#It got interesting in the last few chapters

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every life ࿐‧₊ worst logan - imperfect for you pt.2

chapter summary: You and Laura find yourselves in the void. A few months later, Wade—who claims to be from your universe, and a different Logan appear with a way out.

word count: 13.7k+ (31k+ total)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: alright! this is the second part... to the second part. all the warnings/tags are the same! and take this as your warning-this is split in two parts! it's too long for tumblr to fit in one post!

(also, i know that it's 10 pm est, but i felt like i had to put this out now after watching lady gaga and bruno mars' performance at the grammy's)

warnings/tags: canon to 'deadpool and wolverine', black widow!reader, worst!logan, laura calls reader mom, violence, heavy angst, detached!reader, loverboy!logan, slow burn, fluff, wade wilson interruption, happy ending, not proofread

series masterlist - part 2

You had been to Italy a few times, never of course to see the sights. But Logan insisted, not caring that the mission was over and the two of you were supposed to be going back to the mansion.

“C’mon,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another chaste kiss against them. “I’ll show you around.”

"Do you even know where we’re goin’?" you asked, raising a skeptical brow as Logan laced his fingers through yours, tugging you along the cobblestone streets of Rome.

"’Course I do," he muttered, but the way his eyes flicked between the street signs said otherwise.

You smirked, leaning into his side. "Uh-huh. So, what’s the plan? Wander around aimlessly ‘til we find somethin’ interesting?"

"Pretty much," he admitted, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss against your knuckles. "Not like we’re in a rush."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Charles is gonna kill us when we get back."

Logan scoffed. "What’s he gonna do? Give me a disapproving look? Put me in time-out?" He squeezed your hand. "C’mon, darlin’. When’s the last time we had a real vacation?"

You exhaled, looking around. The warm glow of streetlights reflected off the damp stone, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread and espresso. It was peaceful. Normal.

You nudged him with your shoulder. "You’re lucky I like you."

He smirked. "Damn right I am." Logan leaned in a little closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Plus, it helps I got a girl who can speak Italian."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. "Yeah? And how exactly does that help you?"

Logan squeezed your hand, guiding you through the winding streets. "Means I don’t gotta fumble my way through orderin’ dinner."

You snorted. "So that’s why you’re keeping me around? For food?"

"Pretty much," he said, smirking. "That and the company."

You hummed, pretending to consider. "Could’ve just hired a translator."

Logan stopped walking, turning to face you with that look—the one that made your stomach flip, the one that told you he was serious even when his words weren’t. "Don’t need a translator. Need you."

Your breath hitched, but you covered it with a scoff, nudging him playfully. But before you could get out a word he spoke again.

“Let’s get married.”

You blinked at Logan, unsure if you’d heard him right. “What?”

Logan didn’t flinch. He just stood there, watching you with that same calm intensity he always had. “Let’s get married.”

A laugh escaped you, unbidden, half incredulous, half breathless. “You drunk already?”

Logan smirked. “Not yet.”

You shook your head, crossing your arms. “Logan—”

“I’m serious.” He stepped closer, taking your hands in his. “I know you know about the damn ring.”

Your breath hitched.

You did know.

You’d found it once, hidden away in his things. A simple gold band, unassuming, well-worn. You hadn’t asked about it at the time, but part of you had known—Logan didn’t keep things unless they mattered.

Your fingers curled around his. “You’ve had that ring for years.”

“Longer,” he admitted. “First time I met you, I bought it.”

Something in your chest tightened. “Logan.”

“I’ve lost a lot,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Too much. But you keep coming back to me. Life after life. And I keep finding you.”

Your throat felt tight. “This isn’t like the other times.”

Logan shook his head. “No. It ain’t. This time, I’m not gonna waste any more of it.”

You searched his face, looking for hesitation, doubt—anything that might tell you he was caught up in the moment. But there was nothing. Just certainty.

A quiet, stunned laugh escaped you. “You want to get married. Right now?”

“Why the hell not?” He grinned. “We got a whole city to ourselves. We’ve both seen enough shit to know waiting doesn’t always do us any favors.”

You exhaled, tilting your head. “You don’t even have the ring on you.”

Logan pulled his hand from yours, reached into his pocket, and held it up between his fingers. “You sure about that?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“You carry it around?”

“Every damn day.”

You stared at him, at the way he was just standing there, so unshaken, so sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment forever.

Maybe he had.

And maybe, just maybe, so had you.

“Alright,” you breathed. “Let’s do it.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head, laughing under your breath. “Let’s get married.”

---

The church was small—hidden in the quieter part of the city, far from the crowds of tourists. The old priest inside raised a brow when you and Logan walked in, but he didn’t ask many questions.

Logan held your hand the entire time, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. When the priest asked if you were ready, Logan squeezed your fingers, just once.

Neither of you had vows prepared—there hadn’t been time for that. But you didn’t need them.

“You already know what you mean to me,” Logan murmured, slipping the ring onto your finger. “Don’t need words to prove it.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, looking down at the band that fit so perfectly. Then you looked back at him, that same familiar, stubborn, impossible man you had known for years.

You curled your fingers around his hand. “Good. Because I don’t have anything poetic either.”

Logan chuckled. “Don’t need poetic.”

You smiled, lifting your joined hands to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Then let’s just get to the part where they say we’re stuck with each other.”

Logan smirked. “Thought you’d never ask.”

The priest gave a small, amused shake of his head before speaking the final words. And just like that, it was done.

Married.

You turned to Logan, your new husband, and before he could say anything, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss.

He made a noise of surprise, but it didn’t take him long to catch up, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. His lips were warm, familiar, and when he broke away just enough to murmur against your mouth, his voice was thick with something you couldn’t name.

“’Bout damn time.”

You laughed, forehead resting against his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Logan cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You’re mine now.”

You smirked. “Always was.”

He kissed you again, and this time, neither of you were in any rush to pull away.

---

You woke up, not with a start, just a slow realization that it was a dream—a memory.

The ceiling fan above you spun in lazy circles, the dim morning light filtering through the blinds. The scent of saltwater lingered in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of lemon cleaner from Laura’s half-hearted attempt at tidying up the place. For a second, you could still feel Logan’s hand in yours, the weight of the ring on your finger, the warmth of his breath against your lips.

But it wasn’t real. Not anymore.

You exhaled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before pushing yourself up. The bed was too big, too empty. You swung your legs over the side, the cool floor grounding you in the present.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. “Mom?”

You sighed, rolling your shoulders before standing. “Yeah?”

Laura cracked the door open, already dressed, her sunglasses perched on top of her head. “You okay?”

You huffed, running a hand through your hair. “Yeah. Why?”

Laura leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You were making that face again.”

You raised a brow. “What face?”

“The sad, I’m thinking about him again face.”

You snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

Laura shrugged. “Sure.”

Shaking your head, you moved past her and into the kitchen. “You eat?”

She grabbed an apple from the counter, biting into it as she hopped onto a stool. “Yeah. You?”

“Not yet.” You poured yourself a cup of coffee, the bitter scent filling the air.

Laura studied you for a second before speaking. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”

You took a sip of coffee before answering. “Maybe.”

Laura didn’t push, just nodded. “Was it a good one?”

Your fingers curled around the mug. “Yeah.”

She chewed her apple slowly, then said, “You think he ever dreamed about you?”

You swallowed, setting the mug down. “I know he did.”

Laura was quiet for a moment before hopping off the stool. “You wanna do something today? Beach, maybe?”

You glanced out the window at the waves rolling against the shore. The idea of a normal day, of pretending for just a little while longer, didn’t sound too bad. “Yeah. Beach sounds good.”

Laura nodded. “Cool. I’ll grab the towels.”

As she walked away, you let out a slow breath, staring at the coffee in your hands. The dream still clung to you, the weight of it settling deep in your chest.

You shook it off.

For now, there was the beach.

For now, there was Laura.

And for now, that was enough.

---

Logan exhaled, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. The Florida heat clung to him, sweat beading at the back of his neck as he leaned against the hood of his truck.

She was in there.

He knew her routine now—when she worked, when she shopped, when she left the house. He told himself he wasn’t stalking, that he was just waiting. But waiting for what, exactly? For her to acknowledge him? For her to let him in?

Wade had called him an idiot for sticking around. Said he was wasting his time. Maybe he was.

But maybe he wasn’t.

He took a slow drag, watching as a familiar car pulled out of the driveway. She was driving. Laura was in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, arms crossed, probably bitching about something.

Logan smirked.

He let the cigarette drop, crushing it under his boot as he pushed off the truck.

They weren’t running.

And as long as they weren’t running, he wasn’t leaving.

---

You stared at him, unabashedly. Something you only did when you were going to scold him for something.

“What?” Logan asked, turning to face you.

You crawled down the bed before sitting at the edge of it, chin in your hand, glasses slipping down your nose. “Why do you have to go to the bar? You could…”

Logan, who had just finished pulling his boots on, paused mid-motion. His brow lifted as he looked at you over his shoulder. “I could… what?”

You shrugged, pushing your glasses up absentmindedly. “I don’t know. Stay.”

Logan snorted, shaking his head as he grabbed his jacket. “What, and listen to Scott ramble about team-building exercises? No thanks.”

You huffed, tilting your head. “You could grade papers.”

He let out a short laugh, shrugging on his jacket. “Yeah, ‘cause that sounds like a real fun time.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back on your hands. “You wouldn’t have to grade them. You could just… be here.”

Logan’s movements slowed slightly as he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. He didn’t say anything right away, just stood there, like he was debating whether or not to argue. Then, with a sigh, he turned, arms crossed. “What’s this really about, Y/N?”

You hesitated, tapping your fingers against the blanket. “Nothing. Just thought maybe, for once, you wouldn’t leave as soon as classes were done.”

Logan studied you, his expression softening. “Did something happen?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I just…” You trailed off, realizing how ridiculous you sounded. You weren’t clingy—at least, you didn’t think you were. But Logan was always leaving. Always heading off somewhere, whether it was a bar, a mission, or just to be alone. And even though you knew that was just the way he was, it didn’t mean you liked it.

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Darlin’…”

“Never mind,” you said quickly, pushing yourself off the bed. “Forget I said anything.”

Logan caught your wrist before you could move past him, his grip firm but gentle. “Hey.” His voice was quieter now. “I didn’t mean—”

You shook your head, pulling your wrist free. “It’s fine, Logan. Go.”

His jaw clenched slightly, like he wanted to argue, but instead, he just stood there, watching as you walked past him.

You didn’t slam the door behind you, but you wanted to.

---

Logan woke up with a sharp inhale, the remnants of the dream lingering in his chest like a dull ache.

He stared at the ceiling, his breathing evening out as he tried to push the memory away. But it clung to him, heavy and persistent.

You weren’t her. And he wasn’t your Logan.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

With a grunt, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face before reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

He paused, staring at it for a long moment before setting it back down.

Outside, the Florida heat was already creeping in, the morning sun casting long shadows across the floor. He didn’t know what the hell he was still doing here.

But he wasn’t leaving.

Not yet.

---

The ocean breeze rolled in slow and steady, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen as you leaned back against your towel. The Florida sun wasn’t unbearable, but it was warm enough to make you drowsy. Laura sat beside you, picking lazily at the label of her water bottle, her sunglasses shielding her eyes.

It had been a good day. The kind of day you never thought you’d have—normal, easy.

Until he showed up.

Laura was the first to notice. She didn’t say anything at first, just hummed softly before muttering, “He’s here.”

You frowned, not even opening your eyes. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Your stomach twisted, but you kept your expression neutral as you cracked one eye open. Sure enough, Logan stood a few yards away, leaning against a wooden post near the boardwalk. He wasn’t looking directly at you—just gazing out at the water, arms crossed, the picture of casual indifference.

It was bullshit.

You sighed, rubbing your fingers against your temple. “He’s not gonna leave, is he?”

Laura took a slow sip of her water. “Nope.”

You sat up, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. He still wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he knew you saw him.

Laura smirked. “You gonna say something, or just keep making angry faces at him?”

“I’m not making angry faces,” you muttered.

“You are.”

You ignored her, pushing yourself up. You dusted the sand off your legs before heading toward him, your steps slow and deliberate. Logan didn’t move until you were right in front of him. Only then did he glance down, his expression unreadable.

“You lost?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Logan smirked. “Nah. Just enjoyin’ the view.”

You scoffed. “Right.”

Silence stretched between you, the sound of waves crashing filling the space where words should have been. Logan shifted slightly, but he didn’t back off.

“You gonna keep following me?” you asked, your voice low.

Logan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Ain’t followin’ you, darlin’. Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

You arched a brow. “Really? You just happened to be at this exact beach, at this exact moment?”

“Guess it’s my lucky day,” he drawled.

You clenched your jaw, debating if you should just turn around and walk away. But something about the way he was looking at you—calm, patient, stubborn as ever—made your skin prickle.

“You waiting for me to say something?” you asked.

Logan shrugged. “Figured you might.”

You inhaled sharply, taking a step closer. “I said goodbye, Logan. You’re the one who won’t let it go.”

His expression didn’t change. “Yeah, you said goodbye. I just didn’t listen.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, studying you. “I know enough.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Before he could respond, Laura called out from behind you. “Are you done flirting, or should I come back later?”

Your head snapped toward her. “Laura.”

She just shrugged, completely unfazed. “What? I’m just saying.”

Logan smirked, and you turned back to him, pointing a finger at his chest. “Don’t.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk didn’t fade.

You huffed. “If you’re gonna keep hanging around, at least be useful and stay out of my way.”

Logan’s gaze flickered over you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, with an infuriating amount of ease, he said, “No promises.”

You clenched your fists, exhaling through your nose before turning sharply on your heel and walking back toward Laura.

She was still smirking when you sat down.

“Shut up,” you muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Laura leaned back on her elbows, tilting her head toward Logan. “You know, you could just talk to him like a normal person.”

You ripped open a bag of chips with more force than necessary. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

Laura hummed. “Then why’d you go over there?”

You froze mid-chew before shooting her a glare. “You are so grounded.”

Laura snorted. “Good luck enforcing that.”

You muttered something under your breath, throwing another glance at Logan, who was still standing in the same damn spot, watching the ocean like he had all the time in the world.

You hated how much it felt like he belonged there.

Laura smirked again, popping a chip into her mouth. “You’re gonna have to deal with this at some point, you know.”

You exhaled sharply. “Not today.”

“Yeah,” Laura murmured, staring at Logan. “We’ll see.”

---

It had been a week since the beach. Another week of pretending Logan wasn’t lurking in the background, watching but never interfering. Another week of Laura making way too many smug comments.

You ignored both of them.

Mostly.

Right now, you were more focused on getting home before the storm rolling in had the chance to flood the streets. Florida weather was unpredictable as hell—one minute sunny, the next a full-blown hurricane. The dark clouds overhead rumbled, lightning flashing in the distance as you pulled out of the school parking lot.

You had just turned onto the main road when the car jolted.

Then, the all-too-familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of a flat tire.

You let out a slow, controlled breath through your nose. “Of course.”

You pulled over onto the shoulder, gripping the wheel for a moment before forcing yourself to relax. This was fine. You could handle this.

The moment you stepped out, the humidity hit you like a wall. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of rain and asphalt. You crouched, assessing the damage. The back tire was completely shot, rubber torn to hell.

You sighed, pushing your hair away from your face. “Just needed one more week, you piece of shit,” you muttered, kicking the tire lightly before heading to the trunk for the spare.

A familiar rumble of an engine approached.

You froze for half a second before gritting your teeth.

Not even five minutes and he was here.

Logan’s truck slowed to a stop behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was already climbing out, probably looking all smug and self-satisfied.

“Need a hand?”

You exhaled through your nose before straightening up and turning to face him. “No.”

Logan tilted his head, hands on his hips as he looked from you to the tire. “You sure? ‘Cause that looks pretty fucked.”

“I got it,” you said, crossing your arms.

Logan nodded, clearly not convinced. He watched as you popped the trunk, grabbed the spare, and then crouched back down to remove the damaged tire. You worked quickly, efficiently—this wasn’t exactly your first time handling something like this.

Logan leaned against his truck, arms crossed. “Y’know, most people would just say ‘thanks.’”

You didn’t even glance at him. “Most people aren’t me.”

Logan smirked. “No argument there.”

You ignored him, focusing on the task at hand. A bolt was being stubborn, refusing to budge. You adjusted your grip, using more force—nothing.

Logan pushed off his truck, strolling over. “Want me to—”

You stood up, cutting him off. “I swear to God, Logan, if you—”

Thunder cracked overhead, and the sky opened up.

Within seconds, you were both drenched.

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply as cold rain soaked through your clothes.

Logan exhaled a short laugh. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

You snapped your head toward him, glaring. “Really?”

He smirked, completely unfazed by the downpour. “What? You don’t like the rain?”

You huffed, brushing wet hair from your face before crouching back down. “Just shut up and let me work.”

Logan didn’t. Instead, he crouched beside you, reaching for the stubborn bolt.

You swatted his hand away. “I said I got it.”

He just looked at you, unimpressed. “It’s rusted. You need more leverage.”

“I know that.”

Logan didn’t argue. He just waited.

You exhaled sharply before finally moving aside, just enough for him to take over.

With one sharp twist, the bolt loosened.

You clenched your jaw. “Show-off.”

Logan smirked. “You loosened it for me.”

You rolled your eyes, but together, the two of you worked in sync—removing the damaged tire, fitting the spare, tightening the bolts. It was quick, practiced, almost too easy.

By the time you finished, the rain had slowed, leaving the both of you completely soaked.

Logan stood, brushing water from his arms. “Could’ve just let me do the whole thing.”

You shut the trunk with more force than necessary. “Could’ve just driven past and minded your own damn business.”

Logan smirked. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You glared at him, but before you could respond, another engine rumbled down the road.

A blue sedan slowed beside you. The passenger window rolled down, revealing an older woman with a concerned expression.

“Everything alright, dear?” she asked, eyes flicking between you and Logan.

You forced a polite smile. “Yeah, I—”

“She’s fine,” Logan interrupted.

You turned sharply toward him. “Excuse you?”

Logan ignored you, giving the woman a nod. “Just a flat. All good now.”

The woman hesitated, glancing at you again before nodding slowly. “Alright, if you’re sure. Stay safe.”

The moment she drove off, you turned to Logan, scowling. “What the hell was that?”

Logan shrugged. “What? You were fine.”

You threw your hands up. “And I couldn’t say that myself?”

Logan smirked. “You could’ve, but you were takin’ too long.”

You huffed, rubbing your temples. “You are insufferable.”

Logan grinned. “And yet, here you are.”

You took a slow breath, reining in your frustration. “Are we done here?”

Logan looked you over, still clearly amused. “Need me to follow you home? Just in case?”

“I’d rather drive off a bridge.”

“Bit dramatic, don’t ya think?”

You turned toward your car, muttering, “Go to hell, Logan.”

He chuckled, stepping back toward his truck. “I’ll see you around, darlin’.”

You didn’t respond, just slammed the driver’s door shut before pulling back onto the road.

When you glanced in the rearview mirror, Logan was still standing there, watching.

And damn it, you hated the way it made your chest tighten.

---

Laura was already sitting on the couch when you walked through the front door, damp clothes clinging to your skin, rain still dripping from your hair. She took one look at you—soaked, pissed off, barely holding yourself together—and sighed.

"You let him help, didn’t you?"

You dropped your keys on the counter with more force than necessary. "No."

Laura arched a brow.

You clenched your jaw, yanking open the fridge just to give yourself something to do. "Fine. Kind of."

Laura smirked. "Figured."

You grabbed a water bottle and shut the fridge, exhaling sharply. "He just happened to be there."

"Uh-huh."

You turned, leveling her with a glare. "Don’t start."

Laura held up her hands in mock surrender, but the amusement never left her face. "I’m just saying, for someone who wants him to leave, you sure make it easy for him to stick around."

You threw the water bottle onto the counter. "You think I want him here?"

Laura’s smirk faded slightly, her expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "I think you don’t know what you want."

That did it.

Your patience, already worn thin, snapped.

"You think I don’t know?" you shot back, voice rising. "You think this is easy? That I like having him in the background, watching, waiting, making me remember things I don’t want to remember?"

Laura blinked, caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

You ran a hand through your wet hair, pacing. "Do you know how hard I worked to move on? How hard I tried to build something—anything—that didn’t lead back to him? And now he’s here, and I can’t—" You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "I won’t let him pull me back into it."

Laura’s brows pulled together, her voice quieter. "Mom—"

"No," you said, pointing at her. "You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like I’m the one making it complicated when he’s the one who won’t leave."

Laura’s jaw tightened. "Maybe he won’t leave because he actually gives a shit."

"That’s not the point!"

"Then what is the point?" she snapped, standing now. "That he’s not our Logan? That he’s not your Logan?"

You flinched.

Laura shook her head. "You keep acting like he’s a ghost, but he’s not. He’s here. And you can keep pretending it doesn’t matter, but it does. He does."

Your chest tightened. "He’s not the man I married."

"No," Laura said, her voice quieter but no less firm. "But he’s still Logan."

Silence.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, the weight of her words pressing down on you like a vice.

Laura let out a slow breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I know you miss him."

Your throat burned. "It doesn’t matter."

"It does."

You shook your head, turning away. "I need to shower."

"Mom—"

"I need to shower, Laura."

She didn’t argue this time. She just watched as you walked toward the bathroom, your legs heavier with every step.

When the door clicked shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, squeezing your eyes shut.

You could still hear his voice in your head, feel the warmth of his hands on yours, see the way he used to look at you—like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

And now he was here. Not your Logan. Not the man you’d built a life with. But Logan all the same.

Laura was right.

But that didn’t mean you were ready to face it.

---

You grunted as you pulled again, trying to unlodge the stubborn screw. “Stupid. Fucking—” A warm hand enveloped yours, you didn’t need to turn around to know who’s. “I got it, kotik.”

He hummed, not condescending, but like he knew you did. “I know. Just lemme help.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose but didn’t fight him when his hand covered yours, his other gripping the wrench. With barely any effort, he turned it, the stubborn screw finally giving way with a sharp creak.

You scowled. “I had it.”

Logan smirked, setting the wrench down. “Sure, sweetheart.”

You huffed, swiping your arm across your forehead, smudging a bit of grease in the process. Logan caught it, his thumb brushing the mark off before you could duck away. His touch lingered, his eyes scanning your face.

“What’s wrong?”

You scoffed, grabbing a rag to wipe your hands. “It was the damn screw you just unlodged.”

Logan’s brow twitched. “Try again.”

You sighed, rolling your shoulders, the tension refusing to ease. “It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t ask if it was nothing,” he said, arms crossing. “Asked what’s wrong.”

You hesitated, gripping the rag tighter before exhaling. “Scott’s just… piling things on me. Ororo asked me to help out more with the kids during training, which I want to do, but then Scott starts throwing his bullshit at me too. Paperwork, scheduling, grading tests that he’s supposed to be handling." You shook your head. "And now, apparently, I’m also in charge of making sure half the team doesn’t set themselves on fire in the Danger Room.”

Logan nodded slowly. “That all?”

Your jaw clenched. “No.”

He waited, saying nothing. Just watching.

You groaned, tossing the rag onto the workbench. “It’s everything. The mansion, the missions, the meetings—God, the meetings. I swear, if I have to sit through another three-hour debate about whether the Blackbird should have a different paint job, I’m gonna throw myself off the roof.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “Y’know, you could just tell ‘em to go to hell.”

You snorted. “Yeah, and then Scott would really make my life miserable.”

Logan���s hand found your waist, his grip warm and steady. “Then let me do it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, that would go over great. You storming into a meeting, claws out, telling Summers where to shove his clipboard.”

Logan grinned. “Tempting.”

You sighed, finally leaning into him. “I’m just tired, kotik.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. His hand traced slow circles against your lower back, grounding you. The steady rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet hum of the mansion in the distance—it was enough to make you forget the stress, just for a second.

“You should tell him no,” Logan murmured.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “And what? Let the entire school burn down?”

His lips twitched. “Not our problem.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “You say that, but we both know you’d be the first one running in if it did.”

Logan’s smirk softened. “Maybe.”

You sighed, resting your forehead against his chest. “I hate when you’re right.”

“Lucky for you, it ain’t often.”

You smiled against his shirt, letting the exhaustion slip away—at least for now.

---

You woke up to the sound of waves crashing outside, your chest tight, your skin too warm.

For a moment, you forgot where you were. You expected the distant hum of the mansion, the smell of Logan’s aftershave, the warmth of his body beside you.

But the bed was empty. The room was quiet.

And Logan was gone.

You swallowed hard, blinking up at the ceiling.

It was just a dream.

Just a memory.

And that’s all it would ever be.

---

The day passed in a blur. You went through the motions—teaching gym class, keeping the kids in line, pretending like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t spent the entire morning haunted by a dream that wasn’t just a dream.

Like Logan hadn’t found you.

You’d seen him again after work. He wasn’t trying to hide this time. He leaned against his truck, arms crossed, watching from across the parking lot. Not approaching. Not leaving. Just waiting.

And it pissed you off.

Laura wasn’t home when you got back. Probably at the beach or grabbing food. You had a few hours to yourself, time to think, time to breathe—

A knock at the door cut through the silence.

You stared at it.

Another knock. Louder this time.

You already knew who it was.

Jaw clenched, you walked over and yanked the door open, grip tight on the handle.

Logan stood there, his expression unreadable. “Hey.”

You didn’t hesitate. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

You stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind you. “No. Whatever the hell you think you’re doing? No.”

Logan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Ain’t here to start a fight, darlin’.”

“Then why are you here?” you snapped, crossing your arms. “Because if you think I’m just gonna let you hover around like some stray, you’re dead wrong.”

Logan’s jaw flexed. “I just wanna talk.”

“And say the same goddamn bullshit? Here’s the thing,” you gripped the collar of his leather jacket tightly, pulling him slightly closer to you. “I don’t fucking care.”

Logan didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stared at you, his expression unreadable.

Your fingers curled tighter around his jacket, the leather warm beneath your grip. “You think this is romantic? You think tailing me for months, showing up at my fucking door, is gonna make me change my mind?” You shoved him back��hard. He barely stumbled. “I don’t care what you have to say, Logan.”

His jaw clenched. “Yeah? Then why’d you open the door?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Because I knew you wouldn’t leave if I didn’t.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” Your voice was sharp, cutting through the humid night air.

He dropped his hand, looking at you like the answer was obvious. “I want to know why you’re lyin’ to yourself.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Jesus, Logan, get over yourself.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about me,” he shot back. “I’m talkin’ about you.”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I told you—”

“No, you haven’t,” Logan interrupted, stepping closer. “You keep pushin’ me away, but you ain’t sayin’ why.”

“Because I don’t owe you a fucking reason,” you snapped.

Logan studied you, his gaze slow, careful. “It’s ‘cause of him, ain’t it?”

Your stomach twisted, but your expression didn’t falter. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured. “The Logan you lost. The one that was yours.”

Your breath hitched.

Logan’s voice was quieter now, steady but rough. “That’s why you’re runnin’, why you won’t let yourself stop. ‘Cause you think if you do, you’re betrayin’ him.”

You hated how easily he saw through you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced out a scoff. “You don’t know shit, Logan.”

“I know grief.” His voice was low, weighted. “I know what it does to you. How it makes you feel like movin’ on is some kinda sin.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

“I also know,” he continued, “that it don’t go away. Don’t matter how far you run, how many times you try to start over.” His tone softened, just slightly. “It stays with you. But it don’t mean you gotta stay buried with it.”

Your hands trembled. You curled them into fists to stop it.

“Look at me,” Logan said.

You didn’t.

A rough sigh, then—you felt it. His hand, warm, familiar, pressing against the side of your face. You stiffened, but he didn’t force it, just let his thumb brush against your cheek.

“Darlin’,” Logan murmured. “I ain’t askin’ you to forget him.”

You swallowed hard.

“I just don’t want you to forget yourself.”

Your breath hitched.

You wanted to shove him away again. Wanted to punch him. Wanted to yell and tell him he was wrong.

But the worst part? He wasn’t.

And you fucking hated him for it.

Your eyes stung, but you refused to let them fall.

Finally, you forced yourself to move, pulling back, breaking the contact. “Go home, Logan.”

Logan didn’t move.

You inhaled sharply. “I mean it.”

He studied you for a long moment before nodding once. “Alright.”

Then—he stepped back, hands in his pockets. But he didn’t turn around. Didn’t leave.

Not yet.

His gaze lingered on you, something unreadable in it.

Then, quieter, rougher—

“I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t answer.

And this time, when he walked away—you didn’t watch him go.

---

He could tell you weren’t fully asleep, nor fully awake, when he got back. The lamp on your bedside table was still on, but your glasses were neatly folded on top of your book.

“Hmm? Logan?”

He slipped off his boots and pulled off his shirt before sliding in behind you, gently pushing your shoulder down so you wouldn’t get up. “Yeah. ‘S me.”

"It’s 2 in the morning." Your voice was quiet, thick with sleep. "You’ve been comin’ home later."

Logan exhaled through his nose, running a hand down his face as he settled onto the bed beside you. His body was still warm from the whiskey, the buzz clinging to the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t answer right away, just reached over and turned off your lamp, leaving only the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner.

You shifted, turning onto your side to face him. Even in the dim light, he could see your eyes—heavy with exhaustion but still watching him, still waiting. You always waited.

For months now, you had tried to get him to stay. At first, you asked outright, voice soft but certain—"Stay tonight?" And when that didn’t work, you tried coaxing, offering quiet conversation, little distractions, your presence alone.

Then, when that didn’t work either, it became this.

Half-asleep murmurs. The lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d come home early for once.

But he never did.

"Yeah," Logan muttered, shifting onto his back. "Got caught up."

You huffed, barely a sound, but he felt it more than heard it. "You always do."

Logan stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. He could feel the weight of your gaze on him, the way you were waiting for him to say something—anything—to ease the ache in your chest. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t know how.

The silence stretched between you.

Then, quietly, you spoke again. "You don’t have to go every night."

Logan swallowed, his throat dry. He could lie, say it wasn’t about the bar, say he just needed the air. But you weren’t stupid. You knew what he was doing, why he kept his distance even when he was right here beside you.

So he didn’t say anything at all.

After a beat, you sighed and turned over, your back to him. A clear dismissal.

Logan closed his eyes, listening to the quiet sound of your breathing as you drifted off.

It wasn’t always like this.

At the start, you stayed up for him. You’d wait in the library, curled up with a book, or in the kitchen with tea, pretending you just happened to be awake. You used to smile when he walked in, small and tired but warm. You’d ask how his night was, even when you knew he wouldn’t answer properly.

And then, when you realized nothing changed, you started waiting in bed instead. Eyes heavy but open, glasses slipping down your nose, always murmuring some half-asleep greeting before reaching for him.

Now? Now you barely waited at all.

Logan exhaled, turning his head to look at you. You were already asleep.

Something settled deep in his chest—heavy, uncomfortable.

This wouldn’t last.

You wouldn’t wait forever.

And for the first time, the thought of losing you—of pushing you too far—felt a hell of a lot worse than whatever he was trying to drown at the bottom of a bottle.

---

Logan’s eyes snapped open.

For a second, he was disoriented, still caught in the haze of the dream—no, the memory. He could still feel the warmth of you beside him, still hear your voice, soft and tired, asking him to stay.

But when he blinked, the bedroom was gone.

No mansion. No soft lamp glow.

Just the inside of his truck, the Florida heat creeping in through the cracked window.

Logan let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. His body was tense, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The dream had been too real—too damn vivid.

He reached for the flask in the cupholder, unscrewing the cap with steady fingers. He didn’t drink from it. Just held it.

The memory had felt like a lifetime ago. Because it was—but not his. Not this Logan’s.

It was hers.

The woman who wasn’t his Y/N but still had the same voice, the same eyes, the same way of looking at him like he was something worth waiting for.

Except this time?

She wasn’t waiting.

And Logan wasn’t sure if he was ready for what that meant.

---

For the first time in weeks, Logan wasn’t there.

You didn’t see him leaning against his truck outside the school. He wasn’t loitering at the grocery store. He wasn’t in your goddamn peripheral, watching but never pushing, always waiting for you to acknowledge him.

And it pissed you off.

You should’ve been relieved. You had told him to leave, to back off. You had shoved him, yelled at him, made it perfectly clear that you didn’t need him here—didn’t want him here.

So why the hell did your chest feel tight?

Why did you keep glancing out the window when you left work, expecting to see him?

Why did it feel wrong that he wasn’t following?

Laura noticed before you did.

“You’re looking for him,” she said flatly, popping a fry into her mouth as the two of you sat at a booth in some local diner.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Laura gave you a look over the rim of her milkshake. “Logan.”

You scoffed, picking at the label of your water bottle. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are.” She dipped a fry in ketchup, not even trying to hide her smirk. “You’ve checked the door, like, five times.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was looking at the—” You stopped, realizing you had absolutely nothing to follow that up with.

Laura arched a brow. “Right.”

You huffed, slouching back against the booth. “He’s not here.”

“Yeah. Because you told him to leave.”

“So?”

Laura shrugged. “Didn’t think he actually would, did you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, you hadn’t expected him to leave. Logan was stubborn. Logan didn’t give up. If anything, you had expected him to show up again, keep pushing, keep trying to get you to talk.

But he hadn’t.

And for some reason, that scared you.

Laura sighed, wiping her hands on a napkin before leaning forward. “You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

Your brow furrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you can’t tell him to leave and then get all weird when he actually does.”

You clenched your jaw. “I didn’t want him here.”

Laura tilted her head. “Didn’t you?”

You stared at her, stomach twisting, because you didn’t want him here—did you?

No. You didn’t.

But you didn’t want him gone, either.

You stood abruptly, tossing some bills onto the table. “C’mon. We’re leaving.”

Laura just smirked. “Where to?”

You grabbed your jacket. “I need to find Logan.”

---

It didn’t take long.

Logan wasn’t exactly subtle, and you had been trained to track people long before you ever met him. It was almost insulting how easy it was.

His truck was parked outside some shitty motel off the main road, tucked into the shadows near a flickering neon sign.

You could’ve knocked on his door. Could’ve walked right up, demanded an explanation—Why the hell did you listen to me?

But you didn’t.

Instead, you waited.

You sat in your car across the street, watching from the shadows, waiting to see if he’d leave. If he’d drive off, if he was planning on staying. If he was really, actually gone.

But Logan never left.

Hours passed. The motel lights flickered. You saw him once—stepping outside just long enough to smoke a cigarette before heading back in. No sign of him packing up, no sign of him driving away.

He wasn’t following you anymore.

But he hadn’t left, either.

You exhaled slowly, gripping the steering wheel.

This was the first time in months that Logan wasn’t hovering just outside your reach. And yet, you had tracked him down anyway.

Maybe Laura was right.

Maybe you hadn’t wanted him to leave.

Not really.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply as you stared at Logan’s truck.

What the hell am I doing?

You had spent months trying to get him to leave, and now here you were, parked outside some shitty motel like some stalker, watching and waiting. For what? For him to notice? For him to come back?

No. That wasn’t what you wanted.

You gritted your teeth, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. Then why are you still here?

You could just drive away. Go back home, pretend like you never saw him, pretend like this didn’t bother you.

But it did.

It bothered you that he listened. It bothered you that he left. It bothered you that, for the first time since he showed up, he wasn’t pushing you.

And you didn’t know why that scared you.

With a frustrated sigh, you shoved the door open and got out, the night air thick and humid around you. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you crossed the street, your steps quick and deliberate.

You didn’t give yourself time to hesitate. If you thought about it too much, you’d turn back. And you weren’t ready to do that yet.

You knocked on the motel door.

Silence.

Your jaw clenched, and you knocked again—louder this time.

Still nothing.

A flicker of irritation ran through you. “Logan, open the damn door.”

Nothing.

Your patience snapped. You grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It was locked, of course, but that was never a problem for you. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you popped the lock and shoved the door open.

Logan was inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, a cigar burning between his fingers. He didn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looked tired.

“Real subtle, darlin’,” he muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose.

You crossed your arms. “You weren’t answering.”

“Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Too bad.”

Logan huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Figures.”

You stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind you. “You just gonna sit there?”

“What do you want, Y/N?” Logan asked, his voice rough. Not annoyed. Just… tired.

The way he said your name made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure why.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, crossing your arms tighter.

Logan studied you, taking another slow drag from his cigar before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Then why are you here?”

You shifted on your feet, avoiding his gaze. Because you left. Because I thought I wanted you gone, but now that you are, I—

You shook the thought away, exhaling sharply. “I just… I thought you would’ve left.”

Logan arched a brow. “And that bothered you?”

You hesitated.

That was enough of an answer.

Logan sighed, leaning back against the bed, arms resting behind him. “You told me to back off. So I did.”

You scoffed. “You don’t listen to people.”

Logan smirked slightly. “Guess you ain’t people.”

You hated how easily that threw you off balance.

Your throat tightened. “I don’t—”

“I ain’t askin’ for anything,” Logan said, cutting you off. “Not chasin’ you. Not pushin’ you. I meant what I said—I don’t wanna force you into anything.”

You swallowed hard. “Then why are you still here?”

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to leave, either.”

The air in the room felt heavy. Stifling.

You had spent so much time running, so much time convincing yourself that pushing him away was the only option. But now, standing here, looking at him—tired, frustrated, but still here—you didn’t know what the hell you were supposed to do anymore.

You took a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. “You were… right.”

His brows furrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what part you were referring to.

You swallowed, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. “What you said. About grief. About moving on feeling like a sin.”

Logan stayed quiet, but his gaze sharpened, locking onto yours.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I spent years running because it was easier. Because if I stopped, if I let myself…” You trailed off, fingers curling around your arms. “Then it would feel like I was betraying him. Like I was forgetting him.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to keep talking. “I tried to build something new with Laura. I wanted to. And for a while, it worked. Seven years in Canada, we were okay. We were living, not just surviving. And then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “The TVA happened. The Void happened. And suddenly, it was like all that time meant nothing.”

Logan was still watching you, but his expression was unreadable, his hands resting on his thighs as he leaned forward slightly.

“Then you showed up.” Your voice was quieter now. “And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that. Because I knew you weren’t him. I knew that. But every time I looked at you, every time you called me ‘darlin’ and looked at me like you knew me…” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “It just made me feel like I was losing him all over again.”

“I mean, I can’t even take off my damn wedding ring,” your voice cracked, “without feeling nauseous even though it’s been years.”

Logan’s gaze flicked down to your hand, to the ring still wrapped around your finger. His jaw clenched, something flickering in his eyes—something you didn’t want to name.

“You think that’s wrong?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, shifting forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Ain’t wrong to hold onto what matters.”

Your fingers twitched, curling slightly, but you didn’t look away. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

Logan was quiet for a moment, studying you. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, steadier. “Because you think lettin’ go means losin’ him.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t answer.

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I ain’t gonna tell you to take it off. Ain’t gonna tell you to move on, either.” He leaned back, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. “That’s gotta be your choice, darlin’.”

Something about that made your stomach twist. Maybe because you had spent so long convincing yourself you had to move on, that moving on meant leaving Logan behind—your Logan. The one who wasn’t sitting in front of you.

But then Logan spoke again, and his next words shattered every bit of resolve you had left.

“You ain’t the only one holdin’ on.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Logan reached into his pocket, pulling something out—something small, something old. He turned it over in his fingers before setting it on the nightstand beside him.

A ring.

Gold, simple, worn from time.

Your stomach flipped.

“I bought this the first time I met you,” he said, voice rough. “A long time ago. Different you. Different me. But you always come back, don’t you?”

You stared at the ring, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. “Logan—”

“I kept it,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over the band. “Every time. Even when I knew I’d lose you again.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “And every time, I tell myself I won’t go through it again.”

You swallowed hard. “But you do.”

Logan smirked slightly, but there was no humor behind it. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

Silence settled between you, heavy with everything left unsaid. The motel room felt smaller now, the air thicker. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your chest tight with something you weren’t ready to name.

Finally, you moved.

You walked forward, slow but deliberate, until you were standing right in front of him. Logan didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched you with that same patient, knowing look.

And then—hesitantly—you sat down next to him.

Not close enough to touch. Not close enough for it to mean anything.

But not far, either.

Logan didn’t say a word.

And for the first time in a long time, neither did you.

---

A few weeks later

You were cooking dinner while drinking a glass of wine—or rather the whole bottle. It wasn’t your fault you had a high alcohol tolerance.

“Jesus, fuck kid!”

“You started it!”

You furrowed your brows, stepping onto the back porch, wine glass still in hand. The salty ocean breeze brushed past as you leaned against the wooden railing, watching Logan and Laura circle each other in the sand.

The backyard—if you could even call it that—was part of a private beach, the stretch of sand leading straight into the rolling waves. Normally, it was peaceful. Right now? Not so much.

Logan huffed, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, and I’m endin’ it.”

“Doubt it,” Laura smirked before lunging again.

You sighed, watching them spar. To anyone else, it probably looked brutal—claws flashing, sand kicking up with every hit—but you knew better. This was bonding. In the weird, violent, feral way that only the Howlett bloodline could manage.

Laura landed a punch against Logan’s ribs, but he barely flinched. He countered by grabbing her wrist and twisting her to the ground, pinning her for a brief second before she slipped free and jumped back to her feet.

“You two done trying to kill each other?” you called out, swirling the wine in your glass.

Logan scoffed, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. “She’s the one that don’t know when to quit.”

Laura grinned, unfazed. “Neither do you.”

You huffed a quiet laugh before pushing off the railing. “Dinner’s almost done. Either finish up or starve.”

Neither of them responded, too caught up in the fight, but you knew they’d trail in soon enough. You turned and walked back inside, closing the sliding door behind you.

What you didn’t see was Laura catching Logan staring at your ass as you walked away.

She paused, then turned slowly toward him.

Logan blinked, realizing too late that he’d been caught.

“…Don’t,” he warned.

Laura smirked. “Too late.”

Then she lunged—only this time, it wasn’t part of the fight. She jumped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, and before Logan could react, she drove her foot claws into his ribs.

“Mother—fuck!”

Laura hopped off, landing perfectly on the sand while Logan stumbled forward, clutching his side. Blood bloomed beneath his shirt.

“That’s what you get,” Laura said simply, brushing sand off her hands.

Logan glared at her. “For what?!”

“For being gross.”

Logan clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” Laura crossed her arms, looking unimpressed. “Don’t do it again.”

Logan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Laura just smirked, turning toward the house. “C’mon, old man. Before she yells at us for being late.”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair before following her inside.

By the time they stepped into the house, you were already setting plates on the table. You barely glanced up—until you noticed the two fresh blood spots on Logan’s shirt.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Сраные идиоты,” you muttered under your breath.

Logan frowned. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said flatly. “Sit.”

Logan sighed, knowing better than to argue. He pulled out a chair and sat down, peeling off his shirt with a wince. Laura dropped into the seat across from him, completely unbothered, already helping herself to food.

---

You took another sip of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as Laura shoveled cereal into her mouth at a pace that should’ve been illegal. Across the room, Logan sat in a chair, looking far too at home with his cup of coffee, flipping through the newspaper like it was 1954.

It was normal. Too normal.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why the hell are you reading the paper?”

Logan didn’t look up. “Why the hell are you watchin’ me read the paper?”

Laura snorted, not even trying to hide her smirk. “He’s got a point.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of coffee. “It’s weird.”

Logan finally looked up from his paper, brow raised. “What’s weird?”

“You,” you said, motioning at him with your mug. “Sitting there, reading the paper like some suburban dad in a toothpaste commercial.”

Logan smirked, flicking the edge of the page. “It’s called keepin’ up with the world, sweetheart.”

Laura snorted. “You’re reading the classifieds.”

Logan flipped the paper shut with a sigh. “Well, excuse me for enjoyin’ the simple things.”

You shook your head, amused. It had only been a few weeks since he stopped lurking in the background and actually started integrating into your lives. He had a habit of acting like he didn’t belong—like he was just passing through, despite all evidence to the contrary. But moments like these, sitting at the kitchen table, bickering over nothing? They felt normal.

Not forced. Not heavy. Just… easy.

You were about to tease him again when the sound of a car horn blasted through the quiet morning.

Laura groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Logan frowned, setting the paper aside. “Who the hell—”

Another honk. Longer this time.

“Motherfu—” You set your coffee down and turned toward the door, already knowing exactly who it was.

Logan followed, his expression somewhere between annoyed and resigned. “You expecting company?”

You grabbed the shotgun from beside the door, checking the chamber. “Nope.”

Laura smirked, leaning against the counter. “I call headshot.”

You smirked back. “Good luck. I’m faster.”

Logan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ. Just don’t kill ‘im.”

“No promises.”

You stepped onto the porch, raising the shotgun as you caught sight of Wade, standing beside his beat-up rental car, arms outstretched like some kind of messiah.

“Hello, my beautiful, homicidal family!” he called, grinning under his mask.

You pulled the trigger.

The first shot hit him square in the chest.

He staggered back, wheezing. “Okay—ow.”

You pumped the shotgun and fired again, this time hitting his shoulder.

Wade groaned, clutching his arm. “Rude!”

Logan stepped onto the porch behind you, arms crossed. “Really?”

You shrugged, pumping the shotgun again. “He’s still standing.”

Wade held up a finger. “Technically, I’m swaying.”

Laura stepped outside, standing next to Logan. “You missed his head.”

You rolled your eyes. “I didn’t miss. I’m savoring it.”

Wade straightened, shaking out his arms. “Alright, I deserved that. Maybe. Probably not. But—” He put his hands on his hips. “Didn’t expect the welcoming committee to include bullets.”

“You helped him find us,” you reminded him, motioning toward Logan with the barrel of the gun. “And then you just disappeared.”

Wade gasped. “Disappeared? Sweetheart, I gave you your own personal brooding, clawed man-child and then respectfully stepped aside so you could work through your very complicated feelings.” He tilted his head. “Which, judging by the tension on this porch, you’re still working through.”

You aimed the shotgun at his head.

“Okay! Okay!” Wade put his hands up. “I come in peace! No missions, no TVA bullshit, no looming apocalyptic threats. Just little old me, paying a visit to my favorite dysfunctional murder family.”

Laura tilted her head. “You brought gifts?”

Wade paused. “No.”

Laura looked at you. “Shoot him again.”

“Gladly.”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let the idiot talk before you put another hole in him.”

You exhaled sharply but lowered the gun. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Wade dusted himself off, cracking his neck. “I can work with that.” He strolled past you and into the house like he owned the place.

Logan shot you a look.

You just shrugged. “I’ll reload.”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head as Wade strolled inside like he owned the place. You followed, setting the shotgun back in its usual spot near the door, but you kept an eye on Wade as he plopped onto the couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he belonged there.

Laura sat back down at the kitchen counter, spooning more cereal into her mouth as she watched the interaction unfold like a live-action sitcom.

Logan crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “So? You gonna explain why you’re here, or am I just supposed to shoot you myself?”

Wade sighed dramatically, tilting his head back. “Wow. No ‘Hey, Wade, long time no see!’ No ‘How’s life treating you, Wade?’ Just straight to the violence. And after everything I’ve done for you.”

“You didn’t do shit,” Logan muttered.

Wade gasped, clutching his chest. “I helped you find your long-lost murder wife and stabby daughter! And this is the thanks I get?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You helped him track us, then bailed. So yeah, not exactly getting a warm welcome.”

Wade sat up, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, please. You two needed time to work through your very complicated emotions without my handsome, charming self getting in the way.” He glanced at Laura. “Right, stabby junior?”

Laura scooped another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. “Don’t call me that.”

“See?” Wade pointed at her. “Bonding. Growth. Character development. I did you all a favor.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You got five minutes to explain why you’re here before I throw your ass back outside.”

“Fine, fine.” Wade rolled his shoulders. “Like I said, no missions, no apocalyptic disasters, no TVA crap. I just thought, ‘Hey, it’s been a minute since I’ve seen my two favorite feral murderers and their grumpy third wheel—why not drop in?’”

Laura swallowed her bite of cereal. “You came all this way for that?”

“Yes!” Wade threw his hands up. “Is it a crime to want to visit family?”

You scoffed. “We’re not family.”

“Well, no, but emotionally? Spiritually? Definitely.” Wade turned to Logan. “Especially you, big guy. We’ve got history. We’ve been through things. We’ve murdered people together. That’s a bond you don’t just throw away.”

Logan groaned. “Christ.”

Laura wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You got a hotel or something?”

Wade grinned under the mask. “I was actually thinking I’d crash here.”

You, Logan, and Laura all responded in unison.

“No.”

Wade groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “You people have no hospitality.”

“We have boundaries,” you corrected.

“And I have a deep, unrelenting need to be included in your lives,” Wade countered, making himself comfortable.

Logan pushed off the wall. “You’re leavin’ in an hour.”

“Oh, c’mon, Logan, don’t be like that,” Wade whined. “I brought snacks.” He reached into his utility belt, pulling out a crumpled bag of gas station gummy bears.

Laura stared at them. “Are those even sealed?”

“Nope.” Wade shook the bag. “Still good, though.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Jesus, Wade.”

“What? It’s the thought that counts.” He sat up again, stretching his arms. “So, what’ve you lovebirds been up to?”

“Don’t start,” you warned.

Wade leaned in, resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I’m starting. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. And let me tell you—there’s a whole lot of unresolved, slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they going on.”

Logan scowled. “Ain’t shit goin’ on.”

Wade gasped. “So you admit there could be something going on?”

Logan turned to you. “Can I kill him?”

You took a sip of your coffee, considering it. “I mean, he’d just come back.”

Laura stood, grabbing her backpack from the counter. “I’m going to the beach. I don’t have the patience for this.”

Wade pouted. “Aww, leaving so soon?”

Laura slung her bag over her shoulder, grabbing an apple from the counter. “Yeah. Before I commit an actual homicide.”

You motioned toward the door with your coffee mug. “Have fun, don’t kill anyone.”

Laura pointed at Wade. “No promises if he follows me.”

Wade placed a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Laura shot him a look before heading out, leaving the three of you alone.

Wade stretched his arms over his head. “Sooo… what’s next? Movie night? Group therapy? A good ol’ fashioned team-building exercise?”

Logan grabbed him by the back of his suit, hauling him toward the door.

“Alright, alright! I get it!” Wade protested, feet dragging against the floor. “I’ll leave! But just know this—I will be back. Because deep down, you all love me.”

Logan yanked the door open and shoved him outside.

Wade turned back, wagging a finger. “This isn’t over.”

Logan slammed the door shut.

Silence.

You took a sip of coffee. “Ten bucks says he comes back in an hour.”

Logan sighed. “I hate that you’re probably right.”

---

The smell of fresh coffee drifts through the small kitchen as you rummage in a cabinet for cereal. Laura, half-asleep in an old T-shirt and shorts, slumps at the table with her chin propped on one hand. Across from her, Logan reads the newspaper, though he’s not really turning the pages—more like staring at the same article, his focus wandering.

You pull out the cereal box, shaking it to confirm it still has something inside. “Any of you want a bowl, or am I the only one who still eats this?”

Laura mumbles without lifting her head, “I’ll take some. Didn’t we run out of milk yesterday?”

Logan finally looks up, folding the paper. “I grabbed some on the way home last night.”

You tilt your head, somewhat surprised. “You did?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Figured you two would appreciate not startin’ the day with black coffee and dry cereal.” He sets the newspaper aside, standing to help. “I’ll grab it.”

Laura lifts her head, eyeing the two of you with mild suspicion. “That’s… domestic.”

Logan huffs a soft laugh, opening the fridge. “You callin’ me soft, kid?”

She smirks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Just making an observation.”

You slide a bowl across to her. “Say thank you, or he’s never doing anything nice again.”

Logan snorts, pouring milk into your bowl first. “You sayin’ I’m not nice?”

Laura just raises a brow. “You’re nice in a grumpy, borderline-feral way, sure.”

You stifle a laugh, taking the milk carton from Logan to finish up Laura’s bowl. “Settle down, you two. It’s too early for bickering.”

Laura mumbles a reluctant, “Thanks,” before digging in.

Logan leans against the counter, sipping from a mug of coffee. For a moment, there’s a quiet ease in the room: Laura’s crunching cereal, you adding sugar to your cup, the morning sun filtering through the windows. No drama, no big conversations—just normal, daily life.

Finally, Laura sets her spoon down, glancing at Logan over the rim of her bowl. “So… you’re picking me up after I’m done, right?”

Logan nods. “Figured I’d swing by. Unless you’d rather walk?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s like a hundred degrees. I’ll take the ride.”

You snort into your coffee. “Told you that you shouldn’t wear all black if you’re worried about the heat, muñeca.”

Laura shoots you a light glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I like black.”

Logan smirks, finishing the last of his coffee. “Kinda partial to it myself.”

Laura gestures at both your outfits—yours is a faded tank top and shorts, Logan’s wearing his usual jeans and a T-shirt. “We need a family shopping trip, or something. This color scheme is depressing.”

You exchange a glance with Logan, both of you raising a brow.

“Look, we’re not exactly the pastel type,” you say, shrugging.

Laura just sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll be the fashion icon in this house.”

Logan folds his arms, feigning seriousness. “I can’t wait to see what horrors you drag us into.”

---

Not long after breakfast, you find yourself sorting through a pile of laundry in the living room, music playing softly from an old radio. Logan wanders in from the porch, running a hand through his hair.

“Got your towels on the line,” he says, plopping down on the couch. “They should be dry by lunch.”

You raise a brow, folding one of Laura’s T-shirts. “Look at you, all domesticated.”

He grunts. “I know how to hang a towel.”

“Sure you do,” you tease, giving him a sideways look. “Next step: vacuuming.”

He picks an invisible speck of lint off his jeans. “Don’t push it.”

You fight a grin, focusing back on the laundry. It’s quiet for a bit, just the low hum of the radio filling the space.

Eventually, Logan clears his throat. “I was thinkin’,” he starts, somewhat hesitant. “We could grill tonight. Might as well enjoy the weather before it gets too hot.”

You pause, glancing his way. “Sounds good. Laura’s meeting with her friends later, but she’ll be back for dinner. We can pick up some extra stuff at the store.”

Logan nods, draping an arm over the couch. His gaze lingers on you a moment, like he wants to say more but isn’t sure how. Then he just nods again, quietly content.

You manage a small smile, folding another shirt. “Guess we’re doin’ normal pretty well these days, huh?”

“Could get used to it,” he murmurs, voice low.

Your eyes meet for just a second, something unspoken passing between you. Then you clear your throat, toss the shirt aside, and stand up. “Well, if we’re grilling, we might need marinade, and we’re nearly out of vegetables. Let’s go before the midday rush.”

Logan pushes himself up. “You want me to drive?”

You think it over, shrug, and toss him the keys. “Sure. Just… try not to side-swipe every car you pass.”

He catches the keys effortlessly, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that bad.”

“Says the guy who nearly took out a stop sign last week,” you retort, but there’s a teasing note in your voice.

He shakes his head, slipping on his boots. “You done with that laundry?”

“For now. Let’s leave it for Laura.”

Logan smirks. “Smart.”

---

Back from the store, groceries in tow, you find Laura sprawled on the couch, a book open on her lap. She looks up when you and Logan enter, arms loaded with bags.

“You got the stuff for the grill?” she asks, nose wrinkling. “Because all I see is lettuce.”

You frown, glancing down at your bags. “There’s more than lettuce, muñeca. Where’s the gratitude?”

She shrugs, turning a page. “Thanks, Mom.”

Logan sets his own bags on the counter with a grunt. “Everything else is in here, including that weird juice you like.”

Laura closes her book, swinging her legs off the couch. “You found it?”

He nods. “Took me five minutes to track it down, but yeah.”

A genuine smile creeps onto Laura’s face—rare, but it’s there. “Cool. Thanks.”

You give Logan a light nudge with your elbow, meeting his gaze and mouthing a silent “good job.” He just smirks, busies himself with unloading the groceries. For a fleeting moment, the three of you fill the small kitchen in quiet coordination—hands passing off produce, storing items in the pantry, the rustle of plastic bags and shuffle of feet the only sounds.

Eventually, Laura heads back to the couch, flipping open her textbook once more. You and Logan exchange a small, knowing look. No big conversation necessary—just an unspoken acknowledgment that this is how life is now: mostly ordinary, sometimes chaotic, but it works.

---

The storm rolls in fast, the Florida heat giving way to thick clouds and distant thunder. The air is dense with the smell of rain, the first few drops tapping against the windows as you toss a towel over the back of a chair.

“You get the towels inside?” you ask, glancing at Logan, who’s standing near the back door, watching the sky darken.

He grunts. “Got most of ‘em before the wind picked up. One got away.”

You arch a brow. “Got away?”

“Flew into the ocean.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “So much for that one.”

Outside, the wind picks up, bending the palm trees as the rain comes in steady now, streaking against the glass. Logan watches it for a moment longer before turning back to you. “Laura still at her friend’s?”

You nod, checking your phone. “She texted a little while ago. Said she’ll head back once the rain dies down.”

Logan doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s already debating whether or not to go pick her up himself. You shoot him a look before he can suggest it. “She’s fine.”

Logan rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, he moves toward the fridge, pulling out a beer. “You eaten yet?”

You smirk. “That your way of asking if I’m making dinner?”

He cracks the bottle open, leaning against the counter. “Just curious.”

You shake your head, pulling open a cabinet. “We got leftovers from last night, or you can figure it out yourself.”

Logan takes a swig, watching you for a beat. “You really gonna make me fend for myself?”

“You’re a grown man, Logan.” You grab a bag of chips, plopping onto the couch. “Figure it out.”

Logan makes a low noise in his throat—something between a scoff and a chuckle—but he doesn’t move right away. He just watches you, something unreadable in his expression. You pretend not to notice, flicking on the TV, scrolling through the channels.

The storm grows louder outside, wind rattling against the house. Logan finally moves, taking his beer with him as he drops onto the couch beside you. The cushions dip under his weight, the space between you smaller than it was a moment ago.

For a while, neither of you speak. The TV flickers with whatever show you landed on, voices blending with the steady hum of rain. It’s comfortable, easy—until you realize Logan isn’t really watching.

You glance at him. “You good?”

Logan exhales through his nose, gaze still on the screen but unfocused. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Liar.”

He smirks, finally looking at you. “You always call me out on my shit?”

“Only when it’s obvious.”

His smirk lingers for half a second before fading. He takes another drink, resting the bottle against his thigh. “Just been thinkin’.”

You hum, reaching for another chip. “That’s dangerous.”

Logan snorts, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

You grin, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Because you know whatever’s on his mind, it’s not light. Not casual. Logan doesn’t bring things up unless they’re already weighing him down.

You shift, turning to face him properly. “What’s up?”

Logan runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “This—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “It’s been… good.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Okay…”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I ain’t used to it.”

You hesitate, fingers curling slightly against your leg. “Used to what?”

Logan glances at you, then looks away. “Not havin’ to fight.”

The words sit heavy between you. The wind howls outside, the rain beating against the roof in steady waves.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Logan’s fingers flex around his beer bottle. “Feels like any second now, it’s gonna get ripped out from under us.”

You study him, your stomach twisting at the quiet honesty in his voice. Logan isn’t afraid of a fight. But this? The lack of a fight? That’s unfamiliar territory.

You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “If it does, we’ll deal with it.”

Logan huffs. “That easy, huh?”

“No,” you admit. “But I’m too tired to do anything else.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then, voice lower—“Tired of me?”

Your chest tightens. You turn your head, meeting his gaze. There’s no teasing in it, no smirk. Just something raw, something cautious. Like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’ll say next.

You shift closer without thinking. “No, Logan,” you say softly. “Not you.”

His eyes flicker—something unreadable passing through them. His hand twitches slightly, like he’s debating reaching for you but stops himself.

You study him for a second longer before deciding you’re done waiting.

You grab his collar and pull him into a kiss.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant. It’s rough, heated—like you’re trying to prove a point neither of you have the words for. Logan exhales sharply through his nose, startled but not resisting. His fingers find your waist, grip firm, steady.

You tilt your head, deepening it, nails curling against his shirt. Logan makes a low noise in his throat—a sound you feel more than hear.

The beer bottle hits the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

He pulls you onto his lap, hands splayed against your back. The kiss turns almost desperate, years of tension unraveling all at once.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. His breathing is uneven, his grip still firm like he’s afraid you’ll pull away completely.

“Thought you were tired,” he mutters, voice rough.

You smirk, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Of everything but this.”

His fingers flex against your waist. “You sure?”

You tilt his chin up slightly, making sure he’s looking at you when you answer. “Yeah, Logan. I’m sure.”

Something shifts in his expression—something quiet, something settled.

Then he kisses you again, and this time, neither of you hold back.

---

The storm had passed by the time you stirred awake, the humid Florida air creeping in through the open window, mixing with the scent of salt and something undeniably Logan.

You weren’t the type to linger in bed—never had been—but this morning was different. You could feel the warmth of him beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the weight of his arm draped loosely around your waist.

Your muscles ached—not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made you very aware of what had happened last night.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

No regrets.

But a whole lot of what now?

You shifted slightly, and Logan’s grip tightened just enough to keep you from moving too far. “Where d’you think you’re goin’?”

His voice was thick with sleep, rougher than usual.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you were awake.”

Logan huffed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the lazy half-smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the cuddling type.”

Logan grunted. “Ain’t cuddlin’. Just keepin’ you in place.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t try to move again. “Right.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the distant crash of waves outside. Logan’s fingers traced absentminded patterns against your hip, his other arm still tucked beneath his head.

For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like you hadn’t spent months trying to ignore the inevitable.

Then Logan spoke.

“Not gonna lie,” he muttered. “Didn’t think this would happen.”

You arched a brow. “You doubting your own charm?”

He smirked, but there was something quieter beneath it. “Just figured you’d keep runnin’ circles around me first.”

You exhaled through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. “Jesus. I should’ve just left in the middle of the night and really kept you on your toes.”

Logan’s grip tightened slightly. “You wouldn’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. Because he was right.

Logan let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing against your side. “So what now?”

You thought about it. About the last few months, about the way you and Laura had built something here. About the way Logan had been circling your life since the moment he showed up, waiting, watching, never pushing—until last night.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan was quiet for a second, then, “good.”

You smirked. “That easy, huh?”

He huffed. “For once.”

The weight between you didn’t feel as heavy anymore. You weren’t thinking about the past, about the other Logans, about the lives you’d lost before. For once, you weren’t overthinking.

You glanced down at your left hand, the ring still on your finger. You twisted it around, feeling the weight of it—the warmth that had long since faded, but never really left.

Logan didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just watched, his jaw tight, his fingers flexing slightly against your hip like he wasn’t sure if he should reach for you or give you space.

You exhaled slowly. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you pulled the ring off.

The absence of it was immediate. Like a phantom limb, like something missing that had been part of you for longer than you could remember.

You held it between your fingers, staring at the small, worn band. The gold was a little dull, edges softened from years of wear, of fights, of moments that felt so distant now you weren’t sure if they were even real.

Logan stayed silent, watching.

You swallowed hard, bringing the ring up to your lips, pressing a kiss to the cool metal. A quiet farewell. A promise that none of it had been lost, that it still mattered.

Then, carefully, you set it down on the nightstand.

Logan exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly beside you. “You sure?”

You looked at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes. Like he was bracing himself, waiting for you to regret it, waiting for you to pick it back up, waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake.

But it wasn’t.

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. His palm was rough, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

“I’m sure,” you murmured.

Logan studied you for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if you meant it. Then, after a beat, his shoulders relaxed, just slightly. He turned his hand, squeezing yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Neither of you said anything after that.

Because for the first time in years, there was nothing left to say.

so i don't know if people caught it, but i thought i would just say it-the whole arc of logan was the fact that he always left his version of reader but this time he stayed. which is the reason he stayed in florida even when reader didn't want him there. i don't know if i made it obvious or not but i thought i would just put it out there

anyways, i hope this lived up to people's expectations :)

[madmeks]

Caught

Pairings: Titus x Mira

Author's note: 18+ Inspired by this ask Takes place a few days after Her Space Marine: Part 2.

Warnings: Sexual content. Public Sex. Voyeurism. Unprotected sex.

Description: Titus and Mira get interrupted during some time in the shower, but Titus has an unexpected reaction to being caught in a compromising position.

Tagging: @beckyninja @yanagikou @flunkyofmalcador @finchly-tintinnabulation @kit-williams @justanothermemestrider @theemeraldwings @wormiusdebilius @74rn @severalpossiblemusiks @vspin @blukitty40k @nereidof40k If anyone would like to be tagged in future fics, please let me know :)

If you're interested in reading any of my earlier fics, check out my pinned post.

Mira couldn’t decide if the experience of bivouacking a mixed company of Imperial Guard troopers on an Ultramarine strike cruiser was the most frustrating or most pleasant experience of her life.

After the retreat off Daedalus V, the Imperium fleet had been harried by ork kroozers on their way outsystem, and there hadn’t been time to transfer the Mordian and Cadian survivors of the last evacuation flight off the strike cruiser to their designated troopship. They’d ended up setting up a temporary barracks in a disused cargo bay. With no designated quartermasters among the Guard troops, it had fallen to Mira, Zev, and Major Sarkaana to arrange for rations and supplies for their mismatched collection of soldiers.

It had been headache after headache. The chapter serfs who crewed the ship saw themselves as noble caretakers and aides to the mighty space marines who commanded the ship, certainly above any lowly Cadian or Mordian footslogger. The company were treated as unwelcome guests at best, and had to fight tooth and nail for every concession, down to the last can of corpse starch.

After three days, Major Sarkaana had finally talked the deck chief into allowing the Guardsmen to use the crew showers. Mira had spent the last few hours shepherding the troops as they waited in long lines for their turns to bathe. A few squabbles had broken out between the Cadians and the Mordians over which squads got precedence, and she and Zev had spent most of the afternoon tramping up and down the line keeping discipline.

Finally it was over, and Mira stood alone in one of the shower stalls letting the water run over her tense and cramped muscles. The ship’s recycled water had a vague tang of filtration chemicals, but it was hot, and after the last few days that was all she cared about.

As she hung her head under the spray and let the water run over her aching neck, her thoughts turned to some of the other activities of the past few days. Sighing softly, she pressed her legs together, which did little to quell the wetness forming there that had nothing to do with the shower.

Once the ship had broken orbit and left Daedalus V behind and the prospect of combat was gone, Titus had become insatiable. He’d explained to her already how becoming a Primaris had increased his sex drive, but it seemed that it had ramped up even more now that they’d left the war behind.

Whenever her duties had allowed, she’d stolen away to help him relieve his tension. She chewed on her lower lip, getting aroused reliving the moments from the past few days.

The first time had been in his quarters, when he’d practically ripped her uniform off and then took her standing standing in the middle of the room. Later, she rode him on his bed, not stopping until he’d filled her twice over.

The next day, she and Major Sarkaana had attended a war council with Captain Acheran and his officers on the state of the fleet. Afterward, she’d lingered behind with Titus in the briefing room, ducking her head beneath his robes to take him into her mouth until he came.

Just this morning, she’d snuck away with him to a storeroom, hurriedly bending over a crate of supplies as he lowered her pants and panties to her ankles. She’d had to cover her mouth to stay quiet as he first tongued her pussy from behind, then lifted his robe and entered her. When he came, she’d gone over the edge too as she felt his seed shoot into her.

Running a finger between her legs as she stood in the shower, she lightly brushed a fingertip over her clit, sighing pleasantly at the memory. She was growing just as insatiable as him.

She reached forward to turn off the water valve then took up a towel to dry herself, padding across the tiled floor of the shower room to where here uniform was neatly folded. She’d gotten her panties on and was fastening her bra behind her back when she heard another enter the room. Turning, she smiled as the massive shape slipped through the lingering clouds of steam.

“Hello there,” she said teasingly as Titus stepped into view.

***

Mira could feel herself growing wetter and wetter as Titus’ pre-cum leaked out over her stroking fingers. She smiled as he let out a soft grunt of pleasure, his cock pulsing in her hand. He leaned down to kiss her, as she pressed her body against his. His hands reached to pull her bra down until her tits spilled out over the cups, then teased at her nipples as she pumped him.

He’d suggested returning to his quarters, but Mira had guided him to a darkened corner of the showers, encouraging him to shed his robe and kneel for her before reaching between them to stroke his cock to life.

Falling to her knees, she took a moment to slip her panties off and then slowly licked around the head of his cock as she gazed up at him. As his head fell back in pleasure, she found herself marveling at him. Knowing that to most he was viewed as an Emperor-sent killing machine, but kneeling before him, laving his erection with her tongue...she saw him as hauntingly beautiful. She ran a hand along his thigh, feeling the uncanny curves of his gene-enhanced muscles. She closed her lips around his shaft, reveling in the gasp her mouth elicited from him as it slid downward.

Mira moaned softly in the back of her throat, just enough to vibrate her mouth around him. Popping off his cock, she gave him a hungry look.

“Saints, Titus...I can’t...get enough of you,” she murmured, punctuating her words with licks and kisses around the head of his cock. She licked her and brought it back to his shaft, stroking it up and down while using her other hand to smear his pre-cum along his length. Leaning forward, she took her tits and squeezed them around his cock. Groaning, he rocked back with his ass on his heels, his thick cock jutting up between her breasts.

“I want you to come on me,” Mira moaned as Titus thrust up, fucking between her tits. “I want your cum on my tits, and then I want you to come inside me.”

“M-Mira,” he choked as he thrust, hands reaching forward to grasp her shoulders. She squeezed her her tits tighter around him.

“Throne,” she gasped. “You’re making me so wet, Titus.”

Her words set him off. His back stiffened and his thrusts became erratic, then he came. Covering her hands with his own, he pressed her tits together. His mouth falling open in a wordless gasp, Mira looked down to see the first thick rope of cum burst out of his cock and splash against her neck and chin. He kept stroking, pumping out more over her cleavage with each thrust. Gasping as he finished, he fell back to sit on the tiles. She smiled at him as she unhooked her bra and dropped it to the floor. Climbing onto his lap, she pressed herself against him for a kiss.

“Mmm...Titus,” she murmured as her naked breasts pillowed on his chest, smearing his cum between them. “I’m going to need another shower.”

Titus grabbed her hips and held her against him.

“First, I want more,” he growled.

She pushed back against his cock, letting out a small satisfied gasp as she felt him stir back to life against her ass. Feeling her shudder, he grabbed her hips and rocked against her.

He surged to his feet, effortlessly carrying her with him as he pressed her against the wall, and then growled in pleasure as he lowered her onto his cock. She moaned and began moving her hips in time with his as he speared into her.

She threw her head back as he buried himself in her, legs locked around his wide hips and hanging desperately onto his neck.

His rhythm suddenly stopped, and she mewled as she tried to rock her hips to keep him going. Raising her head, she saw him twisting his shoulders and head to look at something behind him. With his massive frame shielding her from the rest of the room, she couldn’t see what he was looking at but she froze as she heard a new voice in the room.

“M-my lord?”

Mira recognized the voice. It was one of the troopers from Major Sarkaana’s company. Pulling on Titus’ neck, she raised herself up to peek just her eyes over his shoulder, taking care to keep hidden behind him. She stifled a moan as his long cock slid a few inches out of her as she moved.

It was Arik, Sarkaana’s vox operator, stripped to his tank top and carrying a towel over his shoulder. He was staring at the naked space marine, and the tent in the man’s uniform trousers spoke volumes about his reaction to seeing the Astartes in such a state. Behind him, she could see Aelis, a plasma gunner from her own company. Aelis was dazedly palming her breast as she stared, mouth agape.

Mira ducked back down behind Titus, gasping a little she slid back down his cock. Above her, Titus stood still as a statue, staring back at the troopers. Suddenly, Mira felt him stir. She whimpered as she felt him seem to grow even harder insider her.

Slowly, still looking behind him, Titus resumed his thrusts into her. She tried to stifle her cries against his chest as he worked his cock in and out of her clutching pussy. Arms around his neck, she clung desperately to him as he bucked into her faster and faster.

He turned his head back to her, his face contorted with arousal and pleasure. Mira thought about what the two troopers were seeing, the space marine’s ass clenching as he trust into a woman he had pinned against the wall, her legs and arms clutching at him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he grunted as he slammed into her, driving toward his climax. “Take me...take me...tak-”

His words caught in his throat as his cock suddenly began to jerk inside her. He threw his head back and roared, hands tight on her hips as he began to unload inside her. Mira’s pussy contracted around his spurting cock as she joined him in orgasm.

“Uhn...uhn...uhn…” Titus was grunting on each stroke as his orgasm began to slow. His cock pulsed a little on every thrust, seed flowing out of him in spurt after spurt. Mira continued to come around him, her body milking his cum until he was spent.

Titus’ knees sagged, and he threw a hand up against the wall to catch himself. He bent over Mira, his forehead coming to rest against hers as he kept her pressed against him. Almost imperceptibly, his head twitched to the side.

“Get out,” he growled to the two Cadians.

Mira heard the two hurriedly leave the shower room as she tried to return her breathing to normal, thankful that the bulk of Titus’ transhuman frame had kept her from their eyes. Looking up at Titus though, she saw he’d had a much different reaction to being caught. The space marine was flushed, breathing heavily in the wake of his orgasm.

“That felt like someone appreciated an audience.”

Titus barked a breathless laugh. He gazed down into her smiling eyes as he nodded an assent, still breathing heavily. “Perhaps...perhaps I did.”

His softening cock slipping out of her, he gently lowered her to the floor. Standing on her tiptoes, she caught his neck and brought his lips down for a kiss.

***

A few compartments away, Corporal Arik slumped back against the bulkhead in a deserted corridor. He ran a hand through his hair as he breathed heavily.

“Throne...did you see that?”

“Uh-hmm,” Aelis hummed in acknowledgment on her knees in front of him. She popped off his cock and began to stroke him with her hand. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Who do you think the woman was?”

“No idea,” Aelis muttered as she wrapped her lips back around him. Reaching down into her waistband, she started to rub her clit in tight circles as she went back to bobbing on his shaft. After just a few moments, Arik gave a sharp cry and jerked as his cum began to enter her mouth in spurts. Aelis closed her eyes and swallowed, her own moans muffled as her hand began to move faster between her legs...

Thank so much for reading. Please leave a reblog or a comment if you enjoyed it. The reaction to these fics has been wonderful and I'm thankful for everyone in the Tumblr Warhammer community for giving me the confidence to post my work here :)

[uniquethingtastemaker]

I clapped my hands and squealed when I saw this! I love it whenever people talk about my ideas and characters. It's always so rewarding, so I have to give back to something that makes me so happy.

You're so right about him apologizing for his rambles. I just wrote the first part of the fanfic (again, it's subject to change. It's 3 a.m., but I feel pretty good about this one). I'm jumping off the scene where you first meet Rook. Even then, he apologizes for getting off track.

It's sad because he's so genuine. However, I do know that when he rambles. He goes ooooooon. I remember Vil saying in Chapter 6 that he went on for 5 hrs about how he would've acted in one of Vil's scenes. I relate to the feeling so hard. I do this, but I have less shame about it. Plus, I have someone willing to listen to my rambles because they love me and think my enthusiasm is cute. It's my boyfriend. I love him. He's a cutie. Therefore, I wanna give that experience to Rook. Thinking about it, my rambles have gotten shorter, lasting around 15-30 mins rather than a whole 5 hrs. The reason is because I have a steady stream of attention. Bottling it up will give you 5 hrs, but if you do it consistently, it'll be shorter. Big brain. I came up with that on the fly. Proud of myself. Congratulations, you got one of my signature rambles lol.

Wait, wait, wait, I have thoughts about Vil and Rook! I've never gotten to speak about this before, so I'm enthusiastic, like our favorite hunter.

They're interesting because Rook and Vil are equals. Rook treats Vil like an equal. Vil doesn't get that a lot. He either looks down on people (or perhaps gives the illusion that he looks down on them (unclear)), or others put him on a pedestal due to celebrity status. There aren't many people close to him that can say they're equal to Vil. Or maybe it's more accurate to say stand up to Vil, and he listens. Rook tells truths to Vil straight. Now, there's a reason for blunt delivery. He might be a little "mean" or "insensitive," but my god, Vil is thickheaded. He's so pompous that most criticism gets thrown away because he doesn't think they're credible. Rook has to be callous to get to Vil.

Now, this isn't Rook's normal behavior. I remember when our favorite hunter reassured and helped Deuce after he ran out of practice in the 5th chapter. He was helpful and kind then. Therefore, I'm under the assumption that with Vil, he has to be mean. He has to be rough for the blonde to even consider the criticism.

Now, a few other things are interesting about their relationship. First is how Rook approached Vil without reserve... You know... now thinking about it... He might have gone to him because he would be the only one to listen or discuss his interests. Hahahaha, I'm laughing because that's both sad and hilarious. I can totally see Rook approaching Vil specifically with the thought, "People love talking about themselves." Perhaps that's why Rook got close to Vil. Vil's self-absorbed, so the topic of the hunter wouldn't come up that often. It's a surefire way to have him talk about his interests without reservation. It also showed Vil that Rook was credible and his thoughts were good because he showcased value in their talks. Not only did he talk about the good aspects but also the bad. That's something a true fan does. I love that.

I also feel like he's less intimidated by Vil than Neige, because Rook looks up to the RSA student. I'll be a little mean here. Vil has been the villain in basically all his works with Neige. It's probably easier for Rook to separate Vil from his villain role. The hunter knows that just because he plays the antagonist doesn't mean they're bad. So because he wasn't a hardcore fan of Vil, it was easier for him to befriend him. As his friend, he supports and loves Vil, but the blonde isn't his ultimate idol.

Now, I take the whole butting heads thing to be Rook just doing his own thing, and Vil being annoyed that he can't control Rook's actions. Everyone knows Vil likes being in charge and in control. So Rook is different and the reason why Vil doesn't force his control is two reasons. 1) He respects Rook. It's obvious by the way Vil doesn't pry into his suitcase during chapter 5. During that scene, it also implies that Vil knows how much Rook values his privacy. So Vil respects Rook. 2) He knows if he ever did force him, Rook would stand up to him. If Vil didn't get his act together, Rook would leave. Rook does his own thing. He has a moral code and will that isn't swayed by outside factors.

I think Vil is also more often annoyed by Rook in an "official" capacity. Rook isn't bound by duty like Vil is. The hunter tends to go wherever his heart leads him. It's why he goes after Vil in Chapter 6 instead of doing his duty as the vice leader. Therefore, it makes him a little more incompetent in an official capacity. Again, look at Chapter 6. Vil scolds him as the prefect and then as himself, saying he loves the whole crew for coming to get him. I do think Vil can become genuinely annoyed and irritated in that aspect. However, as a friend, they love each other.

Another aspect is that they work well together. Vil tends to be overly harsh, causing a lot of conflict, but Rook defuses it. They work together in that aspect, and I think Vil knows this. He might be semi-annoyed, but I don't think he's super annoyed. He's probably just judgmental, which is Vil's baseline lol

Anyway those are my unfiltered thoughts. I'm sure I repeated myself multiple times, but it's 4 am, so... here you go lol

As everyone knows, I bounce between fics based on my creative inspiration and rn I’m writing a Rook x Reader fanfic.

Now, this one is interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this concept before…

The closest thing I’ve read is probably @solxamber’s Ruler of My Heart. It’s one of my favorite Rook x Reader fanfic of all time. She peels back the layers to Rook’s character, portraying something more honest and vulnerable. It’s fantastic. If you haven’t read it, do it now.

I read that fanfic and thought I could never even touch that level of artistry. However, I feel like I’ve come up with a solid base for something good.

I haven’t seen a lot of full fanfics where Rook feels threatened. I’ve seen some drabbles where he’s felt scared and is able to deal with the threat swiftly. However, those tend to be about MC being threatened. Even in the canon story, Rook is more concerned with the safety of others rather than himself. It makes sense considering his fantastic skills.

Therefore, the man tends to be unflappable. Even if he does feel unnerved, he covers it up expertly. He can manually adjust his heart rate and breathing. However, some people can see past the facade, like Trey. Look at the Halloween event for instance.

Rook has a weakness though. He’s a private person. He doesn’t like people knowing about his past too much. Other than what he portrays to the world, which is his more of his upbeat and over the top self, he doesn’t want people to know about him. That’s his weakness.

My fanfic idea is an observant reader. Someone that makes Rook feel uncomfortable and borderline threatened because they just guessed almost everything about him upon their first meeting. That is objectively terrifying. There’s someone who matches his level of observation. Unlike Trey, who’s low key about it, MC doesn’t know that, especially at first. They almost give away too much information. Rook deals with the situation but they both know what he’s done to intervene.

So, I plan to have the main inner conflict be Rook hesitating to trust the Reader. The external conflict will obviously be Vil. Once again, I have a strange obsession with Chapter 5. I think it’s because it’s the perfect set up. There’s so many different possible conflicts and resolutions. I also don’t have to think much in terms of coming up with my own situation and set up. It’s built in there. Work smarter not harder lol

Anyway, that’s my idea for now. Let me know your thoughts. Always love interacting with people about my works and ideas

I also have thoughts regarding Rook general behavior that might be interesting. However, I’m tired, so that’ll probably be a separate post. Let me know if you’re interested.

Tagging @es-sharezone because u love Rook lol

[the-offside-rule]

Out of Her Depth - Chapter 1 - Factory Settings

Out of Her Depth: The Masterlist

Poll number 2: love interest

Saoirse O’Reilly lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her new flat in Maranello. The glow from the streetlights outside filtered through her curtains, casting long shadows across the room. She wasn’t sure how long she had been lying there, unmoving, lost in her own thoughts.

Hours, probably.

She let out a slow breath, shifting onto her side, then onto her back again. Sleep wasn’t coming. Her mind was too loud, too full of what ifs and don’t mess this up. Her eyes fluttered closed, forcing herself to relax. A few moments later, her alarm blared. She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. So much for sleeping.

With a sigh, she got up, stretching as she walked to the kitchen. She was exhausted, but there was no time to dwell on that. Today was another day at the Ferrari factory, and she had to be sharp. She grabbed a quick breakfast, leaning against the counter as she ate. Her nerves were creeping up on her again.

She had started her Formula One career at eighteen with Alfa Romeo, the youngest driver on the grid in 2022 and 2023. Then came the Ferrari reserve driver role last year— the waiting game. She had spent endless hours in the simulator, pushing herself, proving herself. The engineers liked her, the factory staff respected her, and when Carlos left for Williams, she got the call-up.

It should have been the happiest moment of her life. And it was, but ever since then, she had been a nervous wreck.

She shook off the thought, finishing her breakfast before heading to her room to get dressed. Black jeans, a Ferrari team polo, and her usual silver jewelry. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, frowning at a few stubborn pimples that had decided to make an appearance. With practiced ease, she dabbed on some concealer, blending until they were barely noticeable. Good enough.

She grabbed her keys and headed to the front door, pausing for a moment before stepping outside. And then she saw it. Her brand-new Ferrari. The car was temporary, just something to use until her actual one arrived, but it still made her grin like an idiot. It was finally starting to sink in. She wasn’t just some kid in a simulator anymore.

She was a Ferrari Formula One driver.

Saoirse took a deep breath, gripping the keys a little tighter. Time to get to work.

The drive to the Ferrari factory was short, but Saoirse still spent it mentally preparing herself. The racing was one thing—that, she could handle. But this? The media, the attention, the scrutiny? That was a whole different challenge. She pulled into the car park and took a deep breath before stepping out of her car. Waiting just inside the entrance was Sylvia, Ferrari’s head of public relations, dressed in her usual sharp attire and holding her phone. She smiled warmly as Saoirse approached. "Good morning, Saoirse." Sylvia greeted, falling into step beside her. "Buongiorno." Saoirse replied, glancing behind her as a camera crew trailed after them. Sylvia noticed and smirked. "Everything okay?" She asked. "Wondering if it’s Ferrari or Netflix." Saaoirse replied. Sylvia gestured subtly. "Both. See? Two cameras."

Saoirse exhaled through her nose, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She was used to cameras—there were always cameras in Formula One—but she had never been the focus like this before. It was different.

As they walked through the factory, staff members greeted her with nods and smiles. She recognized some faces from her reserve driver days, but this time, the way they looked at her had shifted. She wasn’t just a promising young talent anymore—she was their driver now.

They reached Vasseur's office, and Sylvia knocked before pushing the door open. Fred looked up from his computer, his usually stern expression softening into a smile when he saw her. He stood, crossing the room, and pulled her into a brief hug. "Salve, Saoirse." He said warmly before pulling back. "Have you been keeping up with your Italian lessons?" Saoirse nodded. "I haven’t stopped them."

"Bene." Fred seemed pleased. He turned to Sylvia. "Would you mind asking one of the girls to get her a coffee, Sylvia?" Sylvia nodded and slipped out, leaving Saoirse alone with him.

Fred gestured for her to sit as he leaned back in his chair. His sharp eyes studied her for a moment before he spoke. "So, how are you feeling? Is your new apartment okay?" Saoirse relaxed slightly. "Yeah, it’s nice. Different, but nice."

"And everything else?" He pressed. "The transition from reserve to full-time?" She hesitated for a moment before nodding. "It’s… a lot. But I’m getting there." Fred gave a small, knowing smile. "Good. We will make sure you have everything you need. Charles should be coming in later, but before that, I want you to spend some time getting more comfortable with the factory. Beyond the simulator." Saoirse tilted her head. "You mean, actually interacting with people?"

"Yes, exactly."

At that moment, Sylvia returned with her coffee, handing it over with a small smirk. Saoirse took a sip, then sighed. "Fine. But if Netflix catches me looking awkward, that’s on you." Fred laughed. "You will survive." She wasn’t so sure, but for now, she’d take his word for it. "Well, I'll let you go and get comfortable. Ciao."

After finishing her coffee, Saoirse followed Sylvia down the hall toward the room where she’d be fitted for her new race suit. "So, you were already fitted before Abu Dhabi-" Sylvia explained as they walked, the ever-present camera crew trailing behind. CBut we need to make sure everything is perfect for the season." Saoirse nodded, rolling her shoulders. "Yeah, wouldn’t want to find out my suit doesn’t fit on race week." Sylvia smirked. "Exactly."

When they arrived, a team of Ferrari staff was already waiting with her custom suit laid out. The familiar red fabric, the Scuderia Ferrari crest, her name stitched in clean white letters—it was all hers now. She changed into it quickly, smoothing out the material before stepping in front of the mirror. And then she grinned like an idiot. She couldn’t help it. Seeing herself in this suit, officially as a Ferrari driver, felt surreal. Sylvia caught her expression and smirked. "Starting to sink in?" Saoirse nodded, still staring at her reflection. "Yeah… I think it is."

"Good. Because you’ve got a busy day ahead." Saoirse turned, arching a brow. "Do I at least get a break?" Sylvia hummed, pretending to think. "Of course. It will be a little bit more laid back for you this year." Saoirse exhaled dramatically. "Fine. Hit me." Sylvia grinned. "That’s the spirit." She led Saoirse toward the media setup, the cameras ready to capture every moment. For the first time all day, Saoirse felt the nerves fade away. Maybe she could get used to this.

[g4rvez-r3id]

:¨ ·.· ¨:`· . ୨୧⠀masterlist!

SPENCER REID

smut / 18+ | fluff / ★ | angst / ↯ | all of the above / シ

Latest Work: I Love You, I’m Sorry - You left the BAU and your boyfriend, Spencer, after a case took a hefty toll on you. You only left behind a letter, explaining yourself and why you had to leave. Four years later, you find yourself back in DC on a whim. You learn that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. ↯

SERIES OR MULTI-PARTERS

Back To You / Mini Series (fem! reader) シ

When You’re Lost in the Darkness, Look for the Light - Your ex, Spencer Reid, has just lost his girlfriend due to her being murdered. When all else fails with the BAU team helping him get through this loss, the only person left to help is you.

Let Me Stay - You and Spencer have gone back to normal, somewhat. But it only takes one conversation to ruin that all again. All you wanna do is stay, but he won’t let you.

Back To You - Spencer finally realizes that he wants you to stay and that he loves you and he proves to you just how much he does. 18+

Anything For Ellie / Mini Series (single mom! reader) シ

Summary / You are Spencer Reid’s next door neighbor, a single mother with a five year-old daughter trying to get by. It’s been three months since you’ve last seen Spencer and little did you know, it was because he was in prison, accused of a crime he didn’t commit. And now Spencer has opened his heart to you as you have to him. But when he realizes he could hurt you in the long run, he begins to push you away. Will you let him?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

more to come!

ONESHOTS

One Bed - You and Reid get paired together in a hotel room after a case, only to discover there’s only one bed in the hotel room. And that said hotel room is freezing. ★

Protector - You and Spencer have been together a few months and he’s beginning to notice how often you keep your guard up and he converses with you about his concerns and so you tell him why you act the way you do. ★ ↯

I’m Here, Now - Your boyfriend, Spencer gets released from prison and you’re his first stop after dealing with Cat Adams and her schemes. And all he wants to do is see you and love you. ★ 18+

Nice Car - You’d always had a crush on Dr. Spencer Reid but you’re sure he’s never had eyes on you. But he takes you home after a night out with the team and you’re definitely proven wrong about him not having eyes on you. 18+

Hands to Myself - Since Spencer got out of prison, you two have a bit of a problem keep your hands to yourselves. 18+

BLURBS

Dream A Little Dream - Spencer comes home from work and finds you sleeping in bed and he’s completely mesmerized by you as you sleep. ★

No One Is Alone - Spencer realizes you guys might have more in common than he thought when he finds out your parent also has schizophrenia. ★ ↯

A Chat About Books - Spencer catches you reading a rather disturbing book on the jet and a discussion about books and reading ensues. ★

Book Lovers - Spencer sees you at a bookstore and buys you a book just to be able to start a conversation with you. ★

Bad Day - You come home from a really bad day and your boyfriend, Spencer is there to save the day… and hold you while you cry. ★ ↯

Naughty Boy - You and Spencer are trying to have a little fun in secret until Emily walks in… Spencer decides to make it a little more interesting underneath your desk. 18+

[monstrousproductions]

I haven't posted anything for a while and don't have much podcast related news to share so I guess it's time forrrrrr....

✨Impromptu Book Club!✨

What's been on your bedside table lately? Anything good? Anything deliciously dreadful? I've been very firm in sticking to my new year's resolution not to buy any new books, which has had the delightful side effect of really increasing the amount I've been using my local library. Having fun isn't hard when you have your library card! Now, onto the books 😍

Currently Reading:

Rules for Perfect Murders (I think the American ed is Eight Perfect Murders? Much better title tbh) by Peter Swanson (audiobook performed by Graham Halstead). A bookseller at a shop specialising in crime fiction learns that someone is killing people according to a list he made of perfect murders in fiction, posted on the shop's blog some years ago. I started this like "oh I know what's happening here" and then Peter Swanson reached out of my phone and held my face in his hands and grinned and said "oh you do, do you?" Having an absolute hoot, do recommend.

I'm also reading The Kingdom of Copper by S.A. Chakraborty, as a direct result of my new year's resolution. I bought the first in the series, City of Brass, years ago and never read it. Picked it up last month and spent almost all of it thinking, "Wow, I wish this was better. I'm definitely not going to read the rest, but I do want to see how it ends." And then EVERYTHING kicked off in the last few chapters, and I immediately put a hold on for Kingdom of Copper at the library.

Recently Finished:

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie (audiobook performed by Hugh Fraser) - The one where everyone gets invited to an island and popped off one by one. Got genuinely spooked listening to this at night, and had to turn it off 😅 As always with Christie, I had good fun being told how it all happened but didn't care in the least about anyone involved.

Emma by Jane Austen (audiobook by Juliet Stevenson) - I've listened to this over and over, and it's perfect every single time. By far my favourite Austen, and especially my favourite Austen heroine, not in a "she did nothing wrong" way but rather a "she absolutely did lots wrong and isn't that delicious" way.

What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher - A fantastic wee novella that wastes no time getting stuck into the story and the world around it. A retelling of The Fall of the House of Usher, now with added mushrooms. Having read Mexican Gothic recently, it'd be impossible not to draw comparisons. While both were fun, I think there was quite a bit more skill on show here.

The Last Murder at the End of the World by Stuart Turton (audiobook performed by Adjoa Andoh) - I love Adjoa Andoh with the power of a thousand suns, even when she is reading me a relatively boring story. A post-apocalyptic murder mystery, this should have been right up my street. But it lacked oomph, and I never had this on without having something more interesting to do while I listened.

Binned Off:

Red, White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston (audiobook performed by Ramón de Ocampo) - Started strong, and I was having a good time, but for a relationship with such huge stakes on paper, I never felt them while I was listening. It felt like every obstacle was very quickly overcome, and I found I didn't really care one way or the other. Eventually I turned it off and just... never went back.

That's it for me - how about yous lot? Let me know what you've been reading the last wee while! 📚✨

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 42

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Hey, remember when I said this was gonna be the epilogue? I tried to make it the epilogue. Honest. But when it got past 10k words before I even got to the Wyllach wedding, I knew I was wrong. Again. BUT THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE THE END I PROMISE. ***

Six months later

After breaking upon Mephistopheles’ death, the blizzard which had enveloped Cania since its very creation never resumed. 

Snow still fell, most days; when it did not one could see from the Starspire all the way across to the mountain marking the passage to Maladomini. On very clear days a keen eye could even make out the massive statue of pristine ice which now stood at its summit: a stunning likeness of Lady Antilia, crowned in hellfire, immortalized in the act of playing a violin. 

When wind blew across those mountains, some even swore it turned to music, if one stopped to listen long enough… although that was unadvisable. Cania remained a bitterly cold layer, although made easier to traverse by the end of the once eternal blizzard. The ice underfoot was less treacherous, more solid - less liable to crumble into deep chasms below. Glaciers, too, were less likely to collapse.

The roaring hellfire beneath it all could never be extinguished, but it could be contained in eternal Plume ice - and in great part it was, once Tuncheth and Quagrem could be pulled away from one another’s throat and convinced to put all their researchers to work on that goal. Archduke Raphael could be very convincing.

And more than a little terrifying, really.

In the few places where the hellfire could not be encased or otherwise brought under control, the ice had finally melted… but there had been no collapses, no new chasms opening up. A layer is always an extension of its archduke, and something in Cania had changed indeed. 

In the scattered regions of Cania where the ice was gone and glaciers streamed down mountains, forming rivers and lakes, something else had emerged - soil where there had once been nothing but more ice, eaten away by hellfire. Dark soil, not unlike what one may find in the Material Plane… if not for the fact travellers passing through could see tongues of white-hot hellfire flickering through it.

And there were indeed quite a few more travellers than before crossing Cania to reach the citadel of Israfel. The vast majority of said visitors were cambions, as well as a decent number of alu-fiends. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. 

Half-fiends were generally considered useful pawns at most by their sires or mothers, cannon fodder at worst. What no one had seen them as for a very long time was a true threat to anyone powerful… and then of course along came Raphael to change all that. Suddenly, every Duke of the Hells with halfbreed offspring was very concerned indeed. 

Yes, the child of Mephistopheles was one in a million, but fear he may not turn out to be all that unique took hold rather quickly. The reactions were… quite the mixed bag. Some had decided to try and make allies out of powerful cambions, offering them better positions and prestige. But alongside interest for their potential was growing suspicion and fear they may turn out to be a threat. And threats should be eliminated, was the logical conclusion of many. 

Dispater, to no one’s surprise, had been particularly brutal. The Iron City was in an even more tyrannical lockdown than any could recall - a feat in itself, that - and there was talk that thousands of cambions who called the Second their home had been taken to Mentiri or simply disappeared overnight, never to be seen again. Dispater’s own blood, or so it was whispered, had not been spared. As a result, many half-fiends from across the Hells had come to the wise conclusion that a change of scenery was warranted. 

Those willing to fight headed to Avernus, where they knew Lord Bel would welcome any and all ready to serve in the Blood War; but most had headed down, deeper into the Hells and all the way to Cania. They came to Israfel asking for an audience, and pledged their fealty to Lord Raphael - the only one of their kind to have become the ruler of a layer. 

If Bel’s rise was the grand inspirational tale for all true baatezu seeking to climb through ranks to the very top, it seemed that Raphael had become the inspirational tale for half-fiends seeking to be more than what they were born. Among those who pledged their fealty were other children of Mephistopheles who, like him, had left Cania long ago and sought fortune elsewhere in Baator- or outside it entirely. They found their half-brother more welcoming than their sire had been, although he never did lower his guard.

And for good reason. Of course not all pledges of loyalty were sincere; a half-fiend is a fiend still. Just as many baatezu dreamed of one day killing Bel and taking his place, it seemed that more than a handful of promising cambions now held the very same dream regarding Raphael. A few plots were hatched, and snuffed out before anything came to fruition. 

A couple went as far as enacting an assassination attempt, usually quite poorly thought-out. None of those who conspired against Raphael, some half-siblings among them, succeeded at so much as scratching him. Some died fighting, others fell on their knees and begged for mercy - but every single one met a gruesome end by his hand, their remains paraded before the court before being thrown down the glacier, encased in ice, as eternal warning.

Raphael had won the throne by spilling his sire’s blood, and would spill oceans more to keep it; he intended to make that much resoundingly clear, and he did.

But those were exceptions; most had enough sense to know they had no chance against him, and did pledge themselves with respect, fear, and something not far from admiration. Some found a place at court; many were sent to the Material Plane to visit all temples of the Cult of Mephistopheles as his messengers, and tell its members to either bow to Raphael or make themselves scarce.

Many did make themselves scarce… although the former leader of the Cult must have got wind of something before he was supposed to, and took something with him before he disappeared. A powerful relic that could not be found anywhere in the temples scattered across Toril - a piece of Mephistopheles’ own flesh. 

Haarlep had heard Adonides speak of it to Raphael, sounding really rather cross about it. But surely, Haarlep had thought, that was not important. A piece of dead flesh is a piece of dead flesh; nothing more. 

With the old cult disbanded and the remaining members accepting Raphael as their new patron, the cambions who chose to act as his messengers in the Material Plane soon began to lead it - and some were, indeed, surprisingly zealous. High ranking members were granted some measure of control over hellfire, or over the Plume if so they chose - never much, nor both - but all things considered, Raphael had to do little to grow his newly established cult.

Word spread and more half-fiends flocked to join it - and then mortals as well, many of them tieflings who found value in their hellish heritage and knew that cambions were the link between them and their infernal ancestor.

The Cult of the Archcambion, some took to calling it. Until not too long ago, Raphael would have been outraged; now, he took pride in it. 

Honestly, Haarlep thought he should be proud of many of his accomplishments. Including the fact they had been at work under his desk for a good fifteen minutes, and he hadn’t come undone yet. “Ah, look at you . Still perky despite my best efforts.” A slight exaggeration perhaps - that was nowhere near their best - but they were in the mood to spoil their little brat with a bit of flattery. “You’ve come a long while, lordling.”

“... I am uncertain whether you’re speaking to me or my genitalia.”

Haarlep sighed, leaning their head on Raphael’s thigh and looking up. He was quite a sight from that angle, so finely dressed from the waist up and still trying to focus on the paperwork on his desk, on the letter he was penning. Who’d have thought that so little ruling would truly get done from atop a throne, and so much sitting at a desk? “Genitalia - who calls it that?”

“It is a perfectly proper definition--”

“Clearly I am not doing a good enough job if you still have half a mind to be proper.” A sigh, and they ran their tongue from base to tip, relishing in the shudder that got out of Raphael. “Will you tire of me if I can no longer satisfy you?” they asked with a sigh and a pout. Raphael gave a low chuckle, deep in his throat.

“Doubtful,” he replied, and let out a hiss at Haarlep’s next swipe of the tongue. He signed whatever he’d been writing - the scrape of pen on parchment a good deal more hurried than usual - before he groaned and leaned back against the seat, letting them work their magic.

***

“Well well well, look who’s here! The greatest mother hen in all of Faerûn!”

Sitting in the shade of a tree, his youngest charge in his arms - only weeks old, demolishing the bottle of milk with a healthy appetite - Halsin chuckled and looked up. “Perhaps I should add poultry to my wild shapes. I suspect the children would be amused.”

“Ah, don’t listen to Astarion.” Durge walked up to him, smiling. “He’s only cranky because Wyll is getting married to someone other than him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You said it yourself, that Wyll is the prince-type you would have once dreamed of marrying.”

“Once, yes. When I was perhaps thirteen. I’ve since learned better about not getting trapped into devious contracts and honestly, so should Wyll… but as it’s with Karlach, perhaps the choice is not so unwise.”

“Strong, fast, and righteous, you said. Salivating already, I think were your exact words..."

“Are you trying to make me object to the ceremony, love? You know I might. For the sake of some good old fashioned drama, you understand.”

Durge laughed, and sat on a nearby log. They were dressed to travel, and they had traveled fast indeed; Halsin knew they had set out from Amn, and had not expected to see them until a couple of days later at least. And they seemed to have enjoyed the journey, too; both seemed in high spirits. Durge looked over at him, grinning. “You look good.”

Halsin glanced down to see that their presence had not distracted Ophelia from what obviously mattered most - her milk. He smiled. “Ah, thank you. I do feel good,” he said, and it was true. He’d never felt so at peace in his life; Reithwin rebuilt and thriving, and the children thriving with it. He’d feared they’d resent him for being gone so long, but they did not, and were ecstatic to have new tales to listen to. “And keeping busy, as you see.”

Durge looked down, and smiled faintly, but did not lean in for a better look. They did tend to keep away from children and infants, Halsin had noted, sometimes excusing themself by saying their chronic headache was made somewhat worse by shrill voices. He knew, deep down, the reason why - lost memories or not, they could guess that it hadn’t been adults alone to fall under the blade of the Chosen of Bhaal. 

Had they met then, Halsin knew, he’d have tried to end them or died trying… but that was not who he’d met. The being who’d saved him from the goblins was no Chosen of Bhaal; it was someone who’d just stumbled out of Bhaal’s grasp, willing to risk their life time and time again to save refugees who were nothing to them, and to lift a course that choked the life out of an entire land. 

The monster had died for good in Bhaal’s temple. Even if Durge still would not risk so much reaching for a young child, there was no doubt in Halsin’s mind that they would never harm one. So he spoke none of his thoughts, and just answered the unspoken question. 

“She is the child of Gale’s traveling companion from six months past. She was born almost two turns of the moon ago. Her mother had… a difficult situation to deal with, and did not plan on keeping her. She gave a generous donation that helped us buy supplies for the town before she left, but truth be told she did not have to. I was more than happy to take her in.”

“You always had a tender heart for strays,” Astarion sighed, but his tone was light. He sat on the log next to Durge and, for all the earlier banter, seemed pretty content to let them rest an arm across his shoulders. “Will you be able to put her down to travel with us to Baldur’s Gate, or do you plan on taking her with us? Just to warn you, I don’t change--”

Halsin laughed. “No, no. She will remain here with the other children, where she’s well taken care of.” Although of course, he’d miss them all while away. “Lady Isobel and Dame Aylin will travel with us.”

Durge nodded. “Good. The more, the merrier. I believe Gale is already at the Gate; he mentioned he had something to discuss with Rolan at Sorcerous Sundries in his last message. La’ezel and Shadowheart will arrive on the day, all going well.” There was always an element of uncertainty in the midst of war, of course; they could not stay away from the Astral Plane too long, and there was always the chance they’d have to go back at a moment’s notice in case of developments. “Shadowheart said she’d convince Lae’zel to land the dragons outside the city, though. Just to avoid causing a panic.”

Astarion sighed. “Always spoiling the fun,” he lamented, and Halsin chuckled.

“It would put a damper on celebrations. Ah, did they send word of Xan?”

“He's still in the care of the mages of Xamvadi'm-- whatever that is. But Lae'zel trusts them, and Shadowheart says he’s well."

“That is good to hear. It was inconceivable to me that the Githyanki would destroy the egg only because the hatchling took a few days more than expected to emerge.”

“Once the war is won, that will never happen again.”

Astarion groaned. “Oh, gods. Tell me we're not about to get mixed in the politics of another Plane,” he muttered, and Durge laughed. 

“Not unless Lae’zel calls for aid. But she seems to have everything well in hand. Besides, she has Shadowheart to help.”

“Oh, of course. Let's pretend her amazing aim is the reason why she's there.”

There was a sudden sound, that of a markedly displeased baby, and Halsin looked down to see that Ophelia had emptied the bottle and looked rather annoyed at the notion. He chuckled and stood, resting her against his shoulder while gently patting her back. “Well, we ought to head back. Your room is not ready, as you were not expected to arrive early - I hope you won't mind sharing mine.”

Durge scoffed out a laugh. “If I ever tell you I mind, feel free to strike down the doppelganger impersonating me.”

“Ah, but what if it’s Haarlep?” 

“Do you think for a second Haarlep would say no to sharing a room with you?”

Halsin would have laughed heartily, had he not been all too aware of the fact it would startle the infant he was carrying. He settled for a chuckle. “Fair enough. They’ll be at the wedding, I suppose? Raphael as well?”

Durge grinned. “Oh,” they said, “With all the trouble he went through for the perfect wedding gift, I don’t think Raphael would miss it for the world.”

***

It didn’t take long for Raphael to lose composure once they really got to work under his desk, but Haarlep couldn’t honestly fault him: with their talents, resisting was near impossible.

They hummed around him as his fingers tangled in their hair, and leaned forward to take all of him down their throat. Time to bring out the heavy guns, to so speak, and their reward came in the form of Raphael coming undone with a whine, back arching and hips buckling. 

He fell back limply against his seat and remained there, panting, while Haarlep emerged from beneath the desk and stretched. They grinned, quite pleased with themself, before reaching over to cup his cheek and turn his face to them. 

“Look at you,” they crooned. “My archduke. I think I deserve a little prize too, don’t I?”

Their harness disappeared in a crackle of flame and they stepped closer to his seat, their hands gripping his horns. But Raphael did not need to be guided: with a groan, he leaned forward and took Haarlep in his mouth in turn. The incubus let out another content sigh. 

“Good boy,” they hummed, getting a muffled moan out of him. Holding idly onto his horns as they let him do the rest of the work, Haarelep glanced down at the desk. 

The ink was still drying on the order he’d penned for Adonides, a list of names and locations to distribute to his cultists in the Material Plane - more cambion spawn of Mephistopheles who were yet too young to have been claimed by the Hells while their sire lived. 

Children, not only by fiendish standards but by mortal ones as well; the youngest was not yet a year old, Haarlep noted. Raphael had given orders to keep an eye on each one of them and report, and only intervene to take them in in case of danger. The words DO NOT CULL were written in capital letters and underlined several times for good measure, in case someone overly zealous took it as an order to do away with potential future threats. 

Right by was a stack of decrees drafted by Justiciar Tunchet which he had yet to revise and, should they pass revision, sign. At the corner of his desk, poking out from beneath a ledger, was a card unlike everything else - written in Common rather than Infernal. 

A wedding invitation he’d received three months past, the ceremony to take place in Baldur’s gate. Or rather, one of two invitations they’d received three months past. Haarlep had always intended to go, of course, but had expected they’d do so as Raphael’s plus one, so to speak. Receiving an invitation themself had been a little surprising… and frankly, not at all unpleasant. They still had a tenday to think of a present, but they were rather set on a pair of matching harnesses, to spice up their nights. Or days, whenever they decided to go at it.

It probably wouldn’t rival the gift Raphael planned to give them, but they were no archduke - only a humble consort to one. An still unofficial consort, to be pedantic; thrilling as it had been to enjoy one another without anything binding them, it was beginning to grate. They treasured their ring, but they were devils still and nothing in the Hells mattered more than a proper--

Raphael’s teeth scraped lightly over their cock, teasing, getting a groan out of Haarlep and interrupting their thoughts. How nice to see that he could learn how to pleasure them, if he bothered to - and what a fast learner he could be! Haarlep looked down to meet Raphael’s gaze, to watch their cock disappear between those pliant lips, in that lovely warm mouth and open throat.

Their grip on his horns tightened. “You want it, don’t you, my little brat?”

A whine, the smallest jerk of his head to signify a nod, and Haarlep hummed. They could hold back their orgasm as long as they wanted, but Raphael looked so adorable like that, lips stretched around them and eyes beginning to tear up - how could they resist? So they smiled, and used the leverage on his horns to pull him closer still, sink in all the way before they gave him exactly what he wanted. Didn’t they always, in the end?

“Good,” Haarlep cooed once they were done. They held Raphael still for a few more moments before they sighed contentedly and let go of Raphael’s horns, to let him pull back and catch his breath. The archduke of Cania licked his lips and reached for them, but Haarlep evaded his grasp and sat on his desk instead, bracing a foot against his chest to pin him back against his seat.

He looked at them, blinking and still dazed while Haarlep cleared their throat. They had thought of that moment a few times, planned a little speech. Yet in the end they only spoke their demand.

“If I am yours and you are mine,” they declared, “I want a contract.”

Raphael blinked. “A contract-- of what sort, precisely?”

“One to make this… ” They gestured at themself, and at Raphael, with the hand bearing the ring. “Entirely official. You have been calling me your Consort before subjects and dignitaries alike, but are you willing to put it in writ--”

They didn’t get to finish the sentence: Raphael snapped his fingers and a contract burned into being before their eyes, the Infernal script on it glowing red as embers. Haarlep saw the words on it, Raphael’s signature already at the bottom. They looked at him to see he was smirking, clearly very pleased with himself for surprising them. 

When had he prepared it, when had he signed it? How long had he been waiting for them to ask? Haarlep stared a few moments, utterly speechless, before their brain caught up with their tongue and they grinned back.

“... You really can never let me finish first, can you?”

Raphael’s smug expression melted in a rather satisfying mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and annoyance. “Well, if you’d rather not--” he began, and tried to reach for the contract, only for Haarlep’s foot to push him back into the seat.

“Down, sweetling,” they sing-sang, and took the contract to give it a good read. They went over every detail, rather enjoying the way Raphael squirmed into the seat every time they hummed or commented on what they were reading. 

“Uh-hu, I see... oooooh, I see. How very naughty. And what's that? Ah, of course. How many times a month? Well. Now that can be arranged…” Haarlep grinned, reading on and finally pausing on one of the last clauses. “Instantly lose my voice for upwards to a tenday if I try to reveal anything about our past or future sexual encounters to your mother-- isn’t that a little much? I have hardly let slip a detail or two this past half year. Well, no more than four…”

Raphael raised an eyebrow, utterly unimpressed. “Yes,” he replied. “I’d say it is warranted.”

“Oh, come now. I didn’t do it on purpose. It slipped whilst in innocent conversation.”

“There is nothing innocent about any of your conversations.”

“Ah, true enough. But you do so love me for it.” Haarlep blew him a kiss before looking back at the contract naming them, officially, Consort of the Lord of the Eighth. “... It seems a rather well-thought out contract. Of course, I have a few clauses of my own to suggest. May I?”

“By all means.”

There wasn’t much they wanted to add, truth be told; the contract was almost entirely satisfying, and only needed a few tweaks. The most important of which seemed to give Raphael pause as he read through the revised contract, with Haarlep still sitting on his desk, still naked. He hadn’t bothered to lace up his trousers again either… and what a pretty sight that was, really.

“This-- request of yours…” Raphael cleared his throat. “Every day seems… excessive. Once a tenday, perhaps--”

“Every other day.”

“Twice a tenday,” Raphael countered, and Haarlep hummed.

“Very well. Twice a tenday at a minimum, but I may request more,” they added, and grinned. “Come now, you had me say it for a long time before I even actually meant it.”

Raphael cleared his throat again, but he obviously had no argument to counter that. In the end, he only added an extra clause to specify he would only do as much without witnesses present; Haarlep found it a fair enough caveat. They took back the contract, looked at the revisions again, and grinned. “Oh, lovely. Pass me the quill, sweetling…”

Haarlep’s signature joined Raphael’s at the bottom of the contract, and the letters glowed brightly again before the contract disappeared in a burst of flame, to be stamped by Justiciar Tuncheth and filed away. Haarlep laughed, delighted, and leaned forward to grasp his doublet. They pulled him off his seat, kissing him deeply. He groaned into the kiss, and they smiled. 

“Twice a tenday, consort, ” they crooned. “And no witnesses whatsoever right now. Say it.”

Raphael groaned again, part annoyance but mostly arousal, before he did speak it in a whisper against their lips.

“I love you,” he said, the first time of many.

***

There is no time, in the Fugue Plane.

Yet somehow time is the one thing that there is, amidst the gray and the mist, the vague shapes and outlines of other wanderers. Everything is suspended in a single instant, no matter how far the march of time has gone in other Planes. 

How long the soul has been there, it does not know. It knows why it is there - death came for me - and it knows there was a chance to move forward, once. It knows it did not take it, and has been wandering since. Perhaps it could still take it, but will not.

I cannot, because there was someone and then she was no more, and she will not be on the other side either. They will not be there.

Sometimes, in the gray, there is a glimpse of the distant outline of the Crystal Spire, high above the City of Judgment. It seems to call to every soul. Time and time again, this one resists the call. 

It does not recall the name it held, in a mortal life that may have ended a long time or barely hours ago. It does not recall who she is, who they are, why would they not be on the other side. But it knows it to be true. It knows that there was a thought of following once, of going where it knew them to be-- it did know at some point, didn’t it? -- but never did. For some reason. There is a reason, there was a reason-- you’d forget everything about your mortal life, old man -- why it could not go after them.

Neither forward nor back, suspended in time, in the swirling gray of the Fugue Plane. Until on its path which is not path at all, someone blocks the way. Tall. Towering. Not another soul, but a fiend staring back through glowing eyes. A devil, this one. Sometimes they come to offer bargains. The soul knows it because… it…

The Hells. I thought of going to the Hells. But devils are not allowed to lie, not in Kelemvor’s domain, and they told me I’d lose all memory of those I knew in life. So I stayed. And I lost them anyway, because the mist is all that there is, outside and in my mind. Who are they?

“Mph. I didn’t think I’d find you. Dead almost two millennia, and never left this dump?” The devil tilts his head, crowned by massive horns. “Makes no sense to me.”

Two millennia. Something about that seems unreal. Has it really been so long, outside the mist? The soul looks up, too lost for words for a moment. It does not know how long it has been since there was any reason to let words ring out. 

“Do you-- know me?”

“I know of you. Lord Rahirek Starspire, warden of Three Peaks Vale.” The devil holds up something - a sheet of paper and upon it, a portrait. “Pretty sure this is you.”

If asked to speak its name or describe its own face upon meeting, the soul would not have known what to say. It could not recall the name, could not recall the face they wore… but now the name is spoken, a face unveiled.

His name. His face. He recalls both now, and finds he is not surprised. The knowledge was there all along; he only needed something to lift the fog.

“Yes,” Rahirek replies, almost in a whisper. “That is me.”

A grin, all tusks. “Good. I am here to extend you an invite, Lord Starspire, and to give you a gift from the new Lord of the Eighth.”

“Mephistopheles,” a voice rings in the back of his mind, weak, broken. Barely audible through the wailing of a child. There was a hand in his grasp, he recalls, and it was so cold. On a charred mattress was the squirming thing he could not bring himself to look at. A price paid. And yet she’d shielded it with a trembling arm, when he’d reached for his sword in his shock. “Lord of the Eighth. I made-- a deal-- so you’d-- come back.”

Dalah. Her name was Dalah. All that I loved in the world, and I never told her that. I should have told her. She should have known I’d have chosen a hundred deaths over a life without her in it.

“You serve Mephistopheles?”

A snort. “No. The archmage is dead. The new Lord of the Eighth is his son, Raphael.” A grimace, as though the name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “He said you might know him best as Israfel.”

Israfel. 

The memories flood his mind all at once; it is no slow realization. The fog lifts and everything is still there. “I do. He is-- was-- he was my--”

There is a word on the tip of his tongue, one that he refused to use for too long - until it was too late, until he lost any right to. He does not remember the word; but he recalls writing it, long ago, and staring at the drying ink for a long time.

In a different world, I would have been proud to call you my--

“... Ward," he hears himself say. “He was my ward.”

“Hhm, I see. Well, your ward has gone far, and wants you to have this.”

A box is placed in his hands, made of wood, the star-and-spire sigil on it. His family’s sigil. He recalls the box, and he recalls what he put in it so long ago, to be delivered to a boy much too young to be in the Hells. He stares a moment, something hurting at his very core, and opens the lid with a shaky hand. 

There are two things he recognizes, and one he does not. A lanceboard piece, the black king - a gift and a reminder, for his ward in the Hells - and a letter he penned himself… those he recognizes. But there is another letter, still sealed. Not his, and yet the seal… the seal…

The spire, rising up to piece a star. 

Rahirek stares a moment; he’d forgotten what dizziness even feels like, until just now. He is soul and ether, yet his ears are buzzing and his tongue feels too large. He takes the letter in hand, stares at the seal and then, finally, he breaks it.

He notices the penmanship before he recognizes the words; there is a memory, distant, of a boy of ten writing the same sentences over and over, taking his calligraphy practice very seriously indeed. Rehirek remembers looking over his shoulder, and chuckling. 

“Ah, I could never manage that,” he’d said. “My tutor had to forbid the old master-at-arms from training me unless I’d already filled at least a page for the day.”

Israfel had looked up, just a touch of annoyance on his face for being caught practicing something had not yet utterly perfected. “I’ll fill a hundred,” he’d muttered, “if it spares me the fencing lesson.”

“How come? They were by far my favorite thing.”

“I don’t see the point. I can cast spells. And besides, the master-at-arms doubts I'm ever going to be fit to hold a sword.”

“And my tutor doubted I’d ever be fit to hold a pen. My chicken scrawl would prove him right.”

Your mother used to say it looked as though a spider had crawled across the page after nearly drowning in ink. She insisted on writing my letters for me, lest a greeting be mistaken for a declaration of war, he’d almost said, but he hadn’t. 

He thought of her all the time, but rarely spoke such thoughts. He knew it would hurt, like barbs in his throat. So he kept quiet and, again, denied the boy any word of his mother. 

Not that he was aware; the annoyance had turned into a chuckle, and Israfel had resumed his practice. He’s kept practicing for a long time, Rahirek can tell now; the handwriting is impeccable, the lines opulent to say the least. 

He smiles weakly, the memory fading, and finally starts reading.

***

“Father? Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

“Ah, never mind, I see you’re--”

“I’m not busy.”

Ulder Ravengard, who was indeed quite obviously busy, immediately dropped his quill and stood from his desk. Standing in the doorway, Wyll found himself smiling. His father was many things: a warrior at heart, a disciplined soldier, and dutiful Grand Duke… but frankly, a very poor liar. 

“It is nothing urgent, truly. It can wait.”

“No need.” A hand on his shoulder, a nod towards the armchairs by the roaring fire. “Come sit. I was just about to have some wine.”

There was indeed a bottle of Thayan Red on the small table between the armchairs, although Wyll still suspected the just about had been supposed to be a couple of hours later. But he was never one to turn down a cup of wine, or time with his father, now that he had the chance again. So he nodded and sat with him, watching him pour the wine as he spoke. 

“Are you sure you don’t wish to marry in the High Hall? You saved the Coast. You deserve it.”

Wyll smiled. “It would be an honor, truly. But we’d prefer to celebrate in the Small Sun district,” he said. Truth be told it would probably be more than a little embarrassing, marrying in the high hall beneath a huge statue of himself alongside his companions. And besides, Karlach had loved the idea of celebrating with the people they’d pulled out of the shadows. He did too.

“I understand,” Ulder Ravengard was saying. “It is a lovely district. It was a marvel, how quickly they were able to build that up from the ashes.”

“I was told the Ironhand Gnomes lent… well. A hand.” Wyll thought that was hilarious, honestly, but his father did not seem to get the joke. He seldom did. 

“That they did. Without them and the Gondians, rebuilding Baldur’s Gate would have taken much longer.” He held out a cup, and Wyll took it. “Did the fitting go well?”

“Ah, yes. The outfits are ready, and thank the gods. Anything more than three words out of Mr. Pennygood’s mouth is enough to make me want to take a dagger to my ears.”

His father chuckled, and took a swig from his cup. “Yes, I believe Karlach was heard saying that either this would turn out to be the last fitting, or she’d marry in armor.”

“She also threatened to do that when Pennygood suggested a gown. I thought he’d just keel over and die at the prospect. An assistant had to bring him smelling salts.”

“Heh. To be fair, I understand her sentiment. I married in my armor myself. Duke Abdel Adrian found it amusing, but I was so very proud of serving as Blaze under him. He was an extraordinary man. Many Bhaalspawn are, for good or evil. But you found that out yourself.”

“That I did. I wish I got to know the Duke better. I was still a boy when he died.” Wyll drank some of his own wine and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cup in his hands. “... Speaking of that, there is something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time,” he said.

Ulder Ravengard blinked, a little startled by the serious tone. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Wyll cleared his throat, and looked away. “It is not a subject you speak of gladly.” It always pains you to think of her. You never blamed me for her passing, but even so… “I don't wish to force you--”

“To force me? My son, I forced you out of the city you saved.” His father spoke suddenly, reaching to put a hand on Wyll’s shoulder. He recoiled, and looked up. Even now, guilt was etched in every line of Ulder’s proud features. “I forced you, a boy, out of your home. I tried to force you out of my heart as well. The fact I failed does not make it a less grievous act.”

“You did not know--”

“The fact alone you still call me father is an honor I do not deserve. But I intend to.” A light squeeze on his shoulder. “There is nothing you cannot demand of me. So ask. I’ll answer.”

Wyll swallowed a lump in his throat, nodded, and spoke. “Would you tell me about mother?” he finally asked. He knew her name, and what she’d looked like; he knew how she’d passed, and he knew his father had loved her deeply, but nothing else. 

The question gained him a look of surprise at first, then comprehension, then something close to shame. “... I see. I never told you much about her. I should have, long ago. Yet another failing on my part.”

“You never stopped grieving. I know that. I am sorry if--”

His father cut him off with a gesture of his hand. “No, don’t be. Francesca was your mother. You should know more of her. I did you both wrong, keeping silent all these years.”

Grief had bound his tongue for a long time, but no more. He kept his word, and told him all about her - from the very first meeting, when she’d passed him by on the street and he’d turned, crashing into another Flaming Fist in a dreadful clang of armors, to her very last smile to both of them as he held a newborn Wyll in his arms.

Wyll had never seen his father tear up before, and for a moment guilt twisted in his stomach. But then there was laughter, too - more laughter than tears, and the guilt was gone. 

Ulder Ravengard told him all about the love of his life and Wyll listened, smiling, for a very long time.

***

Lord Starspire, I hope this letter finds you and, if it does, I do hope you’re as well as you can be after so much time in the Fugue Plane. In your last letter, you asked for my forgiveness. It is a bold thing to ask of any devil. I am not a forgiving creature by nature; it is fortunate, then, that there is nothing for me to forgive.  You need not ask forgiveness for calling me by the name my mother gave me - you may keep doing so, if you wish - nor for recounting similarities between us, or for keeping your distance in the first years of my life.  Given the circumstances, you had no reason to seek any sort of rapport with me, no obligation to so much behold me. You were under no obligation to keep me in your household at all, but you did and I never wanted for anything; I was clothed and fed, educated and looked after with more care than most of my kin ever get to experience. Even in the years you could barely stand my sight, I do not recall a single harsh word towards me.  Most in your position would not have deigned to provide as much even to their own bastard children - much less to a fiend’s offspring whose birth cost your wife her life. Most in your position would not have taken that same boy under their wing as you ultimately did.  Your lessons were more valuable than you can imagine; I cannot count the times your advice has kept me alive and thriving in the Hells. I plan to keep on thriving for a long time still; my sire is gone by my hand, and I rule from his throne. My mother, too, is here.  She is content, or so she swears, and I shall strive to keep it so. She is to never know servitude again. She does not yet know I have enlisted Yurgir’s services to find you; I know the chances of you not having moved on in all these centuries are few, and I do not intend to bring her hopes up only to crush them afterwards.   But if you were found and are reading this, know that I am extending my personal invite to join us at Cania’s court. You’d be a guest, your soul left whole, free to come and go as you wish. I would welcome the chance to see you again, and I’m certain that so would your wife.  I do hope to see you soon.  With warmest regards, Archduke Raphael, Lord of the Eighth.

“... Well? Are you coming or not?” The devil before him grumbles as soon as Rahirek looks up from the letter, eyes wide, a million questions stuck in his throat. “I need you to tell me. So I can fulfill my duty and go back to the Hells with or without you to collect my payment. Sooner rather than later. When deals with Raphael run long, they run really damn long.”

“I…” Rahirek pauses, not quite trusting his voice to work, and looks back down at the letter. An answer to his own last letter, after so long. When you visit we will talk about your mother, he’d written, but that visit never happened while he was alive. 

He knows he visited his crypt; he met Nan’s soul, the gods know how long ago, and she told him as much. 

It seems so silly that my heart gave out just as I embraced him, she’d said. I hope I have not given him more grief. He is still a sweet boy.

She tried to convince him to move on, before she did, but he refused, and in the end she had to continue on without him. He remained, aimless and losing hope, in the Fugue Plane. And now suddenly there it is, a second chance. Not to talk about Dalah but to see her, too. 

He’s long forgotten how to dream, but this he remembers dreaming of when he still drew breath, almost every night. But she remained beyond his reach; and after he died, beyond his reach she remained… until now. Rahirek Starspire looks up, and speaks in a whisper.

“Take me to them.”

***

“... So, yeah, it’s gonna be great to see everyone again. And get married, definitely the getting married part! I’m so glad Isobel is gonna do the talking because I bet I’d say something stupid. But, we’ve got a great part planned after, too! Barcus said there’s gonna be fireworks, hope I don’t have to be worried about that. Would kind of suck if the gnomes leveled the whole district the guys from Elturel have just built. Oh, and Danis and Bex opened the best cafe in the city there! I swear to the gods, best almond cakes I’ve ever had in my life. Almond Cakes from Avernus, they call it, but there was nothing like it back there. Kids are at the cafe all the time to steal a bite. And they’re going to take care of the food for the party! Danis and Bex, I mean, not the kids. As long as Bex doesn’t work too hard, with a bun in the oven. Heh, get it? A bun in the oven!”

There was no response but the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. The cemetery had been spared by the destruction that had befallen much of the city a year earlier; the dead, at least, got to rest in peace. 

“... Well. Anyway. I was going to take care of the drinks, but Lakrissa told me to let her handle it, so I’ll just trust her on that. And Dammon’s totally making something great, I heard him hammering away and he wouldn’t let me have a peek in the forge! Yeah, I think it’s gonna be great. Awesome. I can’t wait.” There was a pause, only filled with silence, and Karlach sighed, still sitting cross-legged on the ground. “... Wish you guys could be there, too.”

Before her, the gravestone remained silent. Two carved names. The last physical proof, other than her, that a very happy couple called Pluck and Caerlack Cliffgate had existed, once, in the Outer City. She felt a prickle behind her eyes, and cleared her throat. 

“Anyway! I bet you’d love Wyll. Not just ‘cause he’s the kid of a Grand Duke - yeah, who’d have thought? - but because he’s… amazing. The best man I know. Hells, the best person I know. I am so, so happy with him. And now we have years, decades! And… wherever you are, I hope you don’t mind waiting for me a little longer. If you are somewhere, I’ll find you and I’ll tell you all about the life I’ve lived out, I promise. And it won’t be a boring tale. It’s gonna be epic, really! And happy. Yeah, that most of all. I'm gonna be happy. I’ll make sure of that. I mean, how often does one get a second crack at it?”

Karlach put the flowers down before she stood. “Well. Time to get going. Still some shit to do before the big day. I’ll be back to see you after, I promise. It’s gonna be soon.” A sniffle, and she smiled. “Taters,” she whispered, and the breeze on her face felt almost like a caress.

***

“... Mother.”

“Ah, there you are. I was just wondering if you’d been taken hostage into another meeting.” 

Dalah chuckled, and put her book down. Reading was something she’d loved in life, but books were not something she had access to during her servitude - let alone in a language she could understand.

Almost as soon as she’d told Israfel as much, he’d excused himself briefly and returned with something in his hand - a book she’d had since she was a young girl, two millennia earlier. Precisely as she recalled it, as though frozen in time while by all logic it should have long since crumbled into dust. 

Rhymes from the Land of the Purple Dragon.

She’d taken it with her when she’d left that land, to marry a man she’d only heard of. Some were short plays, some more or less obscure poetry, and some were nursery rhymes. When Israfel had returned it to her, Dalah had smiled faintly. 

“My brother used to read these to me. Dramatic readings. He always made at least five different voices,” she’d said, amazed that she could still remember so much of her life, after so long. She’d flipped through the pages until she found it, the one she recalled best - the one she had murmured to her son as her life ebbed away. But he could not possibly remember that. Of course the book was how he had known of the rhyme.

The mouse smiled brightly; It outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, And that, Love, was that.

There was a drawing, too, on the blank part of the page - a cat and a mouse, as she recalled. The mouse was drawn crudely, as a child would… and indeed, she had been a child. Her brother had drawn a much better cat, although the back end was somewhat wonky and it looked more like it was looking at its own claws rather than about to strike.

But what caught her eye was something else that had not been there when she’d last seen the book: another drawing just above the cat and mouse, larger, as though watching over both. Drawn by the hand of a boy, she suspected, but surprisingly detailed - the head of a fox. 

She’d looked up, chuckling. “Did you add this?”

Israfel had cleared his throat, perhaps a little embarrassed. “Ah, I supposed I did. I was-- drawn to the rhyme.”

It was the only lullaby I ever gave you, Dalah had thought, but something ached in her throat and the words did not leave her. Instead, she’d looked back down at the drawings, and smiled. “I think,” she’d said, “that I have an idea for your next doublet.”

And he was wearing it now, sure enough, a subtle motif of cat-and-mouse in the golden embroidery up his arms, the outline of a fox in red thread along the front fastenings and the lower hem. Dalah had seldom been prouder of any work out of her hands… but now, it was not the doublet she focused on.

Something about Israfel’s expression seemed off. He seemed… not scared, nor worried, but tense. It was enough for Dalah’s chuckle to die down, and she stood. “Israfel? Is something the matter?”

“No. Nothing is wrong. There has been… a development.” He walked across the room, and reached to take her hands. He had never done such a thing before; she’d always reached for him first. But this time he held her hands, and looked her in the eye. “Half a year past, I sent someone to the Fugue Plane. To see if there was any chance to find Lord Starspire’s soul.”

Dalah did not need to breathe, but felt breathless nonetheless for a moment. She stared up at Israfel, part of her struggling to comprehend those words. Rahirek, in the Fugue Plane - within reach of her son? No, it couldn’t be. It had been… it had been…”

“It’s been so long.” She heard her own whisper as though from a mile away. “Surely, he…?”

“He never left the Fugue Plane.”

“And he’s been wandering all this time?” Her voice almost cracked; if not for the incredulity at the notion, she might have broken down entirely. “He’s still there?”

“No. Not anymore,” Israfel replied, and squeezed her hands before he spoke again, his voice quiet and yet filling the room, filling the world. “He is here.”

***

Rahirek did not know how long it had been since he’d last seen snow, and he found he could not look away. 

It was falling slowly outside the window of the room he’d been taken to. The room itself was warm, lavish; on the ground was a pool of steaming water, and the sheets on the bed were made of finer material than any he’d known in his life.

The devil who’d taken him had grunted when Rahirek had asked where they were. “The Starspire,” he’d replied.

“What…?”

Another grunt. “Raphael’s palace. That’s what he called it. Now wait here, and do not leave. I’m not responsible for whatever happens if you leave and get mistaken for an eternal debtor.”

He had left, then, ostensibly to tell the Lord of Eighth of his arrival. Lord of the Eighth, Israfel. He still could barely wrap his mind around the thought. He was a boy of thirteen when he’d last seen him. He knew he must have grown, of course, but in his mind he had remained that boy. Would he even recognize him if he saw him now? Did he still use that human form of his, did he still look like his mother in it?

Dalah. After the gods know how long, is it still her? Am I still what she remembers?

She’d been young when they’d met, only days ahead of the wedding; a woman grown, yes, but still a good deal younger than him, and sheltered. He had not asked a great deal about her - the marriage would be a matter of political convenience, a duty as his first one had been - but he recalled he did not much like how her father had described her more like a prize horse than a person. He’d even said something about good birthing hips; Rahirek had seen no point in telling him he was rather certain he was barren.

Her hips or even her face were of no consequence. He was a practical man, inclined to leave tales of love to bards; even so, he’d pitied her when he’d seen how young, and how tense, she looked upon meeting him.

He did not cut a reassuring figure, with his broad frame and the deep scar across his right eye - so he’d made an effort to soften his voice, and had remained well and truly on his side of the marital bed on that first night… and in all the nights that followed. 

She had been relieved, that first night… and then confused, until finally she had looked him in the eye and asked, before he could extinguish the oil lamp for yet another night. “Do I displease you, my lord?”

He paused, and looked back. “No, you do not. But I suspect you do not precisely harbor desire for me. Am I wrong?”

“I--” A moment of silence and she’d looked away without answering, as if afraid to anger him. 

She hadn’t. Instead he’d chuckled, and put off the oil lamp before leaning down, saying nothing more. He did not touch her any night that followed, either - but from that moment on her fear around him was gone, and the discomfort had begun to fade as well.

She’d begun to talk to him in the evenings and during the day, of the book she was reading or a song she’d heard, of the contents of a letter from an old friend back home - of little daily happenings in the fort he’d missed while out and about. Little by little, with the hesitation of someone who has been told time and time again that nothing out of her mouth is of much interest at all. That too had faded, because Rahirek had loved listening to her.

He could not pinpoint a moment he’d realized he’d fallen for his wife; it had simply happened over time. He did, however, remember the moment he’d realized she had fallen for him - when he’d felt her body press against him in the dark, nearly a year after the wedding. 

“I’m cold,” Dalah had whispered, and he’d nodded before saying that he’d fetch her another blanket. He’d returned to the bed with the blanket, only to find she had buried her face in the pillow, groaning, and the coin had dropped. 

It had made for a funny story to tell, but at the moment he’d felt rather stupid. And later, too, once she was gone. Had he told her he loved her? Had he told her enough times? Had he made her happy, where had it all gone wrong? 

There was so much he’d wanted to ask as she lay dying, so much he’d wanted to say, and no time for him to say anything. Now, he could not think of anything he could say. What could he say to someone who’d suffered the fate she did, for him?

“You should have never. My life wasn’t worth this,” he recalled choking out, grasping those cold hands, and he recalled the weak smile. 

“Yes. It is.” A squeeze of his hand, barely perceptible. Her voice taking a desperate note, trying to force out words even as the light went out in her eyes. He had to lean in to hear her words over Israfel’s wailing. “I love you, the gods know, I love you. I… I…”

The sound of the door slamming open snapped him from memory, and Rahirek turned with a start; his right hand went instinctively where he used to carry his sword long ago… and then stilled.

He had grown older since her death, and surely he looked grayer than she recalled him. But standing in the doorway, a hand on her mouth, Dalah looked everything as he recalled her: he dark hair and warm brown eyes, the slight build, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Later he’d learn that her nose had been broken, early in her servitude, and was left to heal on its own, leaving it somewhat crooked; right there and then, he didn’t even notice.

It was her , standing before him . And she was crying, tears streaming down her face as she stepped forward, slowly. 

“Rahirek,” she choked out, and her voice was the same too. “I’m so sorry--”

He did not think; his mind was blank of everything but the overwhelming need to hold her and so he did, crossing the distance between them in three strides and pulling her into an embrace - tight. 

Some part of him feared she’d vanish like smoke, or that some other devil would come snatch her away; no such thing happened. She was solid, warm, pressing her face against his chest and clutching his shoulders.

“You’re here,” she sniffled. “You’re really here. ”

“Dalah,” he managed, and it was the only word he could push out before words failed him.

What have they done to you, how have you been?, he wanted to ask, but words failed them both, and they just held on crying for what felt like a very long time indeed. 

Dalah pulled back first, reaching to stroke his face, brushing off tears. Her own face was wet. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t bear the thought of a world without you in it.”

“It was pretty damn empty without you, too.” He swallowed, cupped her cheek. “I kept thinking of accepting some devil’s offer to come to the Hells, to find you. But they told me I’d forget everything if I did. I’d have forgotten you. I couldn’t do that.”

“You shouldn’t for a moment have considered coming to the Hells for my sake.”

Rahirek tried to laugh; the sound that came from his mouth sounded more like a sob. He leaned in to press their foreheads together. “Oh, look who’s talking,” he managed, and Dalah sniffled. 

“Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Another sniffle, and she pressed her hand against the back of his, still cupping her face. “Israfel told me you raised him. He told me you were kind.”

“Israfel-- is he truly Lord of the Eighth? Is he here?”

Dalah smiled, pulled away for the first time to turn to the door. “... I know you’re still there,” she called. Her voice still shook, but did not break. “He wants to see you.”

There was a moment of silence and then, finally, steps. A shadow fell on the doorway; the outline of two pairs of horns, wings, a tall frame… and then, finally, the Lord of the Eighth stepped into view.

When he’d last seen him Israfel stood at his shoulder in his fiendish form. He recalled the pair of secondary horns had just begun to grow out; even so, his horns were still such that he could have passed himself off as a tiefling, if he hid his wings under a cloak. 

The creature towering over him was unmistakably a devil, head crowned by massive curved horns. But the skin was the same shade of red he recalled and the eyes, those eyes of molten gold--

The Lord of the Eighth met his gaze and, after a moment of stillness, and bowed his head. His expression betrayed no emotion. “Lord Starspire,” he spoke, with the voice of a man grown. At his neck, something glinted - a locket. His locket. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to--”

Rahirek moved without a word, without a thought. Two strides closed the distance, and then he was pulling him into an embrace; it was his head now that barely reached Israfel’s shoulder, but it did not matter. He closed his eyes, thought of the million things he’d wanted to tell him when he’d been taken. Yet in the end, only two words found their way out. The only ones that mattered.

“My boy,” he choked out. “My boy.”

He felt the sharp intake of breath - surprise, perhaps - before the slow exhale that followed. Israfel didn’t move, not at first. Then Dalah was there, too, arms wrapping around them both - and at last, slowly, Israfel returned their embrace. 

It was only the three of them in the room; no one else to see, no one else to hear, as the Lord of the Eighth allowed himself to shed tears at last, in the arms of two mortal souls who could not bring themselves to let him go.

***

[Back to Chapter 41]

[Back to Start]

[camelspit]

I heard you’re reading the graceling series? Which one are you on and do you like them? I’m on winterkeep (when I eventually get to it)

Im on winterkeep as well! Tbh im not entirely sure how I feel. They just seem really... long? For not much happening. Bitterblues def been my favorite so far! :)

[beaulesbian]

Thoughts and more thoughts about the potential of Rob Lucci after chapter 1111 - spoilers and theory

(disclaimer: this might be totally implausible and not at all what could happen, but it's something that's been on my mind since last chapter, so here are my thoughts on this. again, very long post ahead, I don't know how it keeps happening)

The way Oda allowed Lucci to feel during chapter 1111, is something I didn't expect to find so intriguing, and it points to how much depth really has each character in this story.

There is a subtle change of certain aspects of Rob Lucci's personality since the start of Egghead, and in the chapter 1111 even a bigger focus is on his reaction to meeting Mars Gorosei and asking for Kaku to be spared.

Given this swept away answer with seeing whom he's been serving all this time, there could come a realization that'd sort of wake him up. There's a potential to somewhat turn power of Cipher Pol agents from blindlessly following the World Government. To stop being the WG's shield.

It's very probable the story might deal with the reform or even collapse as a whole of the World Government - especially since the Gorosei are currently Luffy's main enemies. With that, the Cipher Poll intelligence could play a significant part of it as well, along with other moving pieces like the Revolutionary Army, Shanks, Luffy's fleet or even Morgans and his newspapers, and, of course, the Strawhats.

There's been comments of readers who only saw Lucci and Zoro's fight as one dimensional - one has to win, the other has to lose, and comparing points and skills without really diving into their respective characters - thankfully Oda knows those characters and knows how to make the story interesting and compelling. Where before I hoped we would get a follow up about the words directed at Zoro, instead Lucci was given more space for this chapter.

Where one would hope for Zoro to win and move to other parts of the island with the Strawhats, we instead stayed with Lucci and him witnessing Mars in his full on demon form - something that even Lucci was shocked to see.

Those two pages were such incredible moments for Lucci as a character who serves fully the Gorosei and the World Government in first place, yet! Yet! In the last part he's on the page, he's allowed and shown to be worried and caring for someone else than himself- after arcs and arcs where he appeared here and there just carrying out on orders and missions without seemingly caring about anyone to much depth before, he's given space to actually express the concern regarding Kaku.

Of course he's still this same of bloodthirsty killer, just like in Enies Lobby, (ch. 382),

both his immediate fight upon seeing Luffy on Egghead, and later against Zoro paints it clear what he's capable of.

Rob Lucci is regarded as one of the strongest assassin's in the Cipher Pol agency CP9 (and later with higher rank of CP0). Just reading his wikia to remember more moments, the section about his personality is mostly compiled of traits like cold-hearted, agressive, and especially taking the Wold Governments meaning of Justice into brutal heights, thinking all is allowed to accomplish his goals/missions/orders.

There's his past and how he has been trained by WG to do as they told him, or even go to length which he wasn't even ask to do, but knowing his position as assassin he did as he wanted.

By the end of Water 7 and leaving to Enies Lobby, where he preteded to be friends with Iceberg, Paulie and other shipwrights for 5 years, he didn't show any regrets leaving the place (contrary to Kaku, who seemed to really enjoy his work as shipwright and is sometimes shown really excited about new places and such)

Up until the chapter 1111 I mostly took him as someone really dutiful to follow orders through and through and not gave it much more thought beside that, but it's true that this already started to shift around chapter 1062, when we see Lucci, Kaku and Stussy on their way to Egghead Island:

"They want us to eliminate the most useful man in the world..."

"The last thing a man as keenly perceptive as you should be doing is looking for answers." (says Stussy, a double agent working for Vegapunk, lol).

I wouldn't call it distrust in WG, yet. At this point he was still adamant about following the mission to kill Vegapunk. But maybe it's more visible that he's thinking more about such orders and their consequences.

He fights Luffy immediately after setting foot on Egghead, calls it as it is in wanting to defeat Luffy and destroy his whole crew without any pretense (and maybe that honesty was why Luffy took his word for their brief cooperation in fighting Seraphim). ch. 1076

He says this honestly, yet after the Strawhats and Vegapunks are healing later on, Lucci still tries to attack Vegapunk, ch.1091

Once knowing Kizaru appeared too, Lucci returnes back to finish his mission, he strikes at Vegapunk again - unsuccessfuly because Stussy takes that attack, and Zoro pushes him from the lab and then keep him occupied until the latest chapter 1111.

And that is a big part of him, eyes always on the mission - get information to his bosses, to Navy/Saturn/Gorosei/Kizaru, and keep his enemies occupied or better yet - dead. This thinking was always present with him to this point in ch. 1111, and that is from where it could lead to even more nuance in his future decisions:

The first time seeing Mars in his demon form there's that blink-and-you-miss it expression of pure horror, hinting that even the highest ranking agents probably had no idea just what the true nature of the Gorosei looks like, and that a sight like that can pull this expression from Lucci:

After that brief shocked state, he goes back to immediately report all informations he has on Vegapunks, Strawhats, even their plan of escape, as well as mentioning the other Cipher Pol agents, trapped in the Lab:

then there's this panel, "well done. no further questions.":

which reminded me of very similar words Lucci said to Robin in Water 7, ch. 348: "you've fulfilled your role. good work."

Maybe it's not intended as parallel, but just that similarity of something he's been clearly hearing from his higher ups, that he added it to his own vocabulary.

But then there's this more surprising part of ch. 1111:

After his shock of seeing that monster in front of him, and after giving Mars all the informations, he still finds the strength to ask him to spare his partner's life, to save Kaku:

What he gets as an answer is along the lines of: "it might be difficult when everyone to us is like ants" and that's the last of Rob Lucci for this chapter.

Mars seem to share this same thinking like Saturn expressed before, while the navy guy heard that even the life of an CP0 agents isn't something Saturn (and Gorosei) would really be troubled over, if lost.

and hearing that from Mars could be an eyeopening moment for Lucci.

They're assassins and an intelligence agency of almost the highest standing among the World Governement, but even the lives of Kaku and such seem to mean nothing to the Gorosei.

The point of the current anime episode 1098 where Lucci & CP0 were just arriving on Egghead reminded me how he was asking Vegapunk about the missing Cipher Pol agents and their disappearances, ch. 1068:

It's not that he was only concerned about Kaku in the latest chapter, but since the end of Water 7 - and seeing how his crew cared for him to pay for his medical bills (cover story chapters 491 - 528, manga only, which is very interesting that the anime didn't adapt that cover story), I think he started to care more about "his own people" - the Cipher Pol agents in general - even to visit to their "hometown" while he was healing and defended that place (and the new young trainees) from the Marines who were sent to attack CP9 after their failure at Enies Lobby:

So the question is.. once Lucci saw just who he was serving all those years, the World Government and the Gorosei - and now seeing Mars in his bird monster form disregarding any care for any lives, even their own agents - will that be a tipping point for him?

He asked Mars to spare Kaku but got an answer that all of them, Cipher Pol agents even on the highest places, are still the same as insects in the eyes of the Gorosei

Could that be something that will help him make a certain change?

My possible theory of what he might do/what might happen (given that he still has the strength to walk after his fight with Zoro):

Find Kaku himself - he was trapped in the bubble like the other Seraphim - we don't know if anyone else un-trapped him in the meantime, and Lucci himself doesn't know about the bubble prison, given his flashback to Kaku is just him laying down, as he last remembers that from the Lab.

Sanji said to Kaku that Lucci abandoned him - something that Lucci kept taunting Zoro with during their fight - about the inability to sacrifice one from their team for the greater good. (It could mean that Kaku either wouldn't count on Lucci coming back, but it would work even better if it was shown Lucci actually coming back for Kaku

and they could go finish their side mission of rescuing the other Cipher Pol agents -

and that's another thing -

even during that brief panel of their rescue -they were thankful to Luffy! Despite their positions of agents of Government, which puts them always directly opposing pirates/Strawhats/Luffy, they appreciated and thanked Luffy for giving them food and saving them, ch. 1090

This together I feel could become a moment of all these agents realizing that Luffy isn't their real enemy - or wake up from their WG brainwashed thinking once they see just who is outside fighting: Gorosei in their monster forms vs. Luffy

I think that Rob Lucci stands there now as one of the few who could sway the Governments power to a tipping point from the inside.

Not precisely helping Luffy or Strawhats, but taking that power of the intelligence agency away from the WG and Marines.

It was shown in multiple pages how the Gorosei care more about the rank and position than any lives of their trained assassins, and think of them as something to be disgarded left and right.

Their intelligence agency and assassins act as a Shield to the WG, and the CP0 even carries that in their name: AEGIS, (a powerful shield from greek mythology).

If the other agents would follow Lucci in a different direction, he could be the one to take away that shield from the Gorosei, uncover one of the layers that act as their security, leaving them more exposed and vulnerable to future attacks (possibly from people like Dragon and Revolutionary army when the time comes for them to strike).

[regrator-the-ninth]

Just updated my pinned post because the previous version was very outdated. If whatever fandom you followed me for isn't on the fandoms list anymore, I probably won't be doing art or writing for it in the foreseeable future.

[meezer]

I knitted a lot today while listening to the heart of darkness audiobook. but this means I have not had a lot of leisure time and time alone... time to p3r

[lairn]

Book 6/24: Before They Are Hanged by Joe Abercrombie Rating: 3.5/5

The series continues! I don’t think I have a lot new to say about the second installment, as stylistically it’s similar to the first. The balance issues from The Blade Itself are absent, which is good. The mystery of the first book is also absent, since part two answers most of those world building questions but does not add many new ones. That sense of mystery was a big motivator for me during the first book, so while I appreciate getting answers, this read felt slower. Again, there’s a sense of putting some of the pieces in place for later in the story (the Bayaz crew’s whole journey) but Abercrombie helps pass the time for these characters with some fun adventure sequences.

The political intrigue remains my favorite element, which means looking forward to Glokta chapters most. It took a while, but I was glad to see Ardee again. I think she and Glokta will make an appalling and interesting team. Still not many women in general and one of them gets fridged, but Ferro leads in a healthy share of the chapters.

I find myself enjoying these books but not enamored by them. But simultaneously I’m so impatient to start the third book. I think Abercrombie instills confidence in me that the overall experience of reading all three will be rewarding.

[stars-captain]

The writer we need in DBD Is Harry Mason.

[katsu28]

summer's golden haze - chapter one

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: a small town somewhere in beautiful greece, early morning coffee runs, and the cute boy that you keep running into. (4.8k)

warnings: sort of shy!reader, a bit of swearing, lando being both smooth and a little awkward

a/n: series masterlist coming soon :)

“That guy is totally checking you out.” 

You reluctantly drag your attention away from the truly addicting pasta you’d ordered to meet your friend’s gaze across the table, slightly suspicious, but also a little curious as to what she’s talking about.

Samira is grinning knowingly at you already, mischievously, like she’s got a tasty bit of information you don’t know about. Probably not tastier than the food in front of you, but your interest is piqued nonetheless. 

“What guy?” You sigh, giving into your curiosity quite easily. She arches a perfectly sculpted brow at you, then tilts her head to the side discreetly, and you follow her gaze towards—

Oh. That guy. 

You saw him on your way to your seat at first, a group of four guys sitting a few tables away in the same patio area of the restaurant, drawing your attention even before you’d sat down. Artfully messy brown curls swept up out of his face, thick dark brows framing bright eyes crinkled with laughter at something his friend had said, you’d felt yourself growing conscious of the man’s existence with just one glance. 

And then his gaze had flicked to your friends passing his table, but more importantly, your own gaze, and you’d nearly stumbled on your own feet.

Your cheeks had grown hot at the intensity of his stare following your path to your seat, not to mention the embarrassment that had flooded your veins at the thought of nearly eating shit in front of this very attractive stranger. 

Had you grown the nerve to look back at him at the time, you would’ve seen his lips quirk into a goofy grin, as well as all the shoving he’d gotten from his friends as they’d caught wind of his unabashed staring. 

Now you’re almost done with your meal, and you could swear you’ve felt him looking at you plenty more times. Not that it mattered at all, because your eyes have been firmly glued to your food and your friends only. 

Okay, so you might’ve hastened a few covert glances over in his direction too, but he’s been chatting away to his friends every time, so maybe you’re just making nothing into something. 

“Don’t even try to hide it, you’ve been making eyes at him too, girl,” Your other friend, Maren, pipes up, elbowing you in the arm playfully. The last of your girls, Camille, nods her agreement, smiling gleefully. “He’s hot.”  

Right, so perhaps not as covert as you’d thought. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” You reply, spearing another piece of pasta through your fork. You’re kicked under the table at that moment, hard enough to warrant the whine that escapes your mouth. “What?” Now you're met with three pointed glares your way. “Okay, fine. Yeah, he’s cute.” 

“Go talk to him!” 

“Go flirt with him!” 

“Absolutely not!” You exclaim. Your voice comes out louder than you intend and you duck your head quickly, worried you’d disturbed the peace of the quiet area. “He’s probably got a girlfriend already or something.” 

“If he does, she better dump his ass because he's been giving you fuck me eyes all damn night.” 

“No, he has not,” You hiss, which only gets you yet another look from them. You’re starting to get tired of all these looks, actually. “Has he? I mean—are they? Fuck me eyes?” 

“Oh yeah, he—” 

Camille clears her throat, cutting Samira off. “No, they’re not,” She assures you, placing a hand over yours. “He’s been smiling every time he looks over.”

“Maybe he’s looking at one of you guys?” 

“He’s definitely been looking at you.” 

You bite your lip, nose scrunching skeptically. You haven’t really been the subject of any guy’s attention before, let alone one as handsome as this one. You’ve learned it’s better not to get your hopes up when it comes to certain situations. This seems like one of them. “Are you sure?” 

“If I’m wrong, I’ll give you back your share of the villa rental.” 

“Can I get that in writing, or…?” 

Before any of them can come up with a smart remark, a plate is placed into the center of the table, on which is a large square of baklava, light and flaky with that sweet, sugary filling spilling out the sides of the piece that almost makes your mouth water. You’d seen it in the dessert section of the menu earlier, but had decided against ordering it in favor of trying an appetizer instead. 

“Oh, excuse me? We didn’t order this,” Maren speaks up, looking up at the waiter. 

He does a half turn, sweeping an arm in a vague direction. “It is from the gentleman in the blue shirt.” 

You follow his gaze, and fuck, your heart skips a beat in your chest, because it’s him. It’s the same guy you’ve been drawn to all night, and he’s actually looking right back at you this time. His hand comes up in a wave, then back down to his side almost immediately, like he’s worried about it seeming too eager, before settling with a reserved nod. All the while, he’s still got that smile gracing his face that makes your stomach flip flop. 

“He sent over a dessert?!?! I am so keeping that money, girl,” Camille hums, picking up her fork to dig in while Samira and Maren voice their agreement. 

You, on the other hand, well…you’re not sure what to think. You appreciate the gesture, but you're also confused. Why did he send something over? What did he want? 

It doesn't occur to you that he’s truly taken an interest in you until you're huddled outside with your friends talking next steps of the night. Whether you want to keep exploring this new place, or call it a day and go home. You’re firmly on the latter’s side because you're tired. But you’ll go along with whatever is decided. 

The guy and his friends have coincidentally left the restaurant at the same time as you did, judging by the sudden commotion that erupts behind you. Like a moth drawn to a flame, your gaze lands on him yet again, only this time, you actually lock eyes with him. Something jolts through you, something electric up your spine like a tiny shock. Something you’ve never felt before. You shove the foreign feeling deep down, no matter how much you’d like to explore it. 

He looks away, teeth sunk into his bottom lip to quell the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and you avert your wandering eyes too, before anyone else notices. Evidently you’re a little too slow, because all three of your friends catch on instantly. 

“Go talk to him already.” Camille says matter-of-factly. 

“No, I—what do I even say?” 

“Maybe hello would be a good start?” 

You press your lips together, unimpressed, and you get a snicker in return, something about how you're not asking for his hand in marriage, you’re just trying to make conversation. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to him, it’s that you’re not exactly sure how to approach it. You’ve already convinced yourself of the worst, but to possibly have it play out in real life is a tangible fear of yours, and always has been. 

One of your girls (you’re willing to bet more money it’s Maren) gives you a not so gentle shove towards him, as does one of his friends over in his group. Now you’ve got no choice. You meet each other in the middle, just looking at each other for a few moments. It’s awkward and you have half a mind to turn and go, but then he speaks. 

“Hey,” He says. 

“Hi,” You reply shyly, shifting on your feet nervously. He shoves both hands into his pockets. He looks a bit nervous too, which does a significant wonder to calm you. “Thank you for the baklava. It was delicious.” 

“Yeah, of course. Glad you guys liked it. Figured you can’t go wrong with a classic.” He bobs his head, shoulders creeping up towards his ears in a shrug before dropping back down. “I’m Lando, by the way.” 

Lando. It’s not a name you’re expecting, but it suits him well. 

He sticks his hand out almost instinctively, like he’s been conditioned to do so. Maybe he has, considering the aura of professionality it gives off when you do shake his hand. 

His palm is smooth and warm against yours, long fingers curling around your hand like the sincere smile that curls his lips as you tell him your name in return. Dimples bracket his mouth on both sides. 

The handshake almost lasts a little too long for two people who’ve just met literally a few moments ago, as does the way his eyes linger upon yours. 

Even in the dark of the night, illuminated only by the warm glow of the lamps above you, you can see him much better up close. His sunkissed skin does little to hide the flushed pink on his cheeks that travels down to his chest, disappearing under the generously unbuttoned blue linen. You feel exposed under his intense gaze, looking back at those mesmerizing eyes. Blue, green, gray—maybe a mix of all three, you’re not sure, but you can’t help but want to figure it out. 

Then you remember that you don’t know this guy at all, and it brings you back to reality. 

“Lando, like…the guy from Star Wars?” You ask. It breaks the invisible tether between the two of you and he smiles, laughs a little bit too. 

He shrugs casually. “Not according to my mum and dad, but I do get that a lot.” 

“You must get tired of hearing it from people then.”

His head tilts to one side, smile going endearingly lopsided. “Depends on the person. Like, I didn’t mind when you said it just now.” You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just smile, and he takes your reaction in stride, moving on. “Are you guys from around here, or…” 

“No, actually, we’re—um, we’re just here on holiday.”

“Oh, same! Yeah, we’ve been here a few days now, it’s been great. Is this your first time in Greece?” He asks, smile turning warm. You nod. “Have you checked out the local market yet?”

“Can’t say we have yet, no. We just got in the day before last, so…still figuring out our footing first. But I’ll keep it in mind, thank you!” 

Lando inhales sharply, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Hey, y’know, if you want, maybe we could—” 

“Oi, Lando! Let’s go, mate!” 

He glances back over at his friends, one of whom is waving for him to return to his group rather wildly, before turning back to you. Whatever he was about to say is lost now, because he shrugs loosely. “Guess that’s my cue,” He sighs. Then his gaze softens, smile turning a little hopeful. “Will I see you around again? Small town and all.” 

“Uh…I dunno. Maybe, if it’s meant to be.” You have to try with all your might not to take the statement back, even though you really, really want to. 

If it’s meant to be—who the fuck says that? Like fate has anything to do with this miraculous interest Lando seems to have taken in you. If you were him, you’d find your words quite off putting. Instead, he smirks, crooked and cute. 

“Meant to be,” He repeats, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Yeah alright, I’ll take my chances. Have a good night.” 

You bid him a soft goodnight, barely able to stifle the giggle that spills from your mouth when he nearly trips over the cobblestones on his way back to his friends. He’s awkward, you think, but still confident. It’s cute. 

Lando stays rooted in your mind the rest of the night, all the way up until you’re lying in bed, waiting for sleep to take hold of you. It’s weird to think this much about a guy you’ve just met, a guy who you’ve only had one conversation with and have left things up to chance in terms of seeing him again. 

-------

You’re the first one awake this morning, roused from your sleep by bright sunlight pouring through the window, even through the curtains. Contemplation of going back to sleep crosses your mind, but it’s no use. You’re up now, so you might as well make the most of your early morning. 

You love your friends dearly, but some alone time sounds like heaven right about now. There’s a coffee spot not far from where you’re staying that you remember seeing on your way in that seems like a perfect match to your solo walk, so you head there. You’ll be a nice friend and bring coffee home for when they eventually wake up too. 

After dropping them a text letting them know you’ve gone out, you set off. The walk back into town is short but serene, a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of your daily lives, and a reminder of why you’d all decided to vacation in this particular region of Greece in the first place. 

Someone calls out something that sounds like your name before you can step into the shop and you pause, casting a glance around to see if your ears might be playing tricks on you. You’ve only been here a few days, and the only other person who knows you other than your friends is…Lando. 

You squint a little harder to see through the glare of the sun, and lo and behold, there he is, hands linked behind his head. The grin that lifts your face is almost embarrassing, or would’ve been had Lando not been so eager upon seeing you wave at him. 

He’s clad in athletic shorts and a cutoff tee that shows off muscles you’re trying your very hardest not to stare at as he makes his way closer, curls tucked away in a baseball cap pulled low on his head. Headphones dangle from around his neck, and he’s panting, chest rising and falling heavily very clearly once he’s stopped in front of you. 

“Hey, good morning! I thought that was you,” He breathes, attempting to catch his breath. “Early riser too, I take it?” 

“Honestly, not usually! The sun decided I would be today, though, so…here I am.” 

“Here you are. Guess it was meant to be then, huh?” He chuckles, reaching up to flip his cap backwards. If you thought he was tan the night you met, he’s even tanner in the sun, bronze skin stretching over sinewy muscle that flexes as he sweeps a hand through his hair before tugging it back down in one smooth motion. “Doing a coffee run?” 

“Yeah, I’m the only one of us awake at this hour so I figured I’d bring them back a little something.” 

“You’re a saint. I’d let my mates suffer if it were me,” Lando snorts. 

You shrug. “Guess that’s the difference between the two of us.” 

“Yeah?” He hums, looking amused. “What else is different between you and me?” 

“Well, first of all, I would never be on a run at eight in the morning. Is someone punishing you, or is this a self-inflicted torture type thing?” 

That gets another laugh out of him, shoulders shaking with mirth. “Gotta keep in shape or my trainer might try to kill me with workouts instead.” 

“You’re an athlete?” You pry, intrigued. He looks the part, you think. Lean but not skinny, strong but not massively built. A runner, maybe? 

Lando freezes a split second, rocks from foot to foot, scratching at his nose. “Kind of, yeah.” 

“What’s your sport?” 

“Uh…golf. It’s more like a hobby than anything else.” 

“Golf,” You repeat, an amused smile poking at the edges of your mouth. “Can’t say I know a thing about it.” 

“Oh, it’s definitely something else, for sure. Super intense stuff, really grueling.” His words say one thing, but he’s grinning like he’s pulling your leg, lip pulled between his teeth in that same way as last night, nose scrunching adorably as he bobs his head quickly to further sell it. 

“Sure, if you say so. But d’you think your trainer would get mad if you cut your super intense training short to grab a cup of coffee with a friend?” 

You’re almost expecting him to say no, but Lando perks up instead, eyes crinkling happily at the corners. “Not at all. Shall we?” 

Over coffee, you find that Lando is an excellent conversationalist—funny and a good listener, an even better storyteller. He asks about you without seeming pushy or prying, and because of that you feel yourself relaxing a bit in his presence. Opening yourself up to the possibility of a good thing with him, no matter how short or fleeting it may be, whether it’s friendship or something more. 

A few weeks of summer in a place you've never been with a boy you don’t know is the time to be a little bolder. Chances are you’ll never see Lando again after this trip, so why not loosen up just a little bit? 

It’s only when more people start to trickle into the shop and you start to notice Lando’s eyes shifting over your shoulder more that you realize you’ve been here with him for a while now. And judging by the dozens of missed calls and texts from all three of your friends on your phone when you go to check it for the first time since you’d left, you’ve been gone a lot longer than you said you’d be. 

You know them well enough to know that they’re not above calling the local police to send out a search party for you if you don’t find your way back soon. 

“Friends wondering where you are?” 

You nod, sending a quick message that you are indeed alive and not kidnapped like they feared, before tucking your phone away again. “Guess I better get them their coffees for sure now, or else they might not let me back in the house.” 

“Lemme buy it for them,” He offers sincerely, offering you a lopsided grin. You shake your head rapidly at the suggestion, but he continues, “I’m the reason you’ve been gone so long, the least I can do is buy them drinks. Call it an apology for making them worry, yeah?” 

“You really don’t have to, Lando.” 

“I know. I want to,” He insists, looking truly genuine. First dessert last night, now coffee today. You have half a mind to push back a little more, but you get the feeling Lando is as persistent as he is handsome, so you taking a firm stance on something like this seems like a moot point. Giving in, you nod, and he mirrors it, looking proud. 

He lets you take the lead in reciting your friends’ orders once you’ve made your way back over to the front counter, stepping forward with a hand to the small of your back to pay for the drinks before you have any bright ideas to pull one over on him and pay for them yourself. 

The barista smiles politely, pen hovering above a cardboard cup. “And a name for that?” 

Lando casts a furtive glance around the area before leaning in and saying his name quietly, as if he’s worried he’ll run into someone who he doesn’t want to see. You notice, but don’t really pay it any mind. You understand far too well not wanting to talk to someone you're unprepared for. 

Soon enough Lando’s got the drinks in hand and you’re back outside, and he’s smiling again. You’ve noticed he does that a lot when he looks at you. You’re sure you’re the same way with him. 

“My mates and I, we’re planning on having a little barbeque at our villa tomorrow night. You should come,” Lando says encouragingly, tilting his head to the side. When your brows raise in surprise, he hastily adds, “And your friends too, obviously. We’d love the company.” 

“Ah! Um, I dunno. Wouldn’t wanna crash your thing.” 

“You wouldn't be. Seriously, come hang out. We’re fun, I promise!” 

“I just—I forget if we’ve got plans, that’s all.” You’re not lying when you say it, you truly forget if you’re free tomorrow night. Most of it stems from your awful memory, but a small part of it attributes to how your brain kind of stops working properly around Lando. 

“Right, well, you figure that out, and if you find you’ve got a free evening,” He balances the drinks deftly in one hand, the other fishing his phone out of his shorts pocket and swiping at the screen briefly before holding it out to you, “text me, let me know.” 

You’re not sure where you find the boldness to tap your phone number into his contacts, but you do it with confidence, saving it under your name and a smiley face. 

“Cute.” Lando smirks, chuckling as he sends a simple hi so you've got his number too. “Now, I believe these are yours, and…maybe I’ll see you tomorrow? If it’s meant to be.” 

You smile at the mirroring of last night’s words from him as you situate the cardboard tray in your own arms. “Maybe.” 

The smile hasn’t left your face even by the time you arrive back home, because you’ve been thinking about Lando the whole way. For a stranger you’ve met only yesterday, he’s sure been occupying a lot of space in your mind. You aren’t entirely sure how to feel about it. 

You’re already prepared for the berating you’re about to get as you close the front door behind you carefully, making your way to the kitchen.

“Where the hell have you been?” 

You look up to see all three of your friends sitting around the kitchen table, and none of them look particularly happy. You smile innocently, holding up the cardboard tray of drinks up as a peace offering. “Coffee?” 

“It better come with an explanation.” 

Nodding vigorously, you dole out each drink to your friends. “It does, I swear. I didn’t just disappear, I ran into—” 

“Hold the fuck on. Why does this say Lando? Why is that man’s name on my cup—” 

“Oh my god, you did not get coffee with him without telling us!” 

“You bitch!” 

That’s how you end up telling them the whole story—running into him in town, talking for ages, and that brings you to your next point. 

“We don’t have any plans for tomorrow night, do we?” 

“There’s the vineyard tour in the afternoon, but that should end around five. Why?” 

“Lando invited us to a barbecue at his villa,” You say quickly. That gets their attention immediately, all of their eyes widening in the same shocked looks. None of them answer your question though. “Is that…something we’d be interested in?” 

Samira is the first to snap out of it, mouth curving into a playful smirk. “Invited us, or invited you?” 

“Definitely just her.” 

“Whatever! Do we wanna go or not?” You grumble, doing your best to fight the grin threatening to overtake your face. The thought of him wanting to spend time with you brings you a teensy bit of satisfaction. 

“Of course we’re going!” 

After they’re done poking fun at you, you’re able to take a moment to top out a quick message to Lando. That barbecue invite still up for grabs? 

You're not expecting an immediate answer, but your phone dings with a text back before you even set it down. 

Lando: Of course. Plans fell through? 

You: seems like you’ve really made an impression on my friends 

Lando: Not sure whether to be scared or flattered…

You: your guess is as good as mine! we’ll find out tomorrow :)

Lando: Brb gotta go call my lawyer and update my will 

“You’re texting him right now, aren’t you?” 

You look up from your phone to see Camille leaning in the doorway to your room, a soft, knowing smile on her face. “Yeah, he—uh, he says he’s looking forward to meeting you guys again.” She comes to sit beside you, looking like she wants to talk about something. You set it aside, head tilting in a silent question. 

“Do you think you’ll stay in contact with Lando after we leave?” 

“I’m not sure. Haven’t really thought about it all that much, to be honest.”

If you do think about it, you haven’t even known Lando for more than a day. You’ve only just met him yesterday, seen him twice, one of which was completely spur of the moment. So what if that spur of the moment encounter was the most connected you’ve felt to someone in a long time? 

You don’t know him, and chances are, he’s not looking for anything serious. You don’t even know if you’re looking for anything serious. 

“It’s okay if you want to.” 

“I shouldn’t want to,” You say. It feels like you’re trying to convince yourself more than anything. You look to Camille for an answer, but she just pats your hand. “Right? I’m never gonna see him again, so I shouldn’t get attached.” 

“You don’t know that for sure, do you?” 

“I guess not. It feels scary, though. Opening yourself up to something when you don't know what’ll happen.” 

Camille hums, a placating, even comforting sound to soothe your worries. She’s always been pretty good at getting you to see the brighter side in things. “There’s fun in that too. Being spontaneous, surprising yourself. You never know, Lando could be just the thing you need, the one you didn’t know you were looking for. And if not, you don’t have to see him again. A win-win, I’d say.” 

She leaves you alone to your thoughts after that, left to ponder what exactly it is you want. It might be stupid and entirely over-optimistic of you, but Lando has already pulled you in. You’re not sure what it is about him. He makes you want more, want to know more. 

Whatever happens will happen, and if things don’t work out…well, Camille is right. You never have to see Lando again. 

His name flashes across your screen later in the night, right before you’re about to go to sleep. You’ve been texting back and forth all day, but this one is different. He’s video calling you right now. 

You stare at his name for longer than you should, finger hovering over the answer button a few beats before pressing it. His face pops into view once the call connects. Like you, he’s sitting in bed, leaned up against the headboard, cozied up in a soft looking jumper. He looks like he’s moments away from drifting off, but he called you, so he must want to talk. 

“Hi,” You say softly. 

“Hey, you.” He smiles, warm and sleepy and all squinty in a way that makes you want to crawl through the screen and tuck him into bed with a kiss to his forehead. “You must be tired.” 

“Eh, I’m alright. Why?” 

“‘Cause you’ve been running through my mind all day.” 

You let out a wildly unappealing snort of laughter at his poor attempt at a pick up line. “That’s terrible! Oh my god, that was awful, Lando, seriously.” 

“No?” His smile grows giddy, shoulders shaking with his chuckles. “Yeah, it was pretty bad, wasn’t it? Got you laughing though.” 

Conversation falls into the same easy nature as this morning, like you’ve known him for ages. He makes you laugh until your ribs hurt, smile until your cheeks feel the same. It still amazes you just how comfortable you feel around him, as someone who usually takes a while to warm up to people. 

Maybe you should take it as a sign. 

A jumble of muffle voices offscreen some time later makes Lando squint. “Hang on, I’ll be right back. Don’t hang up. ” He lets the phone drop onto the bed, checking once to make sure you’re still there before disappearing from sight. 

You hear his footsteps fade, then more voices you can’t quite make out. Someone laughs off in the distance, and then he’s back, resituating himself with the remnants of an amused grin on his lips. 

“Everything okay?” 

“My mates are yelling at me to turn off the light, so I’d better go,” He sighs goodnaturedly, lips turning down into a frown. Then he yawns widely, and you realize how late it’s gotten since you’ve picked up his call. Losing track of time when you’re talking to Lando seems to be a recurring theme. “I’m glad you’re coming tomorrow.” 

Your breath catches a little in your chest, both at his words and the way he’s looking at you through the screen as he says it, nothing but genuine. “Me too.” 

You’re starting to think this whole try not to get attached thing is going to be much harder than you thought. 

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Ahem, if I may impose.... Directors commentary?? 😁😁

YEAHHH lots to say abt this one

i know rule number one is don't point out the flaws in ur own work but i have to confess. i forgot to add hair highlights to this entire update. i didn't realize until i had already queued up the posts and i could not bear re-exporting and color correcting every page again. so i just let it be. it only kills me a little bit. they rlly add something y'know

i haven't seen a whole lot of comments about this to the point i worry i didn't do a good job of conveying it so: Loft's dream at the beginning is about ganondorf.

Loft has, in fact, chewed his nails to bits.

i'm gonna be so real, part of the delay for this update was bc my brain got so stuck on the logistics of where that damn bookshelf would go

korok bookends :D

i like to think the story of the hero of time is actually mostly an oral tradition on Outset, or at least that's how Gran Gran first told Link and Aryll the stories when they were children.

i worry a little bit about these 'lore recap" updates, bc like. I'm assuming you've played the games, or at least know the gist. but I feel like there's a few stories it's important for us to see Loft's direct reactions to, and the conclusions he draws from them, because it'll be important to his actions later. I try to make up for it by at least making these sections visually interesting HAHA i think this is the last major one though

on that note: I hope this comes across on its own, but Loft finishes Gran Gran's story himself because he's just realized the flood was sent by the gods, and not some external force of evil. he's also realizing that this is not the first time the gods have been willing to wipe the slate clean in the absence of a hero, and that it's actually something of a pattern. it runs up against his idea of how Demise's curse is meant to work. this is one such mystery mouseketool we'll use later.

also on that note: regardless of ganondorf's actions, i find it significant that the gods chose to destroy a man whose people suffered in a droughted desert with,,,,a flood. that thought was the conceit for this update

Loft has seen this play out in his dreams, but obviously doesn't fully know the context. also I'm gonna refer to this version of zelda as Sheik. he uses he/him pronouns thank you :-)

just wanted to show some closeups of the stained glass bc. i worked hard on them HAHA + the grayscale wip

i was really hoping this chapter would be done. last year. it was meant to be a chance to slow down for a second before the plot speeds up 😅 but we're nearing the last few updates!! thank you all for bearing with me <3 life has been kind of insane and extremely discouraging irl, so getting to post these updates and seeing you all enjoy them has been a real bright spot <333 special thank you to my patreon supporters bc. seriously it has helped more than you know.

i think that's all ive got for now! see you next time, hopefully sooner than 4-5 business months

[pedgito]

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↝ ANYWHERE BUT HERE (1.8k words) — Joel Miller x reader

Summary: A poor damsel in distress, saved by the most unlikely of man.

↝ ABSOLUTION (Ongoing Series) — Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Moving in with your soon-to-be stepfather under the roof of his brother, Joel, ends up being a turning point of change in your life.

REMORSE FOR REMEDY (Ongoing Series) — Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Alone, the Miller's brothers seem like your only hope. The outbreak is still fresh, weeks after the fall and all that matters is survival and the unlikely comfort that comes along with a man who wants nothing to do with you.

BONUS (+ other characters):

TWO IS BETTER THAN ONE (9k words) — Tommy x Reader x Joel

Summary: Both the Miller brothers have a thing for you and you have a thing for them. They give you an ultimatum and you don’t like that. So, instead of one, you choose both.

BITTER, TASTE. (14k words) — Joel x Reader x Tommy

Summary: A moment of desperation and a kind gesture leads you down an inescapable path alongside two brothers and a town with a nasty secret. (mini series masterlist found here)

MOUTHFUL (2k words)

Summary: Joel finds the perfect way to keep you quiet while he showers you with compliments.

CHANGE (7k words)

Summary: Joel hates change, but you introduced the idea that letting someone else take charge isn't always bad.

PRIMAL (5k words)

Summary: Joel's itch to hunt has became a yearly traditional between you and him.

DRIVE (5k words)

Summary: Joel doesn't have a Mrs. but he does have a sports car.

LINGER (7k words)

Summary: Your postcards become a personal journal during patrols with Joel.

UPDATED: 2/3/2025