#all vampires are kitty cats. to me.

[aquarines]

truly thee helen of troy of vampires

[faunandfloraas]

lion....

[msflora-lynn]

Rating the fanbase of every Primarch & their legions.

This is my opinion, I love all of you ㅤ♡ྀི ₊

Lion'El Johnson & Dark Angels fans (8/10): I like the fanarts they make, also 100 points for portraying Lion like a rouge kitty cat sometimes. Oh I also like how the Lion fans are embracing the 'our primarch is obviously neurodivergent and we love him for it'

Fulgrim & E.Children fans (10/10): This part of the group always produce the best fanart?? Or at least a lot of artworks for E.Children in general. Though browsing his fanart must be done with caution cause 20% chance I might see schlongous or booty.

Perturabo & I.W fans (8/10): I'm sorry about your favorite character. Not many of them are around though :( But so far their fanart production have been solid. I like how they kinda just chill and embrace the 'neurodivergent manchild' persona for Bo and makes no attempt to refute it.

Jaghatai Khan & W.Scars fans (8/10): Surprisingly not many of them. I'm kinda bummed out about it since I like this character. Though his fanarts are mostly adorable! They're always chill, I'm happy to see them on my feed -`♡´-

Leman Russ & S.W fans (7/10): I would rate it 8/10 but I hate stimky wolf grrrr so -1 point (msflora found dead in fenris more at news 6). Anyways fanart-wise, they're so good!! I like how they always draw Leman like a scrunkly lil guy. I also love to read their fanfictions.

Rogal Dorn & I.Fists fans (6/10): WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE?! I CAN'T FIND YOU!! I RATE IT LOW BECAUSE I'M SCRAPING THE GROUND FOR ROGAL DORN CONTENT! But in all seriousness, loving how they embrace the 'fortify' meme. I don't like the weird Black Templar larpers from twitter, but that's just a 1% of the fanbase

Konrad Curze & Night Lord fans (8/10): Your fanfictions scares me, most of the hashtags are nowhere written in the bible, but I read them all so who am I to judge. I love how this side of the fandom just embrace the 'we are bad and disturbing and creepy' schtick and go ball. I blame this side of the fandom for making me love Jago Sevatar tho.

Sanguinius & Blood Angels fans (10/10): Insane artworks from this side of the fandom, always impress me. A lot of vampire and angelic stuff, I love you guys. Sorry about your primarch tho.

Ferrus Manus & I.H fans (all six of them) (7/10): I'm sorry about your primarch, I'm sorry he get crumbs in the lore. I rate it low because I'm scraping for any IH/Ferrus content here....

Angron & World Eaters fans (8/10): Loving the contents you guys made here! A lot of red, so many red, oh god. I'm sorry about the sinking ship of Argel Tal x Kharn though.

Roboute Guilliman & Ultramarine fans (9/10): Spoiled, well-fed, their favorite guys have insane plot armor and I'm jealous >:(. Keep the bulky half-naked Rob fanarts coming tho I have them all liked & downloaded.

Mortarion & D.Guards fans (6/10): I do not like Nurgle stuff so I rarely go there... But my god most fanfictions yall made for Mortarion x reader is heartbreaking. Rating it low because I get scared of some fanarts they make, but pre-heresy Mortarion is kinda baddddddd👅

Magnus the Red & Thousand Sons fans (100 Tzaangors/10): We are so cool and awesome, not a biased rating. In all seriousness we Tsons fans r eating GOOODDD this year (thx SM2). Though we suffer from a disease called 'inconsistent writing of our favorite primarch's power levels' and it's not getting better.

Horus & L.Wolves fans (9/10): Guys I understand, Horus is big daddy, a father, he's an icon, you guys made it clear with the abundant of breeding tags in your fanfics. Sorry that the way he's corrupted into chaos is kinda bootycheeks tho :( Wishing they explore more into his corruption.

Lorgar & WB fans (Where Are You Guys/10): While being small, they make the best artworks for Lorgar. Questionable fanfic tags, but I love yall regardless. They kinda eats with all the Word Bearer fanarts tho I've seen. Sadly, Erebus is from here and everyone hates him.

Vulkan & Salamander fans (8/10): I would like to pet them. In all seriousness I'm happy to see the majority of Vulkan fanarts are created with African features in mind ♥︎!! Everyone from this fanbase are cute and sweet!!

Corvus Corax & RG fans (Birds/10): I love all the raven aesthetics often seen in their fanworks. Corvus having wings is so cool, and often I see amazing OCs spawning from this legion.

Alpharius Omegon & A.L fans (What are you guys doing/10): I can't find much about them but I fw with the entire 'we dont know what our primarch is doing so we just ball it'. BUT HEY CONGRATS ON YOUR PRIMARCH COMING BACK!!!

:3 And I love all of you... Thank you for reading this nonsense of a post.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Logan Howlett Masterlist

Pancakes - Summary: Who knew pancakes would make Logan realize he loved you?

Thigh lover - Summary: Logan is just obsessed with your thighs.

Kitty - Summary: You tease Logan over his cat like hair

Moments in time - Summary: Rogue gathered a collection of candid pictures and videos of you and Logan that shows a glimpse of your relationship.

Chronic Migraine Relief - Summary: Logan takes notice that you've been missing and he goes to find you, then he tries to take care of you once he does find you.

Your order - Summary : Logan always knows you

That damn party - Summary: Wade thinks he's Marvel's cupid

Claws cum out - Summary: SMUT Logan's claws come out when he cums (I never write smut so this might suck)

4+1 - Summary: The 4 times you make Logan flustered/ get protective of him and the 1 time he gets protective of you

Chronic pain - Summary: The reader has chronic pain; how does Logan help?

Sleepless nights - Summary: Logan is a heater 24/7

Marry me? - Summary: Logan loves you in his leather jacket, if only he emptied his pockets more often.

Angel Eyes - Summary: There's just something about him

Cat parent! Reader - Summary: The reader owns a cat that is a little too much like Logan; can he get along with the cat for you?

He can't be that animalistic... - Summary: The reader can read animals minds, so why can you read Logan's mind all of the sudden?

Logan vs Spice - Summary: The wolverine cannot handle his spice

It will come back - summary: Logan warned you not to get close to him and now he's obsessed

Purrs - Summary: Logan purrs during cuddles

Nail biting - Summary: You bite your nails constantly but Logan might be able to help

Almost - Summary: Logan feels guilty for loving this version of you

Logan's girl- Summary: Jean has feelings for Logan's girl, Logan overhears her and gets jealous. (Jessie's girl song inspired)

Helping out- Summary: Logan always assumed you got your hair done, when he comes home to you dying your hair he wants to help out

Too Strong - Summary: Logan's girl is just too strong for her own good. He starts to panic over her mutation

Vamp 1 - Summary: A vampire becomes the newest recruit for the X-men, It's love at first sight for Logan (reader is a vampire)

Vamp 2 - Summary: You don't have to sleep. Usually, it gets boring, but now you can take care of Logan when he needs someone (reader is a vampire)

Bad at feelings but deep in love -Summary: He doesn't know how to flirt, he kind of just watches from afar. You try to flirt, but you stumble over your words. Is there hope for two fools?

The break up - Summary: He just left, you want answers. (reader is a skilled assassin)

Clingy- Summary: Logan is clingy after losing so much

Be my good girl- Summary: Logan has the reader sitting on his lap and he starts to bounce his knee while you're talking to Al at Wade's party

[luveline]

If you’re doing requests could you do KBD during Halloween?

uncle Eddie makes sure Steve has the perfect costume. mom!reader

Steve smiles at himself in the mirror. Wren, in his arms, smiles back. 

“We look handsome,” he says, lifting her so her face is level with his own. “I look handsome. You look beautiful.” 

“Hi,” she says. 

Steve turns down to her. “Hi, baby.” 

Avery climbs onto a chair and waves at the mirror. Her fairy princess dress is shiny blue. “Hello.” 

Beth climbs onto the chair after her, wrapping her arms around Avery’s shoulders. “Hi!” she says, force of her greeting sending her pirates hat careening to the floor. 

“Are you ready?” you call from upstairs. “Everyone still has their shoes on?” 

“Dove doesn’t,” Avery says. 

“Tattle!” Dove cries, a picture of fury in her kitty cat onesie, her glued-on whiskers twitching fiercely.

“Well, you don’t.” 

“My toes are warm,” Dove whines, thrusting herself at Steve’s legs. “Daddy, she’s telling on me.” 

“I know, and now you’re telling on her. You’re my little band of tattle-tales, I don’t love it.” Steve smooths along Wren’s face with his finger and takes in a breath big enough to fill his lungs. “Can you let Beth put your shoes back on?” 

“No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

You fit Dove into her shoes and get the kids to the car. Four car seats is tough work but nothing you can’t handle, and you’re still in chipper spirits when you arrive at the Munson house. It’s decked out in cobwebs and great big spiders made of tinsel and bendy framing, carved pumpkins leading up the steps with fleshy teeth and candles unburned in their maws. Wren gives a comical gasp when she sees it all, a tad scared but quickly soothed when you pretend to be scared too. 

Beth races up the steps first to knock. 

The door opens a slither. 

“Who goes there?” a dark voice asks. 

“Uncle Eddie, it’s me!” Beth says quickly. Her excitement again sends her hat to the stone patio beneath her cons, but she doesn’t notice it, vying to squeeze through the door and see her favourite uncle. 

“I don’t know any Me’s. You’ll have to come back another day, I’m waiting for my very favourite troupe of little girls.” 

“It’s BETH!” Beth shrieks, “Come on!”

“Bethany?” Eddie pushes the door open, unsurprised when Beth throws herself full force into his legs. “Why, you look dastardly. How very scary of you! You have a parrot!” 

The fake parrot glued to Beth’s shoulder waggles. 

“His name is Sherbet.” 

“Wow.” Eddie gives her a hug, his eyes blowing wide over her shoulder. “Oh, wow! Ave, you’re a princess with wings! And Dove, meow.” He grins at Steve. “And your dad is what, Frankenstein’s monster? A zombie?”

“Dad doesn’t have a costume,” Beth says happily. 

“Are you sure?” 

Steve encourages Dove over the threshold, four wrapped plates of sandwiches and finger foods balanced in the other hand. “That’s not funny. What are you supposed to be, anyways?” 

“I’m a vampire, duh.” Eddie slips a pair of fake fangs into his teeth. “I vant to suck your blood!” 

“Ew, Uncle Eddie,” you say. 

“Don’t think you’ve escaped me, second favourite Harrington,” Eddie says, frowning as you slip around him. “You owe me a hug.” 

“Creep,” Steve says. 

“With pride.” Eddie takes the plates from his arms and somehow, the Harrington troupe makes it safely indoors, no further costume parts fallen nor lost. 

There are more people here than Steve expected, Eddie’s friends, their kids, even Eddie’s elusive boyfriend sits out in the open. 

“What are you supposed to be?” Dove asks him with a grin. 

He turns his head to show a painted bite mark on his neck. “Victim.” 

“He’s a dead guy,” Eddie tells her, helping her where she’s struggling to sit in one of the barstools. “Alright, babe, dad said last year we partied too hard, so here are the ground rules. No pixie sticks, no soda, and no climbing on the kitchen counters. If you follow these rules, I am being allowed to give you a Hershey bar the size of your dad’s massive head. Deal?” 

“How big?” Dove questions suspiciously. 

Eddie goes to the cabinet. Inside, there’s more candy bars than one person should ever have purchased in one go. He pulls out a huge one and holds it nexts to Steve’s head, laughing when Steve bats it away. “Huge.” 

“Dad, dad, can I go play with Milly and Joe?” Avery asks. 

Steve was hoping she would. “Sure, baby. Good manners, okay?” 

Avery whizzes off to find Gareth’s kids. Beth stays by Steve’s side and he forces himself to believe that it’s him she wants to be with, not Eddie. “You don’t wanna go play?” Steve asks her. 

“Not yet.” 

You appear again where you’d been missing with Robin in tow. Steve grins at the sight of her, though he’d spoken to her on the phone last night, and seen her the day before at home. “Buckley!” 

She’s wearing a black dress with a belt and her hair is teased into a short cloud. “You aren’t wearing your costume?” 

Steve moves Beth around unthinkingly. “Yeah, it still smelled like vomit. Wren had too much yoghurt. Rob, you really look like Madonna. Your makeup is–”

“It’s trippy, right?” Eddie asks. 

“Mora did it. It’s like, face sculpting.” 

“It’s weird.” 

“I like it,” you say, Wren on your hip giving an agreeable gurgle. “I like your real face more, but this is cool.”

“And where’s your costume?” Eddie asks. 

You frown down at your nice dress. “You can’t tell?” 

Eddie falls for the trip in your voice and attempts to backtrack, only realising that you’re kidding when Steve laughs. 

“The baby got sick on both of us,” you say, turning Wren so everyone in the kitchen can see her face. “But that’s okay. She’s so cute, she’s forgiven. Aren’t you, gorgeous? You didn’t mean to eat all that yoghurt, daddy just kept feeding you.” 

Steve holds his hands up in surrender. “I feed her every day, I know how much yoghurt she can handle.” 

“Clearly not,” you croon, shooting him a loving smile. “You did save us from those awful costumes, though.” 

“Oh, worry not,” Eddie says, “I figured something like this would happen, and I’ve prepared.” 

Awesome, Steve thinks, groaning as Eddie takes his wrist into his hand and begins to pull on him. Knowing Eddie, Steve’s end up dressed as a demon with giant horns, or a fairy. 

The reality is much, much worse. 

“Hey, look at that! It still fits!” Robin laughs. 

Steve looks down at his little sailor’s uniform and sighs. “Barely,” he says. 

“Say the slogan!” you demand. 

If it were anyone else, Steve would refuse, but you’re sitting at the breakfast bar with Wren tucked under your chin, so he takes a deep breath and straightens his white hat. “Ahoy ladies,” he sighs. “Would you like to… uh, set sail on this ocean of flavour with me? I’ll be your captain, I’m…” —his voice drags reluctantly— “I’m Steve Harrington.”

[bruciemilf]

Logan being a father because my brain will physically melt if I don’t talk about him:

— Hates pop music; He puts up with it when Bobby blasts it at full volume in his car because he’s a weak worm of a man for the kid’s puppy eyes.

— Realized he was humming “California Girls” in the middle of a supermarket and had a silent panic attack in the dairy aisle.

— Kitty and Jubilee definetly watch trash vampire/werewolf tv shows and Logan “subtly” watches with them. Takes about 10 walks through the living room. Stands next to the couch with his arms crossed like a scarecrow. “I’m just grabbing something from the kitchen.”

— Is either super chill about everything or extremely unhinged. No in between. “Hey I’m gonna hunt down and fight Sabertooth because Jubilee dared me to”

“Have fun. Be home at 9.”

“Also,,, Ive been thinking of getting Tinder—“

“Are you fucking insane.”

— Logan is smart, okay? He is. It’s just that teachers have a TALENT for making parents completely confused with their math. He’s been staring at Laura’s paper for 20 minutes trying to recognize this formula. Nothing.

— “They did NOT have this when I was a kid.” “Yeah, we kinda progressed from sticks and rocks, Lo.” “Shut up, smartass! This is ridiculous! MATH IS MATH!”

— The kids texting Logan: [literally the most unhinged thing you’ve ever read in your life]

— Logan: 👍

— He FEELS when one of them needs a nap. He’ll pretend to sleep on the couch (Logan never, ever sleeps in open spaces, not if he can help it, not if he can’t trust.) and Laura will burrow under his hoodie or shirt like a baby cat.

— Bobby likes to simply jump on him. Especially from behind, for piggyback rides. He has no idea why Scott always looked so flabbergasted and surprised. And slightly afraid.

— Jubilee won’t admit it, but, she likes holding his hand when they’re walking down the street. Even if he always fixes her collar and tells her to straighten her shrimp posture.

— kitty falling asleep on Logan’s shoulder on the jet is something that can be so personal. Logan who absolutely hates flying but will shut up and let his half pint nap on him all she wants :((

[themareverine]

God Laughs | DoFP!Logan x fem!OC

synopsis: 'I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word." So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, the only thing that would keep any of them alive.

warnings: time travel elements, AU, pre-established relationship, some angst, a big age gap due to time travel, a little angst, unedited, will do later, PG-13. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

a/n: happy thirtieth birthday to me. 🎉🥂i am sorry this is so long, but i'm actually not, and this fic has been taking up space in my brain for like a month and a half. please enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | TAGLIST🏷️ let me know if you want added!

Time in the ether is both cold, and slow. 

Being alive 200 years leaves Logan nowhere near shortchanged when it comes to dreams. Really the only peace a man who cannot die—a living weapon—finds is sleep, walking in and out of dreams. Digging graves to bury secrets, the horrors of living. Phantoms of his living moments, somehow though, manage to follow him into REM, into the colorful, twisting pictures of dreamstate—they rob him of purest joys. Highest highs. Through their boneless fingers he falls, time and again, even in his sleep—some nights, he doesn’t even rest. Barely breathes. Just wrestles with the things his mind shoves into dark recesses during daylight, vampires bleeding him dry. 

And much like the nightmares that find him as he fitfully sleeps, the ether between time is equally harrowing. A scythe that cuts slow and deep, through certainties and everything humans, once, thought they understood.

Nothing in the world like it, slipping through the sands of a timeglass—lives already lived, time already elapsed. Unable to fully blot from the universe moments already bled, God Himself, Logan is sure, laughs—laughs as he chases moments, daylights. Nights. Stretches of time in the bend of space the Almighty must just chuckle at. No more than a mouse chasing reward, trapped in the grand scheme of an oversized cat. 

He’d jumped through the waters of time before. Drowning in pain, his body fighting to stay alive and knit together when travel would otherwise viscerally rip apart.

Logan supposes it is not far removed from shaking a bottle, a tornado of contents spinning together to form some perfect union of chaos and beauty, bouncing off walls and wholly contained within units of matter. Hurricane on steroids, rushing to find somewhere to land, but in no hurry to do so all at the same damn time.

That is what the ether feels like—a hurried state of asystole, neverending, that somehow doesn’t seem to mind at all. And Logan has never felt more intimate, precise pain than he does here, filtering through time and space—everything hurts. Whitehot fire that laps at his spine, racking every thought, every movement, every cell with the finest, knife-edge agony.

Like a blacksmith’s hammer beating to life creation from the hottest flame he burns, beat into oblivion while slowly knitting together something that resembles signs of life. 

 “Need you to do this, Pryde.”

Kitty had an overwhelming ability, he knew. Taxed her to the point of soul crushing. He’d rocketed through time, balancing in her hands, times before—and some part of him always felt her during the process, guiding and sifting his moments in the past through careful, graceful hands.

Truly gifted, Logan understood this was not a bowl of cherries request—he knew it would shave years off her life, steal heartbeats she’d never get back. Days of recovery, horrors of readjusting back to the present. Not a light lift for either of them—as he was ripped apart only to be stitched back together in a younger, former life, she was there, with nobody to put her back together as strain and pain played her like a drum. 

And as painful as it was, Logan knew Kitty—she would die for things like this, consequences be damned. Young and reckless, she’d skipped through the folds of the time space continuum for less than what he was asking, but one’s own desires were another thing entirely. Couldn’t fault her for that. If he were able to rip open the universe, go back to former days, well—he didn’t know. So many nightmares, so many phantoms.

Logan wasn’t even sure if he was whole, anymore. 

“And you’re sure you wanna do this, Logan?” 

Cigars had never tasted so flat, so sour. Maybe if he rolled it through his fingers harder, it would shapen up. But nothing could change the broil in his gut, the ripple of consequences hanging out on the edge of history. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, this thing God had gifted. To ensure his future, the future of Charles Xavier, had never felt so—so cold. Dead. Excruciating. 

So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. And then the voice of reason, a cherubim amongst thieves. Stealing minutes, ripping away time none of them have. Light in a universe of darkness, his sun. Adonis to his Icharus, Aphrodite to his eternal, cold war—she’d looked as if the world had stopped, and in a way, it was not far off. His world had stopped spinning, their world. Threatened to collapse. 

“Kitty, we have to. We need to–if we don’t, we don’t have this conversation.” 

No other conviction necessary. Decided, on a whim—on the bleeding edge of should we? they’d made a plan. Go back decades, retrace steps already taken. Cool trails already blazed. Forge new irons, cast new stones—do everything to ensure this moment, this moment that cannot be barren, paralyzed. Do what God commissions, what heaven allows.

Follow me, Logan. 

A bed of stone had never felt more like a grave, and the very idea sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Like a seance, candles burn in the darkness—easier for Pryde. But in some twisted way, Logan finds it fitting—fitting, this supernatural undertone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wishes it were light. Prays for morning, for the innocence of blinding daylight streaming through open windows, the fresh bounce of sun on his skin. Something about this being dark, tucked under the earth, feels eerie. Backwards. Graven.

Man was not meant to live in the dirt, but to die there—man was not meant to venture alone. 

I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word.

Pain in his chest had ripped him from the cool ether, snapped him awake in an arctic sweat. Pebbled with goosebumps and twisted in damp sheets, he’d ripped off the layers of blankets with gusto enough to carve canyons.

Rousted from apparent sleeping arrangements, the world swims as he attempts to scrub life back into his face—to feel. 

Parts of him were still sorting themselves out deep in his tissues, Logan could almost count his cells unscrambling. Never would he wish the kinesthetics of memories sorting themselves into brain matter on any man, enemy or otherwise.

One thing was painfully clear from the jump, a branding iron seared into the folds of his brain—her face. Her features. Every moment spent together, every sweet nothing she’d ever said. Honey salve on gaping wounds, he could smell her. Taste her, even in time.

It’s the one memory that doesn’t need sorting, that seems welded into his biology, his very being—her.

Her face, her name, her laugh. More a part of him than he’d ever know, he carries her in the low of his spine, a simmering heat that starves. A man could die, aching for a woman like he burns for her.

Aching in memories that feel foreign in this body, like dreams. But they are more real than he’ll ever confess—more real than sunlight or air, than scripture etched into faraway stones. The song of the world, the prayer of the universe.

Logan had never believed in soulmates—until fate had split him down the middle. He’d never known he was missing part of himself, until he’d tasted her goodness. Her sweetness. Her beauty and strength and insecurity that had fallen through his fingers like butter.

Time is his enemy, and there’s very little room to reminisce. That comes later. Much, much later.

Her presence a grounding rod to the now and here, excitement pistons through him like a locomotive. Logan wasn’t around in this period of her life, decades ago. He’d met her years after—in the blossoming glow of things to come. He can only fathom where she is, what she does in the twilight years of knowing him—of better, safer years.

Often he catches himself, watching her march through the days of their life together, wondering where she’d have gone, who she would’ve become if not for him. What better she’d have done in the world, what good she may have accomplished beyond his tether. 

Never lasts long, though. He mauls the high fantasy of letting her leave. Crushes the beastial part  of him that warns she’s better off without him, navigating life alone. Safer, whole. Selfishness always catapults his justifications, his rationales. She stays, she’s yours, and nobody else gets her. Just the way it is, and he’d worked hard to ensure it. Logan wears enough blood to fill a reservoir—blood she’d helped him spill. Lives he’d taken for her. The cost for her was higher, atmospheric—he’d rob hell to pay it, even today.

And in a way, he isn’t far off. 

Thoughts of her send him buzzing with a little thrill he hasn’t known since boyhood, pulses his brain. Windows in this room are his stage, daylight a rapturous, blinding audience that sparkles with anticipation. He breathes and feels her, somewhere, in this universe.

There’s a presence, an energy— the world is alive with the promise of her, things to come. He doesn’t know how, perhaps it’s cosmic, built into the foundations of God’s creation. Or maybe it’s divine, maybe supernatural. Maybe just biology. Whatever it is, it tastes sweet, pulses through him like a live wire strung tight on five thousand molten-lava volts. 

A groan slips through streaks of daylight crisscrossing the floor through floor-length, heavy curtains. Logan all but springboards from bed, about-facing with the poise and grace of a fighter much younger than himself, heart racing. Somehow he manages self-control—the claws don’t come. Instead, his arm draws back into a fist far quicker than he remembers, almost sending him off balance. His arm—it weighs next to nothing. 

Mind spinning, he remembers. Adamantium—no adamantium. It’s a foreign, blissful feeling. At this point in his lifetime he hadn’t been cursed with steel bones, hadn’t been ripped apart to be stitched back together into whatever atrocity hell had born across the earth. Hadn’t been anyone’s lab animal, a plaything. That would come, he imagines—and briefly, Logan wonders if he’ll remember this feeling. If it will crop up in memories when he returns to his time, when future Logan is put back in time, and this is all but a dream. 

It doesn’t matter—assumptions come to a burning halt when blonde hair flips from beneath the covers of his former grave, his resurrection site. Blonde spirals of curl, muffled from obvious extramarital affairs, spill over milky skin. A hit of perfume hangs out beneath his nose, but it’s seared like a branding iron with the familiar, unmistakable scent of sex. Orgasm rides the air like it’s a jet plane, and very quickly Logan can’t breathe.

Thoughts spin through his brain, a kaleidoscope of horror and shame and confusion, watching his bedmate rise into a stretch not all that far removed from a cat.

He doesn’t remember this. Oh, fuck, not even a little. His future self’s mind pistons for any recollection, any silver cord of remembrance of who she could be, but it comes up blank. Distressingly blank, pitifully void. A blackhole of lust and perverted nothingness, his stomach hollows. Pitches up against his esophagus. And Logan isn’t a man to easily toss his cookies, but—he’s not far off. His dick numbs as she glances over her shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” voice heavily tainted with sleep, his feet suddenly burn with the itch to move. Get the hell outta dodge. Eyes scout the room quickly, picking out pieces of clothing he can only pray belong to this version of himself. “It’s early, if you’re hungry I can make breakfast—” 

Unable to think of anything —get the hell out of here, Logan, “—no!” It’s more of a bark than it is an answer, and he bristles, fingers swiping at the discarded pants hanging out on the floor by his feet. Wrangles into them in time enough to split atoms. Hiking them up his legs, he works the belt, tongue suddenly thicker than winter molasses as it attacks his back molars, trying to raise some moisture in the Sahara his mouth has become. 

He doesn’t miss his bedfellow flinching, though. Her shoulder shifts a little sharply in reaction, and he curses himself. “Girls are sensitive creatures, Logan,” years from now, she’s suddenly so there in his brain matter. Cascaded by the sun, rapturous in white. He can feel her against his ribs, her smile cutting paths through territory unexplored in the dark chambers of him, “Be careful with us, love.” 

Spiraling blonde curl and bare shoulders say everything that clothes don’t have to, and he’d laugh if this wasn’t the most depraved thing he’d ever felt crawling through his gut, clawing like it’s hell. Future him remembers wandering through these mirages of life—mindless fucks, one-night stands that get him off, little more than cold graves of satisfaction. Briefly he wonders what the fuck, what happened to him. Once detached, now he’s tethered to starlight, stars to which he breathes to revolve.

Fingers burning, weightlessness threatens to topple him like Rome, conquering him slowly. 

Shifting her hair in front of her, he feels a twinge of appreciation run him through—but he isn’t surprised. In a different world, he’d move mountains for a girl with curls the color of how he takes the coffee she so faithfully makes; curls that flick and move in private dances for him, God’s perfect design, conceived among the canyons of time. It’s a foreign memory, amputated almost—umbilicated to nothing in this world to give it life, but he knows. He just feels them tangle through his fingers something perfect, in a way that hair never has.

Always a sucker for a girl with curls—they were different. Feral. Wild. 

His canines hit sharply on the plush of his bottom lip as the stranger angles to shift against the sheets, probably to face him. Logan  all but bullrushes the mattress to put a hand on her shoulder, “—sorry,” bumbling like an idiot, he sucks in a breath, “not real hungry, but thanks. ‘S early, go back to sleep—I gotta hit the road,” barely above a constrained whisper, adds a little pressure to his hand to encourage the behavior.

She complies, and he dives for his shirt and what he can only assume is his jacket tangled in the sheets of his side of the bed. 

Surprisingly, she says zilch. Content to let the subject drop, a mercy from God. Thank you God. He’s dressed. Barely registered that punch of hunger a good fuck always leaves behind before he’s out the door, palming his jeans for keys—bingo.

Fingers grazing sunglasses in his pocket, he slips them on the low of his nose. Shakes in his blood tell him he needs a smoke, booze, something for the cold edge peaking through his bones. 

Spinning keys to the punched-out and snowkissed Bronco on his finger, Logan slips out the door, fighting boots onto his feet as he skirts the curb, looking for his ride. 

It takes him a day to find her.

Well, more specifically, twenty-two hours—and finding isn’t the right word for it, either. He knows where she’ll be, she said so herself before he’d slipped into the sands. There’s only one place in the world she’d ever received formal education, property lines of a familiar farm and prairie grass amidst old farmhouses teaching her more than any public education ever could.

He’d been there, her childhood home, more than a dozen times. Been here, tasted this air. Watched the frost kick up on windows, slick up highways that have carried him all over farmland America, almost-Canada. The wilds of this place remain, scattered in and out of industrial complexes and pop up bedroom communities. 

She’d always hated it here, all the snow and cold — people. Made no sense, honestly. She’d loved their home in Alberta, where winter was, in a sense, arguably worse. Had fostered a love for that place unlike anyone he knew, and he was from there. Never complained, though.

Logan had always known, secretly, that she missed the States, its freedoms and culture, a pretty that rivaled none. Faithfully and with duty she’d followed him everywhere, skiptracing across the globe like it was a game of hopscotch and not a fight for life.

While he’d been running all his life, she’d been firmly rooted—but he’d be damned if she didn’t pluck roots to keep after him, to keep them alive. Together they’d rested their heads in some less than Eden hotspots, places phantoms wouldn’t even tread—places purity went to die, holiness turned its face. 

She’d counted it joy, just to scout the lines of living beside him. I’ll love you in every time, Logan.

If the tires on his Bronco could heave, they would. Twenty-two hours and no sleep, Logan could pretty well feel exhaustion lapping up the marrow of his bones, needling away at his eyes. Highway 7 signs, painted with snow and wobbling in straight winds greet him as he guides his Ford off the asphalt, out from between guiding lines that had shifted oh so many times the last day and a half—prophecy not much unlike his life.

And pushing the Bronco along the tree-lined lane, lights shining in the last fingers of fading night, Logan realizes that he’s white-knuckling the steerwheel. Maybe for the first time in his life. 

He’s never been an anxious soul. Never a point to it, anxiety was wasted emotion. But all the same he feels a pit open in the depth of his gut, a fierce burning not unlike a lake flaming with inferno heat rising up his spine. Feeling feverish, his palms pearl with moisture.

A quick glance in the rearview at the darkness hanging out under his eyes punches home the marriage of piglet pink rising beneath his unkempt shave, which is now a handful of days overgrown. Muttering, he guides the wheel with a knee, working fingers through his hair—it’s thick. Dark, darker than future him remembers, styled in a way he hasn’t worn in at least four decades. 

Popping the Ford to a stop in a parking spot overshadowed with packed, plowed snow, he snaps the shift into park. Sits there, in his leather jacket and jeans, staring at the front door of the college complex. A stone Goliath, it towers in the fading darkness, sunlight beginning to stretch the horizon to a new morning. There’s a few cars belonging to the overly ambitious, his eyes scan them. 

Logan remembers the plan, all the details of the debrief—of a dossier that came from her lips, to his ears. Not a stitch of paperwork, no documentation to erase. So unlike the old days.

The most informal of the informal, perched across his lap, topless and smiling as her nails pull sharply at the flesh stretched across his collarbones. Scarlet lines to match fake but not inexpensive nails, he forgets how she manages them in an apocalyptic world. Twilight their only audience, four walls conferenced them as she’d relay detail after sweet detail, his brain pulsing with the weight of her against his chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel her again—even in a body that doesn’t even know her. 

His dick twitches with a needy throb that reminds him where he is, where she isn’t. Absently his mind spins, his hand skates across the bench seat of the 70s Bronco, palming for her familiar presence. Void coldness ices over the space, and when the Wolverine opens his eyes, the cab is deceptively empty.

Forty years from now his brain weaves an image of her, flashing like a film reel. Supplants her in this seat next to him, smiling—-as young and beautiful as she was the day he met her, age hardly more than a number even as it joins itself at her hip. 

Hips bucking up off the bench out of habit, with rebellion, his head falls back over the seat. Sinks lower on the bench, knees kissing the dashboard as the heels of his boots dig into the floorboards, anchored to nothingness. Bone grating against bone on his back teeth, the growl he releases is animalistic.

Painful, sharp, it licks up the heat in his blood. He palms at his cock buried in his jeans, suffocating in heat. Her mouth, sucking at his pulse, tongue flicking against his—tasting like lipstick, like chap and sweat. How her hair brushes his shoulder, raises his skin like he doesn’t remember. Her little noises, breathy little moans. Praying his name as he feasts on her presence, consumes her closeness, union almost supernatural, galactic. Otherworldly, divine. 

And it hurts, his starvation for her. Loneliness he doesn’t remember cracks like a whip, canyons open his spine to perform surgeries that’ll leave him a barren, cold wasteland. Oh, fuck.

God, he missed her—hasn’t been gone but two days, and he misses her. An unmovable hunger mountains in the low of his belly, rearing an ugly head Logan knows won’t be turned but only one way.

A way that won’t exist for another decade, ten long years of arctic cold. 

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Eyes snap open, pops the latch on the door. Freezing wind chases in and smothers tornado heat kicked up in the cab, amongst the radio buttons and film developing on the windows from his hot breath. Slipping out, Logan bats the door closed behind him. Pockets his keys. Considers the landscape, it’s pretty, then looks to the front door.

Marching after it, his eyes sweep the parking lot—her car. It’s here, sentinelled, standing guard in an otherwise empty lot of asphalt and fading starlight. 

He chuckles, shakes his head. Much to his surprise when he tries the door, heavy doors open. Unlocked. Whisking inside like a silent shadow, Logan breaches the foyer. The first coordinator. Nobody is here, hallways as dark as skeletons in squirreled-away closets, the air stuffy with age and ventilated air.

An old smell creeps up and down the hallway, wraps around him—but it’s quiet. Serene. She said it would be, one of the happiest places of my youth, Lo, and she doesn’t really lie. It bleeds from walls like open arteries. 

Something hangs in the air, a sweet lightness, airlessness that he can breathe, but doesn’t know. When his finger brushes the wall, curiously, the earth doesn’t split open, the air doesn’t move—-it’s just still. Unmoving. Patient, like a lover. Fortressed between thick pines and Midwestern snow, it’s a sleeping giant Logan doesn’t know. When he pauses to listen, to think, he can feel it try to touch him—-that weightlessness, that solace.

He could sleep here a thousand years, felt like he could breathe for the first time in a century. 

Unsure where his feet point, but he knows where to go. Senior year, first class is theatre—-she’ll be in the auditorium.

One by one he ticks off the details in his brain, smoothing his hand over his mouth, trying not to miss his past, his future, whatever the hell it was. But parts of him claw to go back, memories that don’t belong in this body—and very suddenly, Logan wishes for the first time he were older, time wasn’t now. That he survived long enough for the day, ten years from now, that the rest of his life came marching through the doors of a dimly lit bar to rattle steel cages.

Wandering corridors eventually finds him standing outside the door. Metaphorically, crossing this threshold will change his life—it will ensure the future of everyone he’s come to care for, to know. It will ensure them, in a life far from now that feels faraway down and lightyears away.

He opens this door, crosses the place where carpet meets cheap linoleum, and he’d write in stone events that will play out forty years from now. 

And he hesitates, only briefly. Hand hovering over the knob of the double doors, waiting for something to tap him on the shoulder. Opportunity to rip him away, fate to call out behind him, stop, you fool. His blood sings with anticipation, ripping through his ears in a way that blocks out everything but him in the shadows, standing here.

Waiting has never felt so smothering, so earthquake. It’s hard to swallow, but he manages. About to open the door, movement behind makes him flinch. 

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—to the last syllable of recorded time—and all our yesterdays have lighted fools—” 

Oh, shit. If that doesn’t fit. 

For the first time in nearly 200 years, Logan’s heart stops functioning.

He forgets to breathe, the familiar weight of suffocation launching his lungs forward, pitching them against his ribs. Every part of him simmers with flames of ice he hadn’t known but only one other time in his life, fingers itching as they rest at his sides, motionless. Paralyzed.

But that twinge of ache, deep in his skeleton, rockets to life between the bones of his hand—-and Logan lifts one, to consider the claws. But there are none, they are still sheathed deep within himself, but they echo. They ring and shake, trembling as the speech continues again, restarts. This time louder, with more life—from the gut, it stirs him in a way that pays homage to curiosity killing cats. 

Carefully he pops open the door, peeks through. Light spills through the opening, warm tones that force him back, squinting as his eyes adjust. Washed in light and emptiness, the room is vast. Pitches down to a floorstage, theatrical seating a quiet giant waiting to throw stones.

Instead, the air is still, motionless among the seats. Only thing moving within the four walls is the body rearranging a rolling podium, collecting things off the floor. Running lines under rushed breath, bare feet so at home center stage that it is almost treacherous. 

He can’t breathe, every cell in his body pistons into an overdrive that sends his head reeling.

It’s her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, forty years in the future she’d told him she’d be here. Was always the first one here, in the auditorium, the only time I can use the stage, Logan, and the truth of it smacks him across the face as if he’s been whipped with a milkstrap.

Castor wheels on the stage are loud, rattle the air as the podium rolls back to reset, and Logan realizes he's standing stupidly in the center aisle, looking lost and enchanted with her—and he is.

Even as he slips into the last row, sitting low in a seat to observe, he aches in a way that only God designed for the most violent, deep love.

Even at distance, the detail of her springs after him like a predator. It overtakes him, powers him into corners of himself that Logan didn’t think to ready. The first thing that he thinks is that she’s young, so young, young in a way that even a decade from now couldn’t know.

You ain’t ready for who you’re going to find, honey, it was a warning, shadowed between kissing him and making love in a way that would imply the world’s end. 

When she told him he wouldn’t be ready for her, he thought she couldn’t be serious.

But she was righter than he is alive, he wasn’t prepared—innocence. Purity. Naivety. It spins around her in a dance he can almost taste, and his memories struggle to assimilate this precious little thing with the woman his heart knows, his body craves.

And Logan thinks it’s wrong, feels absolutely filthy, falling in love with her all over again, in the mere seconds he’d seen her standing there, reading from a frayed and tattered Macbeth.

How she’s the same person, he doesn't know—how she couldn’t be, is another thing entirely. 

Logan realizes she’s been the same height practically forever, and that makes him smile. High heels tossed stage left beside a backpack in the shadows, what he wouldn’t give to see her conquer the world in thrift store heels the color of darkness. Familiar curves pull at denim jeans that take every ounce of his self-will not to notice, full hips on Hollywood display with the same leather belt and buckle she’d be wearing in ten years, when this body first makes eyes at her.

And her style hasn’t changed—high heels and jeans, a tucked-in tank top and left-open buttoned shirt that floats almost ethereally.  

And his head cants to the side, not unlike a curious dog—he could cry, he thinks. Probably.

Brunette curl spills down her back, nearly to her ass, a lazy slipknot hanging limp at the base of her neck. Righteous indignation rises up in him like a wild animal—in a decade, he’ll meet her with cropped hair, curls cut to not-even shoulder length. His stomach knots, solidifies like it’s concrete. Memories spinning—Logan realizes he’s never known her with long, full hair. Hair like this, curls that make him insane, almost threaten to send him up the wall with ferality. 

Insane, sick the way his mind immediately shoots to all the things he wants to do with it, with this little thing pacing downstage and back, humming and reading lines to what she thinks is open air.

Straight to hell with him, thinking about bending her over that stage and fucking her until she weeps. He won’t get the privilege of her taste for at least a decade, if not a few years after.

And that’s enough to gut him completely, punch a low moan from the base of his spine as blood rushes to take up space in his cock. 

Subliminally, he feels for the ring that’s been hanging out on his left hand for twenty years—alarm snaps his gaze to his hand, its absence alarming and unfamiliar. Takes a second for his heart rate to still, realizing it isn’t there—and that’s right. It won’t be for a while.

But it’s become an engrained thing, a usual part of his life—memories relay that he does this often times a day, it’s almost a coping mechanism. Hilarious how it so easily translates to this body, this time when it isn’t even reality. The ring probably isn’t even crafted, he’s missing something that doesn’t exist. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?” 

Klaxon alarms rings through his blood like a warning shot, and Logan for a second considers that he has been shot, a burning hole through the center of him widening to swallow him almost body and soul.

A steel beam drops to replace his spine, and he catapults to his feet like he’s on fire—scrambles out of his chair like an upset cat. Heart pounding, heat flares across his skin like his life depends on it, palms riding up the denim on his thighs as he tries to wick away bubbled moisture.

Swallowing a shallow breath, he watches her gracefully hop off the platform, finding her feet as she tosses the book on the stage. 

Realizing she’s meeting him up the aisle, he steps to greet her halfway.

“This is a closed classroom,” her tone is firm, but not entirely uninviting—memory serves that he’s not unfamiliar with this, and won’t be, in their future together. “I’m running lines, did you need something?”

Her little way of always assuming the best of people—of prying without making it feel like she’s digging. God, she was good—-it’s no surprise to him that she’ll become a journalist, the nosiest person in the world, in but a few short years from this very moment. 

Even up close she glows with a radiance that alarms him. Wearing the makeup she always does, mascara that sets off icy blues like a plague, Logan fights his way out of the depths of her gaze. Claws for purchase at anything he can get his hands on, which at the moment, is a quicksilver smile this body knows. It’s worked well for him, disarming the opposite sex.

He knows he looks good, always has, and Logan has weaponized his sexuality for his betterment since years ago. It’s a toxic thing, one that this very girl will dismantle in about twenty years—-will continue dismantling, claiming, for the next forty. 

Absence of any reply has her taking more conversational territory. Her hand extends, she offers her name.

“I don’t know you,” no room for argument, God she’s still so forward, “are you a student here, or faculty?”

A polite way of asking what his old ass is doing at a college at ass o’clock in the morning, and very suddenly he realizes, off like a shot, he has no alibi. No backstory, no agenda for this moment.

Logan can’t even think past her bludgeoning pheromones and scent, much less the assault of her eyes. Like a wolf she takes him apart, plays with the carcass of his resolve like it’s a plaything. 

Never usually unprepared, he fumbles for words. Arms crossing over her chest, she waits. Stands there for all of a few seconds, before she does that thing that all girls, seemingly, do—she fills up the silence.

“You’re not Graingly’s theater buddy from Pensacola, are you?” The look on her face tells her that not being whoever such a person is probably isn't a good thing, the way her hip cocks and her jaw flicks with the tight of muscle.

She doesn’t wait, not even a second, “You’re not supposed to sub until Friday—I’m his student lecturer, I set that date.” 

Well there it is, his perfect in.

She won’t learn to interrogate and intimidate with silence for a while, and he finds her battle for dominance amusing. It’s even more raw and unpolished in her youth, she’d mastered it already in the years after this.

If he didn’t already know, he’d find it hard not to be curious how she’ll stonewall in the coming years—as she ages, matures. Instead, he just revels in her presence, in the floating feeling taking up space in the empty of his gut. He’d slaughter for a cigar but couldn’t move from his weld right here if the earth split open to consume him. 

Logan’s chuckle is low, off the base of his ribs. Even if it is a little weak, a little breathless and ashamed of the thoughts sounding off like nuclear bombs in the back of his head—their first meeting, in a crummy Canadian bar in May.

The first time he sees her cry, an awful first date ending with an argument, him at her door asking to see her again in the straightline winds of a near tornado. How he asks to marry her, that first look at her on the day he makes her his own. That look on her face when they move in together, when they buy their first house—when they spill first blood together.

Pain raptures him to new worlds when he realizes what she becomes, what he gives her—mutation that traps her in this world, this life for an indefinite future. 

And he can’t shake the reminiscence—their first fuck, her first time, his first time with someone so virginal, so holy and sweet and good. Burning through him like a branding rod dripping with white heat, he struggles to assimilate this young little thing with the woman, ten years in this body’s future, she’ll become.

And as legal as it may be, Logan can’t imagine touching her like he will, someday—she might break, such a fragile little thing. And yet all he can picture is taking her, right here and right now, unraveling the strands of time to hurry the fuck up what is meant for a decade from now. 

She’s still talking.

“Listen, I really think you should—-” agitated. She's pissy, that same edge he will walk well, that same edge he’ll teach her to teeter, to exaggerate.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, watching their life together unfold in his brain—it’s like a movie he never wants to get up from, a picture he creates.

It tastes good, it feels perfect. 

He puts up a hand, offering her an easy smile. Her mouth snaps closed, bingo.  

“I figured,” if you only knew. He extends his hand, “Logan,” and she shakes it, hers fitting in a way that confirms God’s very existence. “'M not a teacher, and sure as hell ain't from Pensacola.”  About three thousand miles north, actually—-a mountain house so pretty, we’re going to spend our honeymoon not leavin’ it. 

But of course, it hangs out in the open wound his heart has become, unsaid. 

That hits home, seems to fit the bill. Her posture loosens, and she crosses one leg over the other. Still does that, forty years from now, and he still finds it adorable.

“Good to meet ya,” and good God if she still drag her ‘o’s’ in that little Midwestern way that ticks up the corner of his mouth, amusingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Again, always so willing—so naive. He could’ve been here to ruin her entire world and she’d help him do it, patient as a flower. 

“Yeah, actually,” he runs fingers through his facial hair, gestures to her. “Believe it or not, honey, I’m here to see you. Sent, actually.” It’s going to sound so ridiculous. Unbelievable, and at this point, it is.

More sci-fi than reality, no human in this universe is aware that time can be so manipulated. Kitty Pryde, his very vessel, isn’t even alive.

And that hollows him out like a canoe, bloodlets any confident air in his sails to the ground. It cries out unforgivingly, laughs at him. 

God was laughing at him, he was sure.

Her airy snort is dismissive, aggressively derisive. “Yeah, right,” she shakes her head, turns on the ball of her foot, “I don’t know any Logans. You can go, now,” turning back around, she backpedals away from him.

Hand flitting through the air, her chin lifts in an away gesture, “Like I said, closed classroom. Nice meeting you,” moving to the stage, she hauls herself back up, moving to retrieve the text she’d discarded. 

Stalking after her, Logan hauls up on the stage. Comes up on her, grabs her arm. Starting, she whirls around at speed, knocking into him. Fingers clamping around the muscle of her arm, the look on her face is horrified for all of a few seconds, fear skittering in and out of the blues that flash in her eyes like dreams he doesn’t want to rise from.

His hard look into her face is quelling, and she shrinks back. Pages fall from her hands, hitting the floor at their feet with a hard thunk. 

Logan can feel her heart throbbing, her blood singing with heat. Color creeps up her neck as she pulls at his grip, investigative. Eyes holding his gaze, they put up a fight—they disarm him in a way that he should fear, that shouldn’t be so difficult for a man that will endure the unthinkable.

Pain flashes between his ribs like a flare, lighting up his chest. Shuffling her a few steps closer, his other hand moves to loop a finger through a belt hoop, knuckle rubbing against the familiar leather. 

“What are you do—” 

He remembers what she told him to say, “I have a word for you,” it’s assured. Hard. Riddled with a confidence that bleeds out of him like his arteries have been sliced, pumping lifeblood onto the floor at his feet. He’ll beg, if necessary. Grovel at her beautiful feet like it’s worship, and in a way, she’s deserving.

Her eyes snap up from where he’s conjoined them, Logan watches her swallow a handful of shallow, doing-nothing breaths. “Sent to find you, darlin’.” 

Ripping her arm away, her brow mottles with scarlet heat and confusion that isn’t concrete, but instead unsure. She said she’d be confused, uncertain of him when he walked up out of nowhere and called her darlin’, a petname that meant something. The name, the one she conjured up in showers and feel asleep to. Logan knew it was her favorite; she’d told him so their first time, You had me at darlin’, Lo, and you always will.

Poetic justice, really—and maybe, now, this will be why.

He’ll be why she falls in love with that name, with how he says it, how he calls her. 

“I don’t understand,” she tries to make it sound strong. Logan releases her, expecting her to rear away like a upset horse—surprise lands in his gut when she doesn't.

Instead, she faces him. Draws her shoulders back. Lifts her chin and steps up to him, closing daylight. Her head cants slightly, eyes narrowing in that what’s up with you way that is curious, but hesitant.

Unsure rips off of her like heat he can only feel in every cell of his genetic makeup, in a way that regenerative mutation could only ever hope to heal. 

“You may not,” he challenges, it falls off a sigh as he upturns a hand. Offers it, kindly. “But try, honey. A whole lotta world needs you to try.” 

And she does. She tries. Business hours and daylight interrupt them, but she tries—and it’s a bloody fight, making her understand. Challenging every quip, every reasonable logic that she hurls at him like knives.

Moving to the auditorium’s lobby, then to the corridor, then up into the library. And  after an hour, when she really started believing him, he drags her out to his Bronco—where they can be alone. Thrive in the uninterrupted them.

Cranking the heat and turning to rest his back against the door, he accepts her denial. Any question she throws at him for another hour, every rabbit trail of You’re absolutely wrong and this is why.

She pauses to breathe and remember what class she’s blowing off, and oh does he love her. He’s already so in love with her that it hurts, bludgeons that space behind his ribs with the knowledge that soon, when this is over, he may not remember.

Multiple times Logan has had the thought to fuck everything and just run away with her, take her anywhere she wants to go and start their life right now, to explore and give life to memories he doesn’t already know.

No matter how much he rationalizes, that idea doesn’t leave him—the high fantasies of what she’d look like, attached to him at the hip.

Of who they could be, before adamantium, before the X-Men, before—

And questions finally metamorphosize. A standstill, like after a hurricane—her chest is heaving, curls sticky with sweat. Memory recall tells him that his normal for her—she’s argumentative, by nature. Defends what she believes, is not so open. Doesn’t back down from a fight, which is why, in years from now, she’ll be his perfect match. His soulmate.

The one God designed for him, since the foundation of the stars and the bends of time. 

It’s what makes her so her, a Wolverine. In a roundabout way. Another version of the same monster he becomes, but a holier one. If that’s possible—and he reminds himself it is, she becomes it. This young woman, on the cusp of living, will become everything Logan had only ever fantasized, more than he could ever conjure up in wild imaginations and greedy headdreams.

It’s surreal, sitting in this cab of this Bronco, watching windows film up with the heat of their breath. His knee knocks against the steering wheel, adjusting to glance at her milkwhite grip on the door handle. His eyes skate from hers to her grip, and he knocks his head back against the glass of the door’s window, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” 

After an eternity of silence, she side-eyes him.

“It’s only a little ridiculous,” exaggerated sarcasm drips like sour honey off her tongue, “I mean—put yourself in my shoes here, Logan.”

His heart flatlines and then resurrects—she’s called him Logan a handful of times, now. It sounds like it never has from anyone else—at points in his life before this, he’d always thought his name sounded so good, at its best coming from a woman he was balls deep in, hearing it chanted like a prayer.

But that’s gone, so anemic that it’s sick—it will only ever sound so orgasmic again if she says it. Nobody else is worthy, all graven images in comparison to the goddess she has become, him at her feet.

“It’s unbelievable.” 

Whatever else she’s said fails to land. He can’t stop hearing his name in her mouth, consonants and syllables so delicious it turns his spine to jelly, stirs up his cock in a way that makes him adjust his leg on the floorboards. Suddenly uncomfortable, sardined into a too-tight space crowded with her and everything he wants, he rolls down the window with a few pumps of his arm. Forces air in, underneath his collar.

Logan swears he’s boiling alive beneath his jacket and shirt, there will be medically evident boils when he’s finished with her. 

The Bronco rocks slightly with her moving to mirror his posture, back against her own door. Her knee knocks against the seatback, other leg bouncing anxiously against the floor.

Picking nervously at the buckle of her belt, Logan has to force himself to look up from the cut of her shirt, the way it pulls taut across her tits with the angle of how she’s sitting.

Aw, hell. Fuck him for being such a filthy, sexual creature. 

Fairly certain he will die if he doesn't have her, he repositions—sits up, leans his arms over the steering wheel to knuckle mindless patterns into the fog hanging out on the windshield. She manages an uneven sigh that may as well rip open the world—Logan cuts her a look from the corner of his eye. 

“You think I’m lyin’,” he sighs. Falls back against the seat. 

“Hell yeah I think you’re lying.”

And if that doesn't make him laugh. 

“You laugh, Logan-whoever-you-are, but—honestly. C’mon,” her hand extends to serve a point, “time travel? This isn’t Star Trek. You don’t just waltz up to someone and tell them that and expect it to be believable,” her hand flits, through the air, through whatever she uses to rationalize the anger creeping up into her words.

“And then, if that isn’t good enough, you tell me this, this Hollywood bullshit that I’m going to meet you in ten years in Canada, somewhere I’m not even ever planning to go—and that kicks off the next forty years and the survival of mutants in the future!”

Her hands fly into the air, as if trying to pull down reason from heaven, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.” 

It’s quite the line of reasoning—he can’t fault her for it. Just chuckles, shrugging as he leans forward to pluck sunglasses off his dashboard, slip them along the cut of his collar.

Arms crossed over her tits, her chest rises and falls with nervous breath after breath, eyeballing him with enough force to rip the sun from the canopy of sky. He flicks off the heater, sweat between his shoulder blades sign enough that it’s too warm in here—she’s already damp, sweat raising the makeup on her face. 

“That’s the highlights,” didn’t mention how you’re the love of my life, how I can’t hardly think straight with you sittin’ right there, he cards his fingers through his hair. “Not askin’ you for anything, sweetheart. I’m just telling you—it’s gonna happen, and when it does, you need to remember me, this moment right here, and trust that it works out.”

He lifts a shoulder, hand turning through the air in a so-so way, “It’s like—fuck. It’s kinda like a prophecy, right? I’m telling you what’s gonna happen, and you just gotta wait to see if it does.” 

“Prophecy? You’re mocking me now, right?” 

His sigh is excessive, roughs up the wind in the tissue of his lungs with more froce than he thought possible. Knitting his brow together, his fingers pull at the cartilage in the bridge of his nose.

Stubborn little thing, always, stubbornness was both a strength and a weakness—nevermoreso underestimated in her, right now, by him. 

He nods out the window.

“This is a Bible school, right? Yeah, I know it is—you graduate here, in the spring,” the look on her face implies that he’s backhanded her, hinge of her jaw failing entirely to instead, sit there. Agog.

Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand, begins counting off his fingers, “I told you, honey. You graduate, you get a job working for some lowlife newspaper editor–you fall in love with mutants, in that sick and twisted ADHD way of yours that you obsess about everything, and—” he stops, mostly to breathe. Halfway to bludgeon everything he wants to tell her to the point of pain, “—just listen. If you’re as high an’ mighty as you say you are—and you are, I know that about you—then you can’t say you don’t at least believe in prophecy, darlin’.”

Knifing a sharp smirk over to her, his brow lifts. “And last I checked, a whole helluva lot of unbelievable stuff happens in God’s history book, sweetheart—but I ain’t the expert.” 

That’s why I have you, in a decade or so. 

There is absolutely no time for his words to land anywhere other than nowhere. 

Her dismissal happens swiftly, like sharp jabs. The laugh bites, more of a bark than anything. Bam.

“Oh, I so get it now.” She absolutely does not, but he tastes the first blood. Pow. “You’re a messenger from God—right. Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” her eyes roll. Angles to pop the latch on the door.

In one go she’s out of the Bronco, letting all the hot air and frustration of the moment out into the arctic wasteland the parking lot has become. Bam bam bam. 

“I don’t say this very often, and pardon my language, but—fuck off, asshole.” 

Shouldering her backpack, staring at him from the cresting daylight that bleeds into the cab from behind her—if Logan didn’t believe in the celestial, he would’ve, exactly now.

Near frantic—and Logan has never, in all his 200 years been frantic—his hand slaps at the door for his own latch, and he rips out of the Bronco like a shot, hustling to stalk after her marching across the parking lot to her car like a soldier with orders.

And he is.  

Not so fast, tiger—that ain’t right, nah. Wolverine, you’re a wolverine.

My Wolverine.

“Honey, listen—” 

He grabs for her arm again, but something whips her about-face of her own volition, stepping up into his chest like a powerhouse of pride, absolution.

Her eyes cut through his armor, what will someday be adamantium bones like knives, hot and thrilling as they grab him by the absolute balls. The ferocity at which her eyes scout through his is wild, sends his blood spinning through his ears. He can’t hear anything but the thrum of his heart and every one of the breaths she sucks into her chest. 

There she is. 

 “I am not your honey, so quiet calling me that,” she bites, and it’s venomous—snapping fangs that sink deep into his veins, slavering at this soul.

And Logan should be upset with her, he should shake some common sense into her. Scream in her face the logic that she so lacks—but he can’t. He can’t move beyond the boundaries her eyes set, deep pools that empty oceans and rival the very stars hanging in the universe.

She could echo jump, and he’d beg her to know how high—and that may make him a fool. A pathetic shadow of the man he was hours ago, laying in someone’s bed, getting all the tit he wanted, without waiting.

“You say all this, this stuff about me—ok. We meet in ten years, sure. I’ll give you that. You’re hardly forgettable,” her eyes narrow, and Logan can’t miss how she shivers—how her lip trembles in the cold air, how snow clings to her lashes and sticks to her hair, carries it away across her features.

“Explain to me how you know everything about my life forty years from now, Logan.” 

Oh, fuck. This entire thing could be wrong, but it feels so right. 

Her eyes skate over him—down, up, and then back to his face. Like she’s summing him up—maybe she is. It would be the first time, but never the last.

Logan weighs the words in his chest, wishing for the first time that his bones were adamantium—that way, they’d cut through what to say. They’d bear the weight of her statement and haul them up the mountain-ing uncertainty he feels rising against the tail of his spine.

He’s never been so out of control, felt so out of his element than he does right now in the ripping wind of Minnesota cold and sunlight. 

She’s lined up the shot for him. All he has to do is take it. 

He does.

“We marry,” barely there, it’s the only thing he thinks to say.  So much more happens, “A lot of shit happens, a lot of it bad, but a’lotta good— takes a while, but eventually I get my head outta my ass and marry you, like I should years before I actually do.” 

“What?” 

Logan isn’t ready for the look of surprise on her face, and she’d told him before that he wouldn’t be.

A series of emotions pass through her eyes that he’s able to earmark, he watches them fall like dominoes—denial. Anger. Disbelief and hurt and really? that knots his guts up like the Sesame gates.

And Logan could watch the revolution of the earth around the sun in her eyes for all eternity, but their clarity is clouded by a mist of tears that rise—-she drops her head away, reaching fingers to swipe at the sting in her eyes.

She goes to turn away, and that may as well rip every organ out of his body. 

His heart leaps up into his throat, he snags her arm. Coming back willfully, he can’t miss how freezing her hand is in his. Logan pulls her close, against his chest, wraps his arms first around her shoulders, then around her waist, fingers gently skimming the rise of her jeans, the leather of her belt.

Her heart against his ribcage pistons like a locomotive, and he fears if it beats any harder, it’ll drive him into an early grave. 

When her head lifts to consider him, she isn’t crying. There’s a whimsical, faraway look on her face. He’s never seen it before, and somewhere deep inside the places you don’t show anyone but God, it terrifies him. Watches her swallow thickly, her tongue fill the pocket of her cheek. How it skips over her bottom lip, accompanies the way her eyes subliminally move back and forth, looking for him in the depths of his.

And Logan can see the thoughts spinning alive in her brain, wheels that have no place to go—that turn, over and over, looking for memories, thinking. Grasping at straws, clawing for the surface. 

Her eyes flick beyond him, back to the Bronco. Taking his hand as if she’d been doing it her entire life, she tugs him behind her, back to this Ford. Logan opens the door to tuck her inside.

Slipping in, she drops her backpack at her feet and shifts in the seat. And before he can bat the door closed, her fingers find the front of his leather jacket. Twisting into the leathers, she pulls him forward until his thighs brush the frame of the truck—until he’s flush against her chest, closer, somehow, than before.

A hairline moment and her lips find his, soft and curious but starving. 

Jumpstarted to life, every organ in his body flings forward against bone, fighting for air as she sucks the very breath from his lungs in the best way he could ever fathom.

He can tell she’s never kissed before. The way she moves, clumsy like a new calf. Can’t breathe. Her teeth knock against his, and despite how hard he tries to urge her tongue forward to meet his, it retreats. All thumbs and clumsy, it would be humorous if lightning bolts weren’t rocketing down his spine, if he wasn’t burning alive. 

And fuck, if it isn’t enough to wake up every part of him he’d been fighting to bury.

Insane, how even so foreign to him she could feel like home, like everything he’s ever been missing. His missing rib, created from dust.

Nothing aside from God’s grace keeps him composed, keeps his mutation leashed to the walls of his prison—God’s grace and how he absolutely is not actively ripping at the leather of the Bronco’s bench, nails buried so far that they ache.

Fingers find her hair, playing through brunette curls he knows will never be this long again—wraps them around his fists, nails gently pulling at her scalp in a way that makes her hiss, arches her forward against him. 

And if she doesn’t mean for that little mewl to be so lascivious, he’ll never know—it punches him low, in his dick, enough that rips a groan from the back of his throat, rattling around his teeth. She breaks first with a wet pop, a string of sticky saliva drawing him back to her in a way that leaves him stunned and breathless.

All traces of the frigid world gone, her skin coats with a sparkling sheen of slick sweat, she almost glistens. Racked with ache that he wouldn’t be able to admit in therapy, he drinks in every one of the shallow breaths she releases, as if it’s the air he needs to live.

It’s not far removed. 

Her eyes hold his captive, enraptured in his attention before they flick down to his mouth, the heave of his chest. Logan is fairly certain that fire laps up the heat in his blood, wolves eating away at the marrow of his bones, hungry in a way that nothing short of her will ever touch.

Her teeth snag her bottom lip, gnawing cautiously, and her fingers curling into his jacket are the only greenlight he requires—his hand at the back of her neck pulls her in for another kiss, a part two he’ll never stop writing, as his other hand slips behind her knee, gently guiding her down to the seat so he can slip in over her. 

It’s worship, how he crawls up her body—an altar that, memories recall, he worships at like it’s religion. She’s a fast learner, picks up the cues like a champ, finally allows him to French her in a way that should be unforgivable.

This him has never done this with her, doesn’t know her like he wants to—but memories. Fuck him, the memories; movies, their own future pornography feeds him just how she’ll react, what she likes.

In his mind, a life he's never lived, he can hear her crying out his name. Sobbing as he splits her wide open, body and soul—stares at her heart, takes everything God had given her. Greedily, he takes—he wants, desires, lusts for everything now, in a time that isn’t right, and can’t be, for the next decade. 

His hand anchored on her hip is enough to arch her back, her head tipping back into the leather of the bench, brow pulled taut into a hard line that makes his head reel. Keening, Logan angles to run his nose along her jaw, tongue lathing at the pulse pounding in her neck like a racehorse, steady like the sun.

And it takes willpower not to touch her the way his body demands, the way he lusts after. Instead his nails bite into the back of the seat, others far too busy playing with the hair he prays she never changes but knows she will. 

“Oh my god,” Logan isn’t sure it’s a prayer to him or heaven itself, but—he won’t complain how it rousts his blood, stirs his cock something good. “It’s—you’re, Logan—-shit,” His smile is wolfish, of the devil.

Perverse and twisted, he sinks his teeth into the words vampirically, rips the lifeblood from them like it’s soulworthy.

“I can’t breathe,” he knows she can’t. He knows, in some deep and faraway downs part of himself that this is all so new—so living color, so all over the place.

Part of him, a more rational Logan, knows that overstimulation stalks.

But he chuckles all the same, brushing aside the collar of her buttoned shirt to suck hard at the soft flesh of her collarbone. Lathes his tongue into its pool, tastes her sweat. Dies, resurrects to taste it again.

“You can and you will,” he prays it into her skin, hopes it takes, “hmmmm—-just feel, darlin’.” And it hurts, the way he absolutely wants. Knows he can, but won’t. Fuck, fuck,  “Fuck, yes—just, honey, just feel.” 

Her hands buried in the front of his shirt pull him back from the haze, from where he’s lost. Kiss him again. Again and again, he drinks at her well like a man who will die, and he will.

Logan will die if he doesn’t have her, if this isn't real and is nothing but a sick and feverish nightmare plagued upon him like the dead firstborn in Egypt. She’s already ripped open his chest and clawed out his heart, balancing it raw in her fingers where it bleeds out all of his will, his absolution. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t remember this.

If he dies from thirst of her, he’ll never know why.

That’s sick. 

Absently, his finger tugs over the waist of her jeans, dips beneath the denim. Grazes the buckle of her belt, investigative. She gasps, breath cut short as her back arches off the seat as his knuckle brushes her sensitive skin—she arches so far that he fears she’ll snap.

But the low of her belly is soft, inviting—inferno. He can feel her womb from here, the kiss of her cervix that memory serves is so good.

Breathless and hard, a light tug at the waist of her jeans makes him groan—all the way from the depths of his soul. It’s so familiar, so easy—he expects her to acquiesce, but it’s demonic. Torturous.

Fuck yes, this is right—

His drifting hand snaps her eyes wide open. She’s propped up on an elbow so quickly that it sends him for all of a heartbeat. Her hand shoves at his shoulder, off, and he falls back on his heels, breathing hard.

Unable to catch his breath, cut his eyes from the swell of tit peeking up over the top of that barely-there tank top she dares to call a piece of clothing. 

“No,” and there it is.

Absolution and righteousness that could strip him of his skin, if she desired.

Embarrassment sets in as she wrangles out from beneath him, to the farthest side of the Bronco that she can get. Unable to breathe, unable to think, her hand shakes as it settles over her stomach, her other propping her head up in the heel of her hand.

“Logan, I—” 

He knows. Doesn’t cure the sigh. Reaching behind him, he pulls the door closed and traps them both in the sex swirling through the Ford, unfilled and thick.

Guilt plants deep stakes into the soil of his soul, and he scrubs his hand down his face—looks out the window. Shifts against the seat, ignores the absolute agony of a hard cock festering low between his legs. 

They sit.

It’s a full silence ready to give birth, until she sweeps her hair up into a high knot, off her neck, twists to sit fully in the seat, fingers slipping through the slots on the steering wheel. He noticed when her breathing levels, when the cardio rhythm in her blood bleeds away into a normal heart rate—but it takes time. A full minute or two.

And he doesn’t know what to say, how to bridge this chasm—how to proceed from here. 

“What happens ten years from now?” She’s quiet, doesn’t look up from her hands for a few heartbeats, until sapphire eyes cut to him with a raised, interested brow. “You coming here to tell me this—does this change what happens to us when I find you, in the future?” 

The question of the ages, indeed.

“Dunno. Might not remember this, might not know you,” leaning across the seat, he moves his hand to take one of her curls, rubbing it gently between his fingers.

His other takes her hand, his thumb skipping over the familiar ring anchored firmly on her right hand—a ring she will gift him in the future, a ring that he will wear through time and space, should it be asked of him.

“Or I might. Not quite sure how the memory’s thing works when I wake up in our future, honey.” It doesn’t answer her question, and he knows that. He doesn’t have answers, never has. “Not sure how it works for you, either.” 

“Wow. You’re so helpful,” she teases.  

He cracks a small smile. “It don’t improve, trust me.” He gently brushes a knuckle over the apple of her cheek, her angling into the touch a little farther. “Still as pretty as you will be the first time I see you, sweetheart,” she said she’d need to hear this, that this alone will spare so much of the pain she has yet to live.

“You remember that, yeah? ‘Member that someone out there wants you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

She slips across the seat to brush shoulders with him, her palm along his cheek guiding him for another kiss—this time, it’s what he expects. Soft, sweet, young. So her, so familiar. He could die a thousand deaths to experience this, over and over.

Softly carding his fingers back through her hair, she breaks firs. Curls a finger beneath his chin to draw his attention to her. He gives it, willingly, up unto the half of his soul and any kingdoms he possesses.

“Are you still in love with me?” Want me, Logan—do you want me? 

He smiles, nods. Presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, her lifeblood. The very pulse that will bring her back to him, that carries him away.

“I’ll love you in every time, sweetheart. Just say the word.” 

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter@ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Us

Astarion x Y/N - Drabble - 1K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: fluff, slight argument, make up, Astarion being sassy, Us being a cutie pie, pretty sweet, slightly steamy ending

-------------------------------

“Really? That’s what you want to bring on this grand adventure?” Astarion said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You stood next to Us, the kind intellect devourer from the nautiloid. After finding it before you fought and defeated Kethric, you hoped it made it to your camp. You were honestly elated when you saw the little brain sleeping outside your tent.

“Yes!” You said with sincerity. “I want Us to stay. It’s no different from Scratch or the Owlbear.” 

Astarion threw his hands up, knowing he wasn’t going to win this fight. “When it eats your brain don’t come crying to me darling.” He yelled before walking into his tent with a huff. 

He had never yelled at you before and for some reason it brought tears to your already misty eyes. “Come on.” You said quietly to Us. It followed you happily to your tent. 

Once inside you changed out of your armor into your night clothes, relishing in the weight lifting from your body. Us seemed to wander your small tent, as if he was inspecting all your trinkets you had gathered on your way to Baldur’s Gate. “Do you like that one?” You asked, nodding towards the necklace it seemed to be “looking” at.

“Yes friend! Beautiful!” Us said with its regular enthusiasm.

You smiled, grabbing the necklace and sitting in front of Us. You held it out waiting for a moment before it started glowing. Dancing lights swarmed the tent, Us let out an excited shrill noise. 

—————————————

Astarion watched the beams of light escape through the cracks in your tent. When he crept closer he saw you and that blasted brain having a rather nice time, enjoying each other's company. After the necklace stopped glowing and your tent was once again only lit by candlelight, Us spoke.

“The vampire does not like Us.” It said,

You sighed, rubbing your hand over the puncture scars on your neck that you had come to adore. “He doesn’t understand you.”

“Enemy. He thinks Us is an enemy.” Us inquired, moving closer to you.

“Yes.” You said, looking down.

“We are not, you are our friend. All of you are Us’ friends.” Us said, one of his paws coming to rest on your knee as if it was begging you to believe it.

“I know, and I am your friend too.” You smiled, reaching out to pet them. “Astarion just has trouble trusting others.” 

“He trusts you?” Us said, yet it sounded like a question. 

You hugged your knees to your chest, “I think so. Regardless, I love him.” 

“Does love mean trust?” Us Asked.

You shrugged slightly “Trust…. It’s sort of the foundation for love I suppose.” 

“Maybe he will like Us more as Kitty!” Us said, altering its shape into a sphynx cat like the one from Last Light Inn. 

You let out a small chuckle. It was adorable how much Us wanted to be liked, you thought. “He’ll come around. Don’t worry, I won't let anything happen to you.” you reassured Us. 

Us returned to its original intellect devourer form. You laid on your bedroll, looking at the candlelight that was flickering on the ceiling. 

“You are exhausted. You should sleep! Us will go.” They said,

“You can stay,” you said, smiling at them. 

Us walked in a circle next to you before curling up at your side. For such an intelligent and typically frightening creature you couldn’t help but find them sweet. Just like the Owlbear. Just like Scratch. 

“Goodnight friend!” Us said.

You smiled, “Goodnight Us.”

-------------------------------------------

Astarion kicked a rock on the way back to his tent. He was jealous of a fucking walking brain. He knew you had a soft spot for the little bugger ever since he saw you with it on the nautiloid. He just found it odd and unsettling. Yet he had no room to speak - vampires are viewed in quite the same way. He sighed. If you loved Us he would just have to come to terms with that. He knew your massive heart would be able to hold room for everyone. 

-------------------------------------

As the sun rose, you watched from inside your tent as Us chased a butterfly around in circles near the fire pit. It was an endlessly curious little thing. Astarion blocked your view of Us as he walked up to you.

“I’m… sorry,” he said.

“How did that taste?” you said with a chuckle, knowing it was difficult to admit he was wrong let alone apologize for it. 

“Like vinegar,” he sighed. 

“It’s ok to not be overly fond of Us. But I do like them and want to keep them safe. They are different.” you said, squeezing his hand as he sat next to you. You both watched Us play with the butterfly. 

Astarion rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. “You’re right. I’m sorry for how I acted. Us has only ever helped you and for that I’m not only grateful but… I am truly sorry for how I treated them. If you trust Us, I trust Us.” 

You kissed him softly, “Don’t tell me tell them.” you said.

You both turned your heads to Us when they squealed in a high pitch. The butterfly had landed on them and they were beyond ecstatic. You smiled and laughed.

“They are… different indeed.” Astarion said with a softer tone.

Us wandered back to the tent, “Us made a new friend - butterfly!” it said. When they realized Astarion was in the tent with you they started to slink away cautiously. 

“Us,” Astarion said, causing the little creature to halt and perk up. “I apologize for how I spoke yesterday. You are welcome in our camp.” Astarion nodded at him, giving Us his seal of approval. 

Us shook with excitement, “Friend! Friend! So many new friends!” it said excitedly before traipsing off to run around camp with Scratch and the Owlbear who had both accepted Us immediately, creating an odd but cute little group of pets. 

“Thank you.” you whispered as you kissed over his cheek and down his neck. 

“Anything for you darling.” he smirked, pulling the flaps of your tent closed before he climbed on top of you, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

------------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Hello! A nice 1K for our favorite vampire. I also really love Us - quite possibly my favorite companion in the game pet wise. They're just so cute lol. Hope ya'll are well <3 XOXOXOXOXOXOX

[moonselune]

hii I may I request astarion getting turned into a fluffy white cat during a mission and reader just taking care of him and calling him cute? and when they fall asleep together with reader holding him in their shared bed in elfsong tavern they wake up to see him naked and only his lower half is covered by the bedsheets?

gn neutral reader pls (and no smut lol)

so wholesome oml

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion x reader | Fluffy incidents

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The day had taken an unexpected turn after a run-in with an irate wizard in the heart of Baldur’s Gate. The wizard, after a heated exchange, had cast a spell that transformed Astarion into a small, fluffy white cat. You had tried to reason with the wizard, but he disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving you with a very disgruntled feline companion.

Carrying the now tiny and adorable Astarion back to the Elf Song Tavern, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. His usual haughty demeanor was replaced by a pair of large, expressive blue eyes and twitching whiskers. You gently scratched behind his ears, earning a reluctant purr from the vampire-turned-cat.

“Who’s a cute little kitty?” you teased, cradling him in your arms.

Astarion hissed softly, but there was no real menace behind it. He nuzzled into your chest, perhaps seeking some comfort in his new form. You made your way to your shared room, settling onto the bed with him. He padded around in circles a few times, making little noises of displeasure before curling up against you, his small body fitting perfectly into the crook of your arm.

As you stroked his soft fur, you whispered soothing words, hoping to ease his frustration. “It’ll be alright, Astarion. We’ll find a way to fix this.”

His purring grew louder, and you couldn’t help but smile. You called him cute again, much to his chagrin, but he was too content in the warmth of your embrace to protest further. Before long, both of you drifted off to sleep, the events of the day catching up with you.

When you awoke, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the sun. You felt a familiar weight against your side, but as your eyes adjusted, you realized that Astarion was no longer a cat. Instead, he was back to his elven form, lying beside you with only the lower half of his body covered by the bedsheets.

His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at you with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “Well, this is certainly an interesting way to wake up,” he remarked, his voice husky from sleep.

You blushed furiously, realizing the position you were in. Your hand was still resting on his bare chest, his smooth skin cool under your touch. You quickly pulled away, averting your gaze. “I-I didn’t expect you to change back so suddenly.”

Astarion chuckled softly, sitting up and pulling the sheets around his waist. “Neither did I, darling. But I must say, it’s a relief to be back to my usual self.” He glanced at you, a playful glint in his eye. “Though I appreciate the care you took of me. Calling me cute? Was that really the best you could do?”

"Oh I'm sorry my schnooks" You huffed, still flustered but you soon took on a mocking tone. “You were the cutest kitty in the whole of the sword coast!"

"That was sickly, but thank you dearest." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “And, I suppose I’ll have to make it up to you somehow, for all the trouble I caused.”

You met his gaze, the initial embarrassment fading as his familiar charm worked its magic. “Just try not to get turned into a cat again, alright charmer?”

Astarion laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “I’ll do my best, my love.”

With that, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss. Before abruptly pulling away and hacking onto the bed.

"Oh my god Astarion are you okay?!" You asked patting him on the back. He rose a hand up, signalling he was and he quickly wiped whatever her had coughed up into his hand.

"Just a hairball, my love. Now that kiss-"

"Go brush your teeth and wash. Now."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you all enjoyed this - Seluney xox

[albatris]

snippet sunday

nothin wild from me today, just a little interaction I enjoy from the vampire support group

“Hi, Nat,” said the first goth. “I am Epson. Like the printer.”

“I’m Ampersand,” said the second goth. “Like the squiggly guy.”

“I’m Greg,” said Greg.

“If you would like to add glitter to your nametag, I know where I can get you some,” Epson said. “Atsuo does not leave it out because it goes everywhere but his daughter has a craft cupboard and I know where it is.”

“Th-thanks!” Nat said. “I’m fine, though.”

“No. You need glitter,” Epson said, and she vanished.

With nothing else to do but start, Nat seized an orange marker. He spelled his name out in bubble letters, all caps, and drew a kitty cat face after it.

“Do you like Quantumfish?” Ampersand asked. “I have Parker stickers.”

Nat noticed a few chibi Parker faces on Ampersand’s own nametag, and he nodded. Ampersand leaned over and ceremoniously placed a tiny Parker brandishing a laser cannon on the other side of Nat’s name.

“So where are you from, Nat?” Greg asked.

“Bright Park,” Nat said. “How about you?”

“We’re all from Port Peri,” Greg replied. “We make the drive down every fortnight. There’s no stuff like this out where we are.”

“Folks come from all over,” Ampersand said. “One guy’s from all the way on the Bronze Coast—he comes over once a month just for us.”

“Not just for us,” Greg said. “For the group.”

“No, for us, specifically,” said Ampersand.

[lovinglokilaufeyson]

Catastrophe - A.A.

Pairings: Astarion x Fem!Reader (Druid)

Warnings: BG3 Act I spoilers, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Suggestive, Angst if you squint, NOT proofread, Reader is a chronic people pleaser/SIMP/really oblivious (and a little bit of an idiot with initiative), Astarion is a bit oblivious and also a SIMP, use of Astarion’s classic pet names, as well as “kitten”

This is a similar concept to a fic I have read before, although I can’t exactly remember the name or the author. If I do find it, I will link it here.

Wordcount: 2,415

Summary: Astarion meets you as a cat, and you find it an easy way to be around him while maintaining your crush. You maintain your cover for weeks, until suddenly the team gets ambushed, and you are forced to reveal your identity.

Astarion was very intimidating to you. He had revealed himself as a vampire to you, only after he tried to drink your blood late one night. You let him, of course. You were too worried about the wellbeing of the rest of the team that you seldom worried about your own needs. So, even though you were scared of Astarion drinking your blood, you wanted to please him even more. It didn’t help that you happened to have a massive crush on the man, which always tempted you to say “yes” to him.

You learned of Astarion’s love for cats one night when you had decided you needed some cozy time. It was after a long trek back to camp, late at night where you had stripped yourself of your clothing before transforming into a simple feline, a black housecat. Your form had simple white patches along your back, neck, and face. You peeked outside the back of your tent, trotting stealthily towards a nearby stream. Suddenly, you were plucked up from the ground, and you mewled out on instinct. “Oh, kitty kitty. You – are coming with me.” Astarion held you up above his face, and you stared down at his crimson eyes. Should you reveal yourself? You wondered. You ultimately decided against it, letting your chartreuse-toned eyes hit his, and he looked up at you in – love? Admiration? What was this feeling?

That night, Astarion took you back to his tent, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Your fur was so soft that he was nearly intoxicated by it. Astarion really did love cats, there were many nights outside of the bars he frequented that he attempted to get away, if only for a moment, to pet one – or a few, if he was lucky – of the cats in the alleyway. It was always the highlight of his night. When he saw you nimbly walking around, his eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas. That night, he fell asleep in his bedroll, with you curled up on his chest, purring incessantly.

When he woke up the next morning, you were gone. Thankfully for him, it was the sweetest sleep he had had in centuries. After that night,  you made it your mission to approach Astarion late at night at camp. This particular evening, you had returned from Emerald Grove, and had exhausted all possible resources. There were very few nights where Astarion missed out on cuddle time, but you wanted to make sure that he was the one to hold you tonight. You sauntered over to his tent expectantly, pawing at the curtain, meowing gently. That was his cue to open it up for you. “Hello, pet” he spoke in a voice that was barely above a whisper, taking you into his arms. He placed a chitter of kisses into your cheek, then laying down once more. You climbed up on top of him, careful to be gentle with your claws on his bare chest.

“I missed you, dear.” Astarion spoke, bringing his hands to pet along your back, popping your butt up when he got too far back, to which your response was to mewl. “Sorry.” He murmured. “You know, sweet kitty. I don’t know what will happen when we leave the grove.” His words cut you like a knife. What would you do? Showing up to the team’s next camp out would certainly be – suspicious. He would have to take you with him, but that would also require you – in your human form – being missing from the group. You figured that would cause some problems.

“You should just stick around, and I’ll take you with me.” He spoke, trotting his finger along your whiskers. You purred in response. “You know, if I could just buck up and really talk to her, we wouldn’t have to be cuddle buddies.” Who was she? You hissed, pulling away from him, retreating further away from him. “You are a smart one, aren’t you? Here, kitty kitty. I didn’t mean it. You, me, and Y/N can all cuddle together, how about that?” You nearly shifted out of excitement, Astarion had not released this information to you prior, even in cat form. Astarion was fairly difficult to read. You figured that his attempts to flirt with you were all – fake? In jest?

However, perhaps he was telling the truth. That, or maybe he knew. No, no, no. No way. Astarion would have confronted you by now. Or said something. A snide remark. Anything. You still stood further away from him, timidly. “Oh, kitty kitty. Come on over. Please?” He tutted in disappointment, bringing a hand out towards you. You couldn’t resist those soft, veiny hands of his. You purred, staggering towards him once more. You pushed your whiskers against his pinky, as he fluttered his finger up and down within your mane. He clicked his tongue in approval, as you drag your frame against his arm. In the midst of your lovely purrs, you were startled by a conglomeration of shouting, and then a loud “boom” coming from outside of the tent. You cowered as Astarion peeled the curtain of his tent back, where he was greeted by an abundance of smoke. He exited quickly, careful not to let much of the cloud infiltrate his space, where you were still housed.

“We’ve been ambushed!” spoke Karlach, loud and boisterous. Fuck. Of course. Astarion thought. You were thinking similarly but didn’t know how to best approach the situation. It would be quite incriminating to exit Astarion’s tent now, out of cat form.

Astarion, Wyll, Karlach, Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Gale stood outside, clearly shaken from the impact of what had come along. There were many goblins that had infiltrated the area. 5 at least, for each member of the party. The smoke dissipated after a while, and you were able to peer out and see the confrontation. The party was doing alright in battle until Shadowheart collapsed from an impact. “Where is Y/N when you need her?” Wyll shouted, bringing realization to the group, and to Astarion. You were nowhere to be found. Fuck, where is she? He thought. He attempted to maneuver over to your tent to find you, which is when you decided you needed to act. Now. Which, maybe you should have swallowed your pride and done so earlier. But now your companions were getting hurt, which made you want to act more defensively.

You shifted out of cat form, grabbing the nearest piece of clothing (which happened to be one of Astarion’s dress shirts) and covering yourself with it. It was long enough to cover you somewhat modestly, although team would likely see parts of you that they weren’t exactly used to. Alas, it was a do or die situation, and you had let your anxiety get the best of you for far too long.

Meanwhile, Astarion had gotten slashed several times in his attempts to reach your tent. Not only did he want confirmation that you were okay, but if you were, he wanted you to please heal the rest of the party, himself included. You dashed out of his tent as Astarion was hit again. This one was hard, a thud to the gut. His eyelids became heavy as his vision blurred. But he could see you, finally feel your presence. And you were wearing… his shirt? Something within him clicked, and he realized everything. Of course you were that damn precious feline. In a sudden moment, you had cast cure wounds on Astarion, who was clearly in the worst shape of them all from tumbling across the camp to check on you. You watched as life came back into his eyes, as he stared at you in awe. You entangled the remaining enemies, leaving them helpless to move. There was one goblin who had just struck Astarion, and you cast thorn whip to tug the creature towards you. “There she is!” Karlach grinned in excitement and admiration.

It was apparent that your release from Astarion’s tent was not pertinent at the present moment. However, you recognized that it would definitely be something that would be mentioned later once combat had subsided. The rest of the battle went considerably better than the first half, and you were able to heal Shadowheart once it was all over. “Well, we might want to reconsider camp placement” you stated to the rest of your companions. They all nodded in agreement. Suddenly, you felt a hand slither around your waist from behind, and breath on your ear. “We should reconsider the placement of your tent – next to mine” he whispered, then followed up, “or, how about you just never leave my tent. I’m good with that too, kitten.” This was proceeded with a gentle nibble on your ear. You nearly gasped but managed to cover it up by cupping your hand over your mouth in a quick motion.

You almost went to scold him, but refrained from doing so, since you were also deserving of scolding at the present moment. You spent the remainder of the night moving the camp to a more remote location. It was past midnight when you were able to reconvene at the new campsite, everyone was fairly exhausted after the events of earlier in the evening.

Astarion hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off of you since, and he took special care to walk behind you on the way to the new campsite, admiring your rear end. You were still fairly coherent of the fact that you and Astarion would need to have some sort of conversation regarding your previous actions. After all, you had been snuggling together every night for several weeks. To your knowledge, not so much to his. However, now that he knew, he was going to go to any length to snuggle your form in his arms tonight, that was for certain.

Astarion’s festering admiration for you had been going on for a few weeks. He hadn’t realized just how much until his feelings were revealed to be reciprocated. Clearly, you snuggling up on his chest every night was no accident, and he was grateful for that fact. He just wished he had approached you sooner in your human form.

You wondered if you had overstepped with Astarion or if he was upset with you. Instead of walking next to you towards the new camp, he walked behind. It made you feel like perhaps he didn’t feel like talking with you. Or needed to process things.

This caused you to make a beeline directly towards your tent once you were set up. The rest of the party had gone to bed shortly after, aside from Astarion, who stood, looking confused that you hadn’t approached him after camp was set up once more. His eyebrows scrunched together, indicating the thoughts that puzzled him deep within. He wondered if perhaps you were simply using him, or if you were not as fond of him as he truly believed. He looked at his bedroll, approaching it, kneeling down, and then laying on his back as he usually did to fall asleep. Except – he couldn’t. He couldn’t, for the life of him, allow his heavy lids to fall and send him into slumber. He couldn’t sleep without you. He sighed, finally surrendering, and leaving his tent in search of yours. You had put up your tent close to his, which is something that he indicated he wanted. Maybe that was a good sign? Astarion wondered.

Alas, Astarion was quite correct in his assumptions. You were absolutely wide awake. Your eyes were agape, which would be heavily attested to the “lack” of Astarion in your presence, at least until now. Your body turned towards the entrance as you felt the moonlight pour into your tent. You stared up at the shadowy figure that housed Astarion’s carmine coated irises. “Oh good, you’re awake. I didn’t want to have to be that creep that you woke up next to in the morning.” You sent a puzzled expression his way in response.

“I can’t sleep without you, darling. And I know we have lots to talk about, but I know right now we both need sleep. So please, just let me revel in your cuddles.” You nodded in response this time, opening up your bedroll and ushering him inside. You were still delicately dressed in his button up shirt, and the sight nearly drove him mad. But he had to stay relaxed. You needed to sleep. Both of you.

He began to undress himself, which was not a big deal to you at all, of course. You had seen him naked these past few weeks more time than you could count. He left his underwear on of course, and you could see that he was slightly erect underneath. It made you a little giddy that you had any kind of physical affect on him. He nearly dove into the bedroll with you, excited to hold your human form. Don’t get him wrong, the cat was lovely as well, but he definitely enjoyed your human form a bit more. Your supple legs glided along his until he allowed you to entangle your legs with his. He was cold, naturally, but he was addicted to the warmth that radiated from your body. Similarly, you felt drawn to his cool skin, how it managed to alter your temperature so that you could mold together perfectly.

You were faced towards one another, and you analyzed every perfect feature on Astarion’s face. He did the same with you, He reached his hands towards your chin, holding it with the pad of his thumb and the lower portion of his index finger. “Darling” he caught your attention, and you gazed at him, meeting his eyes where they were taking in every part of you.

“Yes?” You replied. “May I kiss you?’ He asked tenderly, and all you could do was give a gentle nod. “Please.” Astarion’s lips seemed to hit yours before you could even say the word, your lips colliding in an imperfect, exhausted exchange. However, it was the most tender, real kiss that Astarion (and yourself) had had in a long while.

That night, you both slept the best you had in years, the presence of one another seemingly protecting you from any incoming nightmares, anxieties, or fears. Astarion didn’t know what would come next for you, but he knew he wanted it to be together.

[melsimps]

I saw someone do this with another actor, but decided to do an evan version bc I have had visions all night abt this.

Au where everythings the same, only Evan's characters are cats in a cat cafe. (Also please note: I have never watched AHS, simply bc I cannot handle the content so if anything is wrong, feel free to correct me/add anything/anyone in the comments/reblogs).

Okay, so right off the bat, Tate? Cream-coloured american shorthair. A bit more anti-social and tends to hide to himself up in a tall cat tree. If he chooses to sit on your lap, consider yourself lucky.

So is Kyle, only he's longhaired and very fluffy and cuddly. He is also by far the friendliest cat and will go out of his way to play with the other kitties.

Kit is a brown domestic short-haired tabby. Always makin' biscuits in blankets. Purrs very loudly, and meows loud too.

Mr. March is a Tuxedo cat and he has a collar with a little bell on it. He is the kind of cat that will sit with the customers and "talk" with them. A total chatterbox cat.

Kai is a blue domestic longhaired cat and he is almost fucking feral. Hisses and swipes and huffs and growls with everyone except for like one or two staff members.

Austin is a Lykoi. Simply bc he's pretentious like that (also they're called "Werewolf cats", and I think it's funny to give that cat to a vampire lol).

Jimmy Darling is a cornish rex, and he's also a polydactyl cat (so many beans,,,,). He meows about as loudly as Kit and also he will like, only cuddle with women.

Peter is a longhaired silver tabby, and he gets the zoomies on a regular basis. He also tries to steal cakes and stuff from customers. Resident thief and menace, yet his crimes are excused because see, him face?

Rory is an orange tabby and he sadly does not have the brain cell most of the time.

...Jeff Pfister is a bingus.

Colin zabel is a solid black British shorthair and the biggest cuddlebug of the lot.

Warren is a longhaired brown tabby, and he loves catnip.

[ravennaortiz]

Masterlist!

Hell Loves! Below is the list of stories for Juicy January! If I get more request I will add them and as they come out I will put down the titles! Thank you all for joining me on my Juice obsession!

Kiss of Death- Vampire AU

Burn Her!- Time Travel AU

Yes....but I have a request- Fruit rollup shenanigans story

Elevator Chronicles Story: Neighbor Juice who is just trying to distract you from the fact you both are trapped in a small space.

Should've Been A Cowboy-Long Live Cowgirls Series: This story follows Juice as he learns how to ride a horse after attending a rodeo during a club run.

Always Here from the Give Heaven Some Hell Series: Juice works through his grieve and regret at never telling you his true feelings.

We All Have Skeletons: Juice Confronts Chloe OC about the dead bodies that are piling up

One for Two: Juice and Scarlett OC post Lost and Found Series. Juices release from prison and post Jaxs death.

How I Met Your Mother: How him and Trinity OC met.

Tequila, Tacos and an Interrogation: Juice and OC Lupes first date is crashed.

May I?: Juice asks Happy for his daughter OC Coris hand in marriage.

The Diaper Disaster: Mishaps during diaper changing

You Make Guarding Difficult- Guardian Angel Juice just wants you to be safe and make better choices but it seems you are out to get yourself killed.

Lazy Sunday- A lazy day of weed, painting and sex

Rescue Kitty: Juice finds an injured stray cat one night and nurses her back to health. Shapeshifter AU

The Devil You Know- FIx it fic- Reader plays with dark forces after Juices Death. He comes back but is not quite the same.

Sorry About my Tail- Playful Trickster/Demon Juice who just cant seem to control his tail.

Call Me Mommy- Juice with a mommy kink

Request 1- Hate- Smut Fic

Request 2 -The Start Of Something-Fluff fic

Request 3 - What Do You Think Fluff/Smut Fic

Request 4- Butterfly-Fluff Fic

Request 5

Request 6

Request 7

Request 8

Request 9

Request 10

Request 11

Request 12

[see-arcane]

Jokes aside Jonathan must have felt so very vulnerable after that night. Getting both scared and horny for the first time in his life aside, now he realized that the Count 1. Has claimed him as his own 2. Has moved from touching/grabbing/pulling him to taking the liberty to undressing him 3. Yet is the least dreadful thing here and the one he can go to seek protection and safety from

Points 1 through 3 have already been picked to death so I won't beat them any further into the ground. But the 'Mark me down as scared and horny!' of it all is something that legit has me going back and forth, so I'll hop on that.

Jonathan does state outright that he finds the Brides attractive, or, specifically, that he wants them to kiss him.

"All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips."

The most straightforward read on this and his ensuing ~dreadful anticipation~ is that Jonathan is A) Naturally attracted to the hot vampire ladies and/or B) Having natural attraction being enhanced on a supernatural-hypnosis level. I can see either being in play. But I don't think it's the most interesting--or terrifying--read.

The first thing I want to nitpick here is that this almost definitely is not him feeling lustful for the first time in his life (we'll learn more on that point later in the novel ala his relationship with Mina being A Lot 👀). Jonathan knows what attraction is, emotionally and sexually, from being a staunch Minasexual. Which is a not-quite-exaggerated way of saying I personally see Jonathan skewing more towards the demisexual and biromantic side of the scale. In that lens, he has the potential to be attracted to anyone regardless of gender, but first they have to win his interest/heart before he even starts connecting any sexy dots.

Minor spoilers, but through the whole novel, Jonathan does not refer to Mina with any physical descriptors when he gushes about her. It's always a reference to her character, to her actions, to Mina being Mina. Which I think is interesting when put in context with his fixation on describing Dracula and the Brides' appearances, be that in attracted, repulsed, or frightened terms. Because the vampires are the only ones who get that reaction out of him. And I think the former, the automatic physical attraction, is its own unique red flag to him; though he may not have the language for it. It's not just him being ashamed to feel attraction or to write it down when Mina might see it someday.

It's because that attraction is probably not even his.

He doesn't know these women. All beautiful, certainly. But strangers. They haven't spoken with him, haven't endeared themselves to him, haven't done one (1) single thing to provide an excuse for his highly reserved libido to pay attention. And I doubt he's gone his whole life blind to any pretty people in his vicinity. Hot people have happened to him before and he has not cared because for Jonathan, care has to precede lust.

What the Brides have done is introduce a wholly alien sensation to him--an instant arousal that was injected rather than awoken from some natural place in him. It makes me think of Toxoplasma gondii, that fun little parasite that switches off rodents' natural predator response to cats and makes them docile when the pretty kitty creeps up with their mouth open. And while the Brides' and Dracula's trance effect does get the basic job done of Keeping the Victim Still and Compliant, having the side effect of forcing a bodily reaction on that intimate of a level is a violation in itself.

Though it does have a purpose too. Because the very first thought Jonathan has upon seeing them turns out to be the most dangerous one: He wants them to kiss him.

The One Thing that will see him bled to death, then undeath. Which has its own super fun parallel in things like, say, the fucking Cordyceps fungus that turns ants into zombies forced to aid in their own and others' slavery/destruction.

And while Stoker wasn't in on all the scientific lookalikes in the animal kingdom, I doubt that Jonathan's mesmerized fixation on wanting to be kissed first and foremost, running on in a written stupor about lips and teeth and breath, was an accident.

Just like a mouse holding still as the cat scoops it into their maw.

Just like an ant crawling up to the sun so it can burst with spores and share its half-life demise with its fellows.

Hold still, dear. You want to hold still for us, don't you? Of course you do. Good boy. Here. Have a kiss.

[fallendev0tionvn]

Any Fun Facts about Clive?

has read all twd comics, spent a ton on ebay to get his hands on all of them (that's also why he has wings tatted on his back, he's obsessed with daryl)

cuts his own hair cause he's terrified of coming out with a low taper fade or something HAHDHAH, another thing he did himself are his piercings

when he was 14 he had a nightmare about getting trapped behind some extremely heavy door and he couldn't get out as much as he tried because he didn't have any strength (you were behind the door ofc, that's why he was so desperate to get out), immediately started going to the gym to work on it💀

vampire enjoyer, he used to pretend to be a vampire when he was younger, lost infinite aura when some kids called him out in front of everyone (me too clive, me too).

related to the vampire thing, he has angel bites because they remind him of fangs🏃‍♀️

he kind of took that guardian bell you gave him (at the beginning of the game) as a confession, "if you're supposed to give it to a loved one to protect them does that mean they love me?"- his hopes were gone the moment you told him some friend of yours found him cute and wanted to get to know him better🕴️

we know he learnt you first language if you speak more than one, I can imagine him complimenting you or yapping about how important you are in it (he's actually fluent)

he loves to be around you all the time but if you have a pet?? nah he's sticking to them, if you have a cat he'd scream kitty like caseoh the MOMENT he walks in HAHDHHA

probably reads romance webtoons (wholesome ones) to daydream about you as always💀

you listened to music with him once and you couldn't understand why he was all jumpy and shakey (pure rizz in his mind, suggesting to listen to music together??? do you love him??)

he wanted to be a tattoo artist cause he used to spend a lot of time drawing on your arm/hand (using actual tattoos as a reference), sneaked his initial more than once, he never made it obvious ofc🏃‍♀️

him:

(kind of funny how he looks so cute around you and animals then..with other people..i'd show the cg but hell no)

[gunthermunch]

[Transcript under the cut]

Cassandra: interesting… Cassandra: kitty spirit box is that your only song? Cassandra: you're just playing around. WG: Bluma!! c'mon girl. you're seven years old that ghoul's gonna eat you up WG: … damn that's a bunch of garlic. WG: shit WG: [wheeze] Jesus- stupid lungs WG and Cass: OOF Cass: watch it! WG: SORRY- sorry, my flashlight is-- is that Metallica? Cass: ugh. yes WG: where'd you even come from?! Cass: secret stairs behind that wall. this place is a maze WG: there's more?! Cass: shh-! did you hear that? Door screech Bluma: oh hey! what took you so long? WG: …huh Bluma: come on in, i want you to meet someone Bluma: this is Jojo! Cass: …that's a cat WG: lord take me Bluma: he's so polite and cuddly. Jojo was the one making all that noise, he just wanted out but couldn't get the door open. Bluma: can we- WG: there's no way we are keeping that thing Cass: don't listen to your uncle, i let him adopt a trash panda years ago and he cuddled it like a baby Bluma: really?? Cass: mhm. can i carry him? WG: i can't with this Cass: hi Jojo. is this your maze? you did quite an interesting job on it. Jojo: mrow Bluma: i think he wants down Cass: only if he lets me investigate the place. Jojo: meow! WG: so you're not gonna ask how's that thing still alive? Bluma: maybe he's been living off the mold in the walls WG: word Cass: Wolfgang, look at this WG: what's that Cass: these are notes on vampirism. I think whoever owned Jojo before was working on a cure or something similar. WG: ( reading ) Even if i'm following your recipe exactly the way you lend it to me, i don't think i will ever have it done. I don't see it all like you do, i fear i will never do. i'm sorry. Cass: something fell off. what is it? WG: a coincidence. Hey Blooms, grab that guy. We are going back up Bluma: Maggie, this is Jojo. Jojo, Maggie. Meet each other, talk. Cass: Wolfgang. WG: you are getting married. Cass: well, i'm already married. WG lits cigarrette WG: …i'm sorry, Cass. I really suck at words but, yeah. i wish i could've been, i don't know, better. Cass: don't you mean be? WG: yeah, maybe. WG: so. is Nervous married too? i'm up for more surprises Cass: well i haven't seen Nervous in a while, but i keep in touch with Annie and as far as i know, everything's jolly. also you're a grandparent WG: the hell Cass: yeah congratulations. PB had four pups and Nervous named one of them after you WG: …holy shit. Cass: yeah, everyone's changing. Cass: … i don't forgive you, by the way. Cass: but, i don't regret going on that date with you either.

Bluma: is she's gone… gone? WG: i don't know. but she said she never cared about me stealing her truck. Bluma: why do all your friends come and go? WG: all my friends? Bluma: yeah, like the freckled one. Morgana? WG: Morgan…? Bluma: yeah! she was here some years ago asking about you, and gave me my glasses. she had beautiful orange hair… like a butterfly! Bluma: are you okay?! WG: yeah yeah- just-- why don't you show Jojo our curtains and- your dad's socks collection Bluma: oh- yeah! you're right