#string theory debate | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

logaenhowlett · 7 months ago

Text

MY BEATIN’ HEART BELONGS TO YOU - L.H.

Summary: Logan believed he was sentenced to a life of solitude until he found you - an unexpected dawn promising the sunrise of a love he always deemed impossible. But then again, destiny never was merciful to fools like him.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Soulmate AU, All aboard the Fluff Train with scheduled stops at Angst Station, Established relationship, Hurt/Comfort, How I Met Your Mother reference (iykyk), Reader can manipulate electricity

A/N: 5.9k - strap in, gang. Would you believe me if I said all this was inspired by a debate I had with a friend about the implications of 'I want you' vs 'I need you'. The mind works in silly, little ways sometimes. Title creds to Green Day. Enjoy, you lovely people!

MASTERLIST

Gone were the days when nightmares would rouse him from the sanctuary of sleep. Logan couldn't remember the last time he'd awoken in a cold sweat, sheets shredded from fighting invisible monsters, alarm clock glaring an angry red amongst the darkness. No, all that disappeared once you'd made a home within his arms.

It had been about three months, verging on four if anyone was keeping count - and he, most definitely, was - since you'd swept him away in a tide of fondness and pure affection. The shadow of a man who once roamed the mansion now nurtured a newfound lightness in his heart. Logan wasn't perfect, far from it, chosen paths that only led to a labyrinth of despair, but he was right about one thing: you.

And that verdict especially rings true every morning. The tangle of limbs, the soft ebb and flow of sleepy murmurs, the stray kisses grazing warm skin, he wonders how he'd survived so long deprived of such tender pleasures. He's never going back, that much he knows.

His lips trace a lazy line along your neck, lingering a second longer beneath your jaw. There's a chuckle aching to break through at the thought of your sleep-induced irritation - it’s too early, you'd whine each time. And each time, his half-hearted apologies would be long-forgotten as you meet his gaze, a tempest of desire swirling within hazel.

It's amidst the following moments of peace when he's most thankful for the thick walls surrounding the room. The aftermath of your intimate exchanges always leaves him mesmerised, heart racing at the reminder of your touch. His mutation didn't allow for the full effects of alcohol to poison his inhibitions, yet as your smile gleams at him, Logan's sure he's never been more drunk.

"Where're you goin'?"

He's shaken from his musings as you roll away from his embrace, huffing in disbelief when you don't seem to stop. But, the string of complaints dies on his tongue as he watches you slip on the shirt he'd discarded the night before, turning around amused, "What? You wanna stay here all day?"

"Got nowhere to be."

"Correction - you have nowhere to be. I, on the other hand, need to grade those assignments or Jean'll actually explode my brain this time."

Logan hmphs. He'd been looking forward to lounging around this weekend, positively thrilled at the idea of letting the hours simply trickle away in the quiet comfort of your company. However, he's also one too familiar with Jean's intolerance for slacking off and lessons were definitely learned.

"Let her try," he counters meekly.

As you circle the bed to part ways with a chaste kiss, Logan seizes the opportunity to pull you down, pinning you beneath him in one effortless move. His lips capture yours with a deliberate, sensual slowness - the urgency from earlier now completely absent. The feeble protests vanish from your mind as he breaks away, a twinkle of mischief playing on his smile.

His fingers trace the curve of your wrist, hovering over the faint crescent moon inked in black. It was the mark of your soulmate. Of him, he hopes. You'd shown him quite early into the relationship, spending many a night whispering theories and speculations about its meaning. At first, he expressed only timid fascination, a question here and there spurred by gentle curiosity while you rambled on and on. But as his heart began to tether itself to yours, the mark took on a new significance. Every time his gaze fell upon it, his thoughts would spiral from longing and self-doubt, wondering if he was the one destined to share a lifetime with you.

Over the decades he'd been alive, Logan had searched every crevice of his body for his own. In his youth, it was a fleeting thought, brushed aside by the assumption that his healing factor wouldn't allow for these scars. Yet as time passed, he was terrified of waking up to a branded promise - a cruel trick that condemned his soulmate to a life with him. After he met you, those fears were soon eclipsed by a yearning, a desperate hope for a sign of his worthiness. Every day, he lingered by the mirror, gaze sweeping across his reflection, praying for an identical crescent moon to mark his skin.

"Logan." Your laugh draws his attention, "I'm never leaving the bed at this rate."

"Darlin', that's the general idea."

He relents anyway, falling onto his back with a soft grunt as you stand up. The dopey grin you're biting has him narrowing his eyes in suspicion, wondering what goddamn joke popped into your mind. Before he can question it, you straighten your posture and salute, "General Idea."

A look of confusion contorts his features, though he doesn't get anything besides a mumbled response as you leave the room, "Never mind, it's from a show."

A mountain of papers sits perched on your desk illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp, the scratching of your pen punctuating the silence of the classroom as you continue grading your students' assignments. It had been a couple of hours since you left Logan amongst the nest of blankets. And that image only seemed more enticing with each word you read.

"Missed ya."

Speak of the devil.

Except this devil was an angel - you could almost see a halo shimmering around his figure, backlit by the sunlight flooding the hallway. Every time you think you've captured the essence of his allure, he defies your expectations, often with just a simple gesture. And despite the countless compliments and declarations of adoration, Logan still seemed surprised by flattery, his lips always seeking yours to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"I just saw you like - "

"In the shower," he interrupts, smirk widening as he approaches. He leans against the chair, nose brushing against your exposed shoulder.

Something in your brain short-circuits at his words and the casual display of affection. You stammer a little, "You… didn't tell me."

"Oh, that would've worked hm?" Logan spins the chair around, chuckling as he catches your flustered expression, "'M sorry, sweetheart... guess I gotta make it up to ya."

You never thought Logan was a romantic. Yet, time and time again you discover the depths of his boundless capacity for love and companionship. It wasn't just the whispered promises and passionate revelations, but the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the tender touches that speak volumes. Neither of you had uttered those three words yet, though they hang heavy in the air, unspoken but deeply felt.

His hand winds up beneath your shirt, bunching the fabric near your waist as he pulls you closer. Heat, courtesy of the shower, wafts off his skin, a tantalizing sensation that makes your breath hitch. His tongue toys with your lower lip, teasing just enough that you find yourself chasing after him, desperate for more. The laugh he produces, though smug, is also contagious, a sound that never fails to swallow your heart.

Again and again, he'd professed his desire to unravel you by his sheer touch, how your craving for him sets his insides ablaze. And judging by the way your eyes darken, mouth parting almost reflexively, he's got you dancing to his tune like a puppet on a string - and you wouldn't have it any other way.

But he backs off all of a sudden.

A crescendo of footsteps echoes down the hallway and the moment is shattered. Three of your students barge in, out of breath and frazzled as they clutch their assignments. A frown creases Logan's brow, annoyance he's certainly putting no effort to hide has them second-guessing their intrusion until you beckon them in with a warm smile. With a hasty apology, they fumble with their papers, eyes darting between the two of you before rushing out, the door swinging shut.

"We gotta find a place," he grumbles, dipping forward into your neck.

"We already live together."

A sharp click of his tongue, a playful nip to your shoulder, seals his disapproval, "Not enough. Lil' brats interrupt every damn time."

He wasn't wrong in the slightest. The kids did seem to have an uncanny ability to sense the most inopportune times to interfere. Sometimes you joked that it was one of their mutant powers and Logan, with an amused roll of his eyes, would just scoff and agree. You can't help but chuckle, "'Least it wasn't Scott... I think we traumatised him last week."

It was indeed last week when the two of you retreated to the Danger Room. Of course, with the sole and noble intention of honing your defensive tactics. However, the moment you strategically knocked him off his feet, the situation had taken a decidedly different turn. Pinned beneath you, Logan held a look of astonishment that soon morphed into something much more eager. He'd uttered all of two words before your lips slammed against his and whatever hopes you had for training immediately became the least of your worries. That was until somebody walked in.

He huffs a laugh, the memory filling him with satisfaction, "Should've used his fuckin' brain with those sounds you were makin'."

"Oh god, poor Scott," you mumble, embarrassed by the thought.

"Quit sayin' his name." The growl that curls his words leaves goosebumps in its wake. Logan grips your chin, tilting your head back slightly, a slow grin unfurling as his gaze bores into yours.

"I said it twice!" you protest, but it's all in vain. His thumb drags across your lip, silencing your words.

"That's two more than I care for."

It's dark outside by the time he's done with you.

Sugar melts on his tongue, the velvety texture of chocolate dancing across his palate. Logan takes a rather indulgent sip, the steaming liquid warming his throat. Nestled on opposite sides of the window seat, the two of you share a quiet moment accompanied by nothing but pale moonlight. A comforting weight settles on your feet, his hand kneading the stress away with care. Outside, a delicate snowfall paints the mansion's grounds, grass slowly fading away, droplets racing down the windowpane.

Dinner had wound down hours ago. The kids gathered around the living room after, wide-eyed with wonder as the first snow of the season began. Charles eventually ushered them off to bed, Logan had planned to follow suit until your gentle tug derailed his desire to sleep altogether. And as always, there's no world where he'd deny you anything.

He sees you stifle a giggle every now and then, your eyes twinkling with amusement each time he lifts his mug. It was nothing fancy - mostly white, adorned with a line of stockings and, cheekily, the words "Well hung".

It was a present from you a few Christmases ago. He remembers you watching him warily unwrap the box, laughing out of giddiness as he blushed when the implication dawned on him. It's just a silly gift, you'd reassured, not pressuring him to even keep it. Yet, since then, it remained a permanent fixture on his bedside table. During restless nights, he'd reach for the familiar mug, seeking solace in the kitchen to drink away the looming shadows of insomnia.

It wasn't until your first night together that you saw it again after all those years, carefully placed and by far, the cleanest thing on his table. Logan ducked his head sheepishly before confessing just how much he treasured the sentiment. In a lifetime of solitude, someone had spared a second to think about him, even for a simple gag gift. And that thought warmed his heart a little on especially hard days.

"You're a child," he chides as you smile, rolling his eyes.

You scoff under your breath, "Oh, just cause you're a hundred years old."

"Hundred and sixty," he corrects, grabbing your foot mid-air before you can nudge his thigh. There's a brief pause as he places the mug aside, a wicked grin splitting his lips. Laughter fills the air as you squirm and wriggle away, quickly understanding the look behind his eyes. But Logan moves faster. His hands trail their way to your sides, drawing squeals of protest as he tickles you.

Seconds later, he backs off, satisfied by your reaction. Shifting his weight, he settles on top of you with a gentle press. As he lays against your chest, humming softly in contentment, the soothing caress of your fingers through his hair lulls him into a state of relaxation. The world simply fades away, replaced by the warmth of your embrace and the quiet flush of domestic bliss. A profound swell of gratitude spreads within his heart. It's during intimate moments like these that he feels especially lucky. A far cry from the man brought into this mansion years ago, times you also reflect on amidst late-night conversations.

The memories remain as vivid as yesterday.

It was late in the afternoon, the setting sun casting long silhouettes across the classroom. You stood by the blackboard, explaining the laws of electromagnetism while scribbling equations in chalk. For months, you'd taken over Charles' role as the physics professor, and what began as a favour soon grew into a passion. However, some days were particularly slow. A palpable sense of boredom washed over your students as their eyes drifted towards the clock in anticipation. Just as you were about to begrudgingly dismiss them, the door flew open - a dishevelled figure clad in gray burst in, wildly panting in fear and confusion.

This must be Logan, you concluded, recalling the latest mission debrief from Scott and Storm. They'd rescued two mutants in Canada, one of whom was particularly banged up and recovering in the med bay. Well, until now. Since their arrival, Charles had emphasised the erratic nature of Logan's mind, even unconscious, a part of him stayed unyielding against the telepath's powers. But as you locked eyes with him, you saw none of that. Instead, he seemed lost and terrified, glancing around the room from one corner to the next as if someone was speaking. Before you could offer a word of reassurance, he was gone, disappearing into the hallway like a fleeting shadow.

Over the following months, he slowly began to emerge from his shell. At first, it was just plain nods of acknowledgement as you passed each other in the mansion. Then, a word here and there, clipped phrases of advice and caution during particularly dangerous missions. Gradually, his presence became more pronounced. Sometimes, after intense training sessions, he'd slip into the back of your classroom, intently listening to your lectures on concepts you presumed were entirely foreign to him.

Except they weren't. It was only later that you discovered his secret: the countless hours spent poring over textbooks he'd discreetly stolen from Charles' bookshelf. The realisation filled your heart with a warm sense of affection. His unspoken interest, the hidden depths, it was all so endearing. Thereafter, Logan consumed your thoughts. And it was during one of those sleepless nights that you found the courage to join him in the kitchen, wordlessly focusing on your own books at either end of the table. Since then, a shared understanding passed between you, a bond forged from mutual appreciation and a hint of something more.

The first time he cracked a smile left you breathless. Jean was furious at Scott, her anger clear as day as she stormed away. And Scott, ever so helpless, turned to anyone for guidance, retracing every misstep, every misplaced word. Logan, watching the scene unfold, sneered to himself, enjoying the man cluelessly suffering. You exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement on the absurdity of the situation. As you excused yourself, a fit of giggles threatening to overtake you, Logan followed close behind, unable to suppress his own laughter.

From that moment on, things changed. You found yourselves seeking each other, conversations flowed effortlessly, at times even seasoned with playful banter. And as Logan became a steady figure in your life, a strange ache settled in your heart. You were falling for him. Yet, his emotions remained a mystery, a puzzle you were desperate to solve.

One year became another, and another and another. And as your feelings for him increased, hesitation crept in rather unwillingly. You pushed everything away, burying them six feet under, afraid of rejection or something worse. But Logan, with his uncanny perceptiveness, sensed the shift in your behaviour. And one day, in a moment of raw honesty, he confronted you. A heated argument ensued, emotions spilling over, words cutting deep. Then, just as suddenly, the tension dissipated. His lips were on yours, conveying every bit of the love he carried in ways words could never bring justice to.

That was a couple of months ago. Everything was perfect and you'd never felt more complete until you noticed the brief flashes of insecurity whenever he saw the mark on your wrist. You knew he didn't have one. In the beginning, it became a sensitive topic, you started wearing a watch or longer sleeves to stop reminding him. But eventually, his unease was too much to ignore.

And so, you bit the bullet.

The conversation was fraught with discomfort, but as you spoke, his expression softened, a slight weight lifting off his shoulders. He shamefully expressed his worries, the fear of not being enough - not being the one for you. It was a small step, but one that brought you closer than ever before.

Logan couldn't have been more grateful.

"Perhaps the two of you should, what do the kids call it, get a room?"

Charles' voice suddenly cuts across the silence. All eyes, including Logan's and yours, snap up from the blueprints scattered on the table. Scott blinks in confusion, meanwhile Jean, holding back a knowing smirk, can barely contain herself.

"I've had my fair share of lewd daydreams in my youth, but that was quite disturbing," he continues, tone laced with disapproval.

Colour drains from your face. Had your thoughts really been that obvious? Sure, you couldn't stop admiring how the tight leather suit molded to Logan's physique - incredibly distracting, to say the least. But you didn't realise you were projecting your attraction so loudly, especially in a room with two telepaths.

"Sorry, Professor." It seems useless to apologise at this point, but he responds with a curt nod directed at Logan. Turning your attention to the blueprints, you feel a familiar weight against your back. Logan, the sly bastard, leans over your shoulder with feigned nonchalance. And it takes every ounce of your willpower to focus on the serious discussion instead.

A recon mission.

Some old abandoned Hydra facility used for mutant experimentation in the 90s, the remnants of failed trials left to rot and forgotten. Charles had caught wind of it through Cerebro, suspecting that there may be valuable information hidden within its walls, secrets that should very well stay away from the wrong hands.

"What's in there?" Scott asks, tensing a little.

Charles pauses, a scowl twisting his expression, "That is a private matter."

"Private Matter," you mumble without thinking, instinctively reaching for a salute before Logan catches your wrist, halting the motion. He shoots a look, a silent reprimand that very clearly implies "Not now". Fortunately, no one else witnesses your mistimed quip, too engaged in drafting a safe plan for extraction.

The mission seems fairly straightforward, a simple infiltration like many you've done before. Nevertheless, Charles concludes with a stern warning to heed caution, "Now, good luck to all of you." As you filter out the room, he casts a pointed glare, "And Logan, please refrain from defiling my desk at any point in the future."

Shock etches across your face, mouth slightly agape. Once you're out of earshot, you shove Logan’s arm in embarrassment, "It wasn't me then." You breathe in relief only to be reminded of the thoughts he seemed to be entertaining earlier. What surprises you is the fact that you're more intrigued than deterred by the idea.

"My bad, sweetheart. Couldn't help myself," he laughs, dipping in close to whisper, "Suit's makin' it real hard to think straight." And with that, he's off, jogging ahead to Scott and Jean already waiting in the hangar.

Once you're airborne, the atmosphere shifts. Jean pilots the jet, her hands steady on the controls, eyes scanning the horizon. The Hydra facility looms in the distance, a dark and ominous presence in the middle of nowhere. As you approach your destination, a sense of apprehension lingers among the four of you. Scott recounts the plan, outlining the most efficient entry and exit points, his voice low and deliberate, "Logan and I will start from top-down and you two from the opposite."

As you leave the jet, a hand slips into your own, stilling you in place. Logan tugs you into his arms, there's a faint smile playing on his lips, his eyes, however, convey something along the lines of "Be careful, please". You squeeze his hand reassuringly, pressing a quick kiss before breaking away. With a reluctant sigh, he catches up with Scott, splitting off from you and Jean.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of decay and neglect. Everything is left exactly as it was, except there are signs of a violent struggle - machines overturned, wires strewn across the floor, glass shards crunching under your boots. It's a scene of chaos and destruction. In the center lies an operating table, its restraints snapped in half, broken syringes and discarded medical equipment scattered around.

Electricity crackles beneath your fingertips. Though your powers aren't advanced, Charles has been a patient mentor, overseeing your progress since the day he found you. However, as you keep surveying the area, you notice an odd sensation, a subtle resistance to your abilities. A similar unease grips Jean too, her gaze meeting yours, a shared look of concern exchanged as you continue your search.

A distorted voice breaks through the comms, "Upper level's clear. No sign of anything." It's Scott, barely recognisable over the static.

"Copy. Still sweeping the lower level," you respond, but it's garbled by the interference.

"Stay on alert," Jean warns, straining her telekinetic energy against the strange force permeating the facility. "Defence systems could still be active."

You venture deeper into the hallway, greeted by an eerie silence broken only by the echo of your own footsteps. A series of cells line the corridor, thick metal barricades, scarred and rusted, stand as a testament to the suffering endured by those held captive years before. Peering through the tiny barred windows, you see sterile, empty rooms, not a single bed or mattress to be found - the cold, hard concrete floor offering no comfort.

"Fuckin' hell," you murmur, chills running down your spine. Jean hums quietly in agreement, looking around in horror. The electricity you can usually detect in the background dwindles to a weak buzz. You descend a narrow staircase, the air growing heavier by the second. At the end of the hallway is another metal hatch, this time with a faded Hydra symbol etched onto its surface. With a concentrated effort, Jean manipulates the lock, the door groaning open with a distinct beep.

It's beyond dimly lit - a dark, cavernous space. You focus your powers, fighting against the invisible pressure dampening your strength, current coursing through your veins. With a snap of your wrist, the room erupts in light, fluorescent bulbs flickering awake. A row of computers surrounded by a bundle of wires and archaic machinery stretch towards the ceiling.

"Must be the control room," Jean reaches out to flip a switch, but as her fingers brush the old metal, energy jolts through your body - a warning that something is amiss.

"No - wait!" you shout, but it's too late. The metal door slams shut with a deafening clang. An agonising vibration rattles through the room, a shockwave that reverberates through your body. The two of you sink to the floor, clutching your ears as a rush of debilitating pain burns every nerve ending in your body. And you're left paralysed for what feels like an eternity.

Logan clicks his tongue as static continues pouring through the comms, he catches the tail-end of your broken reply - something something lower level - a pit of dread forming in his stomach, "Place feels off."

"You're right, I can't get a read on anything," Scott mutters, the red hue of his glasses flashing in the darkness.

Logan's eyes dart around the space, landing on a series of grotesque instruments undoubtedly used for torture. A wave of nausea washes over him, flashbacks of his own past spring forward at the sight, reminders of the days when he too was a mere subject in someone else's twisted experiments. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. An imperceptible vibration ripples beneath his feet, "The fuck was that?"

Scott immediately tries the comms again, "Jean? Wha - ", but it goes completely dead.

Logan's already barrelling through the corridors, his instincts taking over without a conscious thought. He calls for you again and again, reckless abandon fueling his every move. Screw the mission, all he wants is for you to be safe. His heart leaps into his throat as static hisses through the comms, Jean's voice muffled through the noise, "We've got... a major problem."

One second passes.

Two.

Three.

"C'mon, darlin'." The silence drags on, panic begins to seize his mind, sweat beading on his forehead. He needs to find you, now. The faint vibrations gradually become intense as he races down the staircase, "Major problem? C'mon, say your stupid joke, sweetheart. Please. Anything." His pleas, wracked with desperation, fall on deaf ears. Fear gnaws at him. He’s itching to hear your voice, even for that little running gag he doesn’t fully understand. Just any goddamn sign that you're still alive.

His senses direct him towards the metal hatch. Lunging forward, his fist connects with the barrier, claws extending at any attempt to tear through the door. Yet it holds firm, its surface barely dented or scratched by his force. Frantic, Logan rams his claws into the small security panel on the side, trying to short-circuit the lock. But the moment it's breached, a chain reaction is triggered, explosives hidden within the walls detonate with a tremendous roar. A torrent of debris and radiation thrusts him backwards, knocking him hard against the concrete.

The world around him seemingly implodes into a bedlam of sound and light, white flashes obscuring his vision. Pain, a searing, all-consuming pain diffuses through every inch of his body. His consciousness wanes, slipping away from his grasp. In the fading moments of awareness, he hears a distant crackle of electricity.

Then, nothing.

The memory of the chaos, the blinding light, the aftermath of the explosion, replay over and over. And then, there was Logan, his body limp and unresponsive, a sight that haunts your every waking moment. You remember the desperate scramble to escape the facility, the weight of his unconscious form in all your arms, the tense journey back to the mansion, Charles and Jean ushering you out of the med bay - their focus solely on stabilising him.

The night stretches on, a relentless march of time that seems to punctuate your helplessness as you pace back and forth. The lack of response from anyone doesn't quell the whirlwind of anxieties in the slightest. Every minute sound, every faint whisper, sends your heart racing. But when they finally emerge hours later, faces etched with exhaustion and relief, you can finally breathe.

For days, you sit by Logan's bedside, hands intertwined with his. The monotonous rhythm signalling his vitals is the only thing grounding you to reality. Though he remains unconscious, Jean had offered words of comfort, pointing to subtle improvements in his healing with her scans. Eventually, warmth returns to his body. His breathing, once laboured, is now full and steady. Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead and hope ignites within you again, just enough to draw a small, weary smile.

But then, you see it.

Glaring at you, painfully so, is a little mark on the back of his shoulder. Except, it isn't the same crescent moon that adorns your wrist. No.

Your heart sinks, breath catching in your throat, paralysis sets in once again. A single, shattering revelation echoes in your mind: Logan is not your soulmate.

He stirs awake, eyelids fluttering open. Everything slowly returns to his senses as the haze of confusion begins to clear. The first thing he notices is the familiar scent of you lingering on his skin, in the air, on the chair pulled by his side. As his vision unblurs, the blue walls of the med bay coming into view, a flood of concern smacks him in the face. Where are you? What happened? He tries to sit up, his body protesting with every movement.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The mechanical hum of a wheelchair grows louder as it approaches. Charles, brimming with sympathy, rolls closer.

Logan groans, his muscles throbbing like never before, "What the hell happened? Is she - "

"She's alright, as are Scott and Jean," he interjects, though a shadow of pity clouds his expression. The unspoken weight behind his words triggers alarms in Logan's head, but before he can question him, a sharp burn shoots up his back. He winces, reaching for the source of the stinging. Beneath his fingertips, a strange, rough texture grates against his skin. He angles back to inspect it, blood running cold.

"It surfaced a week ago," Charles says grimly, "We suspect the radiation from the explosion temporarily impacted your healing, hence, the mark."

Logan can't think straight, a maelstrom of emotions engulfs every single fiber of his being - disbelief, agony and rage. How could this be real? He'd spent night after night, praying for some sort of sign, a reason for his existence. And when he found that in you, it felt like everything finally aligned. But now, destiny had struck him down with a ruthless blow, a cosmic twist of fate far worse than death.

Seven days.

That's how long it's been since you last saw him. The weight of the world bore down on you, every breath a struggle. Hours bled into one another as you stayed locked in your room, sobbing uncontrollably, your heart fracturing with each passing moment. Jean's persistent knocking eventually broke through your despair, her calm voice soothing your frayed mental state.

It took all of her gentle persuasion for you to finally eat something, to force you out of the anguish that consumed you. The news that Logan was awake and begging to see you almost crumbled the impenetrable walls you'd built up. But the thought of facing him, of confronting the fragile pieces of your harsh reality, filled you with dread.

And so, you avoided him. Retreating into yourself, a ghost of your own life, you clung to the illusion of distance. Maybe it'll somehow ease the pain, the heartbreak. You couldn't even bear to look at your own wrist, the mark - a cruel reminder of a love that was and a future that can never be. Every second of every day, mocking whispers floated around your mind, "You don't deserve him. You never did."

The moment Logan fully recovers, he immediately rushes through the mansion. Anticipation swells in his chest, there's nothing he wants more than your touch, your laughter - just you. He reaches your room, sensing the warmth from within. Hand hovering in the air, he takes a deep breath before knocking.

"Sweetheart?"

There's no response. He drops his head against the door, breathing ragged. Tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over, the oxygen in his lungs thinning as he tries to speak, "Please. I know you're in there. Talk to me." The silence, the emptiness, it all becomes too much. He's losing you, and he can't do anything to stop it. "I know you're upset. But, please, just let me in."

Your voice comes muffled, charged with grief and sorrow, "That mark means there's someone out there for you - your real soulmate. Someone who isn't me." The words are piercing, he longs to pull you into his arms, to comfort you, to reassure you. "I am not meant for you, Logan," you choke out.

"Fuck that," he spits back. He can't accept this, that you're conceding to some inexplicable truth, "'M not givin' you up cause of some shit on my body. I choose you. And I will choose you. Every single time." It's all strangled, raw with emotion, cheeks stained with a wetness. He's wound up, a caged animal clawing at the bars. He'll fight for you, even if all the cards are against him, "Darlin', I don't care if there's someone else - they're not you. You're perfect to me. For me. The universe can go fuck itself cause I love you."

Logan goes still. He's never expressed that to you, not in this way, not with such soul-baring honesty. But, nothing has ever been more true, "I love you."

Heavy hangs the air. Then, a soft padding of footsteps, the door clicks open. Before he can react, your hands cup his face, drawing him down to your level, lips meeting in a passionate caress. Logan cradles the back of your head, deepening the kiss. The space between you, both physically and emotionally, fades away. This is all that matters, for now and forever.

His arms tighten as you pull back and tuck into the crook of his neck. The weight of your exhaustion is obvious with the shuddering sigh you let out, his heart aching for you. As you whisper apologies, he trails kisses down your face. "No, no, don't be sorry, darlin'," he says, all soft and gentle. Neither of you move, surrendering to each other, the moment suspended in time. Slowly, your trembling subsides and he smiles, the lines of misery now dimming. With delicate fingers, he brushes your tears away.

"I have a major headache," you murmur, eyes falling shut.

He huffs a laugh, saluting you with a playful grin, "Major Headache." The look of astonishment across your face brings him so much joy. "I asked Kitty, told me to watch the damn show." And Logan did watch the show - all for you - to understand the little references you kept making here and there.

"You know how to use the Internet?" you ask, incredulously.

"Don't push it, sweetheart." There's no malice behind his tone whatsoever. With a smirk, he leans forward, scooping you up in his arms and carries you to the bed. It's a familiar motion, a routine he's done hundreds of times before. But now, it's different, one that’s even more precious.

"Logan?"

"Hm?"

"I love you too."

He knows. He knows because it's written all over you. Every word, every breath, every touch - a testament to your love for him. A love so quiet and profound, a love that has weathered storms, a love that will last until the end of time. And he's eternally grateful for it. For you.

963 notes · View notes

emmkayyy03 · 7 months ago

Text

✨ How Your Dominant Planet Secretly Shapes Your Teenage Brain ✨

Have you ever looked back at your late teens and wondered why you were so obsessed with certain things? Like, one friend was glued to their guitar and poetry journals, another was training for their fifth marathon, and you? You were probably neck-deep in your thing. Here’s the deal: your dominant planet was pulling the strings behind the scenes, shaping how your mind worked and what you gravitated toward without you even realizing it.

Let’s break it down:

🌞 SUN Dominant: "I need to shine—what’s the point otherwise?" Late teens for Sun-kissed folks are like a personal hero’s journey. You’re obsessed with figuring out who you are. Your brain’s constantly asking, Am I good enough? Do people see my worth? You might’ve been the captain of the debate team, the drama club star, or just that person who somehow made walking to the cafeteria look like a runway. How your mind works: Everything feels like a stage, and you want to perform your best—even in front of yourself. You seek validation, yes, but deep down, it’s about finding your inner confidence.

🌙 MOON Dominant: "I feel… everything. Is that normal?" For Moon folks, the late teens are an emotional hurricane. You’re all about understanding feelings, whether it’s yours or everyone else’s. You probably overthink texts (why’d they only reply with “k”?), cry over movies you’ve seen a million times, and have deep, borderline-therapeutic convos with your bestie. How your mind works: You process the world emotionally first, logically second. You’re learning how to handle your empathy without drowning in it.

🔥 MARS Dominant: "Let’s go! But… where are we going?" Mars kids are powered by action and passion, and your late teens are when you’re learning to channel that fire. Your brain thrives on challenges, so you probably signed up for every sport, pushed yourself in the gym, or got way too into proving someone wrong in an argument. Impulse control? We’ll work on that later. How your mind works: You process through doing. Sitting around theorizing makes you twitchy. You need action, even if it’s messy. Picking fights on the basketball court because the ref made a bad call, then realizing you’re actually just mad your crush didn’t text you back.

💬 MERCURY Dominant: "Wait, how does that work? Tell me everything!" Mercury-dominant teens are curiosity machines. Your brain’s like a search engine that never stops running. You want to know why, how, who, and what if. You’re that kid who can’t let a fun fact go without looking it up. Debates? Bring ’em on. Trivia? Your jam. Group chats? You run them. How your mind works: You connect ideas at lightning speed. Learning isn’t just a necessity; it’s your love language. Staying up until 3 a.m. watching YouTube videos about conspiracy theories, then showing up to school explaining why aliens totally built the pyramids.

💎 VENUS Dominant: "Why settle for okay when life can be beautiful?" Your late teens are a crash course in pleasure, relationships, and aesthetics. You’re probably experimenting with your style (cue questionable fashion phases), figuring out love (hello, hopeless romantic), or diving into art and music. Life needs to feel good, or it’s just not worth it. How your mind works: You’re tuned to beauty and connection. Your decisions are emotional but driven by desire—whether it’s for love, art, or the perfect selfie.Spending an hour perfecting your eyeliner just to go to the grocery store because what if you meet someone cute?

🌍 SATURN Dominant: "I’m too busy for nonsense." While your friends are out making impulsive mistakes, you’re busy building your future. Saturn-dominant teens have an old-soul vibe. You’re focused on responsibility, probably working a part-time job while juggling school and worrying about saving for college. Fun? Sure, but only if it’s productive. How your mind works: You crave structure and long-term success. While others wing it, you plan 10 steps ahead. Skipping a party to study for finals because failing isn’t an option—not because of pressure, but because you expect better from yourself.

🚀 RAHU Dominant: "What’s the wildest thing I can do right now?" Rahu teens are like explorers charting unknown territory. You’re obsessed with breaking rules, chasing thrills, and doing the forbidden. If it’s edgy, you’re into it. You’re the one sneaking out, dyeing your hair neon green, or trying things that make adults nervous. How your mind works: You’re wired to seek more. More excitement, more knowledge, more of life’s extremes. Going on a spontaneous road trip with friends, breaking the rules, or getting into something your parents wouldn’t approve of—just because it felt like the next big adventure.

🌌 KETU Dominant: "I’m here, but also not really here." Ketu teens are all about spiritual detachment. You’re introspective, reflective, and a bit aloof. While everyone else is chasing their dreams, you’re figuring out why dreams matter at all. Meditation, tarot, or even just staring at the stars for hours—you’re vibing on a higher plane. How your mind works: You reject surface-level stuff, diving into the depths of existence. But you also need to learn to be present. Skipping out on big social events to sit at a park by yourself, journaling about the mysteries of life, or getting into spiritual practices like meditation because they felt more authentic than anything else.

🚀 JUPITER Dominant: "Knowledge is freedom, and I’m going after it!" Jupiter-dominant teens are all about growth, knowledge, and the bigger picture. Your late teens were likely filled with plans for the future, exploring new ideas, and constantly looking for ways to improve. You may have been the one always talking about your next big trip, your dream career, or the philosophies that shaped your world view. How your mind works: You crave expansion and understanding. Learning is your path to freedom. Deep-diving into a topic you just discovered, researching potential career paths, or discussing ideas about travel, culture, and self-improvement with anyone who would listen. Your teenage years were wild, weren’t they? Which planet had your brain on lock? Reblog with your planetary dominant and let’s compare chaotic late-teen stories. 🌠

582 notes · View notes

dollab1llz · 27 days ago

Text

TAKE FIVE

ACTRESS!ELLIE WILLIAMS X ACTRESS!READER

SUMMARY: Two actresses are cast as love interests in a hit new movie. After one intense scene. They fall into a secret friends with benefits situation - no strings, no feelings. At least that's the rule. But what starts as late night hookups and trailer visits spirals into jealousy, blurred lines, and everything they swore they wouldn't feel.

WARNINGS: mdni, smut, angst, poor miscommunication, jealousy, anger, possessiveness, fwb trope, cheating (in a way), ellie can be seen as mean at some points.

─────CHAPTERS ↓

1. Chapter one - “Table Read” - Two rising stars meet for the first time. The chemistry is instant. Whether it’s good or dangerous… that’s up for debate. (done)

2. Chapter 2 - “No Cameras” - A closed set. A close scene. When pretending gets too real, it’s harder to pull away.

3. Chapter 3 - “Overtime” - Late nights blur the lines. Work becomes want. And want becomes need.

4. Chapter 4 - “Under Wraps” - What they have isn’t public. It’s not even private.It’s just theirs — for now.

5. Chapter 5 - “Cut the Scene.” - A scene that felt too real, was it?

6. Chapter 6 - “Anderson” - A new presence brings warmth. Steady. Solid. Safe. But the past never really leaves the room.

7. Chapter 7 - “Call Sheet” - They’re back on set. The script says one thing. Their eyes say another.

8. Chapter 8 - “Too late” - Flashbulbs. Tension. One night too much. Things are said. Things are done. And someone catches it all.

9. Chapter 9 - “Rumours” - The internet has its theories. The truth? It’s complicated, messy, and starting to fall apart.

10. Chapter 10 - “Encore” - They’re back in front of cameras — smiling, lying, pretending. But neither of them are actors good enough to fake indifference.

11. Chapter 11 - “Afterparty” - The final wrap party. Regret, resentment, maybe hope. One conversation changes everything.

12. Chapter 12 - “I Know” - No script. No crew. Just them, finally deciding whether this was ever more than a scene.

#ellie williams x you #ellie willams x reader #ellie williams #ellie tlou #the last of us #dina tlou #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you

102 notes · View notes

whppxdit4chi · 6 months ago

Text

EDIT TO ADD:

Just to be clear if anyone cares and because this post kinda blew up and people started dragging me and I’m pretty sure they assumed that I was suggesting anything I said was in some way representative of my beliefs/theories:

I was totally just spitballing shit off the top of my head.

I never intended my word salad to trigger such a heated debate, I genuinely was just hoping for a civilised discussion about what’s right/wrong, what’s most/least likely. I want to understand all this deep stuff and engage with the fandom and hear people’s thoughts. I don’t have the mental capacity to weave intricate theories that tie all strings together like some of this fandom does. This post was incredibly fucking low effort drivel that I tossed out into the universe in the hopes of exploring different possibilities and engaging in conversation about exploring the significance of the differing appearances of the Stark children. Nowhere was it supposed to say I *want* the characters mentioned to fail/succeed. Nowhere was it supposed to imply that I know the significance of it. I just picked up something that was sitting with me and thought aloud about what it could mean and just came up with a random idea of what it might mean without much thought. At least some part of the thought was shaped by the end of Robb’s story and because he failed due to what I interpreted as getting too close to Southern politics and perhaps forgetting the core values he was fighting for along the way. I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t say anything else now cause anything I could say feels like it will just fuel the fire.

I’ve confessed multiple times now that what I said was shortsighted, wrong and didn’t consider intricacies that refute what I was saying entirely. Now if people could chill and take the post for what it is, that would be great.

ORIGINAL POST:

Do any of y’all asoiaf homies think there could be some significance to the Stark kids’ appearance?

My brain does not currently have the capacity to explain what I mean exactly but I’m talking in the sense that the majority of the kids look like Tullys not Starks, notably it’s said that Arya and Jon look most like Starks and it just made me wonder whether that somehow foreshadows their failures- in the sense that the rest cannot truly uphold Stark values and therefore ultimately fail? Idk if I’m just pulling shit from thin air and this may not make much sense but I just think that fact might somehow imply that they’ll be the ones to uphold Stark values in the send and ultimately succeed in their endeavours.

Ofc I understand I’m ultimately damning Sansa, Bran and Rickon in this but I wouldn’t put it past GRRM to plan that far ahead and use some kind of magical heritage-related symbolism like that… and ofc nobody is safe in asoiaf so there’s that too.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #house stark #sansa stark #bran stark #robb stark #arya stark #rickon stark #random 1am thoughts #1 am thoughts #its 1am

185 notes · View notes

hawkinsschoolcounselor · 20 days ago

Text

I think I have a theory about this scene:

People are debating that it could be Will getting powers or Will getting possessed again. But I kinda feel like it could be both, in a way, and it would all tie together with Henry.

Thanks, Homer.

Based on what I've read about The First Shadow, Henry entered Dimension X or whatever it was called when he was a child, younger than Will even. He changed while he was in there, developing powers and experiencing a change in his personality. Eventually, he would be sent by El back there, where he would encounter the Mindflayer, seemingly bending it to his will.

However, I think that's all been reversed. I think the Mindflayer is really the one pulling the strings here.

The way I see it, the Mindflayer wants out of the other dimension or possibly sees all dimensions containing life as something to consume. However, it cannot do much on its own, rather it brings all creatures it encounters into its thrall, creating a hive mind. Henry was presumably its first human victim, but it didn't seem to give him powers, exposure to the dimension did. However, the dimension itself could basically be the Mindflayer at that point, so it could be the same difference.

Years later, Will would also accidentally traverse into this dimension. This time it was the result of El accidentally breaching the divide while Brenner had her reaching through the Void in search of Russian spies (really in search of Henry). He spent a week in there, which is probably longer than Henry did. Curiously, he was not killed like other human victims of the dimension. Even more curiously, the dimension, soon referred to as the Upside Down, now appeared as a shadowy version of Hawkins as it existed on the day Will entered it.

However, Will did not seem to encounter the Mindflayer while he was in there, at least not directly, so he wasn't added to the hive mind. This may be a result of him hiding for so long and then being weak by the time the demogorgon found him. However, Will was ultimately saved, becoming neither victim nor thrall. I suspect this is when Brenner or Owens or someone at the Lab had a Soteria implanted into him, as they would have recognized Will's experience as being very similar to Henry's.

The Mindflayer would then come for Will a year later. Regardless of the original plans for him, whether it be a thrall, an incubator, or just food, he was now a human who was exposed to the dimension for a week. He'd likely have powers and be valuable. The Mindflayer would have another Vecna, for lack of a better term. Luckily, the power of love won out, and Will was able to fight back against the hive mind corruption.

I think The First Shadow, even with my limited understanding of it, is a good foundation for what we may see in season 5. Will may go through a similar path that Henry did in the play. It may also be similar to Luke's experience in Return of the Jedi, where he was tempted by the Dark Side, only to overcome it in the end.

Will is going to experience the full extent of his powers, and the corruption that comes with it. He's going to be seen as a potential threat, possibly one that needs to be put down for the greater good, only for love to win again. However, it will be a painful road, and he himself may believe himself to be too dangerous to let live. This is where I think Mike will play a critical role. While I do think that the love of his family and friends will help him stay grounded, I think it will be Mike who plays the difference maker. Will thinking that Mike would never love him will probably be how the Mindflayer tries to wear down Will's, er, will. Mike showing Will that he does love him will give him the strength to do what Henry couldn't.

#byler #stranger things 5 #stranger things 5 spoilers

72 notes · View notes

rlnk · 23 days ago

Text

The Strings Between

art by @/6enesiass

To everyone else, you were rivals. Bitter, relentless, and painfully agonizing.

But to Gojo, it wasn't that simple.

Sure, he'd never miss an opportunities to get under your skin, but beneath the facade—beneath all that sarcasm—was something deeper. Something that tugged at his chest every time he sensed your menacing presence.

You always arrive early. Early enough that Gojo had started showing up even earlier—just to beat you. Without a word, the two of you would always end up sitting side by side together, faces buried in books. Never acknowledging each other, but always acutely aware.

Gojo would pretend not to notice when you'd flip a page, or how your brow twitched every time you encountered a difficult passage. He'd chant to himself that he wasn't competing with you over a book as he started reading a little faster, highlighting with more intent.

But he was.

You both were.

This was your thing—competing without even talking.

Never giving the other the sweet satisfaction of a hint of recognition.

With this rivalry came familiarity—an unspoken rhythm between the two of you.

But lately, it felt like something else entirely.

At first, it was the stares. You'd look at him just a little too long. Not the usual narrow—eyed glare, but something steadier. Focused. Had you always looked him like that? Not with challenge, but with... intent. Like you wanted to say something, but kept choosing silence instead.

Then came the conversations. Actual ones. You'd go out of your way to talk to him about a theory you read, or debate over a book you both knew inside out. No more cold silence or passive-aggressive side-eyes. This was different.

It was still sharp. Still competitive. But now... almost collaborative?

Gojo didn't even know when it started. Didn't know when he stopped brushing it off. But he knew he didn't hate it. In fact, he started looking forward to it—your opinions, your sarcasm, the way your mind worked, the way your eyes lit up when something genuinely interested you.

To anyone else, it probably looked like another pointless debate. Just two know-it-alls arguing to kill time.

But to Gojo, it felt like something real. Personal.

Even if neither of you dared call it that.

Now, the two of you sat eye to eye, knees brushing as you sank down between the bookshelves. The space was barely wide enough for both of you, open books forming a chaotic mess across the floor. Physics. Philosophy.

You were speaking again—something about string theories again.

"—like, threads vibrating across dimensions. Not just particles or waves but strings. Orchestrating the universe, if you think about it." You turned a page, eyes fixed on the text in front of you. "Makes you think of the red string theory too."

Gojo blinked. "What, the soulmate thing?"

You gave a tiny shrug, almost dismissive. "Just saying. If the universe is built on strings, maybe some of them are... meant for connecting people."

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

Not because he didn't have a comeback—he always had a comeback—but because you finally looked up at him when you said it. And there was something strange about your expression. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. It was Curious. Like you were asking him to take you seriously for once.

And he did.

Your knees still brushed, a quiet but constant reminder of just how little space remained between you. Your breath hitched slightly as you spoke again, quieter this time.

"Or maybe I've lost it—I mean, it's just a theory anyway... "

Gojo should've said something. Anything. Should've told you that you were getting sentimental and ruining your image. But instead, he just stared.

And then, just for a second, your eyes flickered to his lips.

Suddenly, the silence wasn't comfortable anymore. It was thick. Tense. Vibrating. Like the strings you talked about.

He swallowed, gaze narrowing just slightly. "So... which are we?" he asked, voice low.

"Random strings that just happened to cross? Or... one of those connected ones?"

You didn't answer.

But your smile—small, almost knowing, told him everything he needed to know. His ears flushed pink, betraying him before he could even think of a response.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk satoru #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #nerd gojo #nerdjo #nerdjo x reader #academic rivals

74 notes · View notes

fear-is-truth · 2 months ago

Note

“he’s interested in you, the way a biologist would be interested in a new insect specimen.” the way i need you to write more about this immediately

PATRICK HOCKSTETTER is convinced he’s the only real thing that exists. not in a metaphorical sense, like when philosophers speculate about solipsism—he knows it, with the cold certainty of fire devouring oxygen. the rest of the world is an elaborate set dressing, populated by twitching mannequins programmed to simulate emotion. humans are just meat with delusions. their pain isn’t real. their voices are pre-recorded. their blood is just color and warmth. the only true consciousness is his.

you, though. you’re the first variable in a long string of scripted bullshit. patrick watches you the same engrossment a biologist applies to observing an insect they’ve never seen before, debating whether to pin it to a board or let it crawl free just to see where it goes. you make something itch behind his eyeballs. a vibrating buzz at the base of his skull akin to a fly trapped in a glass. he’s not sentimental enough to mistake curiosity for attachment—it’s nothing more than just chemical static, a delusion propagated by hormonal surges and societal conditioning a way the body tricks itself into mating before it decomposes. dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin firing like faulty wiring. he regards it with the same detached interest he gives to decomposition or combustion: fascinating in theory, grotesque in practice. he’s felt none of it.

sometimes, he wonders if you’re just a projection of his boredom. something his brain vomited out so he wouldn’t snap entirely and set the school on fire just to watch the colours dance against the grey smear of existence.

but most days, he’s sure you’re not. just another insect under the glass. lovely, twitching. still—he keeps you. for now.

#patrick hockstetter #patrick hockstetter x reader #bowers gang #it 2017 #patrick hockstetter x y/n

92 notes · View notes

liviawildrose · 2 months ago

Text

𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐨𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬

imagine if you could literally dial a number to the universe and be like, “yo, i want 100k in my bank, glowing skin, mental peace, and my soulmate by sunday.” that’s the vibe grabovoi codes promise. they’re sequences of numbers, usually 6 to 12 digits long, that claim to hold vibrational frequencies capable of manifesting your desires—health, wealth, love, healing, even straight-up resurrection. no, i’m not joking.

these number codes are kind of like spiritual cheat codes, and the community around them treats them like they’re divine passwords to reality’s operating system.

but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. to understand the magic (and messiness) of grabovoi codes, we gotta start with the source.

who is grabovoi??

enter grigori grabovoi, a russian mathematician, scientist, and (controversially) a self-proclaimed messiah. yes, that kind of messiah.

he came into prominence in the early 2000s claiming he could heal terminal illnesses, prevent disasters, and even resurrect the dead using his special mathematical teachings rooted in radionic frequencies and consciousness manipulation.

his belief system is called “the teachings of grigori grabovoi” and it combines:

• sacred geometry

• quantum physics (real or pseudoscientific? debatable)

• numerology

• the law of attraction

• energy healing

• consciousness-based reality creation

grabovoi created thousands of “concentration sequences” aka number strings, that supposedly align your energy with specific outcomes. each number in a sequence is said to carry a certain vibrational frequency, and when you focus on that frequency (aka the number), you’re aligning your consciousness to make it real. like coding reality with your mind.

so how do they work?

now we get to the juicy part: how tf do these work? are we just scribbling numbers like chaotic witches on caffeine, or is there a science to this?

grabovoi codes are based on the belief that consciousness is the architect of reality.

basically:

“your thoughts + emotion + focus = your reality”

and codes are the shortcut.

each number sequence is believed to carry specific vibrations. by focusing on that sequence, you attune your mind-body-spirit system to that frequency, kind of like tuning a radio to a certain station. think law of attraction meets sacred numerology meets chaos magick.

here’s how people use grabovoi codes:

• writing them on skin (especially on the wrist, chest, or palm)

• chanting or repeating them silently

• meditating while visualizing the numbers

• writing them on paper and putting it under a pillow or in your wallet

• using water charging methods (writing the code on a bottle or paper and putting it under/around your water)

• creating sigils or vision boards with them

the idea is that you’re not just “saying” the code you’re feeling and becoming the code.

the science behind it

okay so here’s the tea there’s no legit peer-reviewed science that confirms grabovoi codes work in the traditional scientific sense.

let’s look deeper.

they’re rooted in radionics and scalar waves, fringe scientific theories that deal with how thought energy might interact with physical matter. radionics suggests that intent can influence physical reality like distant healing or telepathic transmission. most mainstream scientists say it’s pseudoscience, but that hasn’t stopped people from swearing by it.

grabovoi himself claimed to base his work in quantum consciousness the theory that consciousness plays a role in the behavior of particles. this is where things get dicey, because the quantum field is notoriously misused in new age spirituality. but the basic principle is: if everything is vibration, then numbers = vibration = manifestation tools.

the controversy

sooo let’s talk about the giant red flag in the room.

grabovoi was jailed in 2008 for fraud, specifically for offering to “resurrect” dead children of grieving families in exchange for money. he served time, was released, and still has a cult-like following, particularly in russia and parts of the spiritual internet.

because of this, the ethical conversation around grabovoi codes is real. some practitioners avoid his name entirely, instead calling them “healing codes” or “manifestation sequences.” others separate the tool from the creator, like using fire even if someone invented it for destruction.

my advice:

if you choose to work with grabovoi codes, use your discernment. don’t blindly worship the man. focus on the intention behind the code, not the guru energy.

psychological effects?

maybe. and also maybe not.

the placebo effect is still an effect. if repeating a code like 5207418 makes your brain feel abundant, safe, and magnetic then honey, you’re rewiring your neural circuits.

this is where psychology and spirituality start holding hands and giggling.

working with grabovoi codes can:

• create positive neural pathways

• anchor your reticular activating system (RAS) to notice aligned opportunities

• boost your dopamine and motivation through repetition and ritual

• become part of your manifestation toolbox, boosting confidence and faith

in other words: you’re hacking your subconscious mind.

and that’s powerful af, even if it’s not quantum physics-level verified.

practical tips for using grabovoi codes

1. pick a goal. be specific.

2. find the code. check trusted sources, like sacredscribes, numerology blogs, grabovoi fansites, or create one yourself.

3. set the vibe. cleanse your space, light incense, turn on some theta music, whatever makes your ritual feel sacred.

4. visualize while chanting or writing. feel it as if it’s already done. feel the wealth, the love, the power. no lukewarm emotions allowed.

5. be consistent. don’t just write it once and ghost your own magic. work with the code daily until it feels natural.

6. combine it. grabovoi codes pair beautifully with subliminals, scripting, sigils, moon rituals, tarot pulls, EFT tapping, or even your skincare routine (draw it on your mirror!).

so do these codes actually work?

some say they changed their life.

others say it’s bullshit.

the truth? your energy and intention are what matters.

grabovoi codes are tools, not miracle machines. if you’re sitting on your couch chanting “520 741 8” but refusing to apply for jobs, budget your money, or challenge your scarcity mindset then babe, that code is not a genie lamp. it’s a door, but you still gotta walk through it.

closing thoughts

grabovoi codes are mystical little numbers with a big-ass promise. whether they’re magical formulas or just placebo wrapped in a new-age aesthetic, one thing is clear—they awaken your subconscious to act in alignment with your desires.

56 notes · View notes

princessozera · 1 year ago

Note

so, random thought, there's a good chance the demon bros inadvertently harmed mc in some capacity just because human and demon limits are so vastly different, and the main human any have had contact with is Solomon, whose humanity is somewhat debatable. mc might act like they're invincible, but they are human in the end, and human durability is largely that we can keep going after almost any injury, not that we don't get injured

like Lucifer strings them up as he would his brothers, forgetting (assume he's really tired or stressed or whatever) that doing so puts a lot of pressure on the body and can cause actual damage instead of just being annoying like it is to his brothers. depending on how exactly he ties them up it'd change the effects but it's never gonna be great for them

Mammon running away from shenanigans with them and he tugs on their hand a bit too hard and fast to get them safely around a corner and dislocates their shoulder in the process because force = mass x speed and Mammon is a speedy boy. or he's running from Lucifer and slams into them at top speed, and if they can't protect their head from the wall/floor you know Mams is freaking out because mc is all out of it and there's so much blood and he doesn't care how Lucifer punishes him as long as he makes sure mc is alright

otaku Levi with his nonexistent sleep schedule doesn't realise just how badly sleep deprivation affects humans. paranoia, weakened immune system, depersonalisation, all the way to sleep deprivation psychosis. you go 96 hours or 4 days without sleep and lemme tell you, you ain't properly attached to reality anymore. been there, done that, would not recommend. there were bugs crawling all over my arms and legs and shadow people whispering. fucking sucked, and I was constantly shaking so I kept dropping stuff

if anyone knows about human durability, at least in theory, it's Satan, but the avatar of wrath can be emotionally charged. he really didn't mean to hurt them, but he was trying so hard not to lose it that day and as he led mc out of his room so they wouldn't be caught in the inevitable explosion, his deadly sharp claws nicked their skin. the wounds were mostly superficial— hurt like a bitch but no major arteries were damaged— but there was quite a lot of blood and Satan felt sick in a way he never had before. humans scar easily, a useful trait to close open wounds quickly, but Satan hates that he was the cause of those raised lines

Asmo is probably best at remembering since he hangs out with Solomon and has had human lovers before, but he is mostly around Solomon who cannot die. so he doesn't always remember what is and isn't toxic for humans, especially since a lot of poisons are used in medicines at lower doses and a lot of things we need to live are poisonous if we consume enough. it'd only take one slip up to put mc in hospital, and of course they don't blame him but he begs Satan to teach him as much as he can so it never happens again

you know Beel would try his best to remember, and he'd feel horribly guilty if he ever hurt mc, but he's big and strong even by demon standards and can eat anything that isn't Solomon's cooking. there's a few ways this one could go— sharing food with them that's toxic to humans, hugging them a bit too hard, mc giving him their food and going hungry, they work out together and they get hurt... take your pick

and Belphie knows all too well how fragile mc is, so he's very careful with his demonic strength around them. he already killed them once with barely any effort. but one day he wakes up from napping with mc to find he held them too hard and they're bruising. maybe his arm curled around their neck as it bloomed black and blue once again. Belphie doesn't nap with them for a while after that

! ANON! 💕💕💕💕

I don't know how you sniped me from across the highway but whump/injuries are exactly my cup of obsession and I've thought about this forever- i just never really had enough to make a full post. I LOVE your ideas and I hope you dont mind me bouncing some of my own off them;

----

Lucifer and his funny little habit of hanging his brothers 💕 Say he takes pity on MC, makes sure they're right side up, nothing around the neck and only tied beneath the arms and around the legs. Plans to take them down in 5 minutes, really it was meant to be the pet equivalent of air jail. But a call here, difficulties there and 5 minutes turn to 10 and then it slips to 15. It's so little time, absolutely nothing compared to the nights he's left Mammon up over the banister.

So why are there screams in the hall? Why are Asmo, Mammon and Levi on the phone with Solomon, Barbatos, and Simeon respectively? He doesn't understand why they don't immediatley drop MC down, only catching the tail end of Solomon explaing something called "suspension trauma" to Asmo. When they do get MC down, even from a distance he can see the color is almost completely gone from their face, while their legs are a few shades darker. He watches Satan mouth out the count for MC's pulse, quick and staggering. When MC wakes, they can't seem to take a proper breath- gasping, clutching their chest, tearing up and confused. There isn't much more any of them can do, other than stand back and hand MC over to Barbatos and Solomon.

----

In a movie, it would be considered slapstick comedy, the way that Mammon skid around a corner full speed, carpet pulling under his feet , hip checking the wall as he ran away from Lucifer. In a movie it would be hilarious they way him and MC crashed, sending them literally flying back, head bouncing off the wall, swirls in their eyes and stars dancing around their head. In a movie they would only need to shake it off and get up to yell at him, with Lucifer standing back and watching in smug satisfaction.

But there wasn't anything funny about this, MC slumped in his arms, blood turning his tshirt into a darker shade of black, making it tacky and stick onto his skin. They're awake, sort of? But their pupils aren't the same size, and the speech is slurred. There's a truce as Lucifer heals MC, and they get them to a proper doctor.

Mammon gets better at ducking and weaving around MC, it even helps him evade Lucifer better. But MC doesn't escape the dislocated shoulders, and unwanted popping of their knuckles when Mammon holds their hand too hard. Neither had known that after the first dislocation, its a lot easier to dislocate your should again. It's never intentional, but it always hurts- MC tries to breathe through it if there is an urgency, but Mammon catches the way they pointedly look away, trying to blink the tears away, and knows that he's- once again- failed to keep MC out of harm.

---------

Levi being MC's energy drink dealer. He doesnt know why they dont but their own, but he has plenty so he ultimately doesnt mind sharing. They're not attached at the hip so he doesnt see how little sleep MC is getting, a single can carrying them through 2 whole days. They know its time to 1-up again when their heart stops sounding like helicopter blades.

He finds them on the floor of their room, rubbing their arms raw with the hard bristle brush Asmo uses to buff his horns, babbling incoherently to themselves.

-----

With Satan the physical is NEVER intentional, as much as he used to rage in the early days of the fall, the thought of hurting MC didn't sit well with him. But tiny nicks are so easy to cause when even his regular nails are sharper than a humans'. If MC can keep their reactions subtle, it wont be until Satan is laying in their lap that he notices the "freckles" on their arms don't quite lay flat.

When you're used to fast reflexes, you don't think twice about slamming a door in someone's face. Someone (MC) who was too close and now has a broken, bloody nose. Now whenever the snore in their sleep, or their nose whistles when they laugh too hard, Satan remembers opening the door to MC doubled over, blood leaking from between their fingers as they tried to put pressure on the bridge of their nose.

-------

Dosage and concentration.

Asmo is vaugely familiar with these terms- SPF strength, alcohol proofing, acidity in his skin care. He's had so many spa nights with Solomon that he doesn't think twice about sharing his skin care routine with MC as well. Powders, gels, creams, exfoliants. Some a bit too harsh, MC's skin turns warm and flush, so he thinks their skin is sensitive. He'd ask for help caring for his wings and horns. MC goes in with their bare hands to get a good scrub, attributing the burn to the rough edges and upturned edges of Asmo's horns. It feels like icyhot, so it must be working. When they're done, Asmo tries to take the rest of the cream off their hands to apply to his hands, but they both scream as a visible layer of skin from MC starts peeling off as well. The acid having fulling numbed and killed off most of the senses in MC's hand, had started to deteriorate the skin, and its by some small blessing that MC hadnt already applied it to their face. It takes a panicked called to Solomon to get the feeling back into MC's hands, but it still takes weeks for the skin to grow back on to their hands. The pain of bandages on raw muscle is excruciating, and Asmo sticks to them like glue, fully taking the blame for their condition.

-----

Beel and Belphie have another trauma to share as twins- nearly killing MC in their sleep! Beel doesnt understand how heavy an unconcious body can be, and being as large as he is, this becomes a problem the first time him and MC share a bed. He falls asleep with an arm draped over them, but exhaustion from practice has him rolling on to them. Even if not entirely covering them, the weight on their chest makes it hard to breathe and MC soon drops nicities and is trying their damnest to get him off or at least wake him up. Its a panicked use of the pacts to call another brother that saves them, and Beel cant sleep for the rest of the night.

Belphie doesn't have as many night terrors these days, but they can still get bad. Usually sleeping with MC can keep these dreams at bay, but on nights that they dont, he wakes up to find MC tossed onto the floor or squeezed between him and the wall. On the worsts of these nights, he woke up to MC screaming, having wrapped a hand and tail so tightly around their arm that it shattered in 2 places.

(Can I also offer a beel and belphie alternative: MC wanting to match Beel's stamina/ gym workout time and getting muscle deterioration. Belphie wanting a sleeping partner so he messes up their sleeping cycles, 10+ hrs asleep, accidentally depriving them of light, water, and food, causing a depressive episode)

#ozera talks back #anon i am proposing #obey me shall we date #long post

178 notes · View notes

youzicha · 17 hours ago

Note

18, 11

18. Is the physicists' sought-for "theory of everything" a chimera?

You really should ask a physicist about this! As I understand it, the basic fact that makes it debatable is that there is some technical issue which means you can't handle gravity in the same mathematical framework as the other forces. But what lesson should we draw from that? I guess we should be less confident that they got the description of the other forces right. But even before gravity people were unhappy with renormalization theory ("it is what I would call a dippy process"—Feynman), and meanwhile, supposedly there are formalisms like string theory that can accommodate gravity, it's just that it's impossible to make progress without a particle accelerator the size of the solar system. From my layman's point of view, it seems like there's not so much philosophical lessons to be drawn from the fact that renormalization failed. In some alternative history some other mathematical approach could have been popular, but everything would still be underconstrained just from lack of experimental data...

Conversely, I guess there were physicists in the 1980s who thought they would recognize the ToE just by its mathematical elegance and solve fundamental physics in their lifetime, and that hope seems very chimerical now.

11. Is hip-hop/rap more political than the Eurovision Song Contest?

This question feels like a throwback to 2015! Like, the reason hip-hop is considered political is that it's associated with Blackness, and hence with questions of race which (along with sexuality) is the most contested political issue; meanwhile the Eurovision is avowedly "apolitical", and as we all know "to be neutral is to be complicit". But now in the 2020s with wars in Ukraine and around Israel, nationalism seems less harmless, so maybe even the stupid Eurovision pop music can become controversial again.

I think ultimately rap is an artistic form, not an ideology or a movement, so you can't really say that it's politically significant in itself. Otherwise we again end up in 2015 when everyone was briefly convinced that Hamilton had achieved the great unified theory of politics and music...

20 notes · View notes

nerdydaydreamer · 9 days ago

Text

Chapter 8: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~The Prison’s Paradox~

The thought was so clear in her head, a stark contrast to the deep, rumbling amusement that had just echoed through it. She couldn’t believe it. One, he was communicating with her. Two, he was laughing at her. How dare he! And three… holy shit, does he have a nice voice.

I mean, it was somewhat to be expected, she reasoned, her thoughts racing. As the King of Dreams, of course he would have a voice that could lull you to sleep. But God damn, did it also have to be so seductive?

The chuckling in her head tailored off as he seemed to focus, the amusement replaced by a new, direct thought.

It appears I was wrong about not also reading your thoughts as well as projecting them.

The projected sentence was laced with so much dry humor that the meaning hit Nora like a physical blow. He had heard her. He had heard her internal debate. He had heard her comment about how good his voice sounded.

Nora was now, and would forever be, utterly mortified. She wanted the glass floor to swallow her whole. Her own internal thoughts had betrayed her.

As if sensing her desire to cease existing, another thought, softer this time, brushed against her mind.

You do not need to worry. It is only the thoughts you are thinking hard about.

That doesn’t help at all, Nora thought with a fresh wave of embarrassment. She wasn’t consciously trying to think hard about how his voice sounded; the thought had just erupted on its own. It seemed her mind had a mind of its own, and it was currently determined to humiliate her.

She pushed the mortification aside and focused her attention on Morpheus, trying to gather her thoughts into a single, direct line. She pictured the question in her mind, concentrating on it, and aimed it at him. How long have you been able to do this? She hoped it reached him with the same startling clarity his thoughts had reached her.

His voice, that very same deep and resonant voice, answered in her mind. It is something I have theorized for a while, but I have only just now attempted it. The guards are forced to take stimulants to stay awake, yet you are able to sleep in my presence without worry. I am unable to access your subconscious while you sleep, but your outer mind… it seems that remains accessible. Morpheus explained his theory, the concepts of minds and magic flowing into her head with perfect lucidity.

Nora nodded along as if, yes, absolutely, all of this made perfect sense. A mortal trapped in a magical cage communicating telepathically with an ancient, otherworldly being. A perfectly normal Tuesday.

She paused for a moment, then looked him directly in the eye, gathering her sincerity and projecting it with all her might. Well, considering everything, it's an honor to meet you, regardless of the circumstances. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. I’m Nora.

Morpheus’s face remained a carefully sculpted mask, revealing nothing. But his eyes were a different story. They had always been the betrayers of his stoic façade, and now that Nora knew what to look for, they were as easy to read as a book.

His voice filled her mind again, formal and vast. Hello, Nora. I am Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares.

He paused, a flicker of hesitation that was not a sound but a palpable silence in her head. When his thoughts resumed, the grand titles were gone, replaced by something far more personal. I am sorry that you are trapped here.

The connection between them was, in theory, just a projection of thoughts, a string of silent words sent from his mind to hers. But what Nora felt was so much more. She didn’t just hear the apology; she felt it. It was a wave of emotion that washed over her, ancient and profound. It wasn’t pity. It was a deep, soul-heavy sorrow, the regret of a king who had inadvertently brought ruin upon an innocent.

A wave of her own sincerity pushed back against his sorrow. Thank you, but this is not your fault. She thought the words with a fierce clarity. All of this, she projected, gesturing with a small, frustrated wave of her hand to the glass walls and the gloomy basement, is because of Roderick Burgess. He’s the one who chose to capture you. He’s the one who locked you here and he’s the one that refused to set you free. Him adding me into the equation as another incentive to get you to give him what he wants is, again, on him. Everything about this is Roderick Burgess’s fault. And then eventually Alex’s. But absolutely none of it is because of you.

She paused, letting her conviction sink in before continuing. I don’t regret my decision. Burgess wasn’t going to get squat from you, and I definitely wasn’t going to help. Even after everything, and somewhat knowing what is to come, I don’t regret it. I don’t know how long we’ll be down here, but at least now we can talk. So that’s a good thing.

Nora ended on a hopeful note, a small, stubborn spark in the oppressive darkness. But her last sentence, her casual acceptance of an unknown but lengthy future, brought a different thought to the forefront of Morpheus’s mind. She spoke of the future as if it were a guarantee, an endless stretch of time. She was not wrong, but she shouldn’t be. Her mortal body had been without food or water for over a month. The fact that she was not a withered husk was an impossibility, a flagrant violation of the natural laws he knew so well. It was an anomaly he had been observing, but had not yet addressed. Now, with the bridge of communication open between them, he decided to bring it up.

Nora, his thought came, measured and deliberate. He paused again, a habit of his, she was learning, that gave his words a certain weight. I have been thinking about the peculiars of your survival.

Another pause, this one filled with a thoughtful, analytical quality. The circle on the floor… the runes painted within it were designed to sever my connection to my realm, The Dreaming. It is an immensely powerful piece of magic, a wall built of will and blood. My theory is that by being brought inside its confines, you have become subject to its laws as well. It has not frozen you in time, as you still think and feel, but it appears to have… paused your physical body's needs. It is why you do not hunger or thirst.

He let her absorb that before continuing with the final, crucial piece of his hypothesis. The spell was designed to hide its contents from everyone, to be a perfect blind spot in the fabric of existence. It locks me, an Endless, away from my kingdom. I believe it also prevents my siblings from perceiving what is within. My sister, Death, would have come for you days after you were trapped in here. The fact that she has not… it suggests that even she cannot pierce this veil. The circle that cages me is also, in its own way, keeping you alive.

Nora let his explanation sink in, the sheer, impossible logic of it settling around her like a strange, heavy blanket.

Huh. Okay, she thought, the words feeling small and inadequate in the face of such cosmic reasoning. Well, that’s true… I hope you haven’t gotten tired of me yet, because it seems, based on that thought process, that I’ll be here with you until you escape.

Morpheus looked at her after the thought landed, his gaze steady. It quietly amazed him. After everything that had happened—the betrayal, the violence, being sealed in a glass prison to await an unknown fate—she still found a sliver of a bright side. Yes, she was trapped here for the foreseeable future, her life now inextricably tied to his own captivity and eventual freedom. Yet, her immediate reaction was one of optimistic companionship. She seemed genuinely happy that now they could communicate, that he, Lord Morpheus, would not have to endure the silence alone anymore.

He could feel the sincerity of her relief, and it was directed more at him than at herself. She seemed happier that he would have another person to share the torment with, no matter how sad that sounded. It was an empathy so profound and selfless it almost defied belief.

The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t empty or oppressive anymore; it was filled with the lingering amazement of their new connection. Nora couldn’t stop thinking about it, realizing with a jolt that she had likely heard more from him in the last hour than any other living person had in over a decade.

Next Chapter

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

#king of dreams #dream of the endless #dream #the sandman #morpheus #morpheus x reader

20 notes · View notes

caligvlasaqvarivm · 1 year ago

Note

Wait what was that that Beforus Eridan being Kankri’s culler? What? How? Does that mean that candy red includes aquatic mutations?

Okay, so, this is PURE speculative headcanon and I debated over whether or not I should even say it, but it's pretty fucking hilarious so I figured I'd mention it with the heavy caveat that I made it all up & not to take it seriously, it's just a headcanon I believe because it's a really funny idea to me, and i do not at all consider this "canon" the way some of my other theories are. i hope you also find it funny

So the big difference between Feferi and Meenah's troll society is what "culling" entails; where on Alternia, culling means killing off the weak, orphaned, disabled, and/or lower classes, on Beforus, it means taking care of them. So the characters on Alternia that would've been slated for culling would, on Beforus, actually have lived very cushy lives where a highblood provides for them. It's still another way of enforcing the class divide, so it's still shitty, but I guess it's better than people being killed all the time.

Karkat is one of the most cullable trolls on Alternia for being a mutant not on the hemospectrum, and the only reason he has a symbol and lusus at all is because the Signless's followers prepared them for him. This is why Kankri doesn't seem to have a symbol or lusus, because a situation similar to the Signless never happened on Beforus, and instead, Kankri (and presumably Karkat as well) would've been culled, AKA taken care of by a highblood.

Another part of Kankri's characterization is that he fucking loves sea dwellers - he's actually pretty polite to Meenah, even trying to ingratiate himself to her via nautical references, and desperately, desperately wants to be pale with Cronus. This leads me to infer that Kankri was specifically culled by a sea dweller, and the law of conservation of detail (not a real thing, it's a trope name) leads me to further infer that Kankri was culled by one of our KNOWN sea dwellers, either Feferi or Eridan. And since Feferi was busy managing Meenah, it seems like the task would've fallen onto Eridan.

Now, I have a whole set of headcanons for what Beforus!Eridan was like, but as I tend not to speculate too much on AUs divested too far from canon, I'm only going to note the pertinent details:

Beforus!Eridan was very well-regarded by the population and had the same kind of standing as a major celebrity,

Many hundreds of sweeps ago, Karlkat Marx Karkat Vantas used to be Eridan's freeloader. Their relationship was extremely difficult to classify, and nobody really understood it (many assumed Eridan was culling him, but Eridan vehemently denied this, insisting Karkat just lived on his sofa rent-free and all expenses paid, like this was a normal thing for them to be doing),

Karkat was generally an absolute disaster in the romance department, having a long string of relationships up and down the hemocaste with his trademark Blurry Quadrant Bullshit, always sadly slinking back to Eridan's sofa at the end of his wild, vascillatory flings,

Karkat would write a massive scathing critique of Beforan society, its consumer capitalism, its casteism and classism, its power structure, etc. etc., which Eridan distributed posthumously, because unfortunately Karkat had the lifespan of a lime & passed away long before Eridan was even at the halfway point of his own lifespan,

Eridan was never the same, and while his public persona remained widely beloved, he became an interpersonal disaster in his private life, and Feferi handed him Kankri as a wiggler to cull in the hopes that it would get him out of his funk,

This Did Not Work At All and in fact fucked up a perfectly good wiggler

I mean, honestly, I don't think there exists such a thing as a "bad class," but I do think Princes should not be raising kids.

So Eridan, who, even in the best case scenario, has disastrous social skills and a fucked up sponge, had literally 0 idea what to do with this kid, and pretty much just threw money at it. It was pretty inevitable for Kankri to remind Eridan of Karkat, so most of what few conversations they'd actually have revolved around Karkat, especially Karkat's extremely fucked up romantic affairs, the recounting of which slowly shrivelled the Seer of Blood up like a raisin and made him decide that romance was really, truly not worth it.

At the same time, Kankri craved an emotional bond with his fucked-up adoptive dad, and the spark would sometimes come into Eridan's eyes whenever Kankri started talking about hemocaste equality. The guy who used to live on his couch would say things like that...

But this would also mean that Eridan was alive at the same time as his descendent, Cronus, so I'm pleased to inform you all that he managed to neglect TWO children, both his biokid and his adopted one. Hooray! As Eridan was universally beloved, Cronus always had a lot to live up to, and very little opportunity to be his own person, divorced of his status as a sea dweller or his ancestor's shadow. Hooray!

But the way it comes full circle is this: Canon!Eridan actually outright admits that his typing quirk is fake, calling it "weird" and dropping it when he's trying to be emotionally sincere. Thus, to me, it stands to reason that it's something he would stop using after he has his character development, and he stops caring about how a "sea dweller" is "supposed to" act. We see it happen with the other trolls, losing/changing their quirks to reflect big life events - Aradia dropping her 0s because she's not doomed anymore, Sollux losing his 2's when he loses his li2p. I've been struggling for a while with what Eridan would replace his quirk with after he drops his ww/vvs because it'd be kind of lame if he just had, like, basically nothing.

Also, I lowkey don't really vibe with Karkat ever using the sym69ls in text - he already resented his ancestor, and he'd especially hate the idea of using them after meeting Kankri. Hell, he's pretty reluctant to even type in his blood color even after everybody knows what it is. But then I realized - Eridan is already the guy on the team who dresses up in the colors of his dating partners. What if he replaced his ww/vv quirk with the sym69ls to show his support for Karkat?

Like yeah Karkat would hate it but it would also be literally so funny, and I think Karkat would be secretly comforted by the way Eridan would stubbornly insist that he's doing it FOR KARKAT, and not for the Signless or whatever, he's literally called Signless, that was like his whole thing idiot, this is Kar's symbol, shut the fuck up.

And also, genuinely, one of the things I'm most sad about missing out on was a conversation between Kankri and post-character-development!Eridan, because... can you fucking imagine? Here's Kankri, who actually loves sea dwellers and the caste system, who wants to be pale with Cronus so so so badly, yet is celibate by choice because he's a slut shamer (and in this headcanon, because he heard too many terrible stories about his ancestor's hellish dating life), who uses "social justice" as a cudgel and couches outright contempt for his friends in "polite" mealymouth language about equality...

... And then Eridan "these are my emotional support slurs" Ampora rocks up to the chat.

Even without the culler stuff, it'd be fucking hilarious, right? Eridan's insane and makes a lot of wild assumptions, but he's usually kind of right (he assumes Kanaya doesn't want to c3< him and Vriska because she's in <3 with Vriska, and he's at least right about the latter; he assumes Rose is highborn nobility, and, like, she IS a rich girl). Despite posturing about supporting the caste system, he doesn't actually give a shit about it, and arguing with him is basically a huge waste of time because he doesn't listen to people.

What I'm saying is, Kankri would be like "excellent, another sea dweller to befriend" + "finally, emotional validation from my distant father" & Eridan would immediately call Kankri a slur, ignore his arguments and rebut with something crazy like how "royal-v" is actually a more offensive term than "wader" because the former assumes sea dwellers have such delicate feelings that they can't stand not to have their globes kissed every five seconds, call Kankri a wader, ask Kankri why Kankri is hitting on him (Kankri isn't), proclaim that he and Karkat make out despite being moirails, and then start insisting that Kankri has to stop using his quirk because it's a quirk for Karkat and Karkat doesn't even like Kankri so Kankri doesn't get to use it anymore.

I think Kankri would start crying. Especially because a crowd has gathered and Kankri accidentally calls Eridan "dad" and Eridan is like i Don't know what that is.

Anyway the point that im making is the sym69ls were originally Beforus!Eridan's quirk because that was how he and Karkat used to curl up on the sofa together. 69. All cozy like. And that's where Kankri got them from and he decided to match his whistles to the motif. And after bullying Kankri into not using them anymore and taking them on himself, they go back to being Eridan's quirk. In a beautiful and stupid time loop of karma, the likes of which Homestuck is so fond of. Amen

96 notes · View notes