#and get a fourth-wall sense of what's about to go down

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 16: Beren, Luthien, and the fourth wall,

through which Pengolodh needs to be punched a little. Or at least frightened.

So… This chapter is a lot.

First we get a remainder that we are in a narrative frame: there are many stories but this one is the best. So I, Pengolodh, will make sure it sounds proper.

Also, why is the Lay of Leithian… I thought "Leithian" was some variant of Luthien, but it's "Release from Bondage". What. Why. I guess it's that one scene where she takes Sauron's island?

Before I proceed: I wanted to say that writing a love story dedicated to your wife and overloading it with meanings is an absolutely valid thing to do. And beautiful.

Yes, this is an opinion I will stick with. No, it doesn't mean that I think everything in B&L is coherent or well-written. Most is, but there are places that stick out.

So we start with Beren. He lives with his fatherr and a band of outlaws and… they worship a (lake? river? translation unclear.) because Melian had hallowed it.

They are so competent that Morgoth tells Sauron (his 2nd in command) to kill them all.

Again we have a character with unprocessed grief (nor surprising, as he doesn't know whether his wife is alive or dead) and it is the entry point for the forces of evil. So, Gorlim. Sauron pulls the Dune-like thing on him. I wonder which was first. Jirt didn't like Dune, but had read it.

Beren sees Gorlim's ghost, in the (hallowed?) water, which is an interesting place for a ghost to appear. good for him I guess?

What is the thing with hands? Beren attacks the orcs and grabs his dead father's hand with the ring of Barahir. Unclear which hand was that. Also, he becomes vegan.

Beren is so competent that he gets a "wanted" poster Morgoth offers a prize for his head. As high as for Fingon. OK, so Morgoth gives money for killing important people? Or at least offers money? We aren't told if he ever actually paid anyone. But the orcs still prefer to run away, so he sends Sauron + a whole army and his werewolves.

How competent can one guy be?

Also, we get an explanation of what werewolves are. Terrible ghosts imprisoned in wolves' bodies and posessing them. This chapter has more on werewolves then the whole rest of the book.

So, Beren has to evacuate through Spider-land. Which he manages to do. (Seriously, how many Fate Points does this guy have?)

Luthien is so beautiful that he falls in love instantly. I would be more comfortable if Tolkien didn't show falling in love as simultanously a) totally uncontroleable result of beauty, and b) impossible to not turn into action. But Beren is a good guy so he is polite, he just admires her and stuff.

Also, she's got the exact same poetic colors of hair and eyes as Elrond, which makes sense. Or, more precisely, Elrond as her.

Fate this, fate that, I get the point but don't like the language.

Beren gets kind of sick, because he has to gain more Fate Points pays for the great destiny he is going to get.

I am not going to repeat that part I complained about already. Let's just say there's a lot of "she/they were the most X of everyone in all times" and this sounds, well, poetic but not factual. (Also, they are "the most happy anyone has ever been". )

Daeron snitches on Luthien (part 1). Thingol is sad and confused and asks questions. Beren says "I found what I didn't seek, but as I found it I will never give it up" and that is a really good line.

Thingol, of all people, complains of having made a hasty oath. :D

Beren would take death before dishonor. Also shows Finrod's ring and Thingol isn't very impressed. (I think this may be used as a counterargument to "Finrod should have written to Thingol" — Beren has already shown the credentials he could get from Finrod. What additional things could Finrod tell Thingol?)

We get a description of the ring of Barahir.

Melian tries to calm het husband down, but he is upset and resentful at Beren. And he says that he desires the Silmaril (does he? Did he desire it before he said that? Unclear)

At least Thingol says that with the Silmaril he will give Luthien to Beren if she will want to, which is very proper of him. Also he mentions the "fate of Ards is tied to the Silmarils" thing. Everyone realizes that he just wants Beren dead (so I guess it is a fact?)

Beren is very chill. He says "bye" to Luthien, bows. And then he moves the guards and just walks away ignoring them which is an awesome way of leaving.

Melian is worried, Thingol says that Beren will not return, and if he (thingol) believed that there is any chance of success for him, he would kill Beren, promise or not.

We have a lot of "Lay of Laithian says" so I guess this is suposed to be a later edition... I should do a reread (well, first read tbh) on the Lay one day. But it's hard to read with focus.

Beren goes to Nargothrond, and (so that the guards don't shoot him) yells often that he is Barahir's son. Which must have looked quite funny.

Also, Turgon isn't the only one with "shoot the intruders" policy, but Finrod's one seems less strict.

Finrod talks with Beren behind closed doors (I think it's because C&C. Finrod isn't naive, he's just… idk. Anyway this is a smart move.) Also he is surprised and sad and heavy-hearted because he realizes he's going to have to die. At leats he doesn't try to weasel out of his fate.

Also, Finrod says a lot of interesting / strange things:

the Oath is on again. So, we are in the "oath is an active thing" situation. Probably.

there is a "curse of hatered" on the Silmarils. (Huh??? Who cursed them? I don't remember Fefe cursing the jewels, he cursed many other things…)

who speaks their name with greed, awakens poweerful forces (WHAT? So… Thingol is greedy about the jewel? And it triggers the Oath? Or what? that's… a whole new conceptual area to explore)

the Feanorians would rather destroy all lands then let anyone else have a Silmaril (I'm not sure how true this is but him saying this tells us something about C&C)

the Oath "rules over the princes of Noldor" (What. Finrod, my guy, you are a Noldorin prince too. Also, what. What about their free will?)

C&C are a problem but Finrod won't break his word to Barahir, so we all are deep in trouble

Finrod makes a speech, expects support from his people. It's not said what kind of support. He doesn't say he is going to attack Angband directly.

Celegorm takes out his sword and quotes the Oath. That's pretty metal, but also definitely not good. Curufin is apparently more polite now (iirc he was brash some chapters earlier, I guess he learned. Or it was Celegorm too?). Citizens of Nargothrond are scared of war, they get sneaky, start using poison and generally turn Nor Great from this time on. Huh.

The Doom of Mandos awakes in C&C's hearts and gives them evil thoughts. This is a very close paraphrase. Excuse me, what? Pengolodh, what have you been drinking? something made by Namo (or one of his Maiar, which I find more likely, but anyway) makes them think evil things? Go home and check your phrasing, seriously. This sounds so off. Unless it's the translation again?

Finrod appeals to pity and gets ten guys to follow him. I agree that this speech of him doesn't sound great and … I think he just feels sad and abandoned and does some emotional blackmailing here. and Finrod is awesome but not so awesome to never do anything wrong. It's not terrible, but, yes, I think he would be better without it.

[Which implies that if it was just him and Beren, Sauron would not try to kill Beren earlier. Which… makes some sense. When you have 12 prisoners, killing one as an example isn't a lot. when you have just two, you need to use subtler means of persuasion. (sorry for a bit of Sauron PoV ;) )]

Still, Edrahil is pretty cool here. I like him. Yes, those two opinions can coexist and it is an important point.

The song duel. Finrod picks "Of secrets kept," as his starting line, which makes sense in the context (keeping their disguise) but also, considering what kind of secret had Finrod been keeping (mostly from Thingol, who is btw associated with this quest) for many, many years, I would say it does have a weak point.

So it leads to "In Valinor, the red blood flowing" and we're out.

Luthien feels that things are bad and asks mom and mom tells her that Beren is captured by Sauron. Which she knows. Because she's a Maia, probably? But still, to see into Sauron's dungeons is quite an achievement. Maybe fate was a factor too.

Huan! The dog that is under the Doom of the Noldor! It seems as if this was the reason he later dies at all, that without the Doom thing Huan would be immortal. What even is he. [A lesser Maia. I don't care it's no longer canon, it makes the most sense.]

Also, he never sleeps, his sight and smell can't be deceived and he is invulnerable to magic.

C&C capture Luthien and we have their reasoning explained. So, C&C's logic as told by the narrative:

Finrod and Beren are as good as dead now

so let's let Finrod die

also let's force Thingol to let Tyelko marry Luthien

we will be the most powerful princes of the Noldor

the Silmarils, yea, so let's wait. first we will rule all the Elven kingdoms and then we can work on reclaiming the Silmarils.

No, it doesn't mean that someone else may take them!

Yes, it is explicitely about political power. (But also, Luthien pretty and Celegorm is into her.)

Also, Huan (like Celegorm) understands all creatures.

Finrod dies. Pengolodh edits it heavily. Seriously, I hereby accept this fic as my canon for what finrod said, because the book is lying. Oh wait, no. It is the translation. In the Polish version Finrod literally says "it will be many ages before the Noldor see me" and he says it without "probably" or anything, he says it like a foresight. And we know it is not true, because he got reembodied very quickly.

The original is not that bad. Anyway, it is lacking. It reads like something Celegorm would say in the situation (no offense to Celegorm who had actually been in this situation in early drafts).

[HC time: I imagine Pengolodh as very much the kind of guy to get offended by and cut out anything that looks too strange and … I don't know how to call it. Difficult? He's not terrible, but very insecure after returning from the Exile. He really doesn't want to offend the Valar again and isn't taking the best approach to it.]

And, speaking of Pengolodh and his additions, "so died Finrod, the most beloved descendant of Finwe". Beloved by whom? Certainly not by Finwe. Maybe by the people, but it does depend on which people exactly. Most beloved on the average? Most beloved by Pengolodh?

Pengolodh, my guy, I actually agree with you that Finrod is the loveliest Finwean, but please, could you refrain from using "loved / beloved" and comparisions?

Anyway, song-rescue. This is something even Pengolodh can't mess up describing. Also, Valacirca (Sickle of the Valar, that is: the Big Dipper) mentioned, and … it's a sign of Morgoth's fall? I thought this one was a threat to him. (Yes, let me remind you: there is not one, but two different seven(ish)-star constellations that Varda put in the sky specifically as a threat to Melkor. Also, of all the weapons, a sickle.)

Sauron seems to have a thing with "standing on a high place and smiling/laughing just before he gets wrecked". (Later he does it as Numenor is falling). I hereby HC that just before he noticed the Ring being in the Crack of doom, he also stood high atop his tower and laughted (because Aragorn's army was losing).

I'm tired. I'll cut B&L reread into two parts.

[raptorrobot]

i've been making a stupid dedication of effort in matching the titles of the violent sun chapters to songs that so specifically fit the circumstances happening in them. i think my favourite match i've made so far has to be sticks & stones just because of this line

[whoskimii]

Nanami + ovulation he would treat us so well while fucking us hard and speaking sweet words <3

i love this request i feel like it's so nanami :3

⋆౨ৎ˚ notes > kento x you. filthy filth! i need me some of that :( he rails you but he's polite with it frfr. tell me if i missed anything!! ^^ ౨ৎ warning : you may have butterflies in your belly while reading this!! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

your husband was handsome, to say the least. it was an undeniable fact. you were always attracted to him, no matter the time. but when you were ovulating ? don't even get me started.

you were all over him. clawing, pawing at him, you name it. of course he found it sweet. he loved that his pretty little wife could go that crazy over him just from the fact that he was simply existing.

when you were ovulating and he'd come home from work, looking all tired and exhausted, his tie a bit loose and his sleeves rolled up ? that was certainly a valid excuse to practically pounce on him.

it was nearly three in the morning when you came for the fourth time. the fourth time.

your stamina was always higher during your ovulation week but right now ? you were completely fucked out. but he found so pretty, you can't blame him :(

he gently nuzzled your neck with his nose as the tip of his cock literally bullied your sweet spot. "you're so pretty, my love, y'know that ?" the way he spoke and the way he moved created such a contrast that it was almost unbelievable.

he murmured such sweet words into your ear, like you were the most precious thing he had. which was the truth. you truly were his most guarded treasure. but he was also fucking you so nice and deep into the mattress, almost as if you were a cheap whore he found down the street. your husband was such a polyvalent man, and you couldn't deny you loved it.

"surely you can handle a bit more, right ? aw, of course you can..." your senses were all filled with him. literally.

your hearing, your sense of smell and more— literally everything. they were as filled with him as your pussy were. "ken, s'too much..." you mumbled, grabbing his forearms weakly.

one of your legs was hooked around his waist to pull him deeper, as if he wasn't already touching your soul. you could swear, right there and then, that you felt him in your liver. "it's too much, you say ? my love... i know a liar when i see one."

your pretty manicured nails, the ones he paid for, were digging into the sheets. "m'not lying, i swear..." he chuckled. "yeah ? you say you're not lying, mhm ? why's she sucking me in, then ?" you knew what he was referring to. of course you knew.

your pussy. your husband loved talking about it as if it was an individual, who was worthy of respect.

your sloppy little walls were making such lewd sounds, almost the same ones you could hear in many pornographic movies. "s'just... i can't..." you babbled. you were on the verge of cumming and your husband knew that. he intertwined his fingers with you and his other hand slid between your bodies to circle your throbbing little clit.

"you can." he insisted, punctuating his words with yet another harsh thrust. he chuckled as you choked on your own saliva and he pulled his fingers away from your clit, only to stuff your mouth with them. "why don't you suck on my fingers, honey ? just like you suck on my cock. s'been a while since you did, huh ?"

his fingers were coated in your essence as he forced them between your lips. the taste of yourself made your eyes roll back. "yeah, s'been a little while, mhm ? i just keep fucking you, now. maybe i spoil you too much." he kissed your cheek. "m'gonna cum..."

he hummed and gently kissed your forehead. "yeah ? really ? go ahead, baby..." he whispered, one of his hands playing with your nipple. he pushed your knees to your chest and you moaned loudly. "go ahead." he repeated. "i love watching you come."

his words, mixed with the way he was playing with you so freely, made you cum. "ken !" you gasped as you clenched around him tightly. "fuck, that's it..." he didn't stop, even as you were climaxing for the fifth time that night.

the way your messy cunt tightened around him made him cum right after you. he buried his face in your neck as your fingers tangled with his blonde strands. "i love you..." he murmured.

as he finally came to a stop, he collapsed on top of you, chest to chest. he gave your lips a sweet, short kiss before caressing your cheek. "you want to rest, my love ? it's already three." at your weak little nod, he smiled. "let me just clean you up a little." he pulled out slowly.

he just fucked you nice and hard, and now he was treating you like a fragile little doll.

yeah, your husband was truly a polyvalent man.

<33 do you guys like it ?

⋆˚࿔ kimi 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

[gilverrwrites]

Meet Cutes Uglies Ft. Bruce, Dick, and Jason

GN!Reader, ≈500 words each

CWs: Mild/nonexplicit threats of violence, slut-shaming (but not really), swearing.

Bruce

The chances of bumping into a celebrity not once, twice, thrice, but four times in one day are low, but not impossible as you’re finding out.

It was kinda cool realising you’re stood behind him in line at the coffee shop, but not spectacularly cool or anything. Almost everyone you knew had a story about meeting Bruce, or another member of the Wayne family out in public so you weren’t overly excited. You just kept your head down, scrolling through your socials and wondering whether his drink was the iced cold brew, the fudge brownie hot chocolate, or the three pump vanilla no foam cappuccino. Your friend Jade was right, he is far ‘hunkier’ than the media gives him credit for, his piercing eyes really are that blue, and he smells good too, like bergamot and cedar.

It became somewhat more exciting when you'd headed to the library on your lunch break to return a book, only for him to already be there, chatting-up the librarians no less. Your friends were not going to believe this. He must sense you staring at him because he turns to look at you, when you make eye contact you smile, wondering if he might recognise you from the morning. He did not smile back.

Upon returning to work, the rest of your shift had been gruelling, job after job being piled onto your shoulders with minimal time to get them all done. You hadn’t even had the chance to tell your co-workers about your unlikely encounters with Gotham’s richest man. By the time you got off for the night, you were exhausted, the thought of having to cook dinner and wash the pots once you got home looming over you like a rain cloud until you decide to grab some take-out on your way home instead.

You’re barely out of the doors of Big Belly Burgers, a handful of fries hanging from your lips when you see him for the 3rd time. Bruce Wayne, on the sidewalk across the street, engrossed in what seemed to be a very intense telephone call. Weird.

You don’t have to wait long for the fourth encounter, it happens just a few blocks from your home. He’s much closer this time, a little too close for comfort maybe. You hadn’t seen it coming, one moment you’re rifling through your bag, looking for your keys, the next you’re suspended a few inches from the ground by a pair of strong hands fisted into the collar of your jacket. Instinctively you paw at him, one hand wrapping around his wrist, the other bunching up in the fabric of his sweater for faux support.  

You think for a moment you’re being mugged, until the familiar smell of wood and citrus hits your senses. Bruce Wayne is pressing you against the cold, damp wall of an alleyway, handsome face marred by its stern expression.

“Who are you?” He demands. “And why are you following me?”

>[Continued]<

Dick

The only thing worse than the feel of the uneven, filth-trodden pavements of Blüdhaven against your bare feet, is the thought of putting the torturous pair of dress shoes you’d worn last night back on. Perhaps you should have asked your hookup for something to wear, but that would almost certainly guarantee your having to see them again in order to return it and you’d happily walk barefoot across Tartarus before you let that happen.

Careful to avoid stepping in anything less than savoury, you keep your eyes glued to the floor, so focused on the things below you, that you don’t notice the things in front of you. The person in front of you, until you plough right into their admittedly firm chest.

The person in question reeks of stale alcohol, his shiny hair is a mess, there’s a shadow forming on his striking jawline, and the half-undone shirt he’s wearing is clearly wrinkled and stained from the night before. A fellow walk-of-shamer.

You stare at each other for a long moment before you realise you had bumped into him, therefore you should be the one to speak first.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” You murmur, voice hoarse.

“No problem.” He replied, far too chipper for his current predicament. His eyes rake up and down your body, and you might be vexed by it if you had not just been doing the same to him. “Why aren’t you wearing your shoes.”

“They hurt my feet.” You shrug, taking a cautious sidestep around him as you speak. “Just want to get home, they were slowing me down.”

That should be the end of it, but the sound of his dress boots tapping against the sidewalk follows you down the street. You can’t be certain, but you were pretty sure he’d been walking in the opposite direction prior to your collision. You cast a glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s just a few steps behind you, offering you a striking smile that almost makes the grey morning feel brighter.

“Proposal?” He asks, and you stop to listen. Possibly because you’re genuinely intrigued, probably because your brain isn’t awake enough to tell your heart that you shouldn’t talk to strangers. “If I can get you home without you having to use your feet, will you go out for breakfast with me?”

“You’re really asking me out during a walk of shame?” You snicker, impressed by his audacity.

“We don’t shame in 2024, I prefer to call it a stride of pride.” He informs you, and he has a point. “Besides, might be fate that we walked into each other this fine morning, gotta give it a chance, right?”

“Right.” You agree, but your raised brow and puckered lips might suggest some scepticism. He doesn’t seem put off however, still beaming that brilliant smile at you. “And how do you plan on getting me home?”

“Easy.” He shakes his head, conveying his confidence as he beckons you closer by curling two fingers towards himself. You follow his direction and before you can comprehend what’s going on he’s crouching before you, threading his body between your legs and lifting you on his back, piggy style.

“So, where do you live?”

Jason

The coffee shop is that perfect level of busy that's not overwhelming but isn't too quiet as to be unsettling. Your drink is the ideal temperature, and the evening sun is seeping through the windows at just the right angle to warm your skin and add a golden glow to the atmosphere. By all accounts, this should be the perfect, relaxing moment, except… this book sucks.

You’d thought after years of recommendations from friends, many critically acclaimed adaptions, and its general status as a must-read classic that it was high time you picked it up, but you were about two-thirds in and thoroughly not enjoying yourself.

“Excuse me.” A low voice draws you from the pages of the book. You hadn’t noticed the 6ft+ mountain of tattooed muscle casting a shadow over your table until you looked into his eyes. Oh wow. You don’t know why he’s approached you, but whatever it is; he can have it. “Are you reading Lady Liatris?”

“I am.” You confer, lazily tilting the cover to show him, despite your reading choice already being apparent.

“Nice to meet a fellow bibliophile out in the wild. What do you think of it so far?” He smiles at you, reaching out a hand, your heart sinks as his strong fingers wrap around your own for a handshake.

“Well….” Handsome, well-read, confident enough to approach you, and you were about to blow it with your brutal honesty. “I haven’t finished it yet, so I won’t commit, but so far I am not impressed.”

“What?” He actually flinched. “No way. Where are you up to?”

“I just finished the bit where Claude professed his love for Florance at the flower show, which was the drollest thing I’ve ever read, and it went on and on for far too many pages.” It was probably impolite for you to be venting so quickly to this stranger, but you just couldn’t help it, the words just kept coming. “Not to mention its total lack of realistic feminism, you can’t just unveil your fencing champion to secretly be a woman and call it a day, every other woman in this book is either a two-dimensional gossiping villain or a two-dimensional love interest for the male side characters.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The mystery man shakes his head at you in disbelief as he situates himself in the chair across from your own. “First of all, it was a product of its time, and is widely considered to be one of the greatest pieces of feminist literature despite its origins, secondly, did you not read any of Evie’s subplot?”

The conversation continues that way, back and forth. He emphasises his points with big sweeping, passionate movements of his arms. He nods his head and purses his lips when you make arguably good points and grits his teeth when he disagrees with you. Neither of you notice when the sun goes down, or your drinks going cold until the barista informs you both that they’ll be closing in a few minutes.

Shit. You’d been debating classic-lit with this guy for at least 2 hours, and you didn’t even know his name. The sentiment appears to be shared because he offers you a comically confused frown as he puts his jacket back on and offers you a hand standing from your seat.

You exit the café into the cool night air together. You’re not sure if you should ask his name and invite him over, or say goodbye, fortunately, he removes the need to decide by handing you a napkin with his name and number jotted onto it in black marker. Jason.

“Call me when you’ve finished the book.” He instructs, and then he gone.

[spitdrunken]

man. still have NOT managed to get my hands on the book of bill because it's sold out literally everywhere over here, but have any of you seen the new 'how not to draw' vid on the disney youtube channel that features bill? it really got me thinking.

notes: fourth wall breaking, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy relationships, implied sexual content, implied mind control

it's heavily implied that the video takes place in a world where gravity falls is supposedly fictional, like our own. bill literally says he's going to break the fourth wall! because i'm a sucker for fourth wall breaks and characters being aware of their own fandom (to an extent), i simply just HAD to run with this scenario.

i just like the idea of 'you' being just a person, some totally, in the large scheme of things, insignificant human walking the earth. you have a tendency for escapism, perhaps. you have always been drawn to stories. you like gravity falls. maybe it was something you watched while you were younger and recently rewatched, or an interest that had never waned. regardless, bill cipher, charismatic and unapologetically evil villain that he is, is one of your favourites.

you doodle him on the edges of paper when you're supposed to be doing anything else. (regardless of anyone's artistic skills, it's not difficult to draw a triangle with a top hat and an eye, is it?) and in this world, you are hardly the only one who likes him, who, perhaps, ships himself with him, who thinks about him a lot. who makes drawings and writes or reads fic. you don't think it's all that unusual.

in a stroke of luck or, depending on how you look at it, the exact opposite, the universe's idea of a cosmic joke, you are the one to catch bill's eye. (it's, after all, much easier to infiltrate the dreams of someone who already has you on their mind. makes sense, doesn't it? a tentative, wavering link had been formed already.) there, in your dreams, he tells you what to say--triangulum, entangulum. meteforis dominus ventium. meteforis venetisarium--and the next morning, you remember it clear as a memory.

you do it. for funsies. why wouldn't you? you don't expect it to actually work. he's a fictional interdimensional demon. why would it work? but much to your surprise, and horror, because surely a screw must've gotten loose for this to be happening, one of your little doodles has life blown to it. as a response to your summon, a tiny little bill cipher darts across your paper, alive but still confined.

(you've given him an in. now, he only has to take the crack you've opened for him, dig his fingers in, and tear it open.)

oh, he'll be funny! he'll be exactly what you thought of him. perhaps he even voices a line of dialogue you swore you wrote down somewhere days prior. yes, he's read whatever you wrote or read, whatever you looked at. he's keeping it himself for now. it's not easy to inflate his ego further, but you might have succeeded. rather than a meatbag, bill first looks upon you with the eye of someone presented with a puppy. fundamentally lesser, but capable of being something with the right training.

he urges you to make a deal with him and the promise he'll act out whatever fantasy you've been cooking up in that brain of yours, even if it's gross and weird and physically impossible!

he'll warp your dimension to make all of it possible!!! it's great!!! don't worry about it!!!!!!

…you don't do it. you don't touch the paper. you've seen the show, and you aren't stupid. bill nearly balks. he'd expected you to be the easiest mark of all time, but he suppose he forgot that even puppies have teeth. that's fine. he can work with this. because even though you have not let him in yet, and you refuse to shake his hand through the paper, you don't seperate yourself from him just yet.

you could oh so easily take the piece of paper he's on and throw it in the nearest shredder. or set him on fire. in you, he recognises lingering curiosity, and the excitement at having stood out, at being chosen, in one way or another. it's not hopeless yet.

he can play a bit of a longer game, then. he's been at this for a long, long time. he'll tolerate the paper he's on being folded into a little square and tucked into your breast pocket, granting him a view of your life and the world you're living in. (all the time, his hunger grows.) your decision not to throw him away ends up being your downfall. spending so much time with bill, letting him joke around with you, complaining about your problems… it takes a while for you to realise that, for a while now, he has not been speaking out loud anymore, but instead through your mind.

a connection that cannot be cut has been formed in between two of you.

on bill's part, he had thorougly expected to be bored. but perhaps it's your genuine interest in him, not the things he's offering, which he does not often see. (he's been down this road before. won't end well. but...) the sheer mundanity of your life that makes him wish he could twist and turn it all around. or just a random alignment of the stars. the heart doesn't always follow logic. in this scenario, at some point, bill realises that he has become genuinely invested in you, too. and at that point, you'll never manage to slip away. he's already dug in his heels in your mind far enough. you had no adequate protection.

he still wants to take over your world. he still wants to escape the discomforting flatness of the paper you've summoned him in. but, perhaps, you two could share that meatsack of a body of yours, before things get that far.

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 03. BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

a/n: we are getting down to the nitty and gritty of this man's pain. and he's finally starting to the accept the fact that he has to talk about what happened to him. honestly out of all the chapters this one might be my favorite. solely for the soft vibes i tried to shove into what is already a very angsty story. also somehow wade weaseled his way further into this chapter than i intended him to. so enjoy the humor i've tried to add throughout. (i am reposting this since it didn't show up in the tags yesterday.)

summary: to open up was like taking a knife to a steel door. he never saw the use in letting someone in. but dinner spent in your company and conversations over wine and whiskey is where things begin to take a turn.

word count: 8.3k+ (i don't even know how tf that happened.)

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: partially explicit scene, angst by the bucket load, vulnerable and emotional logan, grief, trauma, heartache, fluff, domestic vibes, alcohol consumption, wade breaking the fourth wall, wade being a shit wingman, the beginnings of something more.

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Blood poured over his hands and soaked into the ground below. The warmth of it coated his senses, dug into the grooves and lines of his palms. He swore he felt it down to his bones. Now permanently mixed with a version of him long forgotten—the man who used to smile.

Their shouts of pain rendered him immobile. Useless to help them, useless to save their lives. Useless. Useless. Useless. He fought against the restraints, the invisible shackles put there by his own hands. Whether to stop him from going or to keep him from harm—he'd never know—but he battled regardless. With a snarl, he felt them snap, his claws sliding free in all their familiarity. A weapon of destruction unable to be used for salvation.

When he began to run he felt it. The piercing echo of her. The power she emanated as they took her life, brought her to the brink of death. He felt her voice punch through his chest—puncturing him in his heart. She screamed his name with her final breath. Called out for his help; for him to save them all.

He could almost see her in his mind, the horror that befell a school of such powerful people. And he loathed himself for breathing. For living after they were taken so quickly from him.

His family. His home.

What once existed would no longer return. That alone broke him further than their deaths. The knowledge that his world—his universe—would be without their heroes. So much of their worth had been given to humanity. Only to be stripped of their lives within the blink of an eye.

And he couldn't save them. He could barely stand on his own two feet without stumbling.

"Logan!" The scream split along his skull, rupturing veins that healed far too quickly for his liking.

What the fuck was the point of his abilities if he couldn't put them to use? If he couldn't do the one thing they counted on him for.

Their blood stuck to him, burrowing into skin that would never scar. He'd never have proof of the wounds that rested along his heart. Forever damned to carry the weight of his own failure—the guilt that ate him alive. For what? To tell the story he could barely stomach himself? What was his life to the lives of those who meant so much more?

Why did he have to fucking live?

He stood on the doorstep. Death stained the walls, pierced the air with its pungent copper tang. He keeled over at the bushes, all the alcohol he'd consumed expelling itself from his body at the sight. His family was dead. His family was dead and he couldn't join them. He couldn't fucking die.

What once felt like a gift—eternity to find these people who loved him—now rang true with the only word that could make sense. Curse. His curse.

"No," he gasped, eyes bleary with tears as he scrambled to his feet and sprinted through the broken down door.

His claws came free, expecting a fight. Only to be met with silence. An eerie echo of nothing.

No laughter, no life, no chatter of students.

Nothing.

The breath ripped from his lungs as a blaring horn spilled in through the apartment's open window. In an attempt to get some cool air, he pushed the couch closer to what airflow there was. The only downside was hearing everything as he slept. Each little noise and loud mouthed fucker as they wandered the rather empty street. He wanted to leave—move to a better spot where humanity was sparse—but the pull of you across the street kept him there.

"Fuck," he grunted, eyes blinking away the nightmare that tore at his psyche.

The bottle of whiskey underneath the kitchen cabinet called his name. Offering a respite against the horrors he couldn't run from. And with a pained groan, he stumbled towards it—grabbing his coffee mug from the counter. The amber liquid felt bitter against the back of his throat. A familiar burn he welcomed.

He may not be able to stay injured, but this he could have. The darkness at the end of the bottle. The silence he found in collapsing drunk against the couch.

The streetlight outside lit the area filled with trash and the few people sleeping in darkened alleys. If he listened hard enough he could hear their heartbeats. Smell the pungent scent of the city as it seeped through the window. He could feel the thrum of New York beneath his feet—unfamiliar in its nature but home nonetheless.

The sight of a light flicking on grasped his attention—a glimpse of you staggering to the kitchen for a glass of water clear through your window. You should really get curtains, or blinds. He'd help install them for you. But then he'd never get this again. A small insight into your life, a peek into what he left behind a day ago.

Your lips against his still seared through his body—your moans and want for more left him breathless. And he had to go and fuck it up. Just as he did with everything in his life. He ruined the good. Corrupted the innocent.

Doing the same to you felt unfathomable—painful.

But how could he stop?

When you were catching his gaze in the window. Your glass of water was forgotten and the blanket dropped to the leather chair behind you. He left the bottle on the floor by the couch, his empty mug beside it as you grabbed for something. Logan yearned to hear your voice. To apologize for how he left things. But saying sorry never came easy and he found that keeping you at a distance was much safer than what he actually wanted.

The ringing on his phone broke his penetrating gaze. He reached for it quickly, pressing it to his ear as you brought your phone to yours. A breath was all that echoed through the small speaker—soft and warm. He swore he could feel it against his cheek. Hear the echo of your heart pounding beneath his.

"Can't sleep?" you uttered, finally putting his mind at ease. He exhaled a deep breath—hearing it fill your ears as warmth trailed down your spine.

"Nightmares."

You watched him stand still as stone. His fingers gripped the phone for assurance. A sense of stability from a past that had already cracked him in half. The sorrow in his eyes practically bled through the streets. Lapping at your feet like the waves on a shore. And in an act so unlike yourself, you took a step forward. You stood in his grief and offered to drag him to the sand—gave him hope that this world might treat him differently.

Logan wouldn't save himself because he believed he deserved it.

He'd save himself because he knew you deserved a better man.

"Do they happen often?"

The soft echo of your voice tinged with sleep set his mind at ease. For the first time that night he felt himself breathe properly. He could taste the sweetness in the air, the heat that clung to his skin held traces of you when you started to open your window.

Leaving you at your door suddenly felt like the stupidest decision he'd ever made. But the fear is what kept him at a safe distance. He couldn't hurt you here in this shitty apartment. He couldn't destroy what good you held in your heart standing here at an open window.

"Every night," he rasped. His hand clenched, the bones of his knuckles shifting as silver began to peek through the pierced skin.

He knew you could see it. He heard your heart speed up through the phone. And with a ragged sigh, he retracted them forcefully—hiding the beast within to present you with the man beyond.

"You don't have to hide them from me." If you turned, you'd see the punctures in your door you tried to hide with duct tape. The claws that came free because of your touch—your kiss.

They should have scared you.

Logan almost wished they had.

"You don't want to see that part of me honey," he muttered, watching as you stood closer to the ledge—your hand pressed to the chipped wood. "It's not all sunshine and rainbows."

You laughed and he felt it down his spine. "No. I think that's only in Wade's mind."

"Don't say that fucker's name please," he groaned. "Not while I have you here."

"Did I touch a nerve? Wolverine?"

Your smile deepened, mischief practically dripping from your words. Yet Logan couldn't help fixating on the way his title sounded off your tongue. The hero name he loathed for so long suddenly made his heart flip. He gripped the phone tight enough until he heard a faint crackling sound—his body going taut at the thought of you saying it under different circumstances.

Moving past the subject was all he could do. All he wanted to do.

"Why are you up bub?"

You sighed, leaning against the window frame. "Restless. Too much energy from the day."

"Not too much moving in the archives huh?"

"I'll have you know I walk constantly. It's a very demanding job."

He snorted. "Down to the end of the bookshelves and back?"

"Shut up." Your laughter echoed across the street and it nearly startled him how normal he felt. How human. "I can guarantee my job is a lot more work than yours."

"You're right. Saving the universe is nothin' when it comes to books."

"I'm going to hang up."

"Don't. I'll stop." Despite his serious tone, he didn't try to stop the chuckle you felt strike against your heart. The husk of its deep nature.

The memory of his touch still rang clear in your mind. How his lips molded against yours, his body firm and hot beneath your touch. You weren't restless because of work. In fact you felt the pain in your feet begin to spread up your calves the longer you stood there. You couldn't sleep because of him. Too busy replaying that moment to find time in your schedule to sleep.

"Logan." His gaze fell serious at the soft murmur of his name. "Tell me about your dream."

He bit back the urge to push you away, to claim he was fine. That nothing happened and acknowledging it wouldn't save him from himself. But that's not what you were trying to accomplish, and he knew that. He could see it clearly in front of his face. But he was a man hardened by the nature of silence—of ignoring his pain until it eventually withered and died inside him.

Changing that wasn't a battle he'd win tonight. Nor tomorrow.

He sighed, seeing how you fought back a yawn. "Not tonight honey."

"Why–"

"I will." Your breath echoed loudly in his head. He wished he could feel it. "I'll tell you everything. Just not tonight."

Your finger traced the silhouette of him against the glass. "When?"

"I don't know." He imagined your touch was against his skin, pictured how you'd trace the lines of his muscles. How you'd lick along his veins for a taste of him on your tongue. "Tell me about your day."

"That's boring," you groaned.

"Not to me bub. I like history." He smiled. "I used to teach it."

"Fuck off. Did you really?" You perked up within seconds, eyes alight as they were the other night. And Logan felt himself get dragged in a bit deeper. He knew he was fucked the second he saw you, but now...there was no stopping the inevitability of you. "I guess I learn something new every day. James."

He growled, low and hungry—pleasure filling his stomach. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish honey."

Silence filled the air and Logan felt the doubt pull at his nerves. He watched you lean into the glass, your scent filtering through the warm air. Sharp and heady. Darker than your usual honeyed sweetness; the taste of it spread along his tongue—shivers rolling down his back. You wanted him. No fuck that.

You needed him.

"And if I want to," you breathed, trepidation and hope overlapping in your words. "Finish this."

He bared his teeth in a grin that felt feral—as if he could taste your flesh. "We will," he stated with such severity. A promise lined in truth for once. "Now go on. Tell me about your day."

He awoke to the sounds of clashing pots and pans being tossed on the stove—the incessant beep of the coffee machine blaring off every thin wall. And Wade singing loudly—and horribly—to some fucking pop song from the eighties Logan would learn the name of against his will. He groaned, slamming his head back against the couch in the hopes that this was all a dream.

If he wished hard enough maybe he'd wake up to silence.

Or to you.

"Good morning peanut!" Wade's voice shouted, another bang sounding off behind him. "I've got coffee, Canadian bacon, and the final answer for what came first—the chicken or the egg."

Logan longed to stab himself in the skull. This quick healing factor became a fucking pain in the ass at the worst of times. He staggered into the kitchen, immediately wishing he'd drank the entire bottle of whiskey last night at the sight of Wade in a pair of white underwear and nothing else.

"What the fuck." He shut his eyes, reaching blindly for a mug and the coffee pot.

"Yeah..." Wade slammed the pan on the stove, a now broken yolk spilling over the edge. "Laundry day and Al called dibs on the top load. Just call me Risky Business."

Logan's sigh was ragged, beyond exhausted as he gulped down the first dose of searing coffee. "He wore a shirt in that fucking movie."

"Lookie here! Someone is up to date on their Tom Cruise movies. Don't tell me you're a Top Gun fan honey badger because I have some fucking news for you. We topped them for highest grossing movie of all time." Wade smiled as the destroyed egg slid onto a chipped plate. "Financially topped. Personally, I don't think scientology allows Tom Cruise to fuck anymore."

"I'm not listenin' to your fuckin' bullshit," he grunted, pouring another cup.

The charred egg was slid his way. "Aren't you gonna ask me?"

"Ask you what?"

Talking this early in the morning made the veins in his throat strain—his grip on the mug nearly cracking the porcelain. In times like this Logan felt the overwhelming need to throw his roommate out the fucking window.

If only to get thirty seconds of hearing him scream on the way down.

"What came first."

He moved to make another pot of coffee, ignoring the chatter that fell from Wade's mouth. In order to even feel coherent enough to make sense of it, he'd need four more cups. Or enough to bathe in if the morning didn't calm down. The sun blinded him as he turned to glance out the window; the air stale and hot choked his senses. He'd never felt this overstimulated before—this out of place.

"You look like you've seen better days in a horror movie. Up having late night phone sex?" Wade grinned and leaned across the counter—his head in his hand and love in his eyes. "Tell me about it, stud? Tell me more, tell me more. Did you get very far?"

"Oh god," Logan groaned, slamming the coffee pot back into place. "Can you shut the fuck up for once? I'm begging you."

"Did you beg her?"

His claws pressed to Wade's smug face—blood spilling against his cheek. "I will cut your fuckin' mouth off."

"I just wanna know why you're waiting so long to give her the Hugh Jackman."

"The what?" he growled, heat blistering against his face.

"Ya know." The crude gesture to his groin had him digging his claws directly into Wade's cheek. But even then he mumbled around the metal piercing his skin. "The package. The full shebang. Rock her like a hurricane—or whatever the fuck that German band was talking about. Cause I sure know she's aching for it."

"Don't fucking talk about her like that."

Wade smiled until his cheek sliced down to his mouth. The sight was disgusting enough for Logan to forgo wanting breakfast. And lunch. And dinner at that.

"You don't believe me! HA! Let me tell you, you're pretty but there's nothing going on up there." A tap on Logan's forehead forced the claws to sink just a bit deeper. "That sweet angel across the street is ready to save that horse and ride you instead cowboy. All. Night. Long."

"You don't know what you're talking about." Yet even as he said the words he felt the lie stick to the back of his throat.

Last night's conversation was proof enough that Wade was telling the truth. Even Logan could fucking see what was right in front of him. Someone beautiful, someone smart. Someone...he wasn't worthy of. If he combined all those factors he only came up with one conclusion. The longer he stayed away from you, the better you'd wind up being.

The safer you'd stay if he wasn't constantly shoving his way into your life.

The loud sigh from Wade's healing mouth shoved another wave of guilt into Logan's stomach. "Look. Ignore it all you want, but sooner or later you're gonna wind up with only your hand for some company and she'll find someone who actually wants to be with her."

Wade was right. For once.

What Logan didn't expect was the anger he felt at the visual of you finding someone else. The rage that nearly overwhelmed him. That's how it should be. You with someone better, a man who actually gave you a chance at a relationship. One that wasn't doomed from the very start. He let the thought simmer, chewed on it for as long as he could.

And not a minute later came to the answer he'd been looking for.

Logan would rip apart any other man without hesitation if they came into your life.

This wasn't a fling. He'd known that on his Earth and knew it now. He clawed his way out of a grave once to get back to you. And he would do it again and again and again. As many times as it took to make sure he got a glimpse of your smile, felt the love in your touch.

"Grab your shit we've got somewhere to be," he grumbled, shoving the burned egg in his mouth and washing it down with fresh black coffee to kill the taste.

"Yes! Now there's the Wolverine I know." Wade shouted, pumping his fist in the air. Logan couldn't tell if he was being vulgar or not. 

"Let's go bang your girl!" A snarl ripped through his throat, blood splattering on his bare chest as he pinned Wade to the wall—his claws embedded in the man's heart. "Or you bang her and I quietly stay at home with the window open to serenade you two with the sensual sounds of Marvin Gaye."

He grinned, eyes flashing over Logan's shoulder. "Directly from Sam Wilson's playlist if you know what I'm getting at Marvel fuckers."

On days where people were stuck at work and students infiltrated the library above, you found the solace of the archives to be everything you needed. For an hour you'd been placing books in their correct spots, labeling boxes to be housed somewhere new, and theorizing where you went wrong the other night when Logan left.

You didn't want to let the disappointment get to you. Nor should you. The phone conversation last night clarified enough for you to know him leaving wasn't your fault. It wasn't due to your kiss or even because he didn't want to be there. He simply hadn't healed from what his world did to him. Whatever Wade mentioned to you in a ramble of semi-seriousness gave you enough of a picture to know what that might have been.

No matter how much you wanted to help him; to make him see that you weren't scared of what he had to give. This wasn't your war.

Logan made sure you understood that.

That still didn't stop the swell of dismay at his actions. The belief that you weren't good enough to hear his story began to eat you alive the longer he pushed it off. Each comment came tinged with pain you'd never be privy to. Agony he wanted to endure alone.

You would give him the space he needed—the time that was required in order to heal from wounds you couldn't see. They were there. Dug into the shape of his heart—carved into the metal of his bones—but Logan wouldn't allow you to bear witness to that. To a broken side of a man who wanted to be better. If only he knew he didn't have to be for you to ache for him.

The thought of him alone left your heart twisting in your chest and stomach fluttering.

You slid another book into the correct spot, silence echoing like a void that went on for miles. Only for the ring of your phone to shatter it like glass. You scrambled for the device in your purse, breath filling your lungs at the sight of his name as it flashed across your screen. 

Maybe this made you seem desperate—a type of clingy that would make any other man run. You couldn't find it in yourself to give a shit.

"Logan," you said—his name leaving your mouth in a breathy manner you regret within moments.

"Oh shit girl you've got it bad."

The pounding of your heart jumped at the loud echo of Wade's voice blasting through the small speaker. "Wade?"

"The one and holy." To say you were perplexed felt like an understatement. But before you could spill the millions of questions on your tongue, Wade kept going. "Hey! What kind of wood do you prefer?"

A loud rumble of an engine blared in the background—killing your ears. "What?"

"Oh right fuck me. Silly question. There's twelve thousand words already written about what type of wood you prefer." He laughed as the sound came again. "I'm talking the tree kind. Got a preference for scents?"

"She's not gonna be able to smell it you dumb fuck!" Logan shouted. You heard an audible screech before a loud rustle had you pulling the phone from your ear with a groan. "Honey?"

You smiled, walking towards the part of the room that didn't echo with your voice. "I'm scared to ask what you guys are doing today."

"Oh," he chuckled. You wished he'd bought a better phone, longing to see each expression that crossed his face. "I owe you a door."

That kiss reemerged in your memory once more. Burning through your body in quick rapid strokes. As if Logan was fanning the flames of something stronger—a fire that you wouldn't be able to control. You imagined what he looked like at this moment, if he still wore the exhausted look of grief from last night. Or if he'd covered it with a mask of annoyance due to Wade.

"I can just call the building manager to fix it." You put it on your list of things to do today already, but the idea of seeing Logan again was too tempting to pass up.

He huffed, falling silent. Wade's voice shouting about the Lorax became all you heard for a brief moment—Logan no doubt figuring out what he could say to fix this. The glimpse of him last night had set your teeth on edge in a way you'd never experienced before. You felt you could sink your canines into the tension and rip it to shreds with ease.

"Where I come from it's only right to fix what I broke."

What he broke.

This wasn't about the door. You could see it clearly in the pained way he spoke his words—each one more clear than the last. Leaving you in a rush with no fucking explanation left him worried that you weren't going to be around if he kept pushing you away. You were something good—a light he sought in the darkness he found himself in—and messing up this chance wasn't going to happen twice.

He'd done this before. He pushed those he loved away.

Doing the same with you only made his chest echo with the hollow emptiness that he'd grown tired of feeling.

"You can fix my door under one condition," you said, effectively breaking the silence.

"Anythin'."

The flutter in your chest felt lethal when he spoke to you like this; open and willing to bend where you wanted him to go. A man had never given you this before. The attention, the knowledge that he wanted all of you. Not just sex, or meaningless conversations. He wanted every piece you were open to sharing—every dark crevice and thought you felt embarrassed about.

You only wished he'd understand you wanted the exact same thing from him.

"Dinner. My place. Seven p.m."

Fuck what you wouldn't give to see his smile as he let out a sigh of relief. "I won't be late."

You smiled, worrying your lip between your teeth—that familiar gooey warmth now back in your chest. "You better not be."

"I've got great timing honey. Got nothin' to worry about."

Bullshit. You nearly said it, but a loud shuffle and a few bitten off curse words—mainly growled on Logan's end—cut your conversation short. A triumphant laugh you could only figure to be Wade's pierced your eardrum as the phone was unwillingly handed off once again.

"I just want to let you know I've got money on whether or not he nails you tonight. So don't let me down cupcake."

"You're betting on this?" you exclaimed, loud enough to hear your voice bounce off the walls and echo back to where your supervisor was no doubt sitting.

"Of course. I'm not one to turn down the sleazy art of gambling." He sighed wistfully. You'd never wanted to punch someone more in this moment; suddenly aware that this is how Logan must feel every day of his life. "Besides if you heard the sounds that came out of our shower this afternoon. Oh ho ho. Something tells me that he was letting off some Steam Boat Willy to the thought of his late night phone buddy."

Disgust at Wade's words was rapidly overshadowed by the thought of Logan in the shower. Naked and desperate to find some release after your conversation last night. To say you hadn't pictured what he'd look like hard and aching from your touch would be a lie. But actually knowing that's what happened left you winded.

Your chest heaved as your body grew warm—the image of him with his hand around his cock, his head thrown back in pleasure, almost made your knees give out.

"Your thinkin' about it huh?" The overconfidence in Wade's voice snapped you back to reality within seconds.

"Shut up."

"Got ya red handed angel."

With a roll of your eyes, you made to head back to your work—Wade's words only served to fluster you more than you wanted. "Don't piss him off too much okay Wilson?"

His laughter nearly appeased you as the piercing sound of a saw went off again. The both of them must have ventured to a warehouse to find materials. You wanted to confirm your thoughts when Wade did it for you. As if he could hear you loud and clear.

"Who knew our man had lumberjack experience?" He sighed dreamily, a shout of what you guessed was Logan saying fuck off filtering through. "God it's like watching X-Men Origins Wolverine. Back when his hair screamed Staying Alive and I went by the name Billy Butcherson."

A cough from behind you gave enough notice that you had in fact been caught by your boss—her glare burning through the back of your skull. The short break you were allotted passed five minutes ago. Normally you'd be fighting your way to the end of the day. Today though...you felt that delicious bite of excitement at knowing you'd be spending tonight with Logan.

"I've got to go. But Wade..."

"Yeah?"

"Take a picture for me will you?"

"Already done. Got my phone set to burst. Which is what Logan's gonna do tonight instead of tainting our shower walls–" Logan's roar of I'll fuckin' kill you came seconds before you heard a thwack overlapped with Wade's high shriek. 

The line went dead instantly.

The elevator wasn't moving fast enough for your liking—each flash of a floor passed sent another wave of nerves through your body. Work dragged on longer than you expected. And the groceries you picked up on the way didn't feel like enough to make a meal grand enough for a night like tonight. You tried to destress by saying he wasn't expecting much. This wasn't even a date.

That is until you realized...that's exactly what this was.

A date that felt long overdue.

You hadn't known Logan long enough to pursue a relationship as deep as this, but that's where things got fuzzy. He knew you. Or a version of you that felt entirely different to the person you were now. And maybe that's where the security that this would last came through. The knowledge that no matter what happened, Logan was in this for the long haul.

This wasn't temporary.

A creak of the doors opening didn't deter you from digging through your mountain of thoughts. Each one more worrisome than the last. You should be terrified that this was it. The future had already been written and Logan was at the end of the road. That alone would be reason enough to turn tail and run.

Then you turned the corner leading directly down your hallway.

Logan stood leaning against the wall, a lit cigar in his mouth, smoke trailing past his lips, and a heavy wooden door placed directly beside him. A toolbox that looked to have seen better days sat by his feet. A bouquet of honeysuckle and peonies placed directly on top—wrapped in brown paper with a yellow and blue bow.

Whatever fear might have lingered in your body dissipated when his gaze found yours and his lips pulled into a smile.

"You're early," you said—desperate to catch your breath. The scent of his cigar lingered on your senses, mixing with the leather of his jacket.

Suddenly Wade's words from earlier felt a lot more real than you expected. He showed up dressed casually. Jeans, flannel, the familiar dog tags strung around his neck. Yet whatever transpired the night before came rushing back with the promise of more.

This was a date. But whether it would lead to something else you'd leave entirely up to him.

"I told ya I had great timing honey."

Heat trailed down your body where his eyes followed. "I didn't believe you."

"I know."

The claw marks on your door brought a flustered smile to your face. As if to say you were okay with them staying. You wanted them to stay. Logan's eyes darkened at the sight, a flash of something worse taking hold of his mind as you pushed it open.

You longed for him to tell you the truth. He wouldn't either way. But the hope still remained—lingering on the edges of your heart.

"Easy enough to fix," he muttered, reaching for his tools—the bouquet of flowers gripped tightly in his large palm.

"I didn't know what exactly to get." He stood in your living room, eyes trained on the window. Finally he was on the other side—in your home—and yet he found he didn't belong here. "Do you have a preference?"

He sucked in another drag from the cigar before pulling it free—stamping it out on his palm as you watched. A heady wanton look crossed your features. You doused it quickly in favor of unpacking the groceries. He made sure to store it away for a later time. One that didn't feel dragged by the weight of his own thoughts.

"I'm not picky."

You nodded. "Feel free to use whatever's useful. I don't have tools though."

"I came prepared bub." He lifted the box with a smile and suddenly recalled that he bought you flowers. Much to Wade's annoying comments about this being a first date. Logan wouldn't push you in any direction you felt uncomfortable going towards. But in an irritating turn of events, Wade was right. Twice. "These are for you."

The smile on your face was worth every dollar and excruciating minute spent picking out what went with what. He reminded himself to thank Wade. Even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"They're beautiful." The delicate white lay atop pink flowers that filled your senses. An aroma you'd never known could work so well together. "Why these?"

A touch of crimson began to tint the tops of his ears as he let out a breath. "They're uh..." He coughed. "The day we met I said somethin' kinda awkward."

"I smelled different."

"Yeah." Logan wanted to bury himself six feet under at the teasing glint in your eyes. "That's how you smell. To me. Like honey and flowers."

There had to be an explanation for the way your heart split down the center—as if to offer him one half. To give him a part of yourself that once didn't belong to him. But that's where you were wrong. Even in a different universe, he would find you. You were once everything to him; the person he'd go through hell for. That fact never changed. Even if you did.

You wanted to spill every emotion, every truth about how your heart already longed for him in ways that left you reeling. But Logan wasn't a man to speak longer than he had to. And before you finally gained the courage to open your mouth, he was stepping back into the hallway. His hands busy with a project and mind eons away.

Dinner was simple to cook knowing he'd eat whatever you made. Pasta, some wine, and an old bottle of whiskey a friend of yours bought sat on the table as he put the final touches on the door. You'd spent the time at the stove combing over every word spoken. Every minute touch and fleeting look. As he worked effortlessly on setting your new door in place.

A dark honeyed wood with grooves throughout that almost resembled the small panes of a window. The quality was stunning. Beyond anything you'd seen before.

You wanted to prod and ask where he learned to do this. But the sight of him slightly sweaty, flannel tossed into his toolbox, and arms on display when he carried the door to its spot, left you dazed. Each movement caused the muscles beneath his skin to ripple—face screwed in a look of concentration while the sound of the drill echoed off the hallway walls.

For a moment you forgot dinner was cooking as you practically ogled his form. That familiar flame burned through your body when his gaze met yours and a smile crossed his lips.

Logan could feel your eyes on him—the aching burn of your gaze now seared into the bare skin of his arms and shoulders. And he fought himself to keep going. To ignore your now heady scent—the way your heart sped up with each shift of his body—and finish what he started. If he was being honest, which he rarely was with himself, he put on a show for you.

You liked him.

He just wanted to reaffirm that fact once in a while.

The smell of slightly burnt garlic had him biting back a smile as you rushed to fix what his distraction caused. His ego swelled. Heart pumping with a sense of pride the second he caught you flustered with your head bowed in the kitchen.

"Smells delicious honey," he said, testing the lock on the door a few times until he felt satisfied with his work.

"It's not much." You popped open the two types of alcohol, pouring a generous helping of wine in your glass. He fixed himself his own whiskey. "Something my sister taught me when I was in college. She believed if there was nothing else to cook, pasta was always the correct answer."

"Smart woman."

You pushed the plate his way and caught the grin he hid at the small act of domesticity. What began as a nerve-wracking date became an insight into what your future with him might look like. Dinner at a tiny kitchen table, his jacket draped over one chair, the scent of flowers twining together with the faint traces of his cigar.

A life that felt perfect enough to keep forever.

"I hope you know Wade's betting on tonight," you said, pouring another glass of wine.

You were settled next to him on the couch, dinner resting full and warm in your stomachs. The alcohol tasted sweeter on your tongue compared to an hour ago. He lounged with his legs spread, glass balanced in one hand. A lazy look of satisfaction in his hazel eyes.

Logan had never felt this comfortable. Soothed by the scent of you beside him, the whiskey on his tongue, and the sight of you with your legs curled beneath you. The red wine made you smile more, laugh easier. He noticed how you bloomed before him, light shimmering between small jokes and half assed teases.

All his life he wondered what home would truly feel like. What would having a place be? And this...you beside him with an endless night stretched before you, gave him the answer.

Home felt like you.

He groaned, head falling against the back of your couch. "He's a lucky fucker with that can't die bullshit. What's the bet?"

Your eyes dragged to the door—tracing the carved marks as his hand hesitated to settle on your thigh. "That you'd and I quote nail me."

"What?" he spit.

The laugh that bubbled to the surface echoed with the heady effects of too much wine. "I hate to break it to Wade. But I don't have sex on the first date."

Logan's lips turned up, hand finally against the bare skin of your leg. Your skirt fanned around your lap, covering your soft skin that lay beneath. "So this is a date huh?"

"Yeah." He tugged you closer. "At least I think it is."

"I think so too."

Unconsciously, you toyed with the chain of his dog tags, catching a glimpse of the worn letters of his name. Any other time you'd push the questions away. You would claim that tonight wasn't the right time. After all this felt good, right in ways nothing had before. But the wine made you loose lipped. Braver than the other times you pushed past the line he drew deep in the sand.

Except this time...he started the conversation.

"You asked about my nightmares last night."

Your eyes caught his, fingers stilling against his chest. "I know you don't want to talk about it."

He shook his head with a deep exhale he felt down to his stomach. "If this is what I think it is. What we're startin' here. Then you should know what you're getting into honey."

"I know what I'm getting into–"

"No. You don't." He sat up straighter, tugging you close until your legs lay over his lap. "You don't know what happened to me. What I did..." He sucked in air as his heart began to twist. The cold wash of anxiety suddenly brighter than a few minutes earlier. "What I couldn't do."

The pain in his eyes chipped off a piece of your heart. Oh how you longed to give it to him.

Cupping his cheek, you felt the scratch of his beard against your skin. "Logan. You're not a bad man."

"Yeah bub. I am," he barked in a half laugh meant to discourage you from seeing his grief.

That's what this was. The full spectrum of his emotions scared the shit out of him more than any villain he fought. More than the thought of dying alone one day. The moment you saw them for yourself, he knew you'd run. He almost expected it. Which is why he'd taken so long—put it off each time the curiosity lingered in your gaze longer than he liked.

He told himself you didn't need to know.

It was better this way.

Tonight proved that all those reasons—all those excuses—stood no chance when it came to you.

"I don't believe that," you whispered, your other hand curling around his dog tags.

"Gotta remember I'm not him. I'm not the hero and never have been." When you looked at him like that—eyes wide and lips turned down—he felt the full weight of the words he was about to say out loud. Words he hadn't spoken since Laura met him by the fire way back in the Void.

Somehow saying it to the other Logan's daughter felt easier. As if he couldn't disappoint her anymore than he had. She'd been there at his death, watched him struggle to protect her, and loved him in spite of all that. She called him Dad and spoke over his grave with a smile. Knowing full well he'd never come back to life, he'd never find his way back to her.

Laura wasn't his kid and yet...he knew she'd understand.

But saying it all to you…

He wasn't sure he'd survive it if you never understood.

"The X-Men in my world weren't as respected as the ones in yours. We were heroes, but the humans. God they fuckin' hated us." His eyes burned with each memory that came rushing back. A river that threatened to drown him. "And I always had to be an asshole. I didn't know what home felt like—what...family felt like. So when I got it, I pushed it away."

"Oh, Logan–"

"No, let me...let me finish honey." He gripped the glass until he heard a crack—his eyes dazed and mind lost to a different time. The night that would later become his ghost. "So I left and did the only thing I was fuckin' good at. I drank until I couldn't feel anythin' anymore. And the humans decided they'd had enough of the X-Men."

Grief struck your heart straight down the center. Tears spilled down your cheeks at the sight of him so broken—so raw from a time that would never leave him. You finally knew why Wade never explained it to you.

This wasn't his story to tell. Not his past to share.

"I came home and they were–" His fingers dug into the skin of your thigh in an attempt to ground himself. Claws slipping free as he struggled to get the final words out—the truth of why he pushed you away. Why he should keep pushing you away. "They were dead."

You pressed yourself against his side, lips against his temple as he silently bit back the emotions he refused to set free. What would become of him once they were finally out? He couldn't risk hurting you because of it.

"They called for me." His breath was ragged, voice thick with tears that never fell. "Jean. Charles. I heard them die in my head. But I was too fuckin' drunk to save them. I got home and all of them were...Jesus. The humans called us mutants vicious, but I'd never seen anythin' like this."

The worst part crawled up his spine with a chill that had his claws coming free. "And you. You survived due to your gifts. Apparently you hid in the future—snapped there without even realizing it. But by the time you returned they were dead and no matter how many times you tried to go back, you couldn't." He raised his head, eyes red and glassy. "You tried to kill me that night. I couldn't blame you for it cause I wanted to die."

"That's not me."

He shook his head. "I know, but you have to know why it happened. I couldn't protect you honey. I couldn't protect any of them."

"The humans did this. Not you." You dragged his face to yours, forcing him to see the sincerity in your eyes—the fire that burned no matter the variant. "You did not kill your family Logan. Don't take their shame."

"It's easy for you to say that bub. You weren't there." He felt your touch mark against his skin and fuck how he wished it would leave a scar. "I'm not the fuckin' hero. I'm the man who fucked it all up because he was too proud for his own good. I need you to see that."

Your gaze hardened. "Why?"

"So you know what you're gettin–"

"Bullshit," you demanded. "I know exactly what I'm getting into Logan. I knew the second I met you. So don't do that. Don't push me away." The press of his forehead to yours leveled the pain and allowed him to breathe. "I'm here to stay. Whether you want me or not."

He grinned, tears finally falling as your lips found his. You breathed life back into his chest, made his heart worth beating again. For all that time he damned himself, loathed the reflection in the mirror, he never thought he'd get this. The soft press of your kiss, the bitter tang of wine on your tongue as his hand gripped your hip—his claws retreating back into his body.

"Trust me. I want you," he mumbled against salt stained lips and broken smiles. "I'll always want you."

"Then it's a good thing I want you too."

That familiar flicker of sparks still existed in the air, begging for more. But you were content to stay here. Kissing him over and over again in order to embed the sensation in your mind.

"Thank you for telling me," you sighed, fingers curling into his hair to drag his lips back to yours.

The thud of his heart ran through his whole body. "Can I show you somethin'?"

You nodded, pulling away as he dug into his pocket. As much as he longed to keep kissing you, to spend all night right there on that couch. He knew there'd be time for that. A night where you were both unburdened by the weight of a past that defined who you were. Tonight was not that night.

The picture was old, burned slightly at the edges and crinkled, but he handed it over with a grin. A group photo like the one stored in the archives at your job. Only this time you recognized two faces among the small team of people in yellow suits. You were smiling with an arm around Logan's waist, your face pressed against his chest.

The sight of his smile—wide and unfiltered—made your heart leap. But the blue aura that seemed to wrap around your body is what gave you pause.

"The blue..."

"Your powers." He pointed to the way it ended at your hands, seeming to stem directly from your chest. "Turning them off wasn't really a thing you could do. Somethin' about time being a constant flow of energy. Charles always explained it better."

Thousands of questions came to mind. All of them pertaining to the powers and the team and more specifically him. He sunk into the couch with a sigh, his eyes hazy with a different kind of need. An ache that no doubt begged him each night. Sleep. Rest without any nightmares, free of the shackles he'd placed on himself.

So you stood, nearly startling him when you did. Nothing had to be said about your intentions, or why you held out your hand for him to take. He simply followed. Each step heavier than the last. The kitchen could be cleaned tomorrow, the bottles put away later. You couldn't find it in yourself to care when his hand was in yours and he smiled at you as if you'd hung the moon in the sky.

"Thought you said Wade was losin' tonight honey?"

You laughed, pushing the flannel from his shoulders as you led him to your bed. "He is. We're just sleeping."

There was no mistaking the doubt in his eyes, the trepidation of his nightmares. "I might hurt you."

"No you won't." Drawing his hand up to your mouth, you lay a kiss along his knuckles. "I trust you Logan."

"You shouldn't." His breath was a shuddered exhale at the sight of you pulling your dress up and over your body.

"Well too bad," you replied, tugging the covers back while he pulled off his shirt—leaving his boots by the door. "You don't scare me Wolverine."

"Wolverine huh?" Crawling into bed with you was easy. Though the mattress sunk under the weight of his bones, you still let him tug you closer—his arms wrapped around your bare waist. "It was James the other night."

"Careful," you said. "Or I'll start calling you Howlett."

A growl rumbled in his chest, his teeth nipping at the bare skin of your shoulder as you laughed. And suddenly he remembered what it was like to live. To want more than just the bottom of a bottle and a peaceful night's sleep. He could recall nights like this in the past. A different you curled up against his body—the love resonating in how you clung to him.

It all slammed into him at once.

Although tonight he didn't push it away. He kept you close, his nose burrowed in your hair, and welcomed the gentle tug of a few hours rest.

Tonight—for the first time—he slept.

Without nightmares.

[luveline]

id love a fic of aaron hotchner with a reader who struggles with feeling interesting or desirable!! i love your work sm you're lovely!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

The table grain is flaking off under your nail. Oh, ew, you think, lips turning down into a frown. You pick at your nail, wonder if that’s disgusting, and hide your hands under the table rather than continue to scratch it apart. 

The team are talking about their weekend plans. You’re not super hungry and these conversations tend to put you off either way; faced with the smallness of your own life outside of them, you waver in a tepid mix of jealousy and insecurity. There’s no point offering your plans. Compared to them, it’ll sound strange. 

Morgan’s buying a house. Reid’s going to a University for a private seminar given by one of the country’s leading geneticists. Hotch will be spending the weekend with his family, hopefully teaching Jack how to swim. It goes on and on and on. They all have interests and people and things to do, and you’ll be tucking yourself into bed to try and forget you don’t. 

Hotch glances at you again, the fourth time in as many minutes. You decide to pretend you’ve only noticed this time rather than having felt every look, turning your face subtly to his. 

You okay? he asks without speaking, his eyebrows raised a touch, his gaze searching. 

You smile easily. You’re practised in this. 

He reaches under the table for your thigh. Your breath catches, your face squared into hopeless unaffectedness as he rubs your knee. Things with him are achingly new, months and months of wanting and now weeks of getting to have it, but perhaps that’s why you’re feeling your inadequacy so harshly. Why does he want to touch you? Forget interesting, you aren’t interesting, and you certainly aren’t pretty. 

He gives your knee a gentle shake as he rubs your leg through your pants, as though saying, I’m here, or even cheer up.  

You smile down at your plate. I’m fine. 

“Time to turn in,” Hotch says, dropping his napkin onto his plate. 

Your head snaps up to look at him, worried you’ve pissed him off and missing the heat of his hand, but he’s holding his hand out toward you in such a way that you read him. Come with me.

“Me too,” you say. “I’m tired.” 

You’re not even halfway down the hall out of the hotel restaurant when he’s grabbing you from behind, a huge hug that surprises you into loud, loud laughter. “Hotch–”

“Try again.” 

“Aaron,” —he walks you a few dragging steps to an alcove, where he turns you, holding your waist— “this is brute force!” You laugh. 

“This is concern. What’s wrong?” 

He’s trying to be the cheerful one. It’s working, some, but it adds another layer to your self-doubt; your grumpy, sweetheart boyfriend is never not smiling when he’s alone with you. It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Nothing,” you say, laughing again as he squeezes your hip meanly. “It’s brute force!” 

“You’re a liar,” he says, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “My liar, but a liar. A bad one, considering.” 

“Yes, well, all the teasing is making it better, so thanks.” 

He kisses under your jaw. He feels encompassingly tall, and his affection makes you feel better no matter how much you’d wanted to be sullen. You lean heavily against the wall and let him kiss you, your hand coming up to his hair, fingers raking through the soft crop of inky hair at his neck. “You’re sulking,” he says between kisses, shivers at your back from his eager touching. 

“I’m boring.” 

“Where might you get that idea?” 

“I have nothing to do this weekend. When we get home, I have nothing to do but lie in bed.” 

“I wish that was my weekend.” He peels back. He doesn’t hold your face, but the way he looks at you has the same effect. So strange how he can make you feel cared for in such a simple action. “You can always come with me, hm? We’ll have the weekend together. Jack won’t mind.” 

“Thank you… it’s a nice offer.” You’ll take it. 

“But not the problem.” He’s standing close enough to get you in trouble should a teammate come from the restaurant after you. Still, he stays close, the very tips of his fingers pushing against the hem of your shirt to touch the naked small of your back. “Will you come over?” he asks in a murmur. 

“I’d love to,” you say honestly. “I just wish I was more interesting.” 

Your confession makes him frown. “In what world aren’t you?”

“This one.” 

“That’s not true. You’re interesting, you’re so smart. You’re lovely.” 

You turn your face from him, heart beating a sudden pitter patter. He turns you right back to him with a finger to your chin. 

“You’re everything,” he says. 

“But I feel so… nothing.” 

His frown intensifies. “How long have you been feeling like this, honey? You could’ve told me. I wish you’d told me, because–” He pinches your chin gently, encouraging you to meet his eyes, “I would’ve told you a long time ago that you’re not nothing, you couldn’t be. It’s easy to feel like you don’t know what you’re doing, at your age–”

“Careful.” 

“It’s true. You think you’re so old, but you have time.” 

“I’m not old,” you acquiesce. 

His hand moves to your cheek. “But you have so many frown lines.” 

“Alright, I’ve had enough of you, Hotchner. We’re done.” 

He raises his other hand to hold your face completely. “You are so, so amazing. You just need to recognise it in yourself.” 

You wait for him to kiss you, and then realise what he’s doing. “Maybe I'm amazing,” you say shyly. 

He kisses you on the lips, gentle, as though you were easily breakable. A little rougher when you smile, and rougher again when you touch his chest. “We’ll get caught,” he says, planting another quick one on you before pulling away. “Come on. Let’s get a head start on the weekend.” 

“We’ll definitely get caught,” you say. Sharing a room is always a stupid idea. 

“And what a shame it’ll be,” he says, taking your hand to rub your fingers affectionately as he leads you toward the elevators. 

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

Been thinking about Puss in Boots: The Last Wish and what makes Death the Wolf such an effective villain, and like… character design and voice acting is certainly doing a lot there, don't get me wrong, but I think there's something else at play.

Death is the most terrifying character in Puss in Boots, because he's the only one playing the genre straight.

The premise of the Shrek films has always been that they're normal, modern people living in wacky fairytale land.

The evil king uses his magic mirror as a dating app. The fairy godmother uses business cards to contact her clients. Her workers consider unionising over their lack of dental plan.

Puss in Boots 1 kinda broke the mould in that— while there are plenty of modern elements to how the characters act and how their world works— it's more specifically intended to be characters from the world Zorro living in wacky fairytale land. But the point still stands.

The aim of the Shrek films and spin-offs is to subvert common fairytale tropes for comedic effect. What if the princess fell for the ogre? What if Prince Charming was an entitled dick? What if Goldilocks teamed up with the three bears and started a crime family?

But Death? Death, for the most part, isn't playing that game.

No character questions why he doesn't just kill Puss outright. There are no gags about him being inconvenienced by Jack Horner losing so many men. Nobody makes any self-aware fourth wall breaking jokes about why he bothers with the whole whistling thing.

We all know why he does the whistling thing. It's the same reason why Little Red Riding Hood has to go through the whole "what big eyes/ears/teeth you have, Grandma" rigamarole. The same reason why the wolf takes care to knock before blowing the little pigs' houses down.

The Wolf is scary because he's the only actual fairytale creature in this entire setting. He's not bound by rules of logic or common sense, or his own will, he's bound by the narrative.

And that's also why he backs down at the end.

The first time he and Puss fight, in the bar, Puss is arrogant. The second time, in the Cave, Puss is scared out of his wits. It's the third time, on the wishing star, that Puss learns his lesson. Of course the Wolf backs down after that! The rules say he has to.

But, on another level, there is also the issue of Puss realising that he wants more from his life than just to be a legend.

They say "legends never die", but the most famous part of any given legend tends to be the story of how the hero finally bites the dust.

And "he was such a great fighter that Death himself had to kill him off, personally!" is just the sort of ending that would fit the legend Puss has constructed around himself. In a sense, the Wolf is giving Puss exactly what he proclaims to want— the chance to go down in history.

Puss realising he doesn't want that anymore is the catalyst for sending the Wolf away. Through his own egotistical and reckless attitude, he turned himself into a story and thus summoned a narrative device. Only by choosing to value his life over the legend is he able to escape that trap.

The Wolf's defeat is both the natural ending of the story that he and Puss have been playing out since the film began, and a rejection of the natural ending to the story Puss has been telling about himself since he first became the hero of San Ricardo.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Hello friend I was wondering if I could request a fourth wing x reader fic with xaden? Maybe where instead of Violet being tortured by varrish its reader? And maybe we see a bit from xadens pov?

Hurts like hell

The pain was like no other. The concept of time had slipped away a long time ago. Your body was sore and stiff. Nor could you distinguish if it was the sound of your blood dripping on the floor or the condensation of the cellar walls. “This could be so much easier, wing leader”, Varrish's venomous voice fills your senses and suddenly you wish you hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t made him aware of your consciousness. “What do you know about the rebellion, girl?”, he takes fistfuls of your hair, yanking your head back. Your angry eyes glare up at him, “Eat. My. Shit”, you hiss through gritted teeth as the back of his hand slams into your cheek. The rings he’s wearing crack the scabbed-up cuts all over again.

And it’s as if he feels it. Every blow. Every cut. Every scream. Xaden had lost the amount of time he had vomited since they had taken you. Or more since you had saved Bodhi’s and Garrick's asses and was taken instead of them. Had he beaten both of them up for it? Yes. And he planned on repeating it once you were back in his arms.

“There’s nowhere else they could be keeping her”, Imogen says, tapping her finger on the map. Everyone had been looking for you for three days now. “Unless he’s usually magic he shouldn’t”, Bodhi adds, making Xaden let out a growl. It was driving him mad knowing that you were taking a beating for his slip-up. They weren’t being careful enough. They weren’t thinking about the consequences when they smuggled such a big load of weapons out. “Tonight. There’s an upper-hand meeting at seven that leech of a man should be there”, he grunts, his shadows drowning his hands in the darkness. “Imogen you will make sure he stays there for as long as possible”, and for the first time, she only nods, because she too can feel that Xaden is on his last straw. “You two will come with me. Fuck knows what they have going on down there”, running a hand through his hair, Xaden watches as both Bodhi and Garrick nod. Hold on, he pleads, just for a bit longer. Because he would kill them all. Burn this whole academy down if you were… and that’s enough to make him go ridge once more. He couldn’t let himself think about it.

His heart is beating so fast and so loudly that he doesn’t even hear his footsteps as they navigate the dark corridors of the dungeons. Checking every nook and cranny. Every room. Every floorboard. Until the metal gates leading to the back cellar catch Xaden’s eyes, and the way his shadows rush to it in a frenzy. His legs step forward before he even realizes it. Breathe hitching in his throat.

“Y/n”, he mutters rushing forward. His hands are shaking so much that he can barely push the hair away from your face, let alone look for the pulse. Face. Barely recognizable face. So cut up and bruised. Drowned in angry purples and blacks. “There’s a pulse”, Xaden’s head snapped to the side, he didn’t even realize that Garrick had followed him in here. “Faint but there”, he clasped Xaden’s shoulder, “But we need to get her out of here”.

And he tries, tries so hard to get the ropes of your wrists but it’s as if his own body is going into an overdrive. “Bodhi, get Xaden out of here”, Garrick orders, freeing your legs, reaching to press his fingers to your neck once more. “No”, Xaden argues, pulling at your hand, “Baby, you need to open your eyes”, he mutters looking at you, “Tell me that you hear me”. But there’s nothing. Just your limp body. Drowning in blood and filth. A firm palm presses against the back of his neck and his head is turned away from you.

“We are getting her out. Do you understand?”, Garrick’s firm words slip past the haze. “You will go with Bodhi because you can’t help out anymore and I will carry her and keep her safe”, and it’s no longer a question. It’s a statement. An order. One that Xaden follows. With Bodhi reassuring with the whole way. Catching one last look at you. Of Garrick carefully scooping you up as he mumbles, “Come on, girly, we need you here. Don’t you give up yet”.

Xaden doesn’t move from your side after Brennon meds your wounds. The Rioroso house was the only place they could think of that was safe for you. But even here his mind doesn’t ease up. It’s been a week and you haven’t shown any signs of waking up. So just like any other night when he came to visit you, he’s carefully running the healing balm into the cuts on your face and arms. Needing to know that he’s doing something. Helping in some way.

And it’s the pain sigh that leaves your lips when his fingers brush over the cut on your temple that has his stalling. “Baby”, he breathes, gaze now fully fixed on your face. His lips brush over your knuckles, “Please, open your eyes. I need to…”, and it’s as if his words coxed you out of your slumber as you blink rapidly. Scared eyes scanned the place.

Xaden leans closer, carefully bringing his fingers through your hair. Trying to soothe you with the feeling of him. “Xaden”, his name on your lips is enough to finally make him crack. He lowers his head onto your shoulder as ugly sobs echo through the room. He knows that he should be strong. To be calmer and colder but he was convinced that he was never gonna hear the sound of your voice ever again. “I’m here, my little fighter”, he sniffles, looking back up at you, “l will never let you hurt like that ever again”.

[bless-my-demons]

Redamancy: Chapter Twenty-Five

Series Summary: What happens when your soulmate is a vampire that struggles to maintain a diet of trying not to kill you? Common sense says run for the hills, nothing is worth your life - but my heart is whispering why not, what’s there to lose?

Warnings: None

Notes: Holy shit I’m back and boyyyyy does it feel good! I missed you guys and I can’t thank you enough for the love and support🥹 Jasper and Reader need to go through this icky before getting back to normal and going through the craziness of Eclipse. This made me fuzzy on the inside to write because it’s healing this shit Bella and Edward never went through but needed to lol

Word Count: 2125

Series Masterlist

• March 24th, 2006 • Forks HS •

Reader

Two days.

Forty-eight hours since I told Jasper Hale I needed time, space. Insane, really. Insane that even though he’s gravity, he’s in every thought scrolling through my brain, I asked him for the very thing my heart abhors. The very thing my brain needs.

It’s exhausting, my rational brain warring with my irrational heart. He’s here, he’s home, I just need to soak up every second. But on the other hand… for how long? We still have the same issue - my humanity and his control.

My hand shuts my locker door not-so-softly and I stare at my fingers on the cold metal. They could be touching cold skin instead- fuck, this stupid beating organ in my chest.

Frustration drives me to dig my phone out of my pocket as the bell for fourth period rings, the hallway behind me emptying out quickly.

He answers on the second ring and relief loosens the knot in my chest fractionally.

“Hey girly, what’s up?” Quil’s chipper tone brings a grin to the corner of my lips.

“Kidnap me? Please?”

He must hear the desperation in my voice, since he agrees immediately. “Absolutely, I’ll be there in twenty.” A shout of protest echoes in the background and he apologizes quickly, he was in class I can’t just ask him to- “Lunch?” He asks, jogging now by the puffs of his breath.

“Quil, that's a thirty minute drive-” I protest, worried.

“And you need rescuing, figure out what you want for lunch.” He ends the call abruptly as the squeaky door to his junky old car opens.

Sighing at my phone, I pocket it and turn towards my next class. I can survive until he gets here, right? I’ve been climbing the walls for the last two days, the object of my thoughts noticeably absent from school.

That’s a good thing, right? He’s doing what I asked, allowing me the space I need to think clearly, without his persuasion.

When in all actuality, I can’t help but feel like the walls are shrinking.

He’s here, he’s home, he said he wasn’t going anywhere, his family is still here.

The affirmations trickle over my buzzing skin.

I saw Alice in second period. Emmett is sitting behind my empty seat in Trig - I just have to walk through the door.

How the fuck am I going to move forward, to figure out a solution with Jasper, if I’m also trying to tackle their abandonment?

I might as well be trying to move forward through mud - thick, dark, and fucking everywhere.

My phone vibrates about fifteen minutes before the end of class, I don’t dare pull it out of my pocket to confirm that it’s Quil.

My hand raises and immediately catches Mr. Varner’s gaze in the quiet classroom, “Yes, miss Y/l/n?”

“May I run to the bathroom, please?” I ask, trying to keep the sudden impatience out of my voice.

His nod is all I need to pack away my items quickly, behind me I hear the groan of the desk supporting the hulking frame of my other best friend.

“Y/n, what are you-” Emmett’s hushed whisper makes my pulse jump.

“I’ll be safe, promise.” I whisper back and practically run for the door.

A chair squeaks and Mr. Varner calls out, “Mister Cullen, she does not require assistance finding the ladies room, sit down.”

I flash him an apologetic smile as he slowly retakes his seat before I push the door open. I feel horrible, but I need the freedom waiting for me in the student parking lot.

Sprinting through the exterior double doors, a full-on smile overtakes my face as Quil leans over the center console to open the passenger door, “Hop in, loser!”

Sitting in the parking lot facing First Beach with the windows rolled down, munching on cheap burgers and fries, I feel like I can finally take a deep breath.

“Okay,” setting down his shake to begin his interrogation, I brace. “Not that playing hookie isn’t the best idea ever to kick off the weekend, but what’s wrong?”

“He’s back.” I stare at the last few bites of my burger as I set it down in my lap, the paper crinkling loudly.

“He as in-”

“Jasper.”

“Oookaaay,” he draws out the vowels, not really following the obvious dilemma. “You wanted him to come back, right? I mean, you were a fucking mess the last six months.”

“Yes I wanted him to come back! I just-” I hesitate, “I just don’t know how to feel about it.”

“If my boyfriend-” I level a look on him that he ignores, “He’s yours, hook, line, and sinker - c’mon. If my boyfriend up and abandoned me, and I hadn’t gotten over it in six fucking months, suddenly is back in my life, what’s there to feel other than relief? A reprieve from what you’ve been feeling without him?”

“Since when do you know-”

“Stop deflecting, I’m here to solve this shit because my best friend needs help.” He’s munching on fries like this is goddamn entertainment. “Answer. Now.” This fucking fucker.

“Fine.” I puff out a breath and stare at the waves. “We’re still in the same situation he left me in-”

“The situation you won’t tell me about?”

“Yes.” The exasperation in my tone brokers no room for argument on the subject, so I move on. “I feel like the rug is going to be yanked out from underneath me because of it. There’s no way, over or through this mountain, it’ll always be there.”

“Mountains wither over time; if creeks can be persistent enough to become rivers, then so can you. I don’t know what this mountain looks like, but have you ever asked him for help to explore it? To find a path in the trees one step at a time?”

I look at him, gobsmacked. He makes it sound so easy.

“Don’t look at me like that, I may not have experience, but I can tell you what I feel like is right. And it feels right to just talk to him. I can tell you what to do all day until I’m blue in the face, but only he can reassure you in ways no one else can.” The empathy in his face makes my eyes sting, fuck he’s right.

“You are a treasure, you know that Quil Ateara?” I give him a sad smile trying to reign in my stupid tears, reaching for his hand.

He gives it to me and squeezes, “Of course,” he says it like it’s as obvious as grass being green. “And someday I’ll be as wrecked about a girl and you can regurgitate this shit back to me.” His shit-eating grin contains a little mustard in the corner and I bust out laughing.

“Ancestors help her, she’ll have to put up with a lot when it comes to you.” I tease and he winks.

“I’m nothing but a hoot, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cranking his museum piece of a car, he turns it in the direction of his house and we leave today’s worries in the sand to be washed away with the tide.

•March 24th, 2006 • Forks Community Hospital•

Jasper

The swish of the automatic front doors of the hospital snap me from the thoughts pinging around in my brain. The cold crystal in my hand gathering condensation brings me back to my mission.

Striding down the familiar hallway that contains Carlisle’s office, I stop at the door displaying his name. Peeking inside to confirm my hearing, my adoptive father is definitely absent from his worn leather chair. No matter, procrastination won’t win me anything.

Continuing down the hallway, my steps are nearly silent as the nurse’s station comes into view with the object of my mission sitting alone behind a massive monitor.

“It’s after visitation hours, you’ll have to come back-” She finally raises her eyes and her sentence peters off quietly, “tomorrow-Jasper?”

Y/n’s mother stands from her chair as she registers my face, eyes falling to the bouquet of flowers set in one of Esme’s many crystal vases.

“Take this one, she’ll know you mean business.” Esme deposited the vase on the kitchen counter in front of me this morning while I was lost in thought on how to talk to Y/n’s mom. Apparently flowers are still the way women prefer their apologies.

“Y/n is still at the Reservation-” She starts, assuming it’s her daughter the flowers are for.

“I know.” Placing the arrangement Rosalie helped me with on the counter, I turn my supernatural gift inward and mellow out my nerves. “These are for you, ma’am.”

“Oh.” Surprise fills the air as her speechlessness pulses for a few seconds, the beeping of heart rate monitors echo around us. “You didn’t have to-” Gasping, her eyes narrow when they meet mine, weariness floods her senses. “You’re not asking-”

I chuckle, knowing what this looks like, “No ma’am, I’m here to apologize.”

Nerves fill my throat in an unfamiliar sensation for a reason not related to this apology, she thought I was asking to marry her daughter.

I store that thought away in the recesses of my mind, I can’t even begin to fall down that rabbit hole of complication.

“I’m not the one who needs an apology.” Her tone is soft as she plucks at a deep red rose petal.

“Your daughter will get an apology from me for the rest of my life, if she chooses to let me continue to be in hers.” That grabs her attention again. “You deserve one too, you were with her when I wasn’t and it put an immense amount of unwarranted stress on you both. I hope you accept my sincerest apology, even if you decide I’m not worth your good graces.” I take a deep breath and speak from the heart with my next words. “In September I was given a challenge that I failed and it rocked my world in a way I’m not even sure I know how to handle even now. I thought that if I simply removed myself, she could continue on like she had before we met. I know now… I know now that was not the answer and it never will be.”

I notice her eyes begin to turn a little misty as she processes my words and it wrenches a little something in my chest, I didn’t want to make her mom cry.

“She makes me want to be better, do better.” I glance at the empty hallway, quiet this late in the afternoon. “I want to be someone she’s proud of, someone worthy of her, no matter how hard it is. I want you to be able to trust me with her, which is why it was important to tell you how sorry I am.”

After a moment of surveying my face, pure joy radiates from her pores as she rounds the end of the desk to face me fully.

“Of course I accept your apology,” she envelops me in what would be a bone crushing hug, “thank you.”

Relief courses through me as we separate, glad I decided to do this.

“I appreciate your apology and these gorgeous flowers,” she rubs my shoulder in such a soothing mom-manner before leveling me with a no-kidding look. “Whatever my daughter decides, goes.”

“Absolutely,” completely serious, “I am at her mercy and if she wants nothing to do with me, I’ll respect that.”

“I knew you were a good one.” She winks at me before returning to her seat with a smile. “Your dad should be finished with afternoon rounds, now that you got the hard part of your visit over.”

“It’s never hard, talking to a pretty lady.” Now it’s my turn to wink, she responds with a genuine laugh that makes me smile.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mister Hale.” I take my leave as she resumes her typing.

Navigating back to my father’s office, I drop myself with relief into the chair in front of his immaculate desk.

“I’m pleased that went well, you did good.” He doesn’t even glance up at me, but the smile and his emotions oozing happiness tell me I did something right for once.

“One down, one to go.” I lean my head back in the chair and close my eyes, allowing myself to feel the relief of winning her mother over again.

“One down, one to go.” He repeats back, his smile evident in his voice.

I needed this win. I needed to succeed at something with this balled up mess in my chest.

Now I just need her.

Next

Taglist Part 1:

@aoi-targaryen @Min-jianhyung @pbbsl @Timelordhunterandmysterysolver @sheerangermany @clearwater-hoe @Blackbluerose666 @ivy-plays @random-human02 @delightfulbluebirdstarlight @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @gaymazinglula @l3ejm @angelfuzzy2 @losa12308 @thekinkpopstandsforkrackheads @flyawayprincess @ropickle @catbusloki @deviat3dsn0wf0x @lovesanimals0000 @unrevived @h-naec @cutesnakemum @zudooms @itsmytimetoodream @stinkii-boii @acoolnight @anothercoffeeblogx @irishblend10 @from-now-on-im-switzerland @kyraslife2 @naolvshan @kiiwiigii @rosedpetal @kiaraandrea @foolsgoldxo @heartfilia01 @azuredgalaxies @geekysimmerthings @graciereads @ramen-girl-2424 @0hmydekiru @creeqvealley @cherriebat @whichwitchisthebitch @dragon-rider-with-a-book @secretfairytailpetscookie @psychobitchsthings

[wickedscribbles]

if i get too loud you can shut my mouth: ch. 1

Masterlist Ch. 2 Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x Logan Howlett/Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: descriptions of violence, excessive swearing, fourth wall breaks, yearning, bridgerton season 3 spoilers, sexual tension

Word Count: 2.4K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

It feels like it took them ten years to get here.

In reality, it was a little less than half a year, but still – fuck.

Wade might not be two hundred years old, enduring some endless drag of time like Logan has, but he knows that every day spent orbiting one another and pretending like things weren’t boiling with unspoken tension was agonizing. Seeing Logan in those fucking flannels was agonizing. Watching him doze off on the couch. Catching the way his face softened when he smiled, ruffling Mary Puppins’ ears.

It was all such a pain in the ass.

(Thankfully, not literally, this time. Al would kill him if he brought another fight into the apartment. Even if she couldn’t see bloodstains all over the carpet, she’d sure as hell know when she stepped on one.) And Wade understood – really he did. He could see through Logan’s prickly act the second he met him in that bar. Even with what they’d been through to save the current timeline they now both resided in, Logan felt some deep-rooted urge to distance himself from people. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else. Didn’t think he had it in him to lose anyone he got close to again. That kind of cycle was hard to break.

They saw one another at the occasional get-together, now held at Al and Peter’s place. With Wade throwing himself back into mercenary work and the money getting better, that meant things inevitably getting more dangerous, so now he bunked in a one bedroom with the only girl in his life willing to put her tongue down his throat every hour of the day. That girl also sometimes threw up after eating her kibble too fast in the morning, but hey. We all have our problems.

But if Wade ever tried to hang around when the night was winding down – or if he extended an invitation to just Logan – things got sketchy. He’d always mutter some excuse about work – the old man was getting his hands dirty as a mechanic, apparently, but Wade had his resources and heard more than a few stories about the Wolverine cropping up as the months passed.

And Wade can feel it. That pulling away, that distance. Whether it’s there because Logan actually feels any sort of sense of connection between them, or because he can’t stand Wade and wants him to leave him the fuck alone, Wade can’t really tell. When he’s not in a fight, Logan’s so fucking quiet. Keeps to himself so much.

He tries not to push. The whole thing with Vanessa went south again, fast. Because he either pushes too hard, or not enough, and fuck if he can ever find a solid in between.

Spring slides into summer, sweltering.

Wish we could just walk around in a g-string when it’s fuck me degrees out here, right?

Wade sends the text to Logan one insufferable July afternoon, crouched in an abandoned warehouse. He never expects a reply. The man doesn’t exactly give off “knows how to text” energy. But hours later, his phone vibrates.

You’re nasty

Wade grins. “Exactly, big guy.”

A stupid, eager part of him can’t help but hope a little harder, after that. He could’ve just ignored the text entirely. But this was something.

He digs in his heels, thinking of anything and everything to hound the man about throughout his day.

You ever think about what these goonies are jerking it to before you cut their heads off?

Stupid shit, totally off the top of his head.

Still hotter than absolute shit, is this why you only go out in the suit at night? Think I can feel my balls boiling

Sometimes he’d get an answer, sometimes not. Either way, it was typically a short response. (Thank fuck he didn’t text like a boomer – Logan was hot, but that might have been the end for Wade’s boner regardless.)

Puppins says she misses you :(

(Don’t tell her but you’re nicer to cuddle with)

Nothing to that one. Alone in his apartment, he sighs. Mary Puppins groans her sympathy and snuggles closer into his chest.

—---------

A little over a month later, there’s an urgent knock on the door.

More like a banging.

Cops is Wade’s first half-awake thought as he slings himself out of bed, already gripping the first gun he can get to. He stashes it in the pocket of his fuzzy ducky-patterned bathrobe, getting to the peephole.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

This is somehow worse than cops.

Wade unlocks the door and Logan pours himself in, dominating the frame and almost stumbling to get inside. His eyes are wild, skin glistening with sweat. He still wearing that stupid fucking flannel, light brown and dark blue, the sleeves pushed up to the elbow like he’s personally asking Wade to fuck him.

He huffs out a few heavy breaths, blinking at the hush of Wade’s apartment like he isn’t quite understanding it.

“Hey, princess,” Wade offers up to break the silence. “You, uh, coming over for the weekly rewatch of Bridgerton? I mean, I already skipped to the good parts, but we can always –

Logan’s hand closes over his windpipe so fast that the rest of the sentence vanishes in a wheeze. Pleasure blooms somewhere in the back of Wade’s brain, and he’s almost certain that he’s hard as he’s backed up against the refrigerator. Puppins only raises her head from the dog bed to look between them, her tail wagging frantically.

“What the fuck,” Logan grits out. “You called me.”

He sort of had. After a few ignored texts, Wade’s thumb had fumbled the CALL button. There’d been a mild rush of panic before the usual tossing and turning that led him to sleep. To be honest, he didn’t even think Logan would catch that. And he definitely didn’t think that it would lead to a pissed off Wolverine storming his living space at 2 a.m.

“Sure did,” he says cheerfully, once the fingers around his throat loosen somewhat. Wade holds up his hands, trying to look innocent. “Butterfingers. My mistake, peanut.”

A maelstrom of emotions flit over Logan’s face in an instant. He drops Wade, his expression settling on something that the other man can’t read. At last he shakes his head, sighing, and turns back to the door.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, then, I’ll just…”

Dude looks like a fucking kicked puppy. A tired kicked puppy that’s lived longer than most people would care to.

“Aww, c’mon,” Wade urges.

It’s hard to look sexy with a face like his, but he splays himself back against the fridge, bathrobe falling back a little to reveal what’s definitely still hard in those boxer shorts.

“When’s the last time we really hung out, huh? Mano a mano? Not since the potential end of the world – we really could watch Bridgerton, you know.”

Wade doesn’t miss the quickest flick of Logan’s eyes down to his crotch. Ohoho. Gotcha, bub.

“I don’t even know what the hell that is,” Logan growls, folding his arms.

His body language says arghhh no I’m so grumpy, don’t touch me, but his eyes are telling Wade everything he needs to know. They’re kind of nice, when he isn’t glaring at something. You know what he’s got? He’s got the deep brown eyes of a Golden Retriever.

And Wade wants to pet that puppy.

“Puppy play? Before we’ve even kissed? Girl you nasty,” Wade says out of nowhere, turning to an obscure corner of his apartment.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Wade clears his throat, pushing his chest forward somewhat.

“Anyway. Puppins loves a good period romance but we can put on whatever, if you want to stay.”

Please stay.

“What do you normally watch when you’re lurking in your apartment after a long day at the shop?”

He delivers the end of that sentence with a light Southern twang. Logan doesn’t seem to appreciate it, but he relaxes ever so slightly. Swallows. Fuck. Wade can smell the work on him too, the grease and sweat of a long day. Gasoline. There’s a smudge right under Logan’s left eye, and he really, really wants to close the distance and touch the mark. Not knowing if doing so would temporarily lose him a couple of fingers, Wade stays where he is.

“...Home Improvement,” Logan says finally.

“Jesus Christ, you would,” Wade scoffs out. “I mean that as a compliment, sweetheart – if you looked me in the eye and told me you watched Dance Moms I would keel over, regeneration or no.”

It’s clear that Logan has no fucking clue what Dance Moms is either, and maybe that’s for the best. He shuffles from foot to foot, still seeming to be stuck between wanting to stay or go.

“It’s late. I should probably –”

“Wait,” Wade interrupts. “Wait. Can I just – ask something?”

Logan gives him a little shrug, like I think you’re going to anyway, so go for it.

He hesitates, biting at a thumbnail. There’s blood underneath it, and probably not his own. With a grimace, Wade lowers it again.

“What are we doing? With the texting and the avoiding and the –?” He moves his hands around in gentle circles. Logan doesn’t quite meet his eye, but Wade isn’t finished yet. “Y’know, you save the timeline with a guy, get niiiice and cozy in the back of a Honda Odyssey –”

Logan turns a shade of pink that they both know can’t be contributed to anger. “Listen, pal – when you’re fighting sometimes that just happens –”

“Oh, okay, buddy,” Wade continues, grinning. “I know it does, believe me, I’ve been as hard as vibranium for many a fight. But I’ve never curled up next to the guy who’s trying to kill me afterward and woken up with their lips on my forehead.”

It’s all true. After truly destroying his variant’s Honda Odyssey, Wade and Logan had finally exhausted themselves into a state of sleep. And even though he’d found himself restrained by a truly impressive seatbelt arrangement, he’d come to with the heat of the other man’s body pressed fully against his own.

Holding his breath, not daring to move a muscle, Wade had peeked out of one eye to confirm it. Yes, that was the Wolverine acting as his little spoon. Minutes or perhaps hours passed before Logan shifted in his sleep, his bottom lip pressed sloppily against the top of Wade’s head. His breath was warm there. Something about the comfort of that lulled him back to sleep.

Of course, he hadn’t dared breathe a word of that. They had important shit to do and a runtime of only two hours and seven minutes.

Oh, Wade fucking adores putting that look on Logan’s face. Even better with the tinge of pink to match. How many people can say that they’ve made the Wolverine blush? Well, how many living people?

“Shut up,” Logan splutters.

“No can do, princess,” Wade says, grinning wide. “I think we both know the truth when we hear it. Even if it’s hard. Not that that’s the only thing that’s hard around h –”

This time, Wade sees Logan coming and ducks. The door of his refrigerator crumples inward with a metallic sound, things tumbling around inside as they fall.

“Fuck, I just got that, you animal!” Wade complains as he watches the LED screen on the side of the thing crackle and die. He fumbles for the gun in his robe, unsure of whether or not he’ll need it. “Do you know how much a smart fridge costs?!”

Logan’s still coming after him, claws unextended but his face a storm. “Why do you need a TV on your fucking fridge?!”

“To watch Colin and Penelope make sweet, beautiful love after three seasons of sexual tension!”

He weighs up his options. If Logan wants to make this a fight, he can’t start with the gun. Better to have some sort of melee option so the rest of the building doesn’t panic – his tableside lamp is looking like the best way to go right now, even if it was a steal at the local thrift place and gives the whole place a beautiful ambiance.

But shit, he forgot that Logan is lightning fast as well as strong. The whole fucking package. One wrist caught in another iron tight grasp, then the other, and he finds himself being dragged to the nearest wall. Pinned there.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, Logan’s face close enough to lean in and touch. That smear of grease on his cheek. The crow’s feet around his eyes. His mouth. Fuck.

“We can’t,” Logan says, his voice softer than Wade’s ever heard it.

“You’re gonna say that to me while pinning me to the fucking wall? I–”

“Listen to me, jackass,” Logan cuts him off.

Fuck, he’s so warm. He’s like a radiator. If Wade could only lean in. He’s begging at this point.

“I don’t – it’s not that I haven’t thought about –”

“My succulent body meat?” Wade suggests.

“Shut the fuck up.” He sighs, exasperated. (Wade’s dick feels that way too. How much exposition can an author shove into one fanfiction before two characters actually fuck each other, Jesus Christ?) “I’ve thought about this. But you’ve got people, and you’ve already risked your life and mine to keep ‘em safe. I don’t wanna mess that up again.”

“A noble thought,” Wade concedes. “However, if anything does threaten my oh-so-treasured loved ones, you know I’ll be right there to kick that threat’s ass, right? And that being so horny for you twenty-four/seven is severely impacting my quality of life? The vet’s saying he might have to put me down.”

The tiniest smile tugs at the corner of Logan’s mouth. He ducks his head as he does, something shy and young about it. Something hot blooms in the bottom of Wade’s stomach, and for once, it’s not the ache of sex and need. It’s the major fucking crush he has on this man. Although, at this point, he is also so hard it hurts.

Logan’s eyes flit down again, noticing that particular fact when it jumps against his thigh.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Wade.”

“Not Jesus Christ, my friend. Marvel Jesus.”

“Yeah, no one ever said that but you.”

Logan leans in and kisses him like he’s wanted to do it just as long as Wade has.

[aimasup]

Spoilers for The March 2024 Welcome Home Update, LONG post warning:

The Eddie Scene

Let's establish two realities: The Neighbourhood (theirs) and The Show (the humans').

(The third is ours, here, actually real, no black gunk and Welcome Home is just a really cool fictional horror project. Irrelevant, just wanted to bring us down to earth)

I like to believe it's an unaware Wreck-It-Ralph situation: The Neighbourhood exists as The Show because that's how they live and what they were created for.

They have a happy home in the commercials and episodes, interviews with humans and playfully leaning on the fourth wall (via Narrator). And when Playfellow Workshop had a really good influential show, they quite literally brought these puppets to life, perhaps too much.

That's where the trouble comes in; we don't know if the puppets being sentient was ever revealed to the public, or what the black rot even is yet. Personally I can't really even guess how much the other puppets know at the moment, not even Home. All we know is that Wally was the first to 'wake up', likely.

So I'm just gonna say what I think about the Eddie segment at the end of the commercial compilation from his perspective alone (bravo to the voice actors and artists my god).

The Neighbourhood...

The Show.

Here's what I assume: both in the Neighbourhood and The Show, Eddie is being given a break from working so hard. Because I believe the script/special was supposed to end here:

Eddie Dear was happy.

[calm jazz music as the title card fades in] And a Happy Homewarming to one and all! Ho Ho Ho!!

End.

Because it makes no sense why The Show staff would spend extra resources to give the puppet Not Quirky Anxiety and end their Christmas special on a worrying note for general audiences.

I think The Show staff wrapped up that scene and left to go check on the rest of the set or something, and the Eddie puppet was left there, alone in Wally's room set because its job is done. Except it isn't, and Eddie became aware somehow.

He sees Home, his friend, and something isn't right

I don't know what this is: my first thought was that it was Home's hand crank, and Eddie was seeing but not understanding the puppets behind the scenes

"Sources say, however, that this puppet’s (Home's) eyes could move through a hand crank on the other side of the prop facing away from the camera."

-(welcomehomerestorationproject.net)

His friend's eyes look dead but they're moving, I thought. But looking at it again, it looks more like a microphone stand a Show staff is holding? Some sort of set equipment. Speaking of the set

Wally's room is too big and leads to nowhere. Is this a visual representation for Eddie's mental state? Did they literally turn the lights off on set? Or can he not see everything right now because his poor fictional brain can't handle our reality just yet?

His hands are fuzzy but there's something in them. Something was under his skin just now. They don't feel like his hands.

"Eddie was a live-hand puppet who required two puppeteers to operate."

-(welcomehomerestorationproject.net)

I imagine he's in a limbo of awareness, he's seeing so many things and not quite understanding what they are, and he's getting more lost and panicked

Can you imagine how overstimulating it must be to go from a clean, happy children's fantasy reality to a world with the laws of physics?

The clock's ticking doesn't quiet down and it's constant. He's sweating when nothing is wrong (?). Gravy was poured on the tree ornament, he's always helped do that, but now it's dripping onto the floor and it's making a gross mess. Little things like that don't have consequences unless the script calls for it. Eddie doesn't know that, and especially he's freaked out by the breathing and the heartbeat.

Maybe it's Home's, or his own, or both, idk.

What's curious is that Frank and Sally are fine and talking about the day's events. This means that Eddie should've been fine after the episode too, relaxed like normal, but he didn't get to. He probably didn't even know when they got there or when Sally left.

This image right here? I think it symbolises the scary clash between both realities by now.

2 (Eddie and Wally) or 4 (counting Sally and Home) out of 9 neighbours being aware is too many. Frank wasn't supposed to have to comfort Eddie. The episode was supposed to end and Eddie can see all of it.

(and yeah maybe romance is an additional factor here)

We don't know if people remember seeing this scene on their televisions. Maybe the episode ended as normal for them. The cameras weren't rolling, so currently, we only get to witness the puppets' descent into decay because someone behind the television is Letting The Neighbourhood In, bit by bit.

Maybe we'll get to see all the other puppets go through the same awareness crisis as the website keeps updating. Personally, I don't think there's an ulterior motive for Home, nor do I think any of the puppets are under strict supervision to behave a certain way for filming episodes, like celebrities.

What freaks me out is that they banter with the narrator and do commercials for real products. They're aware of the fourth wall but only because the fourth wall let them be aware. And it even got me thinking about the nature of existing as a concept (they're fictional characters. they don't really exist? Not in the same way individual humans do anyway. They aren't really supposed to belong to themselves.)

Sorry this turned into ramble rubbish, these are just my thoughts, could be entirely wrong about everything. Welcome Home is just super neat and the amount of effort gone into it shows. Lemme know what yall think, kudos if you read this far

For your troubles 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍯🥛🍵☕🍶

Extra note: I don't think they require the puppeteers to function outside of episodes either. They just live their lives chilling, don't even know there's a Show. Maybe there's an explanation but for now I'm content with 'it's magic'.

That being said I've seen other theories about the peas and the isolation of Eddie specifically those are real neat

[floralpascal]

Nightmare

Summary: When you get shot trying to save Ghost, he finally has to confront his worst nightmare: losing you

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 1.1k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, mdni!)

Warnings: reader gets hit by a bullet (it's described), blood, canon-level violence, talk of death, secret relationship, a lot of angst and pain

A/N: Remember that bit in Lines Crossed about Ghost agonizing over the time the reader got shot? Yeah, this is it. Buckle up.

Illicit Indulgences Series Masterlist

The worst kinds of nightmares, Ghost had found, came when he was wide awake. 

All the worst things happened when his eyes were open, his perception clear. It happened time and time again in his life. While others only encountered atrocities in their dreams, he seemed to see them in both the sleeping and waking world. Dreams gave a person an escape, a way to leave the horrible scenes behind. They offered some form of respite come morning while the nightmares of the day offered only the cold bite of reality. 

He wished he was dreaming now. He wished that this was all some terrible figment of his imagination that he would inevitably be saved from when his eyes opened. But, of course, he wasn’t that lucky. 

You weren’t that lucky. 

Ghost hadn’t even known at first. You had been covering him, watching his back as you both swept through what had once been an office building. Ghost had entered an office room with you on his tail. What neither of you had known was that there was a perfectly obscured hiding place behind a fairly large filing cabinet on the other side of the room. Turned the other way, Ghost had only seen a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could turn to train his gun on the man, you were already in front of Ghost. In a split second, you and the man both pulled the trigger, the deafening pops reverberating off the walls. 

The man fell to the ground, your aim as precise as ever. 

“Good shot, Styx,” he said as he swept his eyes across the room. Finding no other threats, he turned to walk back towards the door. 

He stopped, however, when he realized that you weren’t following him. In the faint gray light that flowed in from the window, you simply stood with your head down and gun now dangling loosely from your right hand. You pressed your other hand to your side. A blank expression held on your face, you were looking down at your hand as you did it. Then, he watched as you drew your hand away, your palm dripping red. 

It was a moment frozen in time, going both slower and faster than Ghost ever thought possible. For a second, Ghost’s brain couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing, the red that stained your skin a perplexing sight. 

Then, all at once, the nightmare of it hit him. 

He lunged toward you just as your knees buckled. He grabbed onto your vest straps, guiding you down to lay on the floor, your body going stiff from shock.

You blinked a little, as if you were trying to blink away the haze that suddenly clouded your eyes. 

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” You asserted, your voice wavering, the usual strength of it lost to the haze. 

But he could tell from the amount of blood quickly spreading across your shirt and pooling onto the floor below that you definitely were not fine. 

Ghost keyed his radio to say, “Styx is hit! I need a medic on the fourth floor! The left corridor!”

He heard Price respond - some question about how bad the injury was. Ghost was too busy with you beneath him to care about it right now. 

Leaning down to examine the wound, he finally saw the issue. The bullet had caught you on your side, just above your hip bone. It was a one-in-a-million shot that had landed so perfectly where the protection of your vest stopped. 

Ghost ripped gauze out from one of his pockets before he pressed them to your side to keep pressure on the wound. With a free hand, he unstrapped the side of your vest, pulling the velcro loose so he could better cover your side. 

Don’t let this be real. Please.

He wanted to wake up from this sick scene. That way, the suffering wouldn’t be yours, it would be his. Maybe he would wake up next to you, completely okay, your face relaxed with sleep as you dozed beside him in bed. He would happily suffer through this nightmare a million times over if only it meant that you weren’t actually bleeding out below him. 

“Si…Simon…”

But it was real. Your grimace was real. Your blood on his gloves was real.

“I’m right here,” he assured you, his voice low. 

“Simon… it hurts.” Glazed and unfocused, your eyes found his. You were starting to slip from consciousness, that he could see. The shock and the blood loss were compounding. 

“Stay awake for me,” Ghost ordered, trying to keep your attention focused. “Eyes on me, yeah? Remember? That’s what you told me on that botched mission.”

This was exactly what Ghost had been terrified to see then. When he had gotten upset at you for not leaving him behind when he ordered you to, his main fear was that you would get yourself killed trying to save him. And here you were, bleeding out after saving him. 

If you hadn’t stepped in front of him, that bullet would’ve hit him. 

“What were you fuckin’ thinking?” he grumbled, almost to himself, as he pulled more gauze out from his pocket to hold against your side. 

“I’d do it again,” you whispered, your speech slurred. You squeezed your eyes shut as you said it, your shaking hand sliding to grasp his wrist. 

Ghost froze. They were the words that had haunted him for so long. They were the same words you uttered when you had recklessly risked your life for him last time. His nightmare was finally coming to life, only a million times worse. 

Consequences. They were ever-present. There were consequences for having feelings in this line of work. Ghost now understood exactly why there were so many rules against the relationship he had with you. With every one of your grimaces, it felt like you were pulling him apart at the seams. He was ready to burn the world down if it meant saving you. Fuck the mission. Fuck protocol. The only thing that mattered right now was that you were dying underneath him. 

Time ceased to exist. He was there with you sprawled on the floor, his hand pressed to the wound that threatened to take you from him as he repeatedly yelled over comms for the medics to hurry the fuck up, for what seemed like an eternity. Your focus quickly waned, your head falling to the side limply as you started to lose consciousness. 

No matter how this situation shook out, he knew this scene would now become a familiar one in the night, a horror to add to the collection.

He watched in agony as the medics took you away, unsure if you would ever wake from this nightmare again. 

[cursedkeyboard]

Funnily enough, I've never been too big of a Jason Todd fan. Not because I don't like him, he's a great character, but because DC fails over and over again to give him justice and treat him right.

The number of times alone this boy has been beaten by his adoptive father, betrayed, and forgotten are far too many, far too much.

And the constant portrayal of Jason as this volatile, violent, mindless man is tiresome, lazy in all senses of the word and overdone. I understand that Jason was unstable after he left the pit, I mean, who wouldn't? The trauma of his death alone could've sent anyone crazy, but then to experience everything else afterwards, including having to come to terms that Bruce not only did not kill his murder but also replaced him, leaving Jason to grieve what was once his and what he should've gotten, of course he'd be less than okay.

Again, I'm not the biggest Jason Todd fan but I do wish more people would see just how much good Jason has in his heart, how kind and gentle he can be once his walls are down, when he's no longer constantly analyzing your actions and wondering why would you bother talking to him, getting closer to him.

In my opinion, a man who is so gentle with children, who constantly gives second, third, and fourth chances to people who don't deserve it, who despite it all still wants to make a change and protect the city that failed him, couldn't possibly be anything but the most caring partner. Not just partner, no, also brother and friend.

We all know what he did to Tim and Damian, there are reasons, such as his mental instability at the time and rage, and though those are not excuses, I believe Jason would still drop everything to go save his family. He might complain, he might brood, but family is something important to him even when just looking at them hurts him. He lost his loving mother, stepmother, far too early and it's not hard to imagine that even with all the pain and grief inside his torn heart, the little boy inside Jason still craves the warmth of a family.

Just look at the way he treats his friends, at the way he helps them through situations no one else would, how caring and attentive he is. Jason is gentle, sure, he is rough and mean and he's got blood on his hands, but Jason is made of love.

Jason was made to be loved.

So I think, whether platonic or romantically, Jason would treat you so well. He'd scold you for not wearing warm clothes during winter, "We're in Gotham, you fucking moron, you wanna freeze to death?", all while wrapping you with his jacket or scarf. He'd make sure you're eating at least something every day, and if not, he would immediately put you under his arm, maybe over his shoulder, and take you to the nearest food chain he could find, "I don't want to hear you complaining about headaches when all you had today was a cup of coffee and gum.".

Lord, he'd be torn between freaking out and being extremely annoyed that you got hurt, be it at work, a fight, or just out of clumsiness. But no matter what, his hands would always be so, so gentle when touching you. The tip of his fingers brushing under the injury, as light as a breeze, his other hand holding the back of your neck, or your bicep, perhaps even your hand just to make sure you're there, with him.

Jason would both hush you gently, "I know, sweetheart, we're almost done.", and also tease because he's a little shit at heart, "If you had a little more awareness than a ten year old this wouldn't have happened, idiot."

And physical touches? Oh, love, Jason is a sucker for intimacy.

I know for a fact he wouldn't be comfortable for a long time with anyone in his personal space due to the torture he went through. The trauma would make his skin crawl any time someone got too close or brushed past him, he'd hate it so much because it makes him weak but also because he can't let anyone try to hug him without feeling sick to his stomach.

And with you it's no different. It would take a long time, a lot of trust being built up, conflict and confessions, maybe he'd even open up to you with his head on your lap as you brushed his hair softly, a big, big step for him after years of not letting anyone close. He'd tell you about the Joker, about having hope in Bruce, about his biological mother. And he'd feel vulnerable like a child when you wipe his tears gently without a word.

Once he starts craving your touch, though, regardless if you two have a platonic or romantic relationship, Jason is putty in your hands. Forehead kisses when you part ways, cuddling on the couch while he reads and you're on your phone, thighs touching when sitting close, even a little bit of hand holding when he's stressed and needs to play with your fingers.

He's like a big cat that's constantly making his way onto your chest, stealing your breath and making biscuits on your skin, making sure you're giving him sufficient pats every day.

It's a little part of him that he's barely able to properly allow space for. There's still so much hurt in Jason, so much confusion and desperation, hatred and upset, that he'd probably still close off sometimes, try acting tough so you'd see how fucked up he is, how he's not truly worth of your love.

And yet.

And yet all it'd take for him to go soft and pliant in your hands would be a single touch, cupping his cheeks, brushing his skin softly with your thumbs, right under his pretty emerald eyes, making sure his gaze is on you and only you. Just like that, he'd slump his shoulders and bring you into his arms, breathing a sigh of relief and squeezing you close, your heartbeats synching.

He wouldn't remember when he started feeling safest in your arms but it'd feel like it was since forever. Like there was no one else but you.

Jason was made to be loved, though he is a little broken and a little tainted, lost like a child and hateful like a sinner, your love might just be his salvation, something he's greedy for, selfish for, even when he's so hesitant of somehow hurting you.

[apomaro-mellow]

Part One of the Newly Wed Game

A few things happened that evening. 

The first was Steve quickly came to terms that he knew a lot about Eddie. That made sense. They hung out a lot. He knew a lot about Robin too because he cared about her. The difficult part of this was the fact Eddie knew a lot about him. And how warm inside that made him feel.

It was the way after the game, Steve went for seconds on the hot dogs and Eddie handed him the barbecue sauce and relish without a word. Steve only hesitated for a moment.

The second thing that happened was Steve tried to imagine how he’d feel if a girl he was dating knew all those things about him.

The third thing was trying to imagine Eddie as a girl.

But he didn’t need to. The image was already perfect with Eddie as is.

The fourth thing was a talk. After the barbecue, Eddie drove him and Robin back in his van. Robin was dropped off first and that was the first time Steve spoke up the entire ride.

“Can we talk?”

“Yeah”, Eddie answered easily.

He drove them out to a convenience store. Eddie went inside and Steve thought he’d come back with beers or something but Eddie surprised him with Coke flavored slushies.

“Meet me in the back”, Eddie said through the window. He went through the van’s back door while Steve just climbed through the front. Eddie closed one door, leaving the other open to get a breeze from the warm summer night.

Steve started speaking and it felt so disjointed and chaotic and oh god is this what was going on in Robin’s brain all the time? It was like he was vomiting words and by the end of it he expected Eddie to have either the blank face of someone not following or the bewildered look of someone caught in a verbal storm. Instead he looked, almost contemplative.

“Sooooo, lemme get this straight. You think you might be into me, based on what happened in that game?”

He said it so plainly and succinctly and it made Steve feel like an idiot. But he nodded anyway.

“Dude, I think you’re getting your wires crossed. I mean I know I’ve got the curly locks, but it’s Nancy you should be after.”

“If all it took was curly hair to make me fall I’d be dating Dustin!”, Steve shouted. He kicked his legs a little, hanging off the edge of the van. He was feeling restless. This was new territory and he didn’t know what came next.

“The only reason we did all that was so Nancy would see you’re still boyfriend material.”

“Yeah well, we shouldn’t’ve gotten every question right then”, Steve said.

Eddie’s back was against the side of the van, his legs stretched out right behind Steve. “I kinda lost track of the plan.”

“Why’s it so important to you that Nancy and I get back together?”

Eddie smiled a little before looking away. “Because it just makes sense, man. I mean, nothing against Jonathan, but you and her are like....a couple at the end of the world.”

Steve let out a frustrated laugh. “Is that your way of rejecting me?”

“Has this been your way of coming on to me? And I thought you were flirting royalty.” Eddie had seen Steve in action. He was never this timid about it. He always went for what he wanted.

“I never flirt unless I’m sure the other person is into me to.”

Eddie felt his walls getting weaker. Inside of him there was a mini-Eddie screaming to be let out. I’m into you! I’M into YOU! Flirt with me! Fucking do it!

Eddie pushed it down. Steve already had a high school sweetheart with whom to live his picket fence dreams. And those dreams couldn’t happen with him.

“You and Nancy just make sense.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.” Steve tossed his empty cup to the ground and moved, closing the van door, shutting out the sounds of cars going down the street. “It doesn’t make any sense to me at all.”

And then he straddled Eddie’s lap.

“Steve....what are you doing?”

“Hmm”, Steve moved a bit to get comfortable. “Now see, this makes sense to me. It’s just missing...” Steve moved Eddie’s hand, the one currently empty to sit on his hip.

The straw hung limp in his mouth. Was this really happening right now?

“Does this make sense to you?”, Steve asked, his hands against the van walls, caging Eddie in with his body.

And fuck if that didn’t do things to him. Then he remembered witnessing King Steve pull similar moves in the hallway, getting girls to focus solely on him. And fuck if getting the Steve Harrington Special didn’t do things to him. Eddie said the half finished slush down, only half caring if it fell over and put his other hand on Steve’s hip.

He didn’t know if this made sense. In fact, he was pretty sure it was all nonsense. But Eddie wasn’t about to tell Steve to get out of his lap.

“You and Nancy”, Eddie said in a low voice, although it was more of a reminder to himself than to Steve.

Steve didn’t want to hear her name anymore. So he leaned in and kissed Eddie. When he pulled back, Eddie’s eyes were closed but he was still trying to talk.

“You and...you and Nan-”

Steve kissed him again. This time when he pulled back, he watched Eddie take a breath as his eyes fluttered.

“You and-”

“You. Only you Eddie.”

Steve leaned in for a third when someone banged on the van.

“Hey no loitering! You and your broad get a move on!”

Steve grinned. “You’re my broad.”

“Actually, it’s my van and I’m driving. So you’re the broad sweet-cheeks.” And then Eddie gave him a daring squeeze of those cheeks and Steve felt his blood jump.

Years of getting his ass slapped by other jocks didn’t prepare him for this.

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

It started as a slow, on the down low thing. For Steve, it was because he was afraid of falling too hard too fast. Of Eddie getting tired of him. Of a devastating dumping. For Eddie, it was because he was waiting for Steve’s experimentation to be over and for him to go back to be the straight boy right out of every father’s dream for their little princess.

They kissed in private but in public the affection showed in other ways. In ways they were both realizing had always been there. Eddie being loud and obnoxious in most places but still knocking politely when coming to Steve’s house. Steve buying more hair spray for himself and throwing some hair ties into the basket as well.

The little things.

This goes on for a month and while it kills Steve to not tell Robin, he himself is not entirely sure what he’d tell her. “Yes I like girls but I also like Eddie. No, not guys. Just Eddie.”

What sense did that make? Steve tried looking at other guys but none of them compared. He tried looking at other girls too with the same result. So maybe he was just attracted to Eddie for the rest of his life. He could deal with that.

What he couldn’t deal with was coming out to Mike Wheeler.

Mike had been tasked with going to Eddie’s trailer to try and finesse some info about the new campaign. He’d lost rock, paper, scissors. Whatever. Mike took this task seriously. So of course, he was gonna scope out the situation. He noticed Steve’s car was parked out front. Mike didn’t know what those two did all the time together. They didn’t share any of the same interests as far as he knew.

He tiptoed around the trailer. The blinds to Eddie’s room were shut. So he went over to the kitchen window. If Eddie was in a good mood, this could be easy. If Steve ruined it by saying something stupid, that made Mike’s job way more difficult. He stood on a milk crate in time to see Steve come into view and go into the fridge.

Eddie came soon after, his hair looking crazier that usually, like he’d been thrashing it around. He hugged Steve from behind and kissed the back of his neck and Mike almost lost his shit.

“I thought you were too tired to move?”, Steve asked.

“Baby I just couldn’t wait. Missed you too much.”

There was more gooey, lovey-dovey stuff which would gross Mike out if he wasn’t already pissed.

“I can’t believe this!”, Mike shouted, grabbing their attention.

“Wheeler...”, Eddie said in a warning tone.

“You guys were cheating at that game!”, he accused. “You rigged it by pretending to not be dating!”

Both let out an exasperated sigh before Mike disappeared from the window.

“I’m telling Nancy!”

“Wheeler!” 

“Mike!”

Tag Team:

@darkwitchoferie 

@archerwithmanybows

@henderdads

@menamesniall

@bornonthesavage

@grtwdsmwhr

@vi-the-best-you-can

@kardinalkalamity

@leather-and-freckles

@resident-gay-bitch

@goodolefashionedloverboi 

@snowstar2368

@alienace

Part three

[orqheuss]

Snake Charmer

(Ominis Gaunt x F!Gorgon!Reader) Fluff? World building? Set up? Who knows tbh. It's a story.

Summary:

Ominis could hear her pulse quicken as she stilled. Everything else in the cramped space fell away, leaving just the two slytherin’s, each one with their own morose history that has been broadcasted for all the world to hear. Two peas in a pod— two sides to the same coin— two scales on the same snake. *** Why was everyone so interested in the new girl? Ominis Gaunt was about to find out.

Word count: 3.8k

AN: because I wanted to write a story about Ominis and a Gorgon falling in love

Ominis was sure he was going mad. In fact, he was positive— some point between the end of his fourth year and the beginning of his fifth, he had gone absolutely batty. That was the only logical conclusion to the fact that he was hearing voices at all hours of the day. 

It started the day the new fifth year won in a duel against his best friend, Sebastian. The Defense Against the Dark Arts class was moving at the same pace it always did: introduction to the new spell, practice on a small object, practice on a larger, vaguely person shaped object, and then finally a duel between each pair of students to prove their mastery. This day, though, took a different turn than what the young blond was expecting. Ever since starting at Hogwarts, Sebastian Sallow was Ominis’ dueling partner; there was never any question about it. It became such a habit that no one dared approach the pair once Professor Hecat announced the beginnings of the school sanctioned battles— you would never see one Slytherin without the other. So, when Hecat decided to pair the new fifth year with his best friend, well, it could be seen quite plainly that Ominis was not happy about the matter. 

As the duelists took their positions across from each other, the blond haired boy leaned against the nearest wall, a distinct look of annoyance turning down the corners of his lips and narrowing his eyebrows into a straight line. Most people would consider the look on his face a pout— not that anyone would ever dare at mentioning this to the boy. Ominis Gaunt did not pout, and he certainly did not scoff under his breath at the sound of his friend joking around with the new girl. What a preposterous idea. He wasn’t jealous, don’t be absurd. 

Though, it was nice hearing Sebastian get knocked down a peg by someone who had never held a wand in her life up until that point. 

Once the class was over, all Ominis wanted to do was slump himself into the Undercroft and take a well deserved nap. His head was pounding, and the near constant whispers of his classmates about the new girl were driving him up the wall. He couldn’t help but make snarky remarks in his head, quietly laughing to himself at the ridiculous questions his classmates were mumbling.

“Why do you think she wears that head scarf? I wonder what’s under there.” 

Hair, probably. 

“Did you hear her accent? Where do you think she’s from? Certainly not around here!”

Ten points to Ravenclaw for stating the obvious.

“Did you see how she was looking at Sallow? She just got here and already thinks she can take the most attractive boy in our year. The nerve!” 

Sebastian has the emotional range of a teaspoon, but best of luck!

“How could you even tell where she was looking? I couldn’t see a thing through those glasses of hers! Why is she wearing shaders inside?” 

Bold style choice, but alright. Not that he could really judge, of course. 

“Do you think she’s blind like Gaunt? Great, another person I have to make sure I don’t trip over.” 

That statement got his attention. Could she be blind like him? He didn’t hear any echolocation charm on her wand, nor did he sense a seeing eye animal or a cane around her. A very small part of him warmed slightly at the idea that he wasn’t alone in his struggles anymore. He craned his head more to the side, trying to catch more of the gossip as everyone began to file out of the classroom.

“No, she can’t be blind. It looks like she can get around just fine on her own— no charm blinking on her wand or anything. Still quite weird, though.” 

Ominis’ shoulders sank minutely at the news, the warmth in his chest freezing over once again. He sighed to himself before pushing away from the wall, deciding to just let his body carry him to the Undercroft on autopilot while he stewed in his thoughts. Sebastian was off talking to the new girl, so he would likely not be joining him until well after his next round of Crossed Wands later that day. Normally he would join the boy, cheering him on from the sidelines with the rest of his fawning fangirl club, and he was about to turn in the direction of the clock tower when the brunette’s voice broke through the haze. 

“Suppose I could interest you in some unsanctioned fun?” 

Well, if his new best friend was going to be there, then he wouldn’t miss Ominis’ presence all that much.

Just as the blond had resigned himself to an afternoon of solitude, another voice came through the crowded musings of his classmates. 

“Gods, I’m starving.” 

A completely mundane statement, one that had likely been uttered by half of the class as they left, but something about the voice drew him in. It was low in tone, like they were trying to hide their voice instead of projecting it to their friends, and had a slight hiss to it just under the words like the person was speaking through a mouthful of fangs. Ominis paused in his steps just outside the doorway, his ear turned towards the classroom as he tried to find the voice again. All he found was silence and the tiny ticks of professor Hecat’s dark magic detectors. 

Shaking his head, he leaned away from the door and made his way down the stairs, his mind puzzling through what just happened. He must have been imagining it, he thought to himself. The voice hardly sounded human, let alone familiar. Must have just been a trick of his mind, he had slept terribly the night before so it was logical he was just tired. Rounding the corner towards his secret alcove, Ominis stepped through the clockwork door to the Undercroft and began to climb down the winding staircase, hopeful that a bit more sleep would do him good. 

Fortunately, he had a lovely nap on the chaise lounge he conjured. Rather unfortunately though, the voice persisted. Morning, noon, and night he heard that incessant hissing tone in his ears, each day getting louder and more bold with what it was saying. First it was small things, things that most people would think to themselves throughout a normal day. 

“Where’s the bathroom in this place?” “My head itches.” “What I would give to take a nap right about now.” 

Normal things. But then, the statements started to get a bit…odd. 

“There’s something under my scale!” “He was rude, I want to bite him.” “I can hear a mouse somewhere. Can I eat it? Please?”

While Ominis was tired of hearing the random, grating voice slither through his ears at a constant rate, he was happy to report that he no longer thought he was going mad. The voice belonged to a snake— that much he was sure of. But, where was the snake? Did it know he could hear it? How was it somehow always in his vicinity? 

That was the question that was currently keeping him up at night. 

Everything culminated one faithful day when he next had Defense Against the Dark Arts. Today was lecture, and much like the rest of his classmates, he bemoaned having to sit and listen to professor Hecat go on and on about some unknown entity or creature that he could never encounter for the rest of his days. It wasn’t that she wasn’t a good teacher, far from it! But, much like any professor in the castle, she was not immune to the dreaded monotonous lecture voice. 

Upon entering the classroom, the first thing Ominis heard was Hecat’s voice speaking in hushed tones to someone. He would never admit it outloud, but the boy was dreadfully nosy. Honing his ears in the direction of the whispering, he caught on to her tone first— caring, soft, gentle, words that normally wouldn’t be found within one hundred feet of the professor— then the tail end of her words. 

“—if you are uncomfortable with today’s lesson, please know that you can leave at any time.” 

An equally soft voice replied in turn, a hint of uncomfort lacing their words. “Thank you, professor. I appreciate the sentiment, but I will be fine. It is not the first time I have been a part of such a lecture.” 

Ominis stilled in his seat, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention when he recognized the voice. It was the new girl again. Merlin, it seemed she had everyone wrapped around her little finger, even the formidable Dinah Hecat! 

It wasn’t that he had a problem with the new fifth year, in fact she had been quite nice to him when they met in the common room, it was just that all the rumors surrounding her made her sound a bit big for her britches. First she beat Sebastian in a duel, something no one has done since he started going to Crossed Wands and honing his talent, then she invites him to Hogsmeade with her and suddenly a troll is hellbent on clobbering up the street? Not to mention all the other things Ominis had heard about: taking out Ashwinder camps in her spare time? Flying all over the sodding Scottish Highlands and getting into all kinds of trouble against the Ranrok Loyalists? Sneaking into the restricted section with Sebastian and earning him another bloody detention, because what, she batted her eyelashes at him and he folded like a cheap suit? Who was this girl, and why did trouble follow at her heels like a pack of hellhounds? No, Ominis didn’t have a problem with her, he was suspicious of her, and the fact that the voice started soon after she got here certainly didn’t help. 

The blond sat back in his seat, arms crossed across his chest and a befuddled look clouding his expression as the professor took her spot at the front of the room, tapping her wand on the rickety old chalkboard and writing out the subject of the lecture for today. 

“Today, class, we will be discussing Gorgons, another creature traditionally deemed mythological but in fact walks among us magic folk unseen. Though, they very rarely make the journey across the sea to our backyard.” 

Ominis’ eyebrows narrowed more in confusion as he thought about Hecat’s words to the new girl. Why would she be uncomfortable with this lesson? What secret was she hiding that was related to Gorgons of all things? He tuned back into the lesson, hoping to answer some of his questions. 

Professor Hecat paced around the room as she talked, taking strides up and down the lengths of desks and weaving through her collections of artifacts from her time as an Unspeakable. 

“Gorgons, or ‘gorgos,’ meaning ‘fierce, terrible and grim’ in Greek, are inherently female creatures with snakes for hair and the ability to turn anyone who meets their gaze into stone. Many of you are likely familiar with the myth of Medusa, the only mortal Gorgon that was callously slayed by the Greecian hero, Perseus. But, there are two other Gorgons known in history: Stheno, the mighty or strong, and Euryale, the Far Springer.” 

The room was bathed in silence as Hecat paused in her speech, giving the class time to take notes on the creatures. Ominis sat still, his mind awash with possibilities for why the new girl would need to be excused from this lesson. Her accent was Greek, that was for sure. Could she have a history with Gorgons? That wouldn’t make sense, though. Many students have had run-ins with the creatures discussed in DADA, but they were never offered to skip that lesson. So, why was the new girl so special? 

A sharp, insistent sound shook the blond from his thought spiral, causing him to wince at the volume suddenly ricochetting in his ears. A terrible hiss filled the room, slithering throughout the encompassing space and echoing off the tall, vaulted cathedral ceiling. It was haunting, eerie, constant, like the creak of the floor in an abandoned house or a busted pipe in the middle of the night when you’re the only one home. A shiver ran up Ominis’ spine at the sound, trying desperately to block it out while also listening to those around him to see if they heard it too. He heard no whisperings, but with a quick flick of his wand, sparking the wood to life, he could see the silhouette of his classmates looking around like they were trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Ominis relaxed slightly, relieved that he wasn’t the only one hearing the incessant hissing. 

His relaxed posture only lasted for a moment as a voice suddenly cut through all the noise, low and dangerous like a rattlesnake's tail in the tall grass. It was similar to the snake he had been hearing, but different somehow— richer, more human sounding. Ominis’ heart stilled in his chest when he recognized the cadence, knowing it intimately from all the times he spoke it while living at home. Parseltongue. 

“Be quiet. Everything is fine, no one is going to hurt us.” 

At once, the hissing stopped, shrouding the room in a blanket of silence once again. Dread began to curl its way around Ominis’ chest at the understanding of what that meant— what that could mean for the future of Hogwarts in general. 

Someone in the room was a parselmouth like him, and he would bet all of his galleons on it being the new girl. 

But, what did she mean by “no one is going to hurt us?” Who was “us?”

The professor continued her lecture, drowning the never ending list of questions permeating in his mind that seemed to grow longer by the second. 

“Gorgons are the children of Phorcys, a primordial sea god, and Ceto, a sea goddess, who happen to be brother and sister.” 

A snicker came from the back of the classroom, followed by the voice of none other than Andrew Larson, the class’ resident moonmind. “Purebloods know all about that!” 

Hecat leveled him with a glare, not an ounce of amusement present in her tone as she spoke. “Must you make that joke whenever we talk about Greek history? I dare say it wasn’t funny the first handful of times you’ve said it, Mister Larson.” 

Ominis could almost see the embarrassment on Larson’s face when he stuttered his reply. “Um, n-no, professor. I j-just meant—”

“We all know what you meant.” She silenced him quickly, her smirk present in her voice. “Now, back to what I was saying. Phorcys and Ceto had a large family together, including the Graeae, the trio of elderly sisters that share an eye, Echidna, a being of half-human, half-snake, Ladon, a fearsome dragon who was tasked with guarding the golden apples of the Hesperides, and Scylla, a woman with dog-headed loins. Because of Ceto’s reputation for giving birth to terrors, each larger and more colorful than the last, she became known as the “mother of sea-monsters.” Ominis could feel Hecat’s eyes linger on him for a moment, her speech stilling slightly as she took in his deeply puzzled expression. “Of course, among those children were also the Gorgons.” 

The aging professor continued, her steps ebbing and flowing around the classroom like a steady stream. “According to myth, Medusa did not begin life as a Gorgon. She was Ceto’s only mortal born child— human as any other babe. Some even say she may have been of magical nature, like all of you in this very room.” 

The blond slytherin heard Hecat’s steps falter for a moment, the soft swish of her hand running along a desk off to his right. He craned his ears in the direction, his wand picking up the movement as he tried to discern the student that the former Unspeakable was paying special attention to. The silhouette of a girl filled his mindseye, her form slumping down slightly in her desk as she tugged lightly on the scarf wrapped around her head. Ominis’ frown stretched deeper across his face at the realization that the professor was checking on the new girl, again. What was so special about her? Why was everyone so enraptured by her presence? She didn’t seem all that remarkable when in the school building at least. She was just mysterious. He was mysterious at first, but the fascination with him soon dwindled as his peers realized he was the same as everyone else. 

So, the slytherin pondered, why was she still the talk of the halls? 

Why was Hecat teaching this lesson?

Why was it important for a group of pubescent teenagers to know about something that existed across the ocean from them?

Ominis had more questions than answers, and each one confounded him more and more by the second.

“Medusa was a devout follower of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, handicraft, and war. One night, while praying to her goddess, she captured the attention of Athena’s brother, Poseidon. He appeared to her, intent on taking what he believed should be ‘his.’” Hecat paused, her stony gaze sweeping across the classroom as if challenging anyone to so much as breathe too loud. “He took her there, in the temple, leaving her on the floor as she sobbed and prayed to her goddess for forgiveness.” 

Ominis could cut the tension coating the air of the room like a thick, viscous fog with a knife. No one dared make a sound, enraptured by the words of their wise mentor.

“Some myths say that Athena took pity on the girl and transformed her into something that no man could ever gaze on again. Some say she punished her for leading a man into her sacred temple and letting him defile it. No one knows the true story except those who were there, and the old gods have long since left our realm for their own paradise on Olympus.” 

The apprehension screaming in every magical mind surrounding the dearly loved, and feared, elder was palpable in the tiny class space. 

“Now, some of you may be wondering why I teach this lesson.” As if reading his mind, Ominis felt Hecat level him with a stare that burned hotter than even the most blistering fire poker. “The answer, of course, is that no one knows what happened to the child of Medusa and Poseidon.”

The young Gaunt felt all the air get sucked from his lungs as if a dementor escaped from Azkaban just to find him specifically. A child of a god and a witch? It was unheard of— it was disastrous. Their magic would be unstoppable; nothing in their world would ever match the power of a child brimming with that much otherworldly energy. Whether they used their powers for good or evil, or even some mix of the two, they would be legendary all the same. At that moment, a thought came to Ominis. Would they also be part Gorgon? If Medusa was transformed while with child, who's to say that the babe would not share the same affliction. 

As suddenly as a strike of lightning, or a downpour in April, Ominis Gaunt answered the question that had been on his mind since the start of term.

  The new girl was a Gorgon. 

How had he not realized before? The snakes that were always around when she was— how her head and eyes were always covered— how no one knew where she hailed from and had no hint other than the fact that her accent was vaguely Greecian? It was right in front of his blind eyes from the beginning; he was just too much of a jealous fool to see it. 

Just then the bell chimed across the campus, signaling the impending class change. Professor Hecat’s voice broke through the bustle of his peers standing and gathering their things in preparation for their trek to their next lesson. 

“We will continue our discussion on mythos and magic next week. Please remember to study for the upcoming OWLs! They are written and practical, so be sure to practice the physical spells as well as memorize the theory!” 

Ominis scrambled to gather his things, determined to catch the new girl before she disappeared into the crowd. Dodging around a loitering Sebastian— the brunette’s hand raised as if gearing to make some idiotic, yet somehow still brilliant, point— he all but sprinted into the congested hallway. His wand waved in front of him as he scanned each person he passed, his ears tuned to any noise that sounded vaguely serpentine in the hopes that her reptilian tresses would sound out as they always did this close to lunch time. Alas, they were as silent as a dead rodent in a viper pit. 

Just then, the young boy caught sight of the girl, her silhouette moving ferociously  among the masses as if she would rather be anywhere but there. Underneath all his confusion, morbid curiosity, and pulsating anger at how she has been endangering, and possibly enchanting, his best friend, Ominis felt a pang of pity. He didn’t blame her one bit for wanting to leave as quickly as possible— not at all. He knew all too well how it felt to have all eyes burning through his skin at every turn, even if no one else seemed to figure out her secret other than him. He couldn’t let her escape, though; he needed answers, he needed closure. Halting in his tracks, he racked his mind for what he could do to get her attention. She wouldn’t hear him call her name in the ruckus around them, nor could he keep up with her brusk pace. There was really only one option to choose, and as much as he hated to do it, snakes had an incredible sense of hearing, or rather, in their case, an excellent sense for vibrations. 

His voice flowed from his lips in a strong hiss, the air seeming to break just for the words to slither their way to their target like a bush adder in a pile of leaves. “I know what you are.” 

Ominis could hear her pulse quicken as she stilled. Everything else in the cramped space fell away, leaving just the two slytherin’s, each one with their own morose history that has been broadcasted for all the world to hear. Two peas in a pod— two sides to the same coin— two scales on the same snake. 

Her “pets” were startlingly silent as her hung head raised from its slumped position against her chest, her sigh heaving her shoulders into proper posture— a constrictor poised to strangle. 

The boy felt her words before he heard them— the air stilling around him like a world born anew. 

“I suppose it’s my turn to explain things, then.”

AN:

Shes baaaaaacccckkkkkkk :)

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