spencer is a nervous wreck, that much is for certain. He stands at the door of your apartment, his nerves buzzing through his veins like race cars on a track. A fresh bouquet of peonies rests in his grasp- the local Trader Joe’s had your favorite color. He hopes they’re enough, along with the groveling he’s prepared for, to earn your forgiveness.

His heart shatters when you open the door, bleary eyed with streaks down your cheeks. He worries about being too quick with his apology, that he should’ve given you more space. He’s never really done this before, and the vulnerability shakes him. You stand up straighter when you see him, your piercing gaze a spotlight he normally revels under. Today, though, he shrinks.

“Spencer,” you breathe, and he exhales at the relief in your tone. You step to the side, a silent invitation for him to enter.

He takes slow, tentative steps, terrified of moving too quickly, scaring you off again. His guilt boils over, spilling his guts in the space separating him from you.

“I’m so, so sorry. I- there’s not enough words,” he breathes. You look away.

“Spencer,” you breathe out, your broken voice shards of glass, slicing through his heart.

“No-” he stops you, your gaze snapping to him. He keeps going. “I have some serious groveling to do.” You raise a brow at that, in a manner that says, go on.

“You were right, I was a coward. I couldn’t handle not being the only smart person in the room,” he breathes, and you chuckle at his inability to admit he might not have been the smartest at all. There’s no malice to it, though, to his surprise.

“No, no you couldn’t.” you say back, your lips pressed into a firm line.

“I should have been there for you, no matter what. The piece on Shelley was brilliant, and you deserve all the recognition in the world for it,” he lightly takes her hand, relief washing over him when you let him. Your eyes still refuse to meet his, sadness glossing over them.

“You’re just saying that because you’re sorry,” you mutter, soft and utterly broken. He glances up at the ceiling, tears forming in his own eyes at the way he’s made you feel.

“I’m not,” he clarifies. “I found it when I’d first gotten hired at Georgetown. I was snooping on my future coworkers.” You smile at that, and he feels on top of the world. “I was beyond impressed, making it all the worse when I spilled coffee on you that first day.” A soft chuckle escapes your lips at the memory of your first meeting, when you were so angry at him he thought he’d never earn your forgiveness. It’s funny how the past mirrors itself.

He takes a quick, selfish moment to read your body language now. You’re turned in toward him, your eyes never leaving him in any capacity. It’s a complete 180 from the other night, when you were so hurt you wouldn’t even look at him. He takes it as a win.

He walks past you, going straight for the cabinet where you keep your vases, grabbing one and filling it with water. He feels your question before you say it, so he answers to save you the trouble.

“I’m the one who fucked up. The least I could do is make my apology less work for you.”

You guffaw at his language, this being the second time he’s ever used that word in your entire relationship. Hearing your laugh made it beyond worth it.

“Spencer,” you say. It’s small this time, longing in each syllable. “I missed you,” this comes out a whisper, and Spencer sets the flowers down on the table, turning to face you.

There’s silent tears streaming down your cheeks, your plump lips bubbling with emotion. He can’t resist, scooping you into his arms without second thought. You release a shaky exhale against him, squeezing him tight. His heart soars.

“I missed you more,” he whispers against your temple, “I’m so sorry.”

You squeeze him tighter. “It’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”

He chuckles. “Never.”

[luvvixu]

mission impossible / s. gojo

a cursed mission that should have been simple—but with satoru, suguru, shoko, and you involved? it never is.

location, an abandoned apartment complex just outside of tokyo.

objective? exorcise a grade 1 cursed spirit terrorizing locals.

instructions! quick in, quick out. don’t cause unnecessary destruction.

reality…they should’ve never sent you four together.

——

“okay, team,” suguru said, arms crossed, tone overly serious as he stood in the middle of the overgrown courtyard. “we split up into pairs. shoko's with me, y/n with satoru.”

you blinked. “why do you get to assign pairs?”

“because i’m the only one here with two functioning brain cells,” he replied smoothly.

shoko shrugged. “it didn’t actually answered the question but whatever—at least, i’m not babysitting gojo today.”

“hey! i'm not a baby,” satoru pouted. “i’m an emotionally developing young man.”

“you said you wanted to ask the curse for its name before exorcising it,” you deadpanned.

“well, it’s only polite!”

suguru facepalmed. “we’re going. y/n, keep him on a leash.”

you sighed as they disappeared into the left wing of the building. you and satoru turned right.

——

the hallway creaked under your feet. dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through broken windows.

“this place is creepy,” satoru whispered.

“you’re a sorcerer. be brave.”

“i am! but that creepy vase with the eyes is looking at me.”

“…that’s a wall crack.”

“...oh. right.”

you suddenly paused.

from the stairwell came a low growl, followed by a thick pressure in the air. a curse.

you nodded at him, and you both approached it slowly. but instead of a dramatic fight or some high-stakes action—

—you found the cursed spirit crouched on the ceiling… crying.

“...is that sobbing?” he tilted his head.

the cursed spirit noticed you, sniffled, then wailed loudly like a banshee.

“oh no,” you said flatly, “it’s emotional.”

satoru stepped forward. “hey buddy, what’s wrong? you good?”

“grrrrrraaAAAAGGGHHHh!” it wailed again—then launched a chandelier at you both.

“NOT GOOD,” he yelped, ducking as you sliced through the object with your cursed tool.

——

meanwhile, on the other side of the complex, shoko and suguru weren’t faring much better.

“this curse is literally just… throwing shoes at us,” shoko muttered, dodging a pair of flip-flops midair.

“it’s haunting a former shoe store,” suguru sighed. “we should’ve brought satoru here instead. he deserves this level of stupidity.” shoko chuckled in agreement.

a thud echoed from above.

shoko looked up. “that sounded like—”

BOOM!

satoru and the cursed spirit crashed through the ceiling, landing right between suguru and shoko. you followed seconds later, panting, clothes dusty, expression unimpressed.

“he told the curse it had ‘pretty eyes’ and it got shy,” you said, exasperated.

“then got aggressive,” he added. “so now it’s throwing furniture.”

“why do i feel like this entire mission is cursed because of you?” shoko muttered.

“i like to think i bring spice to the group.”

the cursed spirit suddenly launched a glowing ball of cursed energy. everyone scattered.

“i swear,” shoko shouted from behind an overturned table, “next time, i’m going solo!”

——

despite all the chaos, the mission was completed.

the cursed spirit, turns out, wasn’t malicious—it was lonely and confused. after shoko sedated it and suguru safely sealed it, you all made your way out of the crumbling building.

dusty. bruised. mentally exhausted.

“well,” satoru said, brushing himself off, “who’s up for ice cream?”

“no,” you and shoko said in unison.

“wait, hold up,” suguru said, turning to you, “...y/n, you didn’t actually let him befriend with the curse, right?”

you didn’t answer. you just kept walking.

“oh my god,” shoko muttered, “they’re a match made in chaotic hell.”

satoru caught up beside you, flashing that grin. “so... that was kinda fun, huh?”

you glanced at him. “you nearly got stabbed by a possessed recliner.”

“but you saved me and that was so hot.”

you sighed. “don’t make this weird.”

“i already like you, isn’t it too late?”

you didn’t answer. just walked ahead. but satoru saw it—the smallest twitch of your lips.

chaotic mission? absolute disaster.

but to satoru? best mission ever.

——

the next morning, yaga stood at the front of the room, holding the mission report like it had personally insulted him.

“you what?” he deadpanned, eyes slowly scanning the four second-years standing in front of him like misbehaving elementary kids.

satoru, suguru, shoko, and you stood in a line—dust-free now, but still looking like a pack of troublemakers fresh from a night of bad decisions.

“we handled the curse,” shoko said casually, hands in her coat pockets.

“with minimal casualties,” suguru added.

“there were no casualties,” you corrected.

“exactly!” satoru chimed in brightly. “that’s a win in my book!”

yaga slammed the papers on his desk. “this report says—and i quote—‘subject displayed unstable emotional behavior due to gojo’s kind and unsolicited compliment.’”

you stared at satoru.

“you wrote that?”

“transparency is important,” he shrugged.

yaga rubbed his temples. “this also says shoko sedated the spirit after it threw a bookshelf at her.”

“it missed,” she replied flatly.

“you used a dining chair as a shield,” the teacher gritted.

“it was sturdy.”

“and you—” yaga pointed at you, “—you apparently said, and i quote again: ‘we are going to die because this idiot tried to befriend with a curse.’”

satoru gasped. “you said that?!”

“what? transparency is important.” you mocked his words earlier and didn’t deny it.

yaga let out the longest sigh of his life. “i am assigning you all to cleaning duty for the next three days. no missions. no fieldwork. just mops and brooms.”

satoru slouched. “that’s basically exile.”

“good. maybe you’ll learn something.”

“y/n can’t clean with me,” satoru quickly added. “we have a date.”

everyone froze.

shoko: blink

suguru: blink blink

you: blink blink blink

yaga: “…you what?”

you groaned, covering your face. “it’s not—ugh! it’s a maybe, okay?! possibly. shut up!”

shoko grinned. “aww, little sorcerer lovebirds.”

“i’m gonna puke,” suguru added, but he looked way too amused.

yaga picked the papers back up, massaging the bridge of his nose. “i’m gonna pretend i didn’t hear that.”

more of teenage!gojo romance

©luvvixu2025

[towardsgalaxysend]

WE HAVE LESS THAN 50 DAYS TO MAKE TOWARDS GALAXY’S END HAPPEN! If you like Owl House, Madoka Magica, Little Witch Academia, and Ojamajo Doremi, please stick around!

BOOST BOOST BOOST

With less than 50 days till the kickstarter ends, here’s 5 reasons why you should check out Towards Galaxy’s End

1. The series is an ORIGINAL concept! Setting the scene, After saving her friend in a car crash, Amina “Ami” is given a second chance at life -  so long as she chooses an extinct species. She becomes a space-vampire and upon finding out 6 other girls made the same choice, sets off to form a magical girl team from something that was never meant to be magical at all.

The story is a strange take on the Magical Girl genre, as we come to learn more about these characters and how they got into this predicament. We get to meet a colorful cast from all walks of life, who are met with the chance of choosing what to do with their new found second chance. The energy will be similar to that of Studio Trigger in terms of the upbeat nature and Kyoto Ani for the heart. Choices are the true theme of this story, so it’s important to see how that plays out.

2. The cast is a mix of Indie artists and union artists, highlighting amazing talent from both the industry and the underground indie scene. As of right now, the cast is set for ENGLISH, SPANISH, and RUSSIAN, with a Dutch, Japanese, and French dub in the works! Below is the English cast!

3. We got the amazing Yuzuki (Yuduki) creating an ED for us! For those who don’t know Yuzuki (Yuduki) is the vocalist and lyricist of the hit song, "You" from Higurashi no Naku Koro Ni. With this, we will be able to create an ED for the project.

4. We have animators/studios from around the world helping to collab with the series! From The United States, to Japan, to Australia and every single one has worked in either the Eastern or western animation industry.

5. The proof of concept trailers were created by a group of friends that wanted to make something special in their free time while also working in anime. You can find some of their credits on anime news network and IMDb

SO HOW CAN WE MAKE THIS MAGICAL GIRL SPACE VAMPIRE SHOW HAPPEN?!

1. Share this post around!

2. FOLLOW THE KICKSTARTER PAGE! YOU DO NOT HAVE TO DONATE BUT IF KICKSTARTER SEES THERES INTEREST, WE CAN GET BOOSTED!

3. WATCH THE PROOF OF CONCEPT KICKSTARTER TRAILER AND SHARE!

Thank you!

[spooky-pomegranate]

Eyes on Fire (pt 9)

*Enemies to Lovers inspired by the Year Zero music video*

Papa Emeritus II x Reader (18+) Word Count: 2.3k Get caught up: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 Dividers by @wrathofrats Read on AO3

Summary: Secondo tries to apologize, and you do something incredibly stupid brave.

Crying eyes never bothered Secondo. Over the years, he found that tears of pleasure and tears of pain tended to fall down siblings' faces just the same. But you didn’t cry like them, and it bothered Secondo when your tears mixed with the rain faster than he could wipe them from your eyes.

He had seen you angry, frustrated, and cold before, but he had never seen you quite like this. The bravado you often wore like armor was gone, washed away in the storm. Before him was a terrified sorella, una diavoletta without her hellfire. The small hands he remembered from his visions trembled against his chest, and the tips of your red nails scratched anxiously against the twinned tattoos that slithered over his shoulders, like you were trying to pick them off his skin. He wondered if your heart was kicking against your ribs more violently than when he had visited your memories.

Secondo realized then your combativeness, that cocky little attitude you threw at him, wasn’t solid armor. It was a shiny facade, a false front you hastily threw up to protect yourself from his cruelty, and now, for some reason, it was crumbling. Secondo didn’t want you to shake and tremble.

Shit. He’d caused this. This fear, crawling all over you, was his fault.

Fuck. How had he been so terrible to a creature so vulnerable? How had he been so wrong to think he needed to change you? To punish you? To whip you into shape like some sort of challenge from on high?

“Secondo, it’s you,” you murmured again.

He didn’t understand why you were touching him or what you were saying, but he could only guess that he’d somehow upset you again, caught you at a vulnerable private moment, and made you terrified by his mere presence. But this time, Secondo was determined to make it right. He had to. He owed you that at the very least. After all he’d done, he would climb straight into the ninth circle of hell if it meant those tears in your eyes would dry. He could only hope you’d let him try.

“You're cold, sorrella,” Secondo said softly, bringing his second hand to cup your other cheek, cradling your head in both his hands. Your skin was getting colder as the temperature was dropping faster. “We need to get you inside.”

“I’-I’m not cold, Papa,” you stammered back, still trembling and refusing to meet his eyeline, instead focusing on his exposed chest.

Secondo made his voice as soft as he could, afraid you would run if he spoke too loudly, “Then why are you shaking diavolessa?”

“L-Lucifer… He-he promised me I could have you.”

You weren’t making sense. Lucifer promised you?

The cold. The rain. They must be getting to you. Satanas, he needed to get you warm and safe before something bad happened.

Secondo looked around. The trees swayed back and forth, creaking like they too wanted to collapse. Another bolt of lightning flashed in the black and angry sky. You were deep in Primo’s garden. It was at least a fifteen-minute walk back to the Abbey. And that was if the paths hadn’t already flooded. Shit that was going to take too long.

Secondo took a deep breath and stepped closer to you, his chest pressed against your trembling body, and he wrapped you up in his arms, hoping to share his warmth with you.

Secondo had touched you before.

He saved you from a fall, yanked you to his side, pushed his way into your space, tried to intimidate you with his height… but he’d never touched you like this. He’d never held you like he was afraid you would crack. He never cradled you. Never touched you like you were something that could break. And he should have. Satanas, he thought to himself, as you fell into his arms, he should have done this long ago… because your tears, the ones that were now sliding down his chest, were killing him. You were breaking him apart inside, with every quiet sob you tried to swallow against his skin.

Secondo would apologize every day for the rest of his life if you would never be this sad again.

“Don’t be scared. Sorella, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should never have-”

Before Secondo could spill all the things he wanted to say, another loud bout of thunder cracked the sky, and you jumped. Your hands, the ones that had been clawing against his chest, wrapped around his neck, and you pulled him even closer until your legs and thighs were tangled up with his. Wet thin fabric slid against each other as you two pressed against one another. You buried your face against his chest, and Secondo knew you could feel the way his pulse raced.

He quietly called your name.

Your eyes snap to his, and Secondo never wished he could read minds more than he did in that moment.

Any attempt to control your heartbeat had crumbled the moment Secondo had wrapped you in his arms… because you remembered Lucifer showed you this moment, two people tangled together, clinging to one another in the shadows. The Dark Lord wanted this for you, and as you looked up into Secondo’s mismatched eyes, you realized you wanted this too. Because while hating Secondo had always been hard, there was a time when wanting him had come easily.

If that night had never happened. If you hadn’t played dress up and worn his robes. If you hadn’t climbed on the altar. You’d still be hopelessly head over heels for Secondo. There was too much about him you fell for. The way his white eye always seemed to glow like a star in unholy candelight. The way his voice rang out deeper and sweeter than others during hymns. The way he spoke his mind in public and private, never choosing pretty, artificial words over blunt, rigid truths. He was stoic and powerful. A solid rock amongst a lot of shiny fake diamonds. Secondo was the most honest person you’d ever met, never pretending to be something that he wasn’t, and that was so beautiful, especially in a place full of people trying to be something else.

When he whispered your name softly, you pushed your head off his warm chest and looked into his eyes. The rain had washed away most of his paints, and only a few traces of black makeup lingered under his eyes and around his long lashes. Despite all the pain he had caused you, everything in you that had once longed for Secondo burned for him again. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was wrong. But Secondo was your snake. And he was standing back in your garden.

Sliding both your hands off his chest, you reached for Secondo’s face. His chest puffed, filling with a deep breath of air that pushed his body further against your quivering own. The pads of your thumbs met his strong cheekbones, and his eyes closed as you gently wiped away the rest of his makeup. When you finished and returned your hands to his chest, Secondo opened his eyes again. He had never looked more like just a man. He was beautiful.

And for the first time since that night in the chapel, when Secondo looked back at you, you didn’t see hatred. The edges of his eyes were softer. The deep wrinkles etched on his face were smoother. He looked soft, like a man tired of fighting. Like a man who could love you like Lucifer promised.

“I’m sorry, sorella,” Secondo whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the storm. “I never should have hurt you. Please forgive me. You didn’t deserve th-”

Before Secondo could finish his apology, you did the dumbest and bravest thing of your life. You pushed yourself onto your tiptoes and slotted your mouth against his.

Secondo stilled, freezing like the stone statues lining the garden, as the rain poured down around you, soaking your habit and hair. Behind you, the fountain flared, and its flames shot high into the sky, threatening to reach the treetops. Heat flickered against your goosebumped skin, but embarrassment made you shiver, and you pushed away from Secondo.

Shit.

You’d gone too far. Mistaken an apology for something more. Misread a tattoo as a sign of something else. You’d been stupid. Foolish. An idiot.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Papa,” you began to apologize, “I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t-”

But it was Secondo’s turn to silence you. His hands cupped your face before quickly sliding down to your neck, silently begging for you to open for him… and you did. You broke and reshaped to him as his lips met yours. Secondo kissed you more deeply and gently than the peckish little thing you’d shyly given him.

He stole your breath away.

His kiss was fervent. His broad body bent over yours, forcing you to arch up into him as your hips press against one another. His soft tongue gently pushed its way into your mouth, tenderly exploring how to make you melt and mewl, while claiming every small whimper and moan he could elicit from you.

When you opened your eyes again, lightning crackled in the sky above, illuminating the garden for a brief moment before darkness descended once more. The storm raged on around you, but in that moment, there was only the warmth of Secondo's mouth against yours and the taste of him and sweet rainwater on your lips. He kissed like a man starved, occasionally taking a quick break to whisper your name like one of his most unholy psalms before returning his mouth to yours. You couldn't help but respond, as your hands found their way to his unclothed back.

It was then that you learned Secondo’s signing was not the most beautiful noise he could make. Your rough nails against his slick skin made Secondo growl, and you clawed down his back, drawing those pretty sounds from the depths of his belly over and over and over again. The rumble in his chest was just too beautiful. And he let you do it. He let you draw long red lines down the strong muscles of his back because while his tongue led the dance in your mouth, his body had become yours to dictate. So when you walked him backward, step by step, toward the stone bench, Secondo didn’t fight you. He let you move him, and when you pushed him down by his shoulders, he sat without command and looked up at you through those dark lashes that dripped the last remnants of paint you must have missed.

“You are beautiful, sorrella,” Secondo said, like it was the truth. And oh, how your heart wanted it to be true.

Secondo had practiced his apology hundreds of times on his hasty return to the Ministry. He’d imagined all the nasty things you’d rightfully call him and the way he’d fall and grovel at your feet, taking every just blow against him without offense. But in all the scenarios he could muster, he never imagined that when he held out his hand, you would simply slip your delicate little palm into his and then climb into his lap. He never even dared to dream that you’d let him call you beautiful or that when he pushed your wet hair to the side and licked against your neck, that you would rock against him and moan like you wanted him. Like you needed him.

Santanas.

Was he dying?

Was this a sweet little vision before he was sent to meet his ruler in hell?

It had to be, because the taste of your tongue was too intoxicating. You tasted sugary, too saccharinely sweet, like the most delicious honey mixed with the sweetest of flowers. But to hold you… Oh, how that was even more addictive. You fit against him like something he had been missing, and the ache in his chest felt like it opened wide and an entire hole within him blossomed.

But then another crack of thunder rang out, and you tensed in his arms. Lightning followed too closely, and Secondo knew it wasn’t safe in the gardens anymore. As much as he wanted to keep you here, seated in his lap and pinned tightly against his chest, you had to move. He had to keep you safe.

“Dolce… the storm,” he uttered, as you kissed your way from the apple of his cheek to a sensitive spot just below his ear, that made him dizzy. “We need to go inside.”

Reluctantly, you pulled away, your breath hitching at the loss of contact. With a final lingering touch against his lips, you stood up. The wet fabric of your habit clung to your skin, and Secondo couldn’t help but look at you. Every curve, every inch of you called to him.

Fuck, he was rock hard.

Secondo was, of course, no stranger to the human body. He had shared many nights with men and women of all different shapes and sizes. But Santhanas, if you weren’t the most mesmerizing creature he had ever laid eyes on. From the elongated tips of your painted fingernails down to your heeled feet planted between his very own, every inch of you was made for him.

Secondo prayed to hell every single night, but staring up at you, he wondered if somehow his prayers had gotten lost in the mix. He wondered if his words had accidentally reached heaven and God, for once, had taken pity on his creation and sent one of his most beautiful angels down to earth.

But as much as he wanted to sit and admire you for a lifetime, Secondo knew it was time to go. So he stood and offered you his hand again. You took it with hesitation, and together you ran through the gardens, the wet ground squelching underneath your feet. The storm raged on, but in those moments, all that mattered to Secondo was the warmth of your hand in his.

Go back: (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8)

(Read on AO3)

[8-rae-rae-8]

Haiii haii!!

I'm currently super sick right now, and I'm wondering if you could write about little! Graves who is sick and he's being taken care of!! Thank you, and your writing is chefs kiss!!

ITS BEEN MONTHS. BUT YES. YES YOU CAN.

I GOT YOU THANK YOU

AO3 link or read below - 4K words :)

There was a time, not too long ago, where sickness festering into his fragile body meant a new set of jobs to handle, a different kind of crushing pressure where cruel eyes darted to him at every little sniffle. It's instinct to suppress the rattle in his bones, shield his cold body with a jacket over a hoodie that's just a few sizes too big, while his mind screams to hide.

Phillip knows that feeling well. Better than any Little should have to. He won't dare to mutter that it was unfair, those cries won't reach anyone's ears. There was only so much his mind could take before he believed the cruel words shouted in his ears.

He deserved to be sick.

It was his fault.

How dare he want someone's help. Littles like him didn't get to need.

Hiding meant it would hurt less, whatever punishment would pelt his skin like heavy hail. After so long, being able to hide became a lifeline, something he could run to, tuck himself away wherever his shaking shoulders could fit. He knew no one could save him from the booming voice demanding from him and the cruel hands taking from him. Worse, he knew no one would even try to rinse away the evidence of his hurt. Phillip Graves didn't deserve to be saved in such a way.

The shepherd who once held his loyalty was guiding him to slaughter, while his soft eyes trusted with every part of his being. A lamb lead to death doesn't think there's a herd to hear his call.

Phillip never thought anyone would hear him cry for help when no one ever came for him. His pale, illness riddled body was only ever looked at, never seen for what it was: a silent plea for help.

Yet, here, tucked gently into a freshly made bed—a crib meant for Littles—the smallest sniffle and whimper has a Caregiver running without so much as a second thought. He doesn't have to beg for the simplest things, there's no punishment for his aches.

Sweat dampens his forehead, dirty blond hair sticking to his skin. Sometime in the middle of the night, he wiggled his way out of the pajamas that were picked out for him hours before. The heavy blanket separates his feverish body from the harsh chill of the air around him. Is it really that cold?

Quietly, the smallest grunt falls from his lips as he squirms in the bedding. Two trembling hands grab at the blankets, pushing and pulling at the fabrics. The Little doesn't toss and turn, eyebrows bunched at the center whenever he moved just a little too much. It pulls a louder, more uncomfortable sound from him.

A few days prior, Phil started feeling off ever so slightly, but it wasn't ever enough to mention. Nausea here and there, a headache every so often, chills whenever the wind shifted just a tad. Maybe he should've thought about it a little harder than he did.

The act of just moving sends a burning sensation through his stomach and up his throat. He should have known better, taken some kind of medicine—not that he knows quite where they keep pills here. It hurts to move, his muscles cramp with the effort, and yet, he can't stop the sore squirming.

Above the bed, settled on a shelf just to the side, a baby monitor blinks to life at the smallest sounds of his distress. Phillip doesn't hear the sound of the tiny beep over his own discomfort.

Two minutes is all it takes for the silhouette of a Caregiver standing in the doorway. A container in hand, one the Little hasn't seen in his few months with them. Not that he thinks to glance over, eyes screwed shut. He squeezes the fabric in his hands, grip loose despite the effort he tugs at the blankets with.

Only when he hears footsteps get close does he open his tired eyes. Sleep sticking to his eyelashes as he rapidly blinks. Was his heart beating weird before?

"Shh, shh… It's okay, love." The familiar voice speaks, a hand reaching over the crib to flick on a small lamp. Warm but dim light washes over the Caregiver. In a fluid motion, he crouches down at the side of the bed, a hand on the blue starry blanket Phil refused to sleep without.

A small breath of relief leaves him. It's just Price. The carer he's gotten so used to calling 'Mama' over the last few months. It doesn't leave a bad taste in his mouth the way 'Papa' does.

"Just Mama, see?" John whispers. His blue eyes scan Phil's body in the low light. From his sweaty, pale face, to his uncomfortable squirming.

Timidly, the Little nods, lower lip shaking with every inhale.

"Can I take your temperature, bud?" John hums. The hand on the bed reaches to gently rest over Phil's chest, feeling the hammering heartbeat beneath his palm. A frown spreads over his lips for a brief second.

The moment he attempts to talk, he immediately shuts his mouth again. Those blue eyes open wide, a wave of panic washing over him. His tummy hurts. Mama asked him a question and he couldn't answer. Instead, he feels his stomach churning harder and harder and the bile rising in his throat.

"Phil?" The Caregiver's question is quickly disregarded as he reaches out as quickly as possible to grab the bin next to the bed. Years of training and practice making this at least predictable enough to prevent as many tears as possible.

A quiet cry falls from Phil's lips, his hands on the blankets quickly move to clumsily grasp the plastic in front of him. No, no- he doesn't wanna be sick.

"Oh, love…" Price sighs, pulling himself up off the floor just enough to sit by the Little on the bed. The hand that had been on his chest moves to rub circles into the boy's back. "I know… Let it out, you'll feel better once all the icky is gone." He comforts, pulling a blanket around Phillip's shoulders.

"Mama..!" Phil clutches the trashcan. He doesn't wanna. He can taste the feeling on his tongue, burning at his throat the more he tries to stop it.

"I know, baby, I know…" John murmurs, "You have to get it out. Mama will be right here the whole time." He promises, voice quiet and gentle as he continues to rub his back.

He doesn't like being sick. Everything gets so much bigger around him and he can't stay in control of even the most basic things. The control he's tried to keep for so long starts slipping away from him and he can't protect himself anymore. There's no getting bigger when he's sick like this, the fuzziness creeps into his head, cementing itself there for god knows how long.

It makes him weak, useless. It's not fair, he won't ever say it. He won't complain like that, he hasn't earned the right to. He tries so hard to be okay, to be big and well-behaved. Being sick ruins all of his efforts. He can't fix himself if he can't think straight.

With a broken sob, the contents of his stomach fill the trashcan. It hurts. Phillip whimpers between heaves, that hand on his back never leaving even as ringing fills his ears instead of the Caregiver's voice.

Splotches of black fade in and out of his vision once he finally stops and gets to breathe. His body shudders with the effort to get air in his lungs.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Price reach down and turn to him with a little rag in his hand. He moves the bin just enough to reach to the Little's face and wipe away the puke on his chin and lips. Phillip sees him talk but he doesn't hear a word John said.

Instead of repeating himself, John simply smiles at him and presses a small kiss to his temple, uncaring how sick the other may be. It's his job as a Caregiver to be there for all of it, all of the times the boys need changed, bathed, cleaned up after, and all of the times their giggles and laughs filled the walls of John's home.

Painfully, Phillip whimpers at the gentle affection. His blue eyes staring up at Mama, teary and scared. He can just make out the 'It's okay' beyond the temporary ringing in his ears.

The rag is set off to the side in favor of gently pulling Phil close, the bin settled back on the floor for the time being. The Little's twisting and squirming stopped the moment he got all of the icky stuff out of his tummy, at the very least.

Exhausted as if he hadn't slept, Phillip practically falls against Price's chest. His eyes blinking shut as he pants, mouth open to pull in deeper breaths, his nose too stuffy to breathe correctly. An arm wraps around him, holding him steady. The moment Phil puts his full weight against John, tucked delicately under his arm, the Caregiver winces slightly at the heat radiating from Phil's sick body.

Why does he have to be sick? Did he go out in the cold without any protection? Was it raining? He can't remember why. It's not fair for it to just happen. He was doing so good. He was settling in perfectly.

The room remains quiet until Phil tilts his head up to Price, looking up through his wet eyelashes. Silent, waiting. He didn't do anything wrong, right? Mama isn't mad at him? For throwing up? Making a mess? Crying? He was doing so well. He didn't mean to get sick.

"How about we get you cleaned up, bub? These sheets are probably icky now, hm?" Price hums, a sad smile on his lips.

Phil hesitates. He isn't mad. Why isn't he mad? Judging by the bags under Price's eyes, he's just as tired as Phil is. Isn't he mad he got woken up? The Little's lip trembles again, blue eyes tearing up again.

"Oh, baby…" Mama breathes out. Gently, with a blanket still wrapped around Phil's shoulders, he lifts the little one into his lap. He stopped caring about catching the boys' sicknesses a while back, comforting them was all that mattered.

Solid warmth surrounds him quickly, the steady beat of Price's heart settled under his ear. As if he's something fragile, something worth caring for, John cradles him in his arms. Slowly rocking with him where they're sat, not bothering with the sturdy rocking chair a few steps away.

"Let me take care of you, yeah, pumpkin?" John asks, a hand brushing back the hair stuck to Phil's forehead. "I know it's scary, being sick isn't fun." He doesn't hesitate to press another soft kiss to the Little's forehead.

Somehow, the unfamiliarity of this kindness is more terrifying than it would be to have an order shouted at him, something demanded from him. That, he knew. He knew all of that well. This is so different. A few months away can do a lot to help, but it can't undo every scar over his skin. It can't reverse the instinct to run and hide, as much as they all wish it could.

Being taken care of is scary when the only hand that touched him before would leave bruises. Home wasn't safe, work wasn't safe. He didn't know anything but avoidance, how to stay light on his feet so no one would hear him, how to silence his cries so no one knew it hurt.

This is all new. A hand coming closer never meant it would all be okay, those hands would never soothe him. And now… Now, Price is looking at him so delicately, like everything could turn out okay, somehow. It makes his head feel much more fuzzy. Every little act of care pulled him down further, making him smaller and smaller.

He can't take care of himself like this. No matter how much he's tried before, it always ended in tears and hiding as far away as he could get. He didn't need to hide here. It won't hurt, they won't hurt him. Mama won't hurt him.

Sniffling, the little one nods again. He shudders as he inhales, the skin around his chest tightening as he forces himself to agree. He has to trust this won't hurt.

Nothing but feelings come up when he thinks about it. Maybe an echo of similar words whispered into his ears a long time ago. Something gross and sinister. 'I'll take care of you.' In a voice he can't forget. All of the terror sits right in his chest, buried in the space behind his heart.

This won't hurt like that did. Mama won't do that to him. He promised.

"Do you want a warm bath, or new cozy pajamas?" Price asks, while leaving room for Phil to not make a choice at all. Two choices, narrowed down for him.

Phillip blinks up at him for a solid few seconds, letting the tears roll down his cheeks and immediately having them wiped away by Mama's hand. Gentle. Mama won't hurt him. Nervously, he glances out to the hallway, his lip bitten between his teeth.

"Bath?" John questions, answered by a little nod.

Bath times aren't known to always go smoothly in the John Price household. Each of them have their moments. Johnny's panic attacks, Simon's wailing if the temperature is off just a bit, Kyle refusing to get out of the bath once he's already in it, and now Phil's fear of getting anywhere near the water despite wanting it—wanting all of the icky to go away.

It's scary. For each of them, bath time had become a punishment at some point in their lives. Phillip can't remember the last time it wasn't scary. Would the water scald him? Would it be freezing? Would the soap be okay for his skin? Is he icky? Can he even get clean to begin with?

Patient as ever, Price always reintroduces him to the water. He keeps his hand in the water until Phil learns it won't hurt him. The temperature is just right. Their soaps are all on the ledge of the tub, along with some bath toys, the shampoos and conditioners that Phil likes, the body wash that makes him calms him at the comforting scent. Strawberry hair products and lavender body wash, the ones he so timidly picked from the store shelf weeks ago.

It took weeks for Phil to even touch the toys. His excuses were always that those weren't for him, the other boys wouldn't want him to touch their toys, he'd make them gross just by touching them. No Little should react that way when offered something they so clearly want. Phillip's shoulders shouldn't raise and his eyes shouldn't dart around like he's one step from a punishment.

The times Phil doesn't fight bathing are few and far between, even if he asked for a bath. The task of actually doing it weighs on him.

This time, he's too tired to let out anything but a small whimper as Price tosses away the worn clothes that was still on and slowly helps him into the warm water. A new set of pajamas lays on the counter, next to the blue puppy themed towel, with a little hood on it. Unlike the others, Phil doesn't have a hook in the bathroom yet for his towel.

Not too hot, not too cold. A timid hand pats at the surface of the water, feeling the liquid move under his have. Too tired to do much of anything else.

In the bathroom lighting, sitting in the tub so quietly, Phillip looks so small. His shoulders pulled in closely, eyes staring down at the water as he clumsily plays with the water. Sweat highlights the bony spots on his pale body, the spaces not yet filled with muscle and fat the way it had been before the man he called his Caregiver lead him to a slow death.

A little rubber ducky floats into the ripples of Phil's movements. In his peripheral vision, John carefully crouched down at the side of the tub, one hand in the water with his sleeves rolled up to help the little one get all clean.

"Do you want to play for a little, bub?" The carer asks, feeling the warm water around his hand. Subtly making sure it is the correct temperature—Phil won't cry in complaint if it isn't, he'll sink into it despite the pain of the drastic temperatures he's been forced to sit in before.

The offer makes Phil raise his eyebrows slightly, those blue eyes sparkling a tad as he looks up at Price. He's sick and Mama isn't being mean. He gets to play? For just a moment before the scary part? Even still, after months, a part of him believes the bath won't last long and he'll be hosed down like a misbehaving animal. Is the scary part washing up, or the slightest chance Price will reach for the shower head instead of a rag to wash him?

"How about we do.. five minutes of play time, then we wash up?" Price suggests, checking the watch on his wrist for the time—Two in the morning, not that Phil has to know.

Slowly, the Little nods. Despite the ache in his bones and the growing throbbing in his head, he wants to play, just a little bit while he can. Now that his stomach isn't killing him and he can sit for a minute without feeling like he'll either die or throw up again.

"Play for a little bit, pumpkin, Mama will be right here." Price promises, pulling his hand out of the tub to dry it off and watch the little one play for a bit. To get any throw up and sweat off of himself for now, John tosses his shirt into the laundry bin.

Phillip lasts all of three minutes before he simply sits there and looks up at Mama with his sad blue eyes. The light over the tub and the brighter one over the sink burns his tired eyes, the water doesn't feel right, and he can feel every little bit of air coming from the vent. Goosebumps rise on his skin, slipping further under the water doesn't stop his weak shivers.

"All done?" John asks as he reaches for the shampoo and a rag to shield the Little's eyes from the water.

A broken whimper falls from his lips. He doesn't wanna be all done. He doesn't want to be tired and he doesn't want to be cold!

"I know, love, I know…" The Caregiver frowns, "We have to wash up. I'll be fast, yeah? I don't want you covered in sick and sweat…"

The promise doesn't matter much when he remembers those same words being spoken to him by a liar with a sharp tongue. It'll be over fast just meant that the pain would remain seared into his skin longer, leaving him aching for far too long because he tried a little too loud for everything to stop. The solution was to make it go by fast, Phil would learn his lesson to stop asking for mercy eventually.

He never did.

And still, he wants to believe that Mama will stay true to those words. How many times has he promised that so far? That he wouldn't lay a cruel hand on Phillip, on any of the boys? How many times has he actually believed that without an ounce of doubt?

He wants to trust Price not to hurt him too, he has to. What power does a Little possibly have here?

The fever doesn't help his train of thought. Melting the Little's thoughts into pools of emotion he can't discern enough to make sense of. They wouldn't make sense anyway in the state he's in, would they? Too small, too scared and too sick. Being sick brought it's own fears to the table. Why can't he just be small and happy for once?

Can he do anything but agree with Price so gently offering to wash him up? It's not fair that it's so scary. Does he even get to say no?

He doesn't want to be icky. Mama doesn't want him to be icky.

So, holding his breath with his rosy cheeks puffed out, he agrees.

Despite everything he's been shown, every bit of hurt that's ever racked through his body, John's version of being fast was absolutely nothing like any memory he could pull up. He is quick, all without pressing a bruise into the Little's fragile skin, washing away what remained of any sick on his shivering body.

More gentle than he deserves. A soft rag wiping down his tired body. He doesn't have to put in an ounce of effort when John leans over the tub and does just about everything for him. Cleaning any more the vomit from his chin, washing his hair without tugging at the blond strands as he keeps the water away from his eyes with a dry cloth.

Phillip didn't have to ask to be handled with care, he's just given it without begging.

John Price doesn't take his boys' trust lightly, an abuse of power is a betrayal when their eyes reflect something so small, utterly dependent on him for love and care. That's why he picks Phil up from the cooling water with such careful, precise movements and promptly swaddles him in the towel that had been set aside.

Even as the little one squirms, he doesn't fear being put down when John pulls him against his bare chest. The little hood on the puppy themed towel flips over his wet hair when John expertly holds him up with one arm for just a moment.

"All done.. All done." The carer mutters, voice soft in his ear. He steadily lays Phillip's head down on his shoulder, a slow sway to his movements. Warmth surrounds him in an instant. Cold water still clings to his skin, but John holds him closer, just as he needs without the Little saying a word.

Timidly, Graves tucks his feverish face into John's shoulder. His arms tucked into the towel in a loose swaddle, he merely snuggles in as much as he possibly can manage. Quiet, uncharacteristically so for him. All of his scared whimpers and frustrated sounds buried somewhere in his chest where he can't reach for them anymore. Is it his temperature? The weariness in his bones? The sickness bubbling in his tummy?

He doesn't want to make a sound. Price is so warm and he's so cold. If he says something, cries out at the wrong time, will he get put down? Will Mama get frustrated with him? Will he take the warmth with him? Make him shiver until he dried on his own?

"That's it… Just rest for a minute." Price hums, adding a soft bounce as he sways with Phil. One arm holds him up under his thighs, the other wrapped around his back for support. His head tilts to lean against the other's.

All he does is nod, barely enough to be noticeable. Why would he fight that? He doesn't have to say anything, does he? Mama's got him, right? His shoulders relax steadily, lips parted to breathe when his sniffles don't do anything to unclog his nose.

The light silence is only broken with John's quiet hums that aren't ever met with a response. Not wanting to upset the little one by moving him suddenly, he turns to glance in the mirror above the double sink.

Sure enough, Phillip's eyes are closed. He looks peaceful like that, so very small in John's arms the way the others aren't. Weeks of hiding from someone hurting him down would do that. The others are filled out with muscle and fat, while Phil only just started gaining his back. Being in fight or flight mode for so damn long didn't help him. He's small, but not always in the way that brings joy to the Caregiver's heart.

This time, though, John smiles fondly at the reflection of his boy sleeping on him.

[yeah-w-r-i-t-e]

I swing back and forth on whether or not Ethan really wants to retire and live a domestic life. I think he simultaneously thinks he HAS to go and save the world and also enjoys it. He finds fulfillment in it. The problem is that the world will always need saving, and Ethan is a human man who gets very Tired. He is tempted to retire multiple times—the most significant one being with his wife, since he actually tried retirement out for a few years. So it's clear that he does want it on some level. But he still chooses to go back! It's his choice! I don't think he would be happy retired. I believe he sees it as what people should want, especially people in as strenuous a job as his. It's not exactly normal to enjoy being in danger 24/7 and coming milliseconds away from exploding on a regular basis. So he kind of idealizes retirement, looking forward to a nebulous "future" in which he is safe and happy and all his friends are too. So I don't exactly think he truly does want to quit. But he probably should retire before he goes through osteoporosis and a single punch gives him a comminuted fracture.

As for the second point, I TOTALLY agree with you! Ethan does NOT ruin the lives of everyone he knows and loves. He even makes their lives better! He saves them over and over and over again! Unfortunately, HE believes he destroys the lives of everyone he gets close to. All the reasons you listed above are true; however, in Ethan's mind, he got his whole original team killed, he made Julia go on the run for the rest of her life, he forced Nyah to go back to a toxic relationship with her ex and get infected with a deadly virus, he repeatedly put Benji in immense danger (especially in proximity to Lane), he kept Luther out of retirement for decades past the time he was meant to be in retirement, he dragged Grace into the dangerous world of espionage (which she can now never escape), etc etc. The list goes on.

From the outside, we can see that all this isn't his fault and that his friends and loved ones have benefitted from his presence in their lives. Unfortunately, Ethan doesn't know he's in the Hope and Friendship franchise. He thinks he's a literal parasite leeching off of his friends 😭😭😭 someone get this man into therapy stat I'm begging you

2 Controversial Mission: Impossible Takes

Take #1 - Ethan Hunt Does Not Constantly Yearn For A Domestic Life

This may not be controversial, but it's my interpretation of his character and I wanna talk about it. I see a lot of characterizations of Ethan making him out to be a character who is cursed and plagued with the task to do good in the world who just wants to settle down and have a 'normal' life with a partner. I do not see him like this for two reasons.

Reason number one is self indulgent. I personally hate this trope. There are so many stories with heroes and action heroes and adventure characters who are going about saving the world who lament their every second spent doing it because all they want is a quiet life, and this just bores me to death. It's also a rather misogynistic trope sometimes, as these stories often involve a Male Hero who has a skill and passion for saving the world, but abandons it to settle down with a Wife who has no passions of her own besides rearing a family. It's so incredibly heteronormative and I usually avoid stories like these. Mission: Impossible is not a story like this. Which brings me to my second reason.

Ethan Hunt has had MANY chances to "settle down," and he has not taken them. The obvious one is Mission: Impossible 3, where he decides to try out the civilian life, with Julia. Julia and the life she came with did not get killed, or taken away from him, or force him to go back to the IMF. Ethan left. Canonically, the reason was that "Every time he saw a disaster on TV, he said 'I should have been there.'"

Now, this could be interpreted as him being compelled, forced by his own mind and his own anxieties to keep saving the world and leave the life he longs for behind, but to me that just isn't Ethan. Because when Ethan wants something to happen, he fights for it. If he truly wanted to make him and Julia work, he could have. But he wanted to go back to the life he belonged to. He still very much loved Julia, he didn't suddenly stop caring about her. But he couldn't be her partner anymore.

Not only this, but he had ANOTHER very clear chance to have a different life with a heterosexual love interest: Ilsa. In Rogue Nation, she offers him the chance to run away from it all, to settle down with her, to leave the IMF. He turns her down. Textually this is because he needed to defeat Lane and finish the mission. But AFTER THE MISSION WAS OVER, he had ANOTHER chance to go when Ilsa was leaving. But he didn't! He was happy for her. Happy that he helped her get a chance to get the life she wanted to have. But he didn't want to be a part of it.

On top of these very clear moments, Ethan has basically had a choice to leave throughout the whole series. Almost every time a movie ends, he's in good standing with the IMF and able to do what he wants - and what he wants is to accept the next mission. The mission, should you CHOOSE to accept it. That's the point of the ENTIRE MOVIE SERIES!!! The finale finishes with Ethan NOT settling down with a woman, but saving the entire world instead. And that's amazing.

Saving the world with his friends who love him is what makes Ethan happy, it's what makes him feel alive, despite The Horrors. Ethan Hunt is not constantly pining for a white picket fence life and gritting his teeth through every second of every movie, wishing he was the breadwinner of a family of four with a wife to come home to from his 9-5. In between the life-threatening moments of the job, he laughs and jokes with his friends as he uses his skills to do what he loves, which is protect humanity which he is so so devoted to.

Again, this is my interpretation. You can interpret him the other way if you want, I won't judge. I'm just very very sick of heteronormativity in stories I like, especially action movies, and seeing a character who leaves a heterosexual marriage to go on to a life of being with his friends and living out his passion is very healing to me.

Take #2 - Ethan Hunt Does Not Destroy The Lives Of Everyone He Knows And Loves

This is another very common trope in action movies, the classic 'don't get close to me I'll only hurt you,' 'this life is too dangerous for you to handle,' 'I can never have any real relationships because of who I am.' And Mission: Impossible subverts this trope a bit in an interesting way.

Let's look at the lives Ethan has touched in a good way. Luther was disavowed by the IMF, living a life of secrecy, until Ethan came along and gave him the opportunity to be an agent again (I know he didn't survive the narrative. But I'll get to that).

Nyah was a thief. She was also living a life of crime. Ethan brought her into his mission and she got a chance to help defeat her asshole of an ex boyfriend and have all of her charges dropped, allowing her to do whatever she wants to do.

Benji, the tech guy, saw Ethan's exciting life as a field agent and decided to take the field exam, and become an agent just like Ethan, growing more confident and competent as the series progressed.

Julia was a nurse, and she was happy to be one while living her domestic life with Ethan for a while, until they split up. Her having to move around the world for her own protection helped her discover her love for helping people in disaster areas, become a doctor, and meet her new husband.

Grace was a thief, too. Ethan came into her life and offered her The Choice- keep running, or use her skills for something bigger. And she chose to accept. Ethan took a risky chance on her and led her to a job that gave her life more meaning.

Donloe. Ethan thought he ruined Donloe's life. But without Ethan breaking into the Black Vault, he never would have gotten the opportunity to meet the love of his life and live somewhere free from stress and borishness. Donloe told Ethan this himself, that he had nothing to apologize for.

Now, let's talk about Ilsa. It seems at first as though Ilsa meeting Ethan was a curse, but in reality she was in danger far before Ethan came into her life. He was the one who helped her throughout her whole story, doing everything in his power to get her to safety, to freedom. She ultimately didn't succeed. But Ethan's efforts were not entirely in vain, as she would have failed far sooner without his help in clearing her name.

Luther didn't make it either. But this wasn't Ethan's actions or his failures that led to this. Ethan tried again and again to do everything he could to save Luther, or to repent for his actions that may have caused Luther to end up in that situation. But Luther told him over and over again at the end that this was something he expected, something he CHOSE. Luther knew this life came with risks, and didn't want a life away from it all, 'going fishing' and being safe. It was his choice.

Ethan has lost many friends and loved ones. His old team, Lindsey, Hunley, and more. He THINKS he is the reason that they were all put in danger. But in reality, Ethan wasn't the cause of death or destruction or despair in their lives - he was a source of light, love, hope. He has much more of a positive impact on those around him than a negative one, no matter how much guilt he carries.

The scene at the end of Fallout really encapsulates this. Ethan says "All of this that happened, it was my fault." And Julia interrupts with "Nothing happened, because you were here."

The scene with Julia at the end of Fallout and the scene with Donloe in the beginning of the third act of Final Reckoning have so much in common with each other. Ethan believes that through his actions he has ruined someone's life, but they reassure him that although bad things may have happened, their lives were ultimately changed for the better.

Mission: Impossible isn't all sunshine and rainbows, of course. It's a series about grief as much as it is a series about hope, because the two themes go hand and hand. MI does a really good job at showing how much life can just take and take and take from a person. But it also shows that it's worth it to keep going, because every choice you make in life can possibly amount to something beautiful.

TL;DR: My interpretation of Ethan Hunt is that he is happy where he is and he does not ruin his loved ones' lives <3

[uncanny-tranny]

r u chill w non transitioning ppl?

Why wouldn't I be? At one point, every trans person who is transitioning was once someone who wasn't (whether or not that was a choice or their need is a separate discussion).

Hatred of any kind of trans person is not a Righteous or Good Thing - every single trans person has their place, their entitlement to safety, community, and respect of who they are

[thedrotter]

i depend on you (based and very much inspired by @/sometimes317 's piece on twitter)

process pics in read more!!^^

you can tell the moment it struck me that i was practically drawing ship art www

[csakszimplankacsa]

I agree that uBlock and ClearURLs are essential

Note that Return YouTube Dislike only estimates dislike count on videos (mainly based on the ratio of dislikes from its users since it sadly cannot pull dislike data from the backend) So it might not always be fully accurate, but it's nice to have if it's a feature you miss

Also, I can confirm that OneTab works flawlessly, but it's seriously not for everyone's workflow. For me, when I had the extension, I just ended up saving way too many tabs I never ever returned to. It created an extra tab of clutter so eh~ Just not for me. But again, the extension does what it sets out to do exceptionally

Anyways,

My additions to the list would be:

First and foremost, PopUpOFF. It's my second most used extension (after uBlock, of course). It's bloody amazing. It blocks Popups (like cookie banners, paywalls, whatever) on websites and you can set its strength from "Off", "Anti-Paid", "Delicate" all the way to "Agressive" (depending on how cluttered a site is//what needs blocking).

Then there's Indie Wiki Buddy which helps redirect you away from Fandom links for those wikis that migrated to their own sites (e.g. like how Minecraft or Deltarune have their own pages). It highlights and bumps the Independent Wikis in search results and you can even set it to auto-redirect you to their respective pages if you still find yourself on Fandom links. Really useful if you're into gaming and need to browse wikis.

Video DownloadHelper allows you to download YouTube/other streamed videos (it -sadly- doesn't work on sites like Netflix/HBO max/Disney+ though). If you're a creative who sometimes needs clips for editing, this extension should come in handy.

Now, if you're a "privacy freak", you should at least consider Privacy Badger. It's like an adblocker in the sense that it works in the background and you never notice it, but instead it's specifically designed to target trackers. Small issue with it is that it often breaks how pages load, so you will end up disabling this time and time again.

If you're a "Privacy Freak" with a capital P and a capital F, then also consider LocalCDN. It redirects 3rd party requests that are sent to Google/whatever to your own PC instead, so yk .. you make it that much more difficult for them to track your activity. Huge drawback of this extension: It will slow down your browser a good bit. I don't use this but my sibling swears by it.

I've recently transferred to firefox, can you summon the gay computer nerd mutuals to give recommendations for extensions?

Absolutely I can recommend you extensions anon

Given this is gonna be a bit of a lengthy post, and I don't want people scrolling for approximately for an eternity, I'll put this all under the cut

First and foremost? Literal first ever extension you install? Get uBlock Origin, you'll be so incredibly thankful for it, because no other adblocker is as efficient and powerful as it, it's popular for a reason

Another extension I highly recommend is SponsorBlock, so you can skip sponsors and other stuff in YouTube videos, fucking amazing extension, 10/10

Another one I also recommend is getting ClearURLs, it scrubs away tracking bullshit in your URLs, also a great thing to have

If you're someone who hates the fact that some sites don't have a builtin dark mode, and wish there was a way to fix that, then this extension is for you, Dark Reader

It does exactly what you think it does, it's dark mode for every website

This one is really useful to have, if you've ever had a video that only seems to play in one ear of your headphones, or only in one speaker, then this is definitely for you, because it fixes that problem

Also, if you hated how YouTube basically lobotomized the dislike button, you can fix that, with this handy dandy extension that does exactly what it says on the tin, Return YouTube Dislike

If you fucking hate the webp format like I do, then you'll definitely like this one, Don't "Accept" image/webp, so ideally, you'll get less webp formatted images

Now, this one isn't vital, but given how essential it is to my workflow, you might like it, you might not, your choice, but OneTab is fucking great, wonderful tab management solution

That's all the recommendations I have for a new Firefox user, go forth, enjoy true Internet freedom anon, and see just how much better it is to use Firefox

[darkdragon768]

That "Everyone has some weirdness inside themselves. I let it out, why won't you?" fucking destroyed me.

[eito-rewind]

Eito wasn't sure what to expect, other than... Takumi was going to bite him. On his neck. Probably. Every instinct was screaming at him to abort this operation and flee, or kill, anything but let that decaying, putrid maw anywhere near his body. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, and only half of that could be accredited to fear alone.

He flinched slightly when Takumi took his hand in his own (not really) clawed one. The same hand that had taken out his eyes only a week before. Even through the glove, touch felt unbearably hot, like little spines were pricking through the leather of the glove and needling his skin.

Glitch. It's the glitch.

Takumi brought his hand closer, seemingly examining it. This did nothing for Eito's nerves, and he was sure Takumi could feel his pulse racing.

He gasped out in surprise as he was suddenly yanked forward, bracing himself against Takumi's shoulder with his other hand as the redhead sunk his teeth into Eito's neck, causing a much louder, less dignified sound to involuntarily escape from him and he could swear it shut something off in his brain for a second.

His skin felt like it was melting where Takumi's mouth was making contact with his neck, and the smell was overwhelming at this proximity.

He began to feel unfocused, as waves of emotions overtook him.

---

It started with monotony, contentment. A life devoid of any real strife, or major excitement. Living a day at a time, with a loving family, and a girl - like a sister - with dreams extending far beyond the residential complex's walls. Always doing just enough to maintain that easy, comfortable happiness.

Everything changes. Everything is torn out from under him.

He finds himself at Last Defense Academy. He never asked for anything like this. He was supposed to be living a simple, comforting life. Every day the same as the last. This was all new, strange. Frightening. He wanted to go home. Wanted to go back to his family and to her. He didn't know what he was doing. But he had to protect them, protect the people he loved back home in the TRC, and if he had to fight to do it...

He could do it. He had to do it.

He's bonded to so many of them here, especially Amemiya, Maruko, and Aotsuki. And of course, Kirifuji, who looks so much like... It helps drive him to push forward, even through the bumps and disasters that befell them through those Hundred Days. Sirei's destruction. Shizuhara's death.

Then came the final Commander. They lost Ima. He lost Kirifuji.

And in the end, he lost Aotsuki too. Even though it turned out, he was never really his friend in the first place.

There had to be a better ending. Following the guidance of that boy in flames, he took that chance and rewound the clock.

Second loop. He stops and cages that traitor before he can do any harm. He knows what he has to do: rally everyone together, use what he knows to avoid the tragedies of before. They'll have that better ending, no matter what. They'll all make it home, this time.

He was naive. When he had to choose between Second-to-Last and Last Defense... he couldn't abandon them. He chose to double back, and lost Omokage, Oosuzuki, Magadori, and Mojiro because of it. Had to lie to Kirifuji. But... he'd saved the others. He'd saved Amemiya - no, Darumi.

He never expected how close they would grow once he met the real Darumi. He never expected that she of all people would make him feel this way. For the first time, really.

They should never have found the Retsnom. He should never have let it merge with Darumi. Should have never let things get so far.

She gave him a choice, and he made the decision that... whatever that was, it was no longer Darumi. It would burn, and so would he.

Fate wouldn't let that happen. He forced himself to begin anew again, baptized in grief and regret.

Begin again. He can't protect Shizuhara. He fails to protect Darumi, again. He fails with so many others. And it's all because of him. It's his fault. It's his fault. How dare he how dare he how dare he how dare he how dare he how dare he how dare he...

He's barely wiped Aotsuki's blood off of his hands when he begins anew again, baptized in fury.

Begin again. He kills Aotsuki immediately. He won't let him ruin things again. The first of many deaths. He won't let Darumi die this time, if all else fails she has to live through this sick fucking game. She kills Hiruko, and all he can see is the monster. He almost makes the same mistake yet again. When he somehow sees Aotsuki's sick fucking face under the mask, he can't stop himself from liberating his head from his body.

At the end of it all, he stays. A killer like him doesn't deserve a happy ending. Begin anew again, baptized in shame.

Begin again. He... barely remembers this. But he made sure Aotsuki wouldn't be there to screw everything up. It was hard to keep track of everything that was happening. But in the end, it was more death, more chaos.

He is no longer himself. The thing inside forces the restart, this time. Begin anew again, baptized in fear and loss.

Begin again. He refuses to let Aotsuki be a threat. They leave, this time, and come back. He won't play that thing's game. But there's doubts, fear. What if it's still there? It doesn't matter, when he saves Kirifuji. His head was smashed, they should all be safe. Darumi should be safe. But the killing doesn't stop. And in the end... he remained a killer. It stained every crevice of his soul. He broke down to Hiruko. The only one left. Told her everything.

She gave him an answer. A way to fix this, to fix him. Begin anew again, baptized in hope renewed.

Begin again. He knows the path to his happy ending. He spares Aotsuki - against his own wishes, but there's no other way. He gets rid of the G'ie data. He knows the path forward. He's once again forced to choose, and Maruko dies because of him. Then Kyoshika. Then Kurara. Aotsuki escapes. Stupid, stupid, stupid, of course he would. He lives and breathes duplicity. Shizuhara must have been wrong. She must have. When he once again has Aotsuki at his mercy, all he can see is red.

That was his mistake. Eito was inside him now. Fucking with him. Changing him. It was a massacre. Everyone. Even Darumi, again. Shion. They were all dead. Everyone. Because of him. And him.

What was cracked was broken was shattered, He wouldn't forgive him. He wouldn't forgive him. He wouldn't forgive.

Begin anew again. Baptized in hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatehate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatehate hate hate hate hate hate hate hatehatehatehatehate...

---

Eito gasped, shaking. His eyes burned with tears, his heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds as Takumi's memories hit him like a freight train.

He.. thought he knew what he was in for. It was clear the Takumi he knew held back the worst of it.

His breathing was heavy and labored as the memories caught up to the now. Eito gripped Takumi gently by the shoulders, and eased him away from where he was weeping into his shoulder. They both certainly looked a mess.

"Takumi, I..." Fuck, what in the hells could he even say to that? "I'm... I'm so sorry... How... How have you held on...?"

[[ROUTE ???+1 | DAY 30 | EVENING | EYE FOR AN EYE ]]

((Note: continuation of this thread))

Twilight was starting to descend on the ruins, sky painted in red and violet hues and casting the world in a beautiful orange glow. All was eerily silent, save for the occasional clattering of rubble and shouts of the members of the Going-Home Club, calling out for the missing Takumi.

Kako and Eito had hoped that the latter's presence would have drawn him out, but they were beginning to fear that perhaps he had gone much further than they'd thought; they reasoned he probably wouldn't have gone too far beyond the city ruins, since he would need to spend time to scavenge for resources, not to mention there was still plenty of structures that could be feasibly used as a short-term shelter. Or more worryingly, there was the possibility that he'd run into some sort of trouble. Even with his skill and infuser, he was alone out here. And likely, not in his right mind.

Eito looked over the faces of his companions. Everyone worse similar expressions of worry and concern. Even Darumi, who previously had been trying to keep spirits up with her morbid humor and mercurial antics, was beginning to crack, as far as he could tell through his distorted view.

She really was a sweet girl, underneath it all.

Eito exhaled, watching eyeing the sunset. It'd be dark soon, making this that much harder. Was Takumi watching the sunset too? Was he even alive to do so?...

A breeze swept through and gently ruffled his hair. Eito inhaled deeply, embracing the new scents that helped drown out those of the people around him. The woods nearby, some smoke and ash, probably from one of the nearby stacks of flame...

A faint hint of rot, of morning glories. Of burned paper.

Of blood. Lots of blood.

He smells the breeze again, more insistently, following the direction it came from at a hurried pace. It earned more than a few confused glances from his companions, but with the sense of urgency he presented they were quick to fall in line.

"Ei- Eito! Hold on! What's wrong?" Kako called out.

"You don't smell it?" He asks, stopping a moment to look around, "On the breeze. Blood."

"Blood... On the breeze?" Shouma questioned, shaken by the thought, "You... You don't think...?"

As Eito reoriented himself, figuring out which way the smell was coming from, he heard Darumi also chime in uselessly.

"Kyohoho! He's got the scent! Lead us there, boy!"

Ignoring the implication that he was a dog, Eito indicated a direction for the group to follow. The smell was getting MUCH stronger, almost overwhelming for Eito - even the others were beginning to smell the blood. In this new area, where the smell was strongest, they fanned out and began searching the burnt-out shells and buildings for any signs of violence - and any signs of Takumi.

As Eito searched a small, covered area, he heard Darumi call out from nearby.

"Guys! Guys! Get over here! I found Takumi! It's sooooo bad!!"

Eito dropped everything he was doing, and rushed over in the direction of her call...

What he saw was a gross reflection of the very state he'd been reduced to only a week before. Darumi was already at work bandaging the wounds and compressing the worst of the bleeding. She was talking to him, seemingly trying to soothe. Eito wasted no time rushing to join her, pulling his own medical supplies from his bag and getting to work on the injuries Darumi hadn't already been tending.

"Takumi-kun...?," he spoke firm, but gentle, "Takumi-kun can you hear me? Can you hear us?"

@within-only-shadows

[valvesoftware]

breakups are so fucking weird. three years and just like that it's gone. huh

[sugaldean]

I looked into my father's eyes and I knew I will never heal

[joelsgoldrush]

“guilty pleasure” | 8.6k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: After saving Earth-10005 from impending disaster, Wade convinces Logan, the alcoholic and easily irritated mutant, to stick around for a while. He’s convinced that nothing good can come out of this experience, until he meets you: the charming bartender with a soft spot for swearing that matches his own. Suddenly, sticking around doesn’t seem so bad after all.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni - smut 18+ fluff. drinking. dirty talk. slow-burnish. grumpy!logan x sunshine!reader. reader is really kind but cracks a lot of jokes. age gap (25 vs 200 - they’re basically the same age). oral sex (f receiving). fingering. finger sucking. soft dom!logan. wade being the funniest asshole. logan calls reader "kiddo/kid”.

A/N: HI! first of all, i'd like to thank you for all the support you showed me on my recent post. let me just tell you that i’m LOVING writing for logan. but none of this would be possible without YOU, so yeah, i fucking love y’all.

** regarding this story, i was planning on making it even longer, but writing these two has been so much fun, and i didn’t want it to end just like that (i have attachment issues as you may infer from this note). therefore, i’ve made the decision to write a second part to this fic, which will contain fluff and other stuff (you already know the drill). i don’t know when i’ll be posting it, but i’m sure it won’t take me that long.

*** i’m also working on other one shots (purely fluff/domesticity because i want this man to cradle me in his arms). anyway, i don’t know if anyone’s going to read this, but still, all I have to say is THANK YOU FOR READING MY WORKS! i hope you really like this silly story i made up :)

**** english is not my first language so if you come across any mistakes don’t hesitate to tell me :)

special recognition to @zloshy who allowed me to rant about my own fic 😭 the sweetest human ever

The bar is far from packed, but then again, it never truly is.

Studying your regulars has become your favorite hobby. Soon you end up knowing their names, the drinks they like, and what time they come through the door. It’s what happens when standing on your own two feet and refilling glasses lose all their charm. A part of you thinks you also do it to make them feel safe. No matter how much you try to deny it, you truly care about their well-being.

Is this your dream job? Nope. Definitely not. You’re pretty sure that holding some stranger’s hair while they empty their insides wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. But sadly money doesn’t grow on trees, and university isn’t going to pay itself. Plus, this was the only job in which your resume was not immediately rejected. It should also be stressed that the drunks happen to love you. 

Perhaps this isn’t the life you had always imagined for yourself, but you were getting closer to it. You’d often talk to Adam, a retired psychologist in his seventies. He was without a doubt one of the most loyal clients you’d ever encountered. In the past, he’d even given you free advice on some of your failed hookups. You once told him that in less than two years, you’d be just like him when you got your degree in Psychology. To your surprise, he replied: “You’ll be much better than me, doll. I’m a mess, can’t you see it? You don’t wanna be like me,” his voice was hardly above a whisper as he continued. “I should be at my daughter’s birthday right now, but I didn’t get an invitation this year. Believe me, you don’t want to end up like this old man.” 

Like Adam, most of the men who frequented the bar day-to-day saw it as an opportunity to hide within the shadows. In comparison to the other pubs in the area, the one you work at doesn’t receive that much attention from the general public. A dimly lit place where only music from the 80s is allowed. You’re certain that if a health inspector ever came down here, you’d be in serious problems. But hey, you know what they say: do not worry about tomorrow; instead, live in the now.

The atmosphere of the bar shifts dramatically as the main door slams shut with a resounding thud, pulling you abruptly out of your daydreaming. You turn to see who’s arrived, but as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re compelled to look away. Nevertheless, the brief glance you catch of the stranger’s features is enough for you to unlock your phone and send a quick text to your best friend. 

You:

cutie patootie alert

there’s this really handsome guy at the bar

i don’t think i’ve ever seen him before

i think i’m in love with him

my night just got a 100% better

Allison:

age

what does he look like

is he bald?

You:

he looks like he could be in his early fifties??? it’s hard to tell UGH i wish you were here

brown hair, beard, 6’2 if i’m not wrong 

i didn’t stare at him for too long

otherwise that would’ve been very weird

and no he’s not fucking bald

that happened only once and i was not aware of that gentleman’s lack of hair 

Allison:

so you’re dating retired now

get it grandma!

You:

oh fuck you allison 

Allison: 

it’s okay girl we all have our flaws

just make sure it’s nobody’s father

wait it’s not mine right?

You:

nah your dad’s way hotter don’t you worry about it

Allison:

bitch 

Even with the music blasting through the speakers that are attached to the ceiling, you can still hear the low murmur and the whispers. The mysterious stranger seems to have attracted the attention of the other patrons, some of whom have even raised their phones to take photos. Your eyebrows draw together. Why would they do something like this, approaching the man as if he were a celebrity? Since curiosity never fails to kill the cat, you decide to get involved.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” you hear him ask the crowd, his raspy voice making your knees wobbly. He sounds enraged. You step on your tiptoes, trying to see what all the fuss is about, albeit it’s pretty hard considering how these men are caging him with their bodies.

The glow of a phone’s flashlight catches your attention, and suddenly, a chair is dragged without much elegance. “Enough of that, y’hear me?”

Enter you now. “Okay, gentlemen, I’m sorry. I’m gonna need you to make some space for me, alright?” you mumble as you gently push them aside. “Thank you, thank you. Y’all can be real sweethearts when you put your minds to it.”

Then you spot him, and it becomes clear why everyone is making such a fuss. 

Gary, your worst client ever, steps forward. His nasty breath clouds your senses as he rests one of his sweaty hands on your shoulder. “Doll, it’s the fucking Wolverine. Don’t ask him for a picture, though. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for that.”

The last thing you needed to see today was a fight (despite your knowledge of who would be the winner). You locate yourself amidst them, shaking your head like a disappointed mother, so as to add a tiny bit of drama to the situation.

“Guys, what you’re doing here is completely inappropriate. I thought I’d taught you better. Imagine if I were to pull this crap on you. You wouldn’t have it.”

Adam presses his lips together, flushing a bit. “She does have a point.” 

“Thank you, peanut. You’re still my favorite,” you flash him an honest smile. Scrutinizing the rest of the men, you continue with your speech. “You can still make up for it and fill my tip jar all the way to the top. Deal?” they all scoff, barking their disagreement. “Oh, you don’t like the sound of that? Then leave him alone, okay? Class dismissed! Back to your places,” you clap your hands repeatedly, signaling them to go away. “Chop chop. All this alcohol won’t be drinking itself.”

Just like that, everything goes back to normal in the blink of an eye. Wolverine sits back down in his chair, leaning closer to the table and resting both elbows on it. He examines you, lifting his chin while his brown eyes take in every inch of you.

“Thank you,” he utters, his eyes still trained on your features. 

“No need to. It’s what I’m here for,” you point to your work clothes, which consist of an antiqued apron and a silly sticker that has your name written on it. “Can I get you anything to drink? It’s also Burger Night. You can get one for half the usual price.”

(No. It’s not fucking Burger Night. You just happen to find yourself deeply attracted to him.)

He doesn’t seem too eager to hear you talk. “Not hungry at the moment. But I could use some whiskey.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Very sure.” Well, now he does look annoyed.

“Great. I’ll be back in a minute,” you move as if you were in a race, returning to him after a hot minute. Setting his glass down on the table, you fill it with some old whiskey you don’t even know the name of. Still, he omits that detail, gulping down two-fingers of whiskey as if it were water. “I see you’re thirsty.”

“Could you leave the bottle here?” those brown puppy eyes are begging you to do as he says, and although you’d be happy to oblige, rules are rules. 

“Actually, I can’t. The bottle stays on the counter. But you can always join me at the front,” your proposal doesn’t appear to have the desired effect on him. “I won’t talk to you if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he rubs his neck, drawing a long breath as he stands up. 

You can feel many pairs of eyes searing into your soul. The others ask you for more drinks and you pour them, pricking up your ears when you hear them talking about him.

“What a weirdo. Didn’t you see it on TV? He’s not even from this universe,” Gary explains, looking for accomplices to hate on Wolverine. “Let me tell y’all something: he shouldn’t even be here. He’s fucking dead on this earth.”

Yeah… that you knew.

It had been all over the news for weeks. Some would even swear that he was back from the dead, but that was until the representatives from the TVA spoke their truth. If someone would’ve told you a month ago that multiple universes were a thing, you would’ve laughed in their face.

As if that weren’t already difficult to process, your mind does the job of reminding you that there’s a man with metal claws sitting a few meters away from you. Despite that, you can’t seem to be scared of him. There’s something magnetic about his personality and that don’t-come-near-me-or-there-will-be-consequences expression that he has. Why had you promised not to speak to him? Dammit.

“I can hear your thoughts,” a muscle in his jaw twitches after knocking back another glass of whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut before tapping the table with two fingers, silently asking for a refill.

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk,” you raise one of your eyebrows, and you behold how the corners of his mouth turn up for an instant. “I can assure you your liver hates you.”

“Alcohol won’t kill me, so don’t be afraid. Keep ‘em coming.”

For nearly twenty minutes, he does nothing but drink. He attempts to light a cigar at some point, and you stop him. “You can’t smoke in here.”

“No special treatment?” he inquires, placing the cigar between his parted lips and tilting his head back. He’s so… dreamy. He has to know it.

“I saved your ass today. The least you can do is not cause me any trouble.”

His eyes widen at your words, blinking owlishly. “You saved my what?”

“Your goddamn ass. You were about to start a fight.”

“Blame the idiots you have for clients,” he says, jerking his thumb toward your direction. “I was just mindin’ my own business. They came for me, not the other way around.”

“Look, Wolvie. I–”

“Wolvie?” giving a bitter laugh, he rams a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst nickname I’ve heard in a long time,” he looks at you through his lashes, getting rid of his leather jacket. “It’s Logan.”

“Wow. Your name is very boybandish.”

You succeed in making him laugh once again. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe his face without feeling like you were just about to get caught. He has deep creases and worry lines etched between his eyebrows, a brown beard that perfectly frames his jaw, and a few white hairs scattered in his sideburns. Pearly teeth that go hand in hand with one of the most impeccable smiles you’ve ever seen, and a pair of brown eyes that make you feel weak in the knees. You know for a fact that he’s a lot older than you; his exact age remains a mystery, but his appearance is enough for you to start fantasizing.

Shit, you want him. You should feel sickened by the mere thought of being with him. He was born God knows when, has lived hundreds of years. Still, the idea of tracing his cheekbones with your fingers while lying on his chest doesn’t leave you. This is fucked up. You are fucked up. A fucked up Psychology student. The joke is pretty much self-explanatory.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding, you preening slut. Can’t even bother to answer my calls now?”

The tension between you shatters like a glass dropped onto the floor. He doesn’t dare to look in the direction of the owner of that voice, not even as the seat next to him gets taken. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Wade, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“It hasn’t been exactly easy, raising our kid on my own. I don’t even have money to hire a babysitter, Lo. I spent nine months carrying your child, and for what? You end up going after a bartender,” the masked man turns to you, giving a sly wink. “No offense, baby. You must be a real sweetheart. In fact, do you want my number? The name’s Wade, but you can call me whatever you like.”

“You dumb fuck. Are you flirtin’ with her?”

“No shit, smartass. You’re the future of this country.”

A soft giggle escapes you despite your attempt to hold it back. You take a step back, admiring the two men. “Well, aren’t you two a beautiful couple?”

“You should see our little munchkin. He’s got my eyes and Logan’s hair. His first word was gubernatorial.”

“Would you like to have a drink while you’re here?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, sugarbear. You’re the cutest,” Wade sinks back into his chair, resting his chin on his palm. He jerks his head in Logan’s direction, bumping his shoulder. “She’s the cutest. Are you two together?”

Logan rubs his forehead, speaking through gritted teeth. “How did you find me?”

“It's the power of love, baby. I had It’s All Coming Back To Me Now on repeat for hours. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Handing Wade a cold beer, your eyes scan Logan’s face. “I didn’t know patience was your strongest suit.”

“Me neither.”

“Enough of that! I can’t stand not being included in a conversation,” Wade throws his hands in the air, and you look at him. “There you are. So, what about you? Are you even allowed to be here? Did bars change their policies?”

You can’t help but snort. “I’m 25.”

Wade looms closer, lowering his voice. “Now that I think about it, you could totally be Logan’s caretaker. He’s been having some issues recently, given his age. Do you… know anything about adult diapers?”

But then Logan’s face contorts, turning crimson. He rises from his seat, grabbing Wade’s arm. “That’s it. We’re leavin’,” his eyes lock on you for a moment. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

The things you’re willing to do for a man, right? You should be ashamed of yourself.

(But you aren’t.)

His mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Kiddo, are you–”

“Completely sure,” you finish his sentence for him, bowing your head and clasping your arms behind your body. A tight-lipped smile takes over you. “Just don’t tell my boss.”

Wade shifts his gaze back and forth between Logan and you. “I usually don’t mind third-wheeling, but I sort of feel left out.”

“I’m gonna sew your mouth shut, Wade.”

“Oh, come on! I was just making small talk,” the masked man tries to excuse himself while Logan pushes him towards the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sunshine. I’m free on Thursdays. Hit me up if his whiskey dick fails to impress you! Mine’s way more agile and young!”

As you watch them leave the bar, you remain frozen in your place amidst the clamor of ongoing chatter and clinking glasses.

What the fuck had just happened?

“Patrick’s normally the first one to get wasted during weekends,” you explain to the blonde woman sitting in front of you, and she writes that information down in her notebook. “He can usually handle himself, but at some point, he’ll try to call his ex-wife, and that’s when you know you need to stop serving him.”

She clicks her tongue, the color draining out of her face. “This is… definitely a lot to remember. I think I already forgot half of what you said.”

You shake your head, shoving your hands in your pockets. “You’ll get used to it, believe me. I’ll be with you at all times, so if you have any doubts, just ask me.”

After a whole year of working solo at the bar, you finally get to have a coworker: Gwen, a mother of two teenagers in her forties. You had met her at the grocery store, and in the process of helping her find a specific brand of cookies, you found out that she had recently lost her job. One thing led to another, and now she’s your trainee.

Your savior complex strikes again!

It has been four days since your first encounter with Logan. The thought that he could show up at any moment makes your heart race and your hands sweat. Allison had received countless voice messages where you narrated the entire experience in full detail. 

Touching your arm softly, Gwen’s face lights up. “Another man came in. Is he a regular? I don’t think you told me about him.”

Fuck, it’s him. Manifesting does work wonders. He locks eyes with you and raises a hand in greeting.

“Leave this one to me,” you tell her as your feet take you to where Logan’s sitting, contemplating the way in which his leather jacket hugs his wide frame. “Long time no see.”

“Hey, kid,” he grins. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Nobody has puked yet, so that’s a good thing,” you crinkle your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Whiskey?”

“You know me so well,” a smirk takes place in his lips, and he smiles cockily. “Though this time, I won’t be leavin’ without payin’.”

“We’ll see about that,” you go back to your usual spot behind the counter, looking for a glass. Your cheeks kind of hurt from smiling so hard. Next to you, Gwen studies your reaction to seeing Logan. “Is that your boyfriend?”

You almost drop the whiskey bottle. “God, no. He’s not my boyfriend. Barely know the guy.”

“It’s funny,” she says, raising her eyebrows with a knowing look, as if she knows something you don’t. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you since he arrived.”

“It’s probably because of this,” you reply, lifting the bottle in her direction before pouring a small amount into a glass. Just as you’re about to walk over to him, a girl slides into the sit beside him, her long blonde hair swept up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a stunning red dress and black heels. You wonder if she’s a model, because she certainly looks like one.

Her hand creeps up his arm, fingernails scraping against the worn leather. Although Logan’s expression is hard to read, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know what? Here’s his drink– You take care of it. I’ll stay here,” you don’t give Gwen a chance to talk back, instead staying behind the bar, engaging in small talk with other clients. 

“Doll, are you okay?” Adam asks you after noticing you struggling to open a beer bottle. He takes it from your hands and opens it with ease. “There you go.”

“Thank you, Adam. I’m fine, never been better. Why you ask?

“You sure?”

“Affirmative.”

“You mixed up our drinks,” he explains in his most psychologist-like voice. “This never happens to you. Michael has my wine, and I’ve got his martini.”

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I just— I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you chew on your bottom lip, rubbing your temples. “I feel stupid.”

“Oh, please. Don’t say that. You’re far from being stupid,” he sits up straight, reaching for your fingers and giving them an apologetic squeeze. “If you ask me, I think you’ve got your mind on someone else,” he must notice how you visibly get tense because he adds: “Remember: I know when you’re lying. You didn’t charge him the other day, which means that you must really like him,” taking a tentative sip of the martini he didn’t even ordered, Adam shrugs. “I’m a great observer. That’s all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the blonde girl from before returning to where her friends are chatting. Logan is left alone, and you watch him grab his glass and head towards the counter.

“As I said, your mind’s somewhere else,” Adam sighs, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips. “Go get your man. I’ll survive.”

“Not my man. But thanks, older-and-wiser-version-of-cupid.”

Pretending not to have seen Logan, you continue with your work. He remains silent for some minutes before finally saying: “Hi.”

Hi? It sounds so out of character for him.

“Hey, claws,” you force a smile, still avoiding to meet his gaze. “Do you need anything?”

Logan points to his empty glass, like a toddler asking for more cereal. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

“I thought you were busy over there,” you say, surprisingly managing to sound nonchalant, despite the jealousy bubbling underneath your friendly tone. “Did you get her number?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? She’s cute.”

Yeah, maybe you don’t sound as collected as you think.

Whether Logan notices it or not, he chooses not to mention it. He folds his arms over his chest, fixing his brown eyes on you. “I’m not interested.”

“And what is it that interests you, champ?” your question elicits a low chuckle from him. Just as he opens his mouth to seemingly reply, Gwen appears out of nowhere to ask you about the price of a certain drink. Your gaze shifts between her and Logan, who remains focused on you while sipping his drink.

After that, Gwen leaves. The man in front of you goes poker-faced, pursing his lips, and his abrupt change in demeanor alarms you. “Wade wants to have dinner tomorrow at his apartment– well, our apartment. I live with him now. It’s complicated,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, and you laugh. “Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’re invited. I know we don’t know each other that much, but… he said you seem like someone worth havin’ around,” he mumbles awkwardly, eyes downcast. “I think the same as well.”

You could die at peace.

“You’re a lucky fucker because I don’t work on Sundays,” you quip, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to attend your feast.”

“Great. I thought you would turn down the invitation.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you barely know me– us,” he corrects himself rapidly. “Plus, Wade’s annoying as hell when he puts his mind to it. You’ll see.”

“Marital problems?” he actually in response. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Oh, I’ll bring the dessert.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I do want to,” you tilt your head in an effort to hide your longing for him.

“Just want to get under my skin, huh? I can see why Wade likes you,” Logan beams, reaching out to tuck a $100 bill into the pocket of your apron. “The tip’s included.”

“I don’t know how things work in your universe, but you’re giving me way more money than you’re supposed to. I can't accept this.”

“Oh, but you will,” his gravelly voice fucks your system up, and you’re glad he can’t see how you squeeze your legs together behind the bar.

He writes down Wade’s address on a random napkin, holding his breath as he stands up. “I should get goin’. See you tomorrow then.”

Before he walks out the door, you stop him. “Logan? You didn’t answer my other question.”

His back shakes momentarily with laughter. Turning around to face you, his stare leaves you even more confused. “Good night, doll.”

This is becoming a habit: every time he goes away, you feel as though you’ve just run a marathon with no water available. Your mouth is completely dry, your fingers are numb and there’s a knot in your stomach that’s becoming all too familiar.

“Would you mind telling me where you got him?” Gwen’s voice makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“He’s not from around here. I think he’s Canadian.”

You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

Knocking softly on Wade’s door, you step back, the container holding the tiramisu cold to your touch. It’s your first time trying out this recipe, so you’re expecting it to at least not taste like shit.

Wade answers the apartment door, acting surprised when you remain silent. “Well, look what the wind blew in: if it isn’t my husband’s lover. How dare you? We’re still going to couples therapy.”

You show him the container, and he squints at it. “Tiramisu. You want it or not?”

“I hate twenty-somethings,” he says with a defeated sigh, stepping aside to let you into the apartment. 

Leaving your purse on the nearest surface, you scan the living room, wondering where Logan might be. There’s a small mirror beneath the couch, and you check yourself for the hundredth time tonight. “Don’t get too excited. He’s still showering,” Wade’s voice rings in your ears, and you turn to look at him, your eyebrows knitted. “Yeah. I noticed. You’re already drooling over that big piece of metal between his legs.”

“Keep quiet!” you cover his mouth with your palm, noticing the scarred state of his skin up close. “Wade, you fucking dog. Are you licking my hand?”

“Couldn’t help it. You taste like mascarpone cheese and espresso.”

Then Logan emerges from the bathroom, with only a white towel draped around his waist. Droplets of water fall from his wet hair, tracing the muscle of his abs, ending somewhere beneath his happy trail. Your eyes keep flickering between him and his torso until he clears his throat. “I thought you were comin’ later.”

“Me too, but I…,” you trail off, your brain struggling to catch up, “I didn’t know what else to do at my place.”

“It’s fine. Just– let me put on some clothes.”

“Please don’t,” Wade murmurs next to you, but Logan only scoffs. “I was just being honest. Communication is key.”

When Wade and you are alone again, he lets out a harsh breath. “That was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My pants are really tight right now.”

“Thin walls, buddy!” Logan shouts from his bedroom, earning a laugh from you. 

Like A Prayer starts playing. Wade moves his hips to the beat, getting lost in the melody. “Is that your phone?”

“Yeah, but I always take a few seconds to dance to it. Such a banger!” he says, then picks up his phone, accepting the call. “Hey, Ness! What´s up?” Wade covers the speaker before telling you: “It’s Vanessa. My ex-girlfriend. We fuck once a week, sometimes even twice.”

From behind, Logan nudges your arm with his, looking at you. ”Hey, kid.”

“No, I’m not busy at all,” Wade exclaims, grabbing his crotch and thrusting into the air. “I’ll be there in ten, cupcake. See you,” he spreads his arms wide and whistles. “Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

“You made me come all the way here… and now you’re leaving?”

“What? My friend Wolverine wanted to invite you over. I just had to provide the apartment,” in one quick movement, he presses a kiss to your cheek, then does the same to Logan. “Shave yourself, will you?”

“Go fuck yourself, will you?”

“Love you too, honey. Hope you two lovebirds have a good night, because I know I will!”

Wade throws a wink over his shoulder before heading out, the apartment going dead silent. Logan and you stand frozen, staring at each other, although he quickly drops his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact. A giggle threatens to escape you: he wanted to see you. Could he possibly enjoy your company as much as you enjoy his?

Logan watches the spot where Wave had just been. The absence of his chaotic energy makes the room feel strangely empty now. He coughs lightly, the sound awkwardly loud in the quiet room.

“So... I, uh, bought pizza,” he says, his voice a little too casual, as if trying to cover up his nervousness. Averting his eyes, he focuses on the pizza boxes on the table.

You catch the hesitation in his tone, your curiosity piqued by his discomfort. Tilting your head, a teasing smile forms on your lips. “Pizza, huh? You sure know how to impress a girl.”

Logan chuckles, the sound strained, as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured it was a safe choice. Didn’t want to ruin it, y’know?”

You move closer to the table, the warmth from the pizza boxes radiating against your hands as you open one of them. The rich smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills the air, a comforting scent that makes your stomach growl softly. “Thank you. I’m a big fan of pizza.”

He sits in the chair across from you, taking a bite of his slice. You watch him quietly, your own thoughts churning. The truth of his origins had been a shock at first, but now, it just made you want to know more about the man. What was his life like in the other universe? Did he miss it? Was he happier here, or was he longing to return?

“Logan…,” you begin, your tone gentle but probing, “Can I ask you something?”

He glances up at you, eyes widening. There’s something in your eyes –an understanding, maybe– that makes him feel like you could see right through him. 

“Sure,” he replies, trying to sound more at ease than he really feels. “Ask away.”

You hesitate for a moment, not wanting to push too hard. “I was wondering... would it be okay if I asked you some questions? About, you know, your life. Where you're from.”

The bite of pizza suddenly feels heavy in his mouth. He hadn’t talked much about his world, not even with Wade. Partly because it was too painful, and partly because he wasn’t sure how to explain how things turned out for him. He nods slowly, setting his slice down. “Yeah, it's okay. I’ll answer what I can.”

“I just... I want to understand you better.”

“Well, first and foremost, I’m no hero. You should know that by now.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Kid, I’m the worst Logan. A complete failure. Of all the variants out there, Wade just had to pick the one despised by every living soul on his earth,” Logan looks away, his voice low and heavy. You’re wondering if doing this was a good idea. “I need a drink.”

He gets up and you follow him into the kitchen. He rummages through the fridge, in search of a cold beer. Meanwhile, you attempt to find the right words. “I don’t think–”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, three metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. A gasp catches in your throat as he uses his claws to pierce the beer can, drinking from the punctured holes. Once he’s done, he goes back to staring at you. Your gaze, on the other hand, is still glued to the now-empty beer can. “What?” he asks, exhaling slowly.

“That was completely unnecessary,” you mutter, and he lets out a bitter chuckle, tossing the can into the trash. “But, back to what you said before– I don’t think you’re the worst Logan.”

“You didn’t know me back then, darlin’. I fucked it up,” he leans against the counter, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Like the Logan from this universe, I once belonged to the X-Men too. I remember that Scott used to beg me to wear my suit. So did Jean, Storm, Beast– All of them,” his gaze grows more distant, and you can tell that memories are flooding his mind. “Wanted me to be part of the team, but I wouldn’t do it. Told them they looked fucking ridiculous.”

The pizza’s long forgotten. You take the risk and get a bit closer to him, your eyes never leaving his. 

Logan’s silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again. “One day, while I was off on my own, the humans came. They went mutant hunting.”

Your heart clenches at the pain in his voice. He still remembers everything as if it had happened yesterday. “I can guess the rest. You don’t have to–”

But he cuts you off. “No, let me say it. I need to say it,” he takes a deep breath, lowering his head. “By the time I stumbled home, shit-faced from the bar, it was too late. They were dead. They called after me and I walked away.”

Reaching out, your hand gently brushes against his. He doesn’t pull away, but instead searches for your eyes. “My suit's all I've got to remind me of who they were. What I did. I found them and they were… dead. I started killing, and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I turned the whole world against the X-Men.”

You tighten your grip on his hand, knowing there’s nothing you can do to change how he feels. “You’re not a bad person, Logan,” he shakes his head, mumbling something you can’t quite catch. “I mean it. What happened back then doesn’t define you. You took the blame for their deaths upon yourself. I can tell you loved them deeply, and I’ll never fully understand the pain you feel. I wish I could. I wish I could take it away, make you forget somehow, but I can’t. That’s not how life works. But you got your second chance: you saved this world. My world,” gently cupping his face in your hands, you allow your fingers to caress his cheeks. He leans into your touch, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “You’re my hero. I’m your biggest fan– after Wade, obviously, which is a lot to say.”

He grins, letting out a laugh. “Easy there, bub.”

“Should I give you some space?”

That’s the last thing he wants from you right now. You already know that as he looks you up and down, placing his hands on the small of your back, his thumbs drawing small circles on your skin. There’s no turning back– The warmth between you feels almost like a fever dream. “For a long time, all I wanted was to disappear. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning, knowing that another day awaited me.”

“And what happened?” your breath mingles with his, his closeness becoming nearly intoxicating. “What changed?”

“I met a pretty girl at a pub, that’s what happened,” he murmurs, his dilated pupils flicking up to meet your gaze. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“Do all your kisses come with a warning?”

“God, do you ever shut up?”

You don’t have time to respond because he kisses you there and then. His stubble scrapes your skin as your mouths meet again and again, needy hands that hold you as if you were prone to breaking. Logan licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours and swallowing every one of your whimpers.

“So this is what it takes to shut you up, huh?” he murmurs against your lips. You can feel him smiling, and it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Keep talking and you won’t get a single bite of my tiramisu,” you tease him, kissing him again, the taste of beer numbing your senses. “I really like kissing you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, but now that you’ve mentioned that tiramisu…”

“Am I that easily replaced?”

“No. You’re just a pain in the ass.”

Jokes aside, you’re as happy as a clam.

Since that night you and Logan kissed, you’ve been living your best life. Like a freaking schoolgirl with a crush. Some things never seem to change.

He hasn’t been to the bar in three days. Yes, you’re counting them. No, you haven’t lost your mind. You want to see him, but there’s something about making the first move that gives you the chills. What would his reaction be if you showed outside of apartment?

It’s been a long time since you’ve been with anybody. On top of that, all the guys you’ve dated were your age. Being with someone that older than you certainly wasn’t no your plans. You’d be lying if you said that the mere idea of being with him in that way didn’t excite you.

Oh boy, you miss him. You miss his scruffy voice, his gorgeous hair. And you two aren’t even official yet. To be honest, you don’t even know what he wants from you. Is he even the type to be in a relationship?

“Nighty night, gentlemen,” you say to Gary and his friends as you find yourself in front of them, smoothing your apron. Gwen had called in sick tonight, so it’s just you at the bar babysitting a bunch of grown-men.

“What’s up, doll? You’ve forgotten about us. We miss you coming in here to chat,” Gary’s eating his burger at the same time he speaks, something you find repulsive, but you’ve seen worse. “Y’know, I’d love to take you out someday. I have a place you’d like.”

The other men laugh and punch him in the back, just boosting his ego. Pathetic. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m free,” you reply with the most polite smile you can offer, intending to go on. “What are you having tonight?”

“You always pull that shit, baby. I don’t think you’re so busy that you can’t accept a date.”

You hate the way he’s looking at you, as if you were wrong for not being interested. As if you didn’t know any better.

“You’re reading minds now? Shocking, Gary.”

“Oh, doll. That attitude of yours shows you’ve never been with a real man like me, that’s all,” he leans back in his chair, resting one of his arms on the table and the other one near his crotch, manspreading. “It’s alright. I like you bratty.”

“I’ll be back when you finally have something to order,” you attempt to turn around but he grabs your wrist, pulling you closer. Your eyes lock, and he seems to enjoy this: being in control. Like a predator hunting his prey. “Come on, Gary. I don’t want to have to kick you out.”

“It’s not that you don't like me, right? You’ve already got your mouth full.”

“Careful.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re not fucking that useless mutant. I see you like ‘em older. Pretty little things like you drive me wild.”

You laugh in his face, showing him your teeth. “It was never about your age, Gary. You’re right: I do like them older. I’m just not into bald, vertically-challenged pricks.”

His entourage of idiots goes silent after that. He looks up at you, eyes burning with hatred. His grip on your wrist tightens, probably leaving a mark. “Fucking bitch.”

“Get your hands off her.”

Logan’s voice forces the two of you to look in his direction. It seems that he’s just arrived at the pub, his jacket still on. 

“You joining us? We’re just getting started here, big boy.”

“Did you not hear me?” Logan lunges forward, his nose almost touching Gary’s. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I’m just having a chat with your girl. She’s one of the good ones, I’ll give you that,” arching a sly brow, his forehead puckers. “You don’t like sharing? We can even take turns.”

Logan clenches his jaw, lips set in a grim line. “Say one more word, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I’ll give you a full sentence instead: can you even get it up?” 

The tension in the air is thick, every second stretching out as Logan's anger simmers dangerously close to the surface. Gary’s smug grin only makes it worse, pushing him to the edge. Before you can react, Logan’s fist swings forward, connecting with Gary’s jaw with a sickening crack. Gary staggers back, realising your wrist. Blood seeps from his nose, his white shirt becoming stained with it. “You fucker! You broke my nose!”

“We’re just getting started here, big boy,” Logan mocks him, repeating his previous words.

“Stop!” you shout, moving quickly to grab his arm, trying to pull him back. But he’s beyond hearing, his rage blinding him to everything else. He shakes you off, and with a fierce growl, drives another punch into Gary’s stomach. The latter doubles over, gasping for air, the wind knocked out of him. He then falls to the floor, curling into a ball. People start to gather around you, and soon your beloved bar becomes a box ring.

“That’s enough, Logan! He’s barely conscious,” you murmur under your breath, stepping between them, hands up in a desperate attempt to create some space. Logan pauses, chest heaving, fists still clenched, as he finally looks at you. The wildness in his eyes starts to fade, replaced by a dawning realization of what he’s done.

“He deserved it,” he nods vigorously to himself, as if trying to explain his point. “He was hurting you.”

“If you keep that up, you’re going to kill him. My bar is not a fucking cemetery,” your voice trembles a little bit, expecting to talk some sense into him. “I won’t let you do this.”

The room is quiet now, the only sound being Logan’s heavy breathing as he stands there, still tense, still processing. You turn to Gary’s friends, cold fury in your eyes. “Get him out of here,” you watch as they haul him up, practically dragging him to the door. The other clients continue to stare at Logan, their mouths hanging open. “Everybody out, right now! Go home. We’re closing earlier tonight.”

Adam is the last person to leave, slamming the door behind him. You rush to the counter, searching for a mop to clean the fresh blood off the floor. Still agitated, the images of Logan hitting Gary flash in your mind. He approaches you from behind, his fingers circling your forearm. “Bub–”

“Don’t. Now is not the time.”

“I was protecting you.”

“I told you to stop, and you didn’t. You just shook me off,” you snap, glancing at his knuckles which are not even bruised. Slamming your eyes shut, you get to your feet and wash your hands in the sink, the remaining water becoming reddish for a moment.

Logan moves closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. He wraps his arms lazily around your middle section. ”I’m sorry.”

You turn in his arms, your back flushed against the sink and your nose in the air. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“But– Jesus, Logan. You could’ve come sooner. I thought you regretted what happened the other day,” you say and the muscles in his face twitch, his body stiffening at your words. “Thought you no longer wanted me.”

“No, bub. I– I still want you. I want all of you, trust me,” he murmurs, and you allow him to press his body against yours, the scent of the cigar he must have smoked recently enveloping your senses. “I just… don’t know how to do this. I have a habit of ruining things, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to be with you without hurting you.”

“Pushing me away also hurts,” your eyes flick up to meet his gaze again, and he whispers under his breath. “I can’t read your mind. You need to tell me what’s going on in that ancient skull of yours.”

His face falters, flashing you a mischievous look. His hand creeps under the fabric of your shirt, fingernails scrapping against your spine. “I’m sorry, princess. I truly am.”

“You can’t just say ‘sorry’ with that voice and expect me to–”

You’re cut off by his lips crashing down onto yours. You melt into the kiss, unable to deny what your body has been craving for the past days. 

“I thought your kisses came with a warning,” you say, detaching your mouth from his, a smile spreading uncontrollably in your face as you see his toothy grin.

“Shut up and kiss me, will you?”

In a clash of tongues and teeth, your mouths meet once again. Tugging the hair at his nape, you feel him growl against your lips. His strong hands trace every curve of your body, kneading the flesh of your hips and undoing the knot at the back of your apron. You’re becoming one with the sink, but in a moment like this, you couldn’t care less. Logan’s hard on nudges your lower stomach, and he ruts against you like an animal.

“You said you wanted to know what’s on my mind, right?” his teeth nibble on the skin of your neck, syrupy voice going straight to your core. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to touch you right now.”

“Right here? On the counter?”

“Yeah, on the fucking counter,” he grabs you by your thighs, hosting you up and placing your body on top of the cold bar. He nudges your knees apart, his bulge meeting your clothed cunt deliciously. “Will you let me, baby? Can I make you come in here?”

“Please. I’m glad we have such a low budget. Camera installment is t–too expensive these days.”

“Do you always talk this much?” he slowly unbuttons your pants, and you help him to remove them.

“Yes. Next question,” your breath hitches in your throat as you feel the pad of his thumb circling your clit through your panties. Your eyelids drop, your head lolling back. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Logan hums, mesmerized with the way your hips roll into his hand, your whimpers sounding like music to his ears. “You have any idea how I felt when I saw him touching you? Wanted to rip his hands off you,” his eyes drift to your chest, how it rises and falls with impatience. “But it’s me who gets to have you like this. He can fantasize about you all he wants: I’m the only one who touches you, ain’t I right?” you sigh with content as his fingers graze your slit, aimlessly bucking your hips. He doesn’t go any further, and you tug at the collar of his flannel, needing more of his callousand hands on you. “Nuh-uh. You want something, you gotta use your words. Got it?”

“I w–want your fingers inside me,” you don’t even recognize your own voice at this point. The few guys you had slept with had never been very talkative during sex. But Logan isn’t like them. This is just the beginning and you’re already starting to realize that he has a dirty mouth, that expectant look on his face as he waits to see your reaction to his words. “Please, Logan. I want you so bad.”

“Oh, I know, bub. There’s something about me I don’t think you know,” he inserts one of his fingers in your cunt, your slick coating the palm of his hand. “These claws I have… they didn’t come on their own. Let’s just say my sense of smell is… pretty good,” Logan can almost see the gears turning in your head as you try to think coherently. He moves his middle finger in and out of you, stretching your walls. “And you… have been wet ever since the first time you saw me. Always nice to everybody, making sure they feel at ease,” you feel like you’re being stretched even further, another one of his fingers sinking into your warm pussy. “But you’re so needy, too. How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

“Too long, f–fuck. Too long,” you’re squirming, a totally whiny mess. He retratcs his wet fingers and instead goes back to flicking your clit, this time with much less delicacy. His left hand squeezes your tits, and you hate the fact that you’re still wearing clothes. “Shit, Logan. I need you to fuck me. Please. Need your cock.”

His face comes to rest at your neck, and you feel lingering kisses and bites that keep you grounded to earth. “Not here. I need a bed to fuck you properly. You’re only getting my fingers now,” he positions them inches away from your entrance, testing your patience. “Tell me who owns this pussy.”

“L-logan–”

“Tell me and I’ll make you come,” his husky voice is making you dizzy, tears shimmering in your eyes. “Come on. Know you want it as much as I do.”

You succumb to the tentation, like divinity turned to sin. He kisses you roughly, and you struggle to find the correct words. “It’s you, Logan. You own my pussy. It’s f-fucking yours.”

With that, he goes back to nudging that spot that makes you see starts, that filthy squelching sound getting mixed up with your moans. The knot in your belly keeps growing tighter the more he pumps his fingers in and out of you. 

“I said you were only getting my fingers for now, but fuck… I need to gest a taste of this sweet cunt.”

He’s on his knees in an instant, urging your legs apart to make room for his body. Your thighs tighten around his face as he licks a hot stripe up your folds, tracing a heated path on your cunt, not wishing to waste a single second. Pleasure builds quickly, your breath hitching as your hands find their way into his hair, pulling him closer when your body begins to tremble. 

“I’m close,” you pant, breathing hard, grinding your hips against his face. “I’m so close.”

“That’s it. Come in my mouth like the good girl you are.”

Who had given him a damn script for this?

The release is explosive. Like the peak of a roller coaster: you go up up up, ascending higher. You think you almost see Jesus, but at some point, you also have to crash down with force. Your shoulders slump, your entire body cramping up; yet he doesn’t let you go that easily, his fingers still working, scissoring within you while you ride out the final waves of your high, drawing out every last moment of ecstasy.

Once you finally manage to open your eyes, there he is, staring down at you. He taps your lower lip with his fingers, and then mutters: “Open.”

And you do, because you’re just as messed up as he is. Your mouth parts, and he slides his fingers between your lips, dragging them smoothly across your tongue. His knuckles brush the back of your throat, and you gag around the intrusion, tasting yourself. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, clearly satisfied with the way you’ve cleaned them off.

“I think we should really pay a visit to your apartment,” he suggests, groaning in defeat, and you feel his bulge poking your hip. He must be painfully hard. “I meant what I said earlier. I need a bed if we’re going to fuck. My back’s hurting.”

You raise an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curving into a smirk. “Why not go to yours?”

“Wade’s in there. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate.”

You can’t help but laugh, pausing a moment to collect your thoughts, heat rising to your cheeks. “So we’re going rodeo?”

Aiming to silence up, Logan kisses you, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Only if you can handle it.”

part 2: “GIVE ME THE FIRST TASTE”

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! :)