#because he doesn’t know anything about children

[areyouwell]

Memento Mori

Ch.1

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Violence, slight body horror

Word Count: 8.1K

A/N: Took me long enough. New long-fic comin' in from the left! i know i teased this around three weeks ago (ish) but here's chapter one. not sure this is gonna be as long as Phobophobia but i'm really excited about this one. it's a little darker (yeah i know) but i already love this MC. if anyone wants tagging in this pls lmk, i don't wanna assume everyone who i tagged in Phobophobia wants to be tagged again so i'll start a new list <3

Dividers by @/sweetmelodygraphics

“So, as detailed here, there have been a string of these… murders, I suppose.”

Logan sighed heavily. When he woke up this morning, the one thing he didn’t expect was to be called into Charles Xavier’s office so soon after having breakfast, let alone be greeted with grainy photographs of some of the most horrific murder scenes he’d ever had the displeasure of looking at. Entrails, bones, flesh, eyes. None of it was where it should be, which most of the time, seemed scattered around the floor rather than attached to whichever poor, unfortunate soul who’d had the shitty luck of running into their silent assassin. Charles pointed the telescopic stick towards the mangled jacket of one of the equally mangled victims. Logan couldn’t even tell what gender they were, their face nothing but a bloody pulp.

Almost as if it had been exploded from the inside out. 

“This symbol here is the only string that connects the murders, and after doing a little digging,” he nodded thankfully to Ororo, her white hair bobbing with her dip of acknowledgement. “We found they all belonged to the same company, here.” With a click of the remote in his hands, the projection flipped to the next slide, a map of San Fransisco, a large red circle drawn around a location Logan was only somewhat familiar with, only because he’d walked past it a few times. 

“It’s a warehouse,” he offered, several heads turning to look at him. “I’ve walked ‘round there couple times. Nothin’ special, s’always buzzin’ with life.” He shrugged thoughtfully, tugging a cigar from his jacket pocket and flicking the Zippo lighter open and shut with his other hand. Charles gave him a slightly irritated look, but he pretended not to notice.”So… What? Our killer’s just popping caps in the head’s underpaid workers? Doesn’t make much sense.” 

“That’s what we thought too,” Ororo continued, placing down a few pieces of paper and spreading them about the table. “Until we started to notice a pattern. They’ve been picking off specific shift workers, mainly those on the late shift. But it’s never new members of staff either. Always those who’ve worked there for at least two years. Lately, their security has increased, but once they leave work, they’re basically on their own.” Storm took the remote from Charles and clicked to the next slide, a list of names and hours flaring onto the screen, the names of victims having been crossed out, though their hours were still visible on the row of the rota.

“Ya don’t think this has anything to do with that orphanage incident, do you?” Kitty piped up, cupping her mug of tea in both hands, either for comfort or for warmth, Logan couldn’t tell. She had a good point. It must have been around a month ago now. A fire had started downtown in the dead of night. Officials had said it was a discarded cigarette from one of the employees, but that didn’t explain why all the windows and doors had been locked.

Everyone within burned. Children included. 

“It’s certainly a theory…” Scott mused, rubbing his hand against his jaw in thought. “A terrible accident sounded far too much like a cover story. Think this killer had something to do with it?”

Charles sighed heavily. “Ordinarily, yes, I’d have some kind of suspicion, if it wasn’t for the fact our killer was elsewhere at the time.” He nodded to Ororo, who clicked the remote once again. “This was taken not an hour beforehand, on the other side of the city. Unless the killer can teleport, there’s no way they could have made it across town in such a short amount of time, let alone take all the precautions and set alight to the building. Though I do not believe it was merely a terrible accident, I don’t believe they had anything to do with it.” Charles finished before Ororo leant over the pages she’d spread on the table, spinning one to face the rest of the team.

“Though we do have this. A pattern of all the attacks and locations,” Logan stood up to skirt around the table, standing between Kitty and Marie as he inspected the red pen. With every X, the attacks almost formed an exact circle around the warehouse, almost as if the killer could predict which ways those victims would take home. Especially after the first attack. “We think the next one will happen here,” Ororo pointed to a side street far between the locations either side. “The most recent one being here, it’s logical to think they’d take the opposite side. At least, that’s what we’re hoping…” She trailed off, and Logan returned to his seat, having an idea as to what this meeting was actually about.

“You want us to lay a trap, right? Trail several employees home and jump in before Killer McGee can get their hands on ‘em.” He clarified, and Charles nodded a little too darkly for his liking. 

“Exactly. Which is why I won’t be asking you all on this mission. We need to avoid detection and sending all of us would be too much of a risk. Whoever this is, we must assume they’re a mutant. These attacks happen quickly and viciously, and to cause such damage in such a short amount of time, we must assume they possess some sort of ability.

“Scott, Ororo and Logan, I trust you can handle this task? I will be in Cerebro with Jean on hand, and the rest I want you on standby in the Blackbird in case backup is required.”

“Wait, we’re doing this tonight?” Marie squeaked, casting a wary glance to Kitty who returned her expression. Logan was relieved neither of them would be actively on the mission, he’d come to care for them both deeply, and whilst that didn’t mean he didn’t care for either Ororo or, though he’d never admit it, Scott, he was glad the two girls would be on standby rather than active duty.

“The attacks seem random, as if they flipped a coin to see if they would head out each night, but when you look closer, they’re only on the days the older members of staff are on shift. We think they’re looking for something, or someone, specific.” Ororo explained, pointing back to the projection on the screen. “These three here have been working at this specific warehouse for three, four and seven years respectably,” she clicked the remote again for each of their work ID cards to flash onto the screen. “Scott, you’re tailing Alec,” she gestured to the string bean of a man, blonde hair styled into several spikes atop his head, two silver snakebite piercings adorned his lower lip.  

“Logan, you’ve got Manuel, he’s been there for four years,” Logan didn’t think they could have found such a different-looking guy to the previous one if they fucking tried. Manuel was built like a brick shit house, a buzzcut of dark hair dusted the top of his otherwise bald head, ears like fucking cauliflowers. Of course, that’s who he’d be tailing, probably because a punch from this guy would send anyone else across the damn room. 

“And I’ll be tailing Henry, he works in the office upstairs but is still very much a likely target. We’re hoping to locate and pin down the killer before their shifts even finish, but in the eventuality The Professor can’t get a lock on them, this is the backup plan. Got it?”

Both Logan and Scott nodded in unison. It didn’t seem too much of a problem mission if this killer was cowardly enough to be picking these guys off one by one, he didn’t think they had much in terms of fighting prowess. Taking an enemy by surprise was the coward’s way out, in his opinion, though he supposed not everybody could heal the way he could. 

And taking this killer by surprise was exactly the plan…

Maybe he should rethink his principles. 

“Be suited up and ready to head out at ten. Gives us at least an hour to locate and set up.” Ororo gathered the papers on the table, tapping the small stack against the surface before tucking them beneath her arm. “Right, I’ve got a class to teach, pretty sure you do too, Professor.” She turned to Charles who simply smiled and nodded, ending the meeting just like that. With a huff and a stretch, Logan stood from his seat, instantly reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a thick cigar, earning himself a sharp look of disapproval from Xavier, the Professor glancing pointedly to the chilly air beyond the window. Logan knew what he was saying, and usually, he’d tell him to go fuck himself and smoke indoors. But he needed a breath of fresh air after that stuffy, slightly nauseating meeting, and if he could kill two birds with one stone, why wouldn’t he?

With an acquiescing shrug, he shoved his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to stalk from the boardroom, shoving the door open with his shoulder and almost walking chest first into Jean. His heart skipped a beat or three, lips pulling up into a small smirk to hide the fact he was borderline giddy to be running into her outside the meeting. She’d been the object of his affection ever since he was brought to the mansion and she checked his vitals. He couldn’t help it. There was just something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something that drew him to her the instant he was in her presence. He didn’t find himself thinking of her much outside their interactions, but when they were in the same room, all he could think about was her. It would be frustrating if he cared about anything said in those meetings. 

“Watin’ f’me now are ya?” He teased lowly, savouring the way her lips pursed to stop herself from smiling. There were times Logan thought she felt the same magnetic pull toward him that he felt toward her, times like this, where she didn’t look away from his gaze, and entertained his relentless teasing. 

“You know Scott’s still in there. We have plans,” she responded, feigning an attempt to look past him and back into the room where Scott was discussing various strategies with the Professor. Logan raised a brow as he followed her wavering line of sight, keeping that brow raised as he looked back at her. 

“Plans? Hope you don’t mean dinner, doesn’t look like he’ll be out anytime soon.” If she could just see how terrible Scott was for her. If he could just make her see how he would be so much better. Would suit her better. Would take care of her better. He wasn’t willing to change for many people, but if Jean asked, he would do it in a heartbeat. He’d change himself for her.

“Yes, Logan, dinner plans before the mission. And you know this is a tradition because you comment on it every time.” She huffed, her hair bobbing slightly with every emphatic move of her head. Logan chuckled lightly, his eyes briefly glancing from her gaze to her lips, how perfect they looked, and how perfect they would look wrapped around his–

“Then we both have our little traditions, don’t we? C’mon, doll. Why don’t we stop this dance?” His fingers curled through a strand of her hair, feeling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Haven’t I shown ya I can be the good guy?”

Jean sighed, and Logan half expected her to move away, but instead, she just closed her eyes, shaking her head softly. Was she mournful? Disappointed? It was hard to tell. 

“Logan, I don’t–”

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Scott’s voice slashed through the charged atmosphere between them, and Logan found his hand falling away from Jean’s hair almost instantly. 

“We were jus’ talkin’, Scotty.” Logan shot back, trying to keep the defence from his voice. There was no need to let Scott know just how irritated the interruption made him feel.

“Yeah, like hell you were. Back off, Logan. I don’t wanna have to tell you again.” Placing his arm around Jean’s shoulders, Logan couldn’t help but notice the way she shrank slightly, looking almost humiliated. He tensed his jaw. If she hated Scott’s attention this much, she knew what he had to do. Logan didn’t know how much more obvious he could make his interest in her. All she needed to do was take the leap. “Yeah yeah, ‘stay away from my girl’, I know.” He mocked, sending Jean a wink before continuing on his path to the courtyard. Now he really fucking needed that cigar.

The city was so pretty in the twilight. Silhouetted buildings scattered with twinkling lights against a deep blue sky, it almost made up for the lack of stars. And there was nothing like watching the city skyline descend into darkness that had you more prepared than ever for your latest chosen victim. You hadn’t learned nearly as much as you should have by now, nobody you’d tortured knew anything about what you were looking for and it was starting to piss you off. But you didn’t bury those feelings. Instead, you harnessed them. Used your frustration to your advantage and honed yourself like a forged weapon. Every burn of urgent irritation sharpened your slices, focused your fileting, and pinpointed your precision. 

For the greater good, you reminded yourself as your watch beeped ten, and you spun the small knife in your palm before sheathing it in your boot. Your specific target of the night finished early every other week on Thursdays, hence your change in schedule today. In fact, a good few of them did. You assumed it had something to do with specific shipments on the warehouse floor but you didn’t bother yourself with the details. You knew his schedule now. You’d been watching for weeks. And you had every single detail of his various ways home. He was a bus-taker. Though, to avoid you, he’d been taking different numbered busses to other parts of town, before heading home. But the moron used the same three in rotation. There was no cause to wonder why he worked in a warehouse…

Although you had a good feeling about this one. You’d already scored one victim of the night, who was currently unconscious in your chosen location. You were one hundred per cent sure he knew what you were looking for, and you had a fantastic feeling about this one too.

Standing from where you’d been lounging against a rooftop balcony, you stretched your arms high above your head, listening to your bones and joints crack slightly before securing the steel mask over your features, cursing the phantoms of your past for providing you with such memorable makeup, and, shrugging the hood of your short-sleeved jacket over your head. Your hands dipped into the various sheathed across your waist, double checking the various blades in your belt. You were thankful you never needed to go through any kind of metal detector, because it would likely take you the rest of the night to remove every weapon dotted about your body, from the little holsters on your biceps to the sheathes in your boots, to the retractable blades in the bracers on your wrists. A wise woman once said you can never have too many knives.

A phrase you really should copyright before anyone else claims it. 

Five past ten. Go time. Taking a few steps back, you broke into a sprightly run, leaping like a dexterous cat across the rooftops, every step measured in surety. You’d done this too many times to start second-guessing yourself now, and it wasn’t like you were a stranger to the city’s rooftops and sketchy alleyways before you started doing this. With little effort, you crossed blocks in a matter of moments, skipping over crowds and traffic like it was child’s play before you landed with a deft roll above the side street tonight’s victim would take in a matter of five minutes. 

Like you said. Child’s play

You crouched low, removing the serrated knife from your belt, and flicking it in your palm over and over. It was a habit you’d developed when waiting in anticipation for something. It kept your hands occupied whilst your mind focused on the events to come, picturing exactly how you wanted things to play out. It was difficult. Capturing and torturing these assholes was like shooting fish in a barrel. 

“Fourth clear, no signs of our guy.”

You ducked low on the rooftop, an unpredicted obstacle walking into view wearing some shitty leather getup, fingers delicately perched at the side of his horizontal glasses. Though they weren’t exactly glasses. How would you describe it? Eye-guard? Some weird single glass as opposed to glasses? Whatever the fuck they were, you didn’t exactly want to find out what they did. He was holding them as if they were some kind of weapon. 

Shit, this really wasn’t good. If he didn’t move on now, you’d have to take him out and risk alerting your victim to your presence. Fuck, fuck and fuck again. And just as luck would have it, Alec appeared at the other end of the alleyway, nervously looking about before entering hurriedly. People didn’t watch enough movies. Did they really not know that entering dark alleyways with a killer on the loose was practically the same as signing your own death certificate? In any case, this actually worked in your favour. With Mr Visor patrolling the other end, you sliced open your hand, your blood humming as you pulled it from your veins to wrap around the metal drainage pipe before you swung off the rooftop, the crimson rope twisting and writhing as if it were alive as you descended, landing quietly a few paces behind him.

Now, if he wasn’t on such high alert, he would have most likely chalked the slight thud of your landing to the sound of a street cat, or perhaps a fox. But the way Alec jumped with a yelp, staggering as he turned to face you, didn’t exactly scream discreet. You held your hand up in front of you, contorting your fingers as your mutation felt for his pulse, slowing down the blood flow in his veins as quickly as you could. Not fast enough, a strangled yell flew from his now pale lips, and you swore viciously as your latest obstacle jogged back into view between the alleyway’s walls. 

“Shit, HE’S HERE!” He called to nobody you could see, and you barely had time to duck before a searing red beam of pure energy shot above your head, illuminating the dingy street in the crimson glow. You thought it slightly ironic, as your knife slashed through the palm of your hand, the colour of his mutation and who he was up against. Curving your arm in a wide arc, you manipulated your own blood cells into a wide blade, propelling it forward whilst you took a few steps toward your now collapsed victim. With Glasses now distracted by what you assumed was him discovering your own mutation, you felt around his veins for his heartbeat, tracing the blood flow back until you found the source, and you poured all your energy into slowing that one too. 

“He can manip… manipulate bl… blood.” Once again he spoke aloud to nobody you could sense, his knees giving out before he crashed to the floor. You huffed out a breath, fishing a small bandage from the pouch on your belt before wrapping up your hand and pulling the tie tight with your teeth. The one thing you found frustrating about your mutation was your inability to heal. How fucking helpful that would be, if every time you had to slash yourself open, you could just reseal the wound? Instead of running the risk of bleeding out. But you guessed everything had its drawbacks. Even blood manipulation. 

You bent to pick up Alec’s ankles, dragging him a few feet back the way he came, before you stopped, and looked back to the unconscious mutant at the alley’s mouth. You should kill him. Things would be easier if you did. And so, dropping your victim’s feet without much care, you strode over, finding a small gap in the wrappings around your palm, you extended a small spear from your flesh with the intention of jabbing it through his head and silencing what he saw here forever. 

But there were little voices calling out from a small earpiece nestled in his ear canal. You tilted your head, plucking the bud from the side of his head and holding it up to your own ear.

“Scott? Scott can you hear us?!”

“We’re tracking your location, hang tight!”

“I’m en route, stay alive asshole.”

A kaleidoscope of voices blended together, though the last one had you dropping the earpiece and crushing it with the heel of your boot. Someone was coming. A big someone. Someone whose voice you really hoped didn’t match his body. 

You should kill him. You really should kill this Scott guy, but something about the concern and fierce loyalty of those in the earpiece stopped you. This man was loved. He was cared for. Most of your victims didn’t have anyone. No family, very little friends, and all with some kind of penchant for criminal activity. Alec, for example, was finding himself becoming a little too familiar with the gates of a primary school. The more you watched him, the more you found yourself utterly repulsed by the way he would try and get the attention of those kids. Those children. 

But Scott had people who would care if he died. And so you let him be, pulling and pushing him upright against the wall before jogging back over to your actual victim and resuming your strained attempts to drag him off to your chosen location for the night. 

An ancient, local church, ironically enough. 

Logan raced through the streets, across busy roads and through closed parks, leaping over fences and gates effortlessly. He knew Scott’s location, Jean begging him over coms to do what he could. He was still alive, The Professor could sense it, but how the mission had immediately gone south, he had no idea. But at least Scott was still alive. At least, he was for now. 

“SCOTT!” He called, slowing his steps as he closed in on his location, his claws sliding from his knuckles. The metallic scent of blood flooded his senses, but it wasn’t Scott’s. He knew what Scott’s blood smelled like, having punched him in the nose a few times for the scent to be memorable. No, this blood was new, unfamiliar, and reeked of mutation. Which he supposed made sense.

Blood manipulator. That was the last thing Scott had said before he fell silent and before his channel died completely. And stalking up to the mouth of the alleyway, he could see why. Scott’s earpiece lay crushed on the concrete, little pieces scattered across the floor. Peering into the alleyway, Logan’s heart raced as his eyes cut through the darkness to find Scott himself lying slumped against the wall, his head hanging low. Logan bent to one knee, placing two fingers against the side of his neck to feel his slow yet strong pulse. The same pulse that would be associated with someone unconscious. But there was no head wound. Nothing to indicate he’d been completely knocked out. 

“Is he–” 

Logan looked back to see Ororo landing behind him, her hair slightly wild from the wind. She must have flown her way over, avoiding the nightlife altogether. 

“He’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. You heard what he said, right? Blood manipulator. I think our guy must have slowed his heartbeat or somethin’. There’s no wound anywhere…” Logan gently moved Scott’s head in search of any kind of blunt force trauma but found none. Not that he was expecting to find anything, since the only blood he could smell was unfamiliar. And it lead right down the alley and out the other side. “Gonna need ya t’stay here, Storm. Make sure Scott’s alright.” He kept his eyes focused on the darkness ahead, and the small sliver of light beyond. 

“And where’re you going?” Ororo asked, crouching beside him as if to physically demonstrate she’d stay with Scott. Logan sniffed the air again, almost able to see the blood trail the scent was so damn strong. 

“Followin’ our man. We don’t know if he bagged his victim, but if he was here with Scott, then he was after Alec, and I don’t see him anywhere, do you?” He asked, raising a brow to the woman by his side, who shook her head. 

“No. And I didn’t see him from above either. Alright, you go. But be careful, Logan. He’s unpredictable and now we have an idea as to how dangerous. If he can knock Scott out cold like this, he shouldn’t be taken lightly,” Ororo implored, watching as he rose from his crouch. Logan huffed an irritated sigh, having to restrain himself before he rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll be fine. Look after Cyclops.” Was all he said, before taking off down the alleyway at a light jog, following his nose and turning left at the end. 

“Logan, this isn’t a good idea. You can’t charge into the unknown with no information other than blood-manipulator.” Jean’s voice echoed in his ear, and he once again felt his lips pull up into a small smirk. 

“Why, you worried about me?” He provoked, chuckling when he heard her deep sigh, pinching the earpiece between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll send up a flare if I need ya.”

“Logan don’t–” 

Whatever Jean was about to say was lost when he tossed the coms unit onto the ground, leaving it and all methods of communication behind as he continued on toward his target. He couldn’t believe his eyes when his nose led him to a looming church, stained windows dark from the inside, spires towering high into the night. This couldn’t be right. Either his nose had failed him, which was unheard of, or the killer had a wicked sense of humour. It must have been the latter, the stench of blood increasing tenfold as he crossed the neatly mowed lawn outside, taking the stone steps two at a time and up to the wooden double doors. 

His ears twitched as he caught distant screams from inside, deep enough that anyone passing by would be completely oblivious to any goings on within. Once again, he released the hold he had on his claws, razors slicing through his muscles and flesh as they slid from his knuckles. He took a breath, bracing a hand on the centre of one of the doors before he pushed slightly, the hinges’ echoing screech causing him to freeze, letting the sound settle before he moved. The screams continued, and as sick and twisted as it was, he used that to gauge whether or not he’d been heard. So far, remarkably, so good. 

Stealth wasn’t his strong suit. Never was, but he cursed every heavy footstep that bounced off the wooden beams and stone walls, even the stained glass seemed to be mocking him, some ridiculous depiction of a halo-wearing baby with the proportions completely incorrect, being carried by an equally disproportionate-looking woman who seemed to be bathed in holy light. Once upon a time, he may have found comfort in the frieze. Now he simply thought it ridiculous. How could there be a god when mutants like him walk the earth? When mutants like this killer were allowed to wander around completely free? 

He shook his head of the thoughts. Now was not the time to contemplate divinity. If he wanted to discuss religion, he’d have a conversation with Kurt. He followed his senses, down the aisle between the pews and up to the lectern, his head snapping to the right and through the door to the sacristy. Once again measuring his steps, Logan crossed the altar and into the shadows behind the pillars, that same coppery scent of blood lingering on the slightly crimson-stained doorknob, the faint smokey smell of mutation told him this was the killer’s blood. Had the victim fought back somehow? He assumed he’d done the same thing to them as he had to Scott, knocked them out before dragging them away. 

Shoving the door open, Logan took a moment to look around. Nothing much, other than a large closet, a chest of drawers and a small bathroom sink with a mirror. A rug covered a large portion of the floor, the patterns almost psychedelic in nature, but this was where the scent was strongest so far. Here, in this room. Then where the hell was all the screaming coming from? He could still hear it, in the distance, beyond several walls of stone, or deep beneath–

Logan paused, his eyes flickering from the bare walls to the rug on the floor, one corner ever so slightly raised from the ground. With determined curiosity, he tugged on the fabric, pulling it back from the ground before tossing it completely into a corner. There, now revealed, a wooden trap door. He couldn’t help but think it was a little cliché, to have a trap door leading down to some kind of torture chamber, but if the chosen location told him anything, it was that the killer had a flair for the dramatic. 

To hell with stealth at this point. Logan crouched, gripping the large brass handle and throwing up the door so it clattered loudly against the floor. He was glad he had excellent vision, as the darkness beyond would be enough to turn away even the bravest of souls. And yet, here he was, taking step after step down into the pitch black, his eyes reflecting what little light there was. Perhaps the setting was more fitting than he originally thought because it truly felt like he was descending into the pits of hell with each careful step. The scent of blood now fused with the acrid scent of urine, and the musk of sweat. It was enough to have him almost gag, but he kept on going, led by the sounds of broken screams. 

Until those broken screams were cut viciously short. 

Logan stopped in his tracks, bracing a hand against the damp wall, a crippling sense of failure weighing heavy on his shoulders. He hadn’t been fast enough, and now Alec was likely dead. He couldn’t think of another reason why the killer would just cut off his screams like that. But what unnerved Logan further, was that now one voice had been silenced, another was rising up the dark, dank tunnel. There were two. The motherfucker had managed to grab two victims in one night. What the fuck was he using them for? Why torture them? What was he looking for?

A pinprick of flickering light teased him from the distance, the literal light at the end of the tunnel winking in the distance. How far down had he gone for the exit to only now be visible? Had this guy really dragged two bodies down these stairs already today? A picture was forming in Logan’s mind. He had to have some kind of muscle on him to be able to carry weights such as these. But he couldn’t let himself get comfortable in his predictions. That would only lead to chaos. So he kept his mind open, the only thing he was fairly sure about was the fact this killer was a man. 

Not that a woman couldn’t be capable of this kind of thing, but he’d seen the size of some of the victims. Either she was some kind of bodybuilder or a man. One seemed more likely than the other. 

He felt like he’d been in this stupid fucking tunnel for years by the time his eyes needed to adjust to the flickering torchlight, the steps levelling out to a long, claustrophobic stone hallway, the low arch of the ceiling barely high enough for him to stand up completely straight, the tips of his brushed up hair lightly brushing the damp brickwork. He continued creeping forward, a cone of more flickering torchlight illuminating a doorway ahead of him and to the right. 

The secondary voice gurgled another agonised scream, and Logan felt a decent amount of urgency fuel his steps, half jogging the remaining feet up to the archway, peering around the stone.

His stomach clenched, eyes widening. Well, that would show him not to make assumptions. The killer wasn’t a man. 

You were a woman. 

The two victims were strapped to chairs, back to back, a knife in the mouth of one, the other’s head– Alec’s head, hung limp. In the lap of the other, you held a map, blood dripping from both your palms.

“Point.” You spat, delivering a harsh slap to the side of his face. “And so help you, your answers better match up.” 

With shaky movements, your captive craned his neck down, pointing the quivering tip of the knife against a random point on the map you’d lay in his lap, tears flowing down his face as he whimpered in utter terror. Logan watched as you raised your hand over Alec’s head, contorting your fingers as he groggily returned to consciousness. He couldn’t see his face before, and Logan would spend a long time wishing he could return to that ignorance. Two dark, bloodied holes replaced the sockets where his eyes should be, tears of sanguine had rolled down his cheeks, staining his flesh until it bled into the exposed muscle of his cheek. 

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere.” You took a step back, snatching the map from your second victim and drawing a circle with the bloodied tip of your finger. After so many deaths, the cacophony of screams that kept you awake at night, finally you had a lead. “And what is it exactly th–”

You stopped, your nerves alight with alert. 

Logan whipped back behind the archway, pressing his spine against the wall and keeping his breathing steady. He didn’t hold out hope you hadn’t seen him, and he was incredibly thankful for that, clenching his fists when your voice echoed in the expanses of the chamber. 

“I can feel it. The mutation in your blood. Scott’s friend, I assume?”

With a long sigh, Logan stepped out from behind the archway and into the light. 

“Friend is a strong term. Associate.” He responded, his eyes flickering to each of your palms as crystals of crimson extended from the two wounds in your flesh, taking the form of jagged blades. Your head tilted to the side, hood shifting slightly for the light to catch your eyes. 

“Scott’s associate…” you mused lowly, striking out with surgical precision to the two captives, keeping your wince locked away as your two blades crunched through their skulls with a sickening squelch. 

Logan clenched his jaw, keeping his chin held high. “No explosions this time? Entrails seem far too organised for you.” 

“A fan of my work? Sorry, I don’t tend to do meet-and-greets. Although I’d be willing to sign your corpse for you.” You held your blood blades tight in your palms as you bent your knees. You wouldn’t be getting out of here without a fight. And whilst you could feel the mutation in his blood, you had no idea what it was exactly that he could do. The claws were an obvious giveaway, but was that it? You’d come to learn to put all assumptions to the side and be prepared for anything. 

Years on the streets had taught you that.

“Why?” Logan asked, taking a steadying breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why?” He repeated with just as much conviction. “Why do this? What’re you looking for? Why’re you doing this?” He watched you falter slightly as if genuinely taken aback that he was interested enough to ask. “You coulda killed Scott, but you didn’t. Y’not afraid of causing pain, but you left him unharmed. Why?”

Too many thoughts were running through your head. Truthfully, you didn’t want to admit that you couldn’t. He had nothing to do with this, and whilst yes he got in your way, he was innocent. None of these people were. None of your victims were. Least of all, you. 

“Why ask? Did you want me to? Yikes, that’s some rivalry you got there.” You deflected, twirling one of your blades in your hand. “Tell ya what, I’ll finish the job for you, free of charge.” You grinned behind your mask, taking a step toward him, dragging the tips of your crystalised blood blades along the ground, leaving little crimson trails as you walked. 

“Got a lotta lip, ya know that?” He growled, watching you like a hawk as you slowly stalked forward, step by careful step. 

“If only you knew the trouble my mouth gets me into…” You paused for a moment, crouching low. Anticipation crackled in the air, sparks of adrenaline igniting the room before you launched forward, keeping low to the ground. 

Logan tracked your movements, bending his knees and bracing his claws in front of his body before your blades cracked against his, literal sparks flying from the contact point as you stay low, your other hand braced against the floor, leaving bloodstains on the stone. Your leg swept toward his, and he wrenched his claws from where they’d tangled with your blades, taking a quick step back to avoid your jab.

Using your momentum, you pushed off from the ground, spinning upright just in time to parry a slice from his claws, your blood thrumming with the impact. He was strong. Really fucking strong. Annoyingly strong, in fact. You hated having to manipulate the vessels and cells within your body, but the moment his fists arced down toward you, you had no choice but to increase the blood flow to your biceps, wincing slightly as they shuddered and flexed in response, but it was just enough to catch him off guard, your two blades crossed between his six claws. 

You didn’t let the moment linger, delivering a harsh kick to the centre of his stomach and using the almost rock-like surface to send yourself a few steps back, sweat already trailing down the inside of your mask. 

Logan bent double, grunting in discomfort before lowering into a similar crouch to your own, watching closely as your blades dragged along the ground once again, leaving little slices of crimson. You raised your head in challenge, the flickering torchlight catching two sparks of sanguine red eyes, pulsing slightly as your mutation shimmered from your hands, veins bulging up your wrists. Something tugged at his chest, and he stilled for a moment. It looked almost… painful. The way he could see every pulse of your heart thumping within those bloodborne blades. 

His head tilted to the side, and you felt discomfort crawl over your skin. Was he… studying you? In the middle of a fucking fight? And not the ‘I’m studying you to see your next attack’ kind of way. You grit your teeth, irritation flaring in your gut as you launch forward, anger and frustration now fuelling your movements. How dare he. How dare he try to read you like this. He didn’t even fucking know you. But the way his features slackened slightly, the ever so small tilt of his head. You wanted to tear him to ribbons. 

Logan shook himself from his thoughts as you surged forward, once again bracing himself for the flurry of swipes he could sense was coming his way. Only–

You ducked to the side.

Your blades retracting back into your palms as you slid past him, grazing the centre of your hand against the floor in a wide arc. What the hell were you doing? What the fuck was with all the acrobatics. You’d done nothing but flip and spin around him, barely going in for any hits. He whirled around, claws still held before him in closed fists, but you looked… done. 

Like you’d already won. 

“Well, this has been a pleasure. But I’m afraid I’m a very busy woman,” you paused, placing a hand on your hip as if you were having a casual conversation in a shopping centre. “And you’re wasting my time.”

Logan barely had time to think before the bloodstains on the ground shifted, and in every place you’d dragged your palm across the stone, a sharp spear shot from the marks towards him, impaling through his suit and into his chest, his legs, back, and shoulders with a sick, wet crunch.

Through agonising pain, he finally understood what you were doing. Setting up a fucking trap. Any attempt to move resulted in tearing fire through his body, a rough cry of pain flying from behind his gritted teeth, before it became too much as he sank to his knees. Your sigh almost sounded disappointed, and he watched through hazy vision as you brought out a bandage from your belt and started to wrap up one of your palms with a slight hissed wince. 

You’d expected him to be dead by now, and yet somehow he was still clinging to life like a tenacious limpet. An irritated huff warmed the interior of your mask as you flicked your unbound hand, another jagged spear of ruby sailing from your palm and through the centre of his stomach, wrenching another agonised cry from his throat. 

“Fucking hell… still here? Most would be dead by now.” You folded your arms across your chest, wandering over to where he was still bent double on his knees, heaving rasped breaths. 

“Most of ‘em can die.” He snarled back, his strength slowly returning as his regeneration worked overtime to remove the whipping spears from his body. You watched as they shifted in response to the resistance, fascination curling like smoke in your head. What the hell was this guy?

“And you can’t, I presume?”

“Nope. Not yet, at least.”

“Huh,” you shrugged, your eyes flaring as you wormed those tendrils back through his flesh, something twinging in your chest as you did so. “That’s… unfortunate,” you crouched in front of him, running your fingers along one of the tendrils of blood holding him still, your eyes falling to the little X symbol on his leather collar, recognition striking you like lightning. “Wait… I know you. You’re one of Xavier’s, right? Never thought he’d meddle in simple human murders,” you thought for a moment, regarding him. “Doesn’t it bother you? Being nothing but a weapon to him? Just a gun to point at the enemy whilst he’s the one who claims the victory?” You provoked, finally garnering a response as he all but growled at you, bloodied teeth bared. You had half a mind to use his own blood to sew his mouth shut, but you were curious about him. A mutant who couldn’t die, running around playing soldier for someone who would never walk the battlefield himself. 

Sure he should be the one pulling the strings. 

Logan knew you were trying to get under his skin. Metaphorically, of course. Physically, you’d already achieved that, the sharp bolts of agony with every slight movement told him that much. But he needed to get under yours. 

“I know what these people did,” he breathed, chest searing with each fiery inhale.  “The ones you choose. I know why you kill them, but why torture them?” He continued through gritted teeth, tugging against the lashing spears through his body.

“You think that’s what this is? Me cleaning up after this world’s scum? I should add myself to that lengthy list.” You growled back, gesturing wildly to the walls around you. “These people know something. The fact they’re all child predators is simply luck. But don’t you think it’s strange? An orphanage burns down and none of the bodies are found?” 

Logan stopped his struggle. “What…? How d’you–”

“Nothing. Not even skeletons. Doesn’t that make you wonder where the hell those kids went? The disappearances throughout the city, all kids. All mutant kids.” You could see the cogs turning in his head as he processed what you were saying, and what it meant. 

“Y– you’re looking for information…” He muttered with understanding, and you nodded.

“The men at that warehouse… they’re always hanging around schools and –before it burnt down– the orphanage,” your eyes flickered to stairs beyond the archway, and the distant shouts echoing down the hall. “It’s a slave trade. A mutant slave trade.”

“How d’you know?”

“I… I can’t tell you that.” Something twisted in your gut as his expression shifted to something softer, despite the obvious pain he was in. You didn’t want to hurt him. It was a sudden realisation that you’d acted too hastily. Assumed he was here to eliminate you after the series of events you’d caused. But you should have known the moment he started asking questions. Sure, he was probably here to put a stop to what appeared on the surface to be a sequence of grizzly murders, but he’d asked. He wanted to know why. Not many others had done that. And there was something else flickering in his strikingly haze eyes. 

He didn’t want to kill you. Not now he knew. 

Your head whipped back to the archway, where those distant shouts had increased in volume and, terrifyingly enough, proximity. You could clearly catch the repeated calls of a name. His name. 

Logan. 

“Look, if you want to help, there’s a gala happening at Thornbury Hall, west of the city. Saturday the 18th. Meet me there or don’t, it’s your choice. But you come alone. I’ll know if you don’t.” You hissed hurriedly, flicking your fingers to withdraw the countless spears from his body, and he screwed his eyes shut as his wounds immediately began to knit back together, muscle and tissue reforming with an unbearable itch, the crystalised blood liquifying once again, staining the stone red. 

“Logan?!”

Your breath quickened as you looked back to the archway, and Logan could just see the fear reflecting in your barely visible eyes as you took a few steps back. He wanted to stop you. Wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to take this on alone. They could help. He could help. And there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he wasn’t going to take the olive branch you’d just extended. 

“How’ll I know it’s you?” He asked as he stood to his feet, eyes narrowing in suspicion despite himself. He hadn’t seen your face. Just two scarlet eyes behind a rather unnerving, featureless mask. Your head flipped between looking at him and looking past him to the archway skittishly, hurried footsteps growing louder as his other associates honed in on your location. 

“When you get there, look for a man with a runic tattoo on his neck and ask for Alecto.” You explained, continuing backing up into what looked like just a regular wall. But the greatest thing about ancient buildings such as this was the secret little entrances and exits installed for servants, refugees. Criminals.

“Alecto?” You couldn’t help but huff a small laugh at the slight smirk on his face, the amusement lacing his tone despite your efforts to try and kill him not moments ago.

“Look it up.” Was all you said, before slipping through one of the cracks in the wall the moment he turned around as two other mutants rushed through the archway. You barely caught sight of Scott and the other before you were gone. 

“Logan! What the hell? You can’t just go dead like that, what happened to your coms?” Storm ranted before falling silent, panic entered her eyes as she registered the state he was in. “What… what happened to you?”

Logan looked back to where he’d last seen you, finding an odd kernel of relief to see you’d completely vanished into seemingly thin air. “I found our gal. Put up a good fight. Slipped out when she heard ya comin’ and I was immobilised.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just let the very same killer they’d come here to hunt slip away.

“She– wait, she?” Scott asked, clearly having recovered from whatever Alecto had done to him. 

“Yeah, she,” he nodded, before sighing heavily. “Look, no point in standin’ round here ‘n chattin’ about it. Charles is gonna wanna know what I know.” 

“And what is it exactly that you know?” Scott asked, suspicion lacing his tone, his arms folding across his chest almost in accusation. Logan rolled his eyes.

“A helluva lot more than you, Slim. Let’s go.”

[mothiir]

writing proper fic still eluding me so here is a list of how i think the primarchs would respond to their sons trying to romance human women:

Sanguinius - he isn’t thrilled about the idea, not because he thinks that love and romance is a bad thing — quite the opposite — but because he knows the tragic fate many of his sons will suffer. What human woman can survive the tribulations of the red thirst? How many of his boys will end up tearful and repentant after their control slipped, and they hurt the human they love? Mortals are so fragile — it is better to act as their guardian than their lover. Still, if he were to find out that one of his sons was seeing a mortal, he would simply gently suggest that the son in question take every proper precaution — ultimately, the choice must belong to them.

Vulkan - yes! great idea! Please do have relationships with humans - have children, rear families. When the time comes for them to pass, mourn them, but celebrate the life you were blessed to share with them. You cannot call yourself the protectors of humanity if you do not partake in it. Salamanders live amongst their human families, and relish in the kinship and love this brings them. Vulkan has given away many a Salamander in marriage.

Ferrus Manus - sex is self-indulgent nonsense. Be better. He is not the sort of man to give his sons relationship advice — nor are they the type to ask it — so he never makes an official proclamation against having mortal lovers, because Iron Hands are far too sensible to even consider it (rumours that they replace their dicks with ceramite remain unaddressed).

Horus - The Luna Wolves are — uh — enthusiastic about their involvement with humanity. Unlike Vulkan, Horus discourages lengthy attachments — have a fling if you must, have several (don’t let those flings find out about each other), but don’t try and settle down. Luna Wolves are soldiers, designed to conquer distant stars in their father’s name. One day, they will be able to plant roots in rich earth, and rear sons of their own. But not now. Not yet.

Leman Russ — Humanity is a beautiful thing, and its daughters are more beautiful yet. Leman doesn’t begrudge his sons their dalliances, nor does he discourage them from wedding — he just asks that they remember that their first duty is to the Allfather, and the pack. As long as they don’t get any ideas about sneaking off somewhere to retire, everything is fine. Russ welcomes his son’s wives to his fires — and, if they’re amenable, to his furs.

Fulgrim — much like Sanguinius, Fulgrim has complicated feelings about human women. He’s been married four times, loved each wife dearly, and had to watch them die of one ailment or another. He wants to spare his sons the torment he felt, but he also doesn’t want to deny them the full range of human experience. He ends up encouraging them to cultivate an artistic appreciation for romance — a sort of courtly love, where they paint pictures of the woman they like, and write poetry, but never actually engage in anything too direct. If he keeps their love aesthetic and sterile and distant then maybe they can avoid the heart-deep pain that comes from watching your lover perish.

The Lion - are you kidding me? His sons don’t even want to admit that they know what a woman is, just in case he somehow takes it as an insult and they end up banished.

[shadowstarion]

thinking about lucanis with an antivan crow rook who’s from the complete opposite side of the faction. she’s from one of those other houses lucanis wouldn’t recommend to anyone seeking a contract, one of the houses that traffics and tortures their assassins as children and molds them into weapons. there are no family ties or loyalty where rook is from— you’re a crow because refusing means death.

i know the “canon” bit for an antivan rook is that viago sidelined them, but i’m not a huge fan of that. i want a rook who thinks lucanis is a silver-spoon try hard who only got his notoriety because of granny dellamorte’s influence. yeah, it sucks that your entire family dynamic revolves around murder and assassination training but at least he has a family, where rook had handlers and competitors.

when they finally share how different their upbringings were, lucanis is shellshocked. he’s heard stories, but there’s no way any respectable crow house would be that horrible? and the way rook talks about it so casually as if it’s normal, says things about being a crow he doesn’t quite understand under the assumption he’d relate— ouch. it all clicks together and he can’t do anything but want to hold her, wishes he could take her home to treviso and show her what a family is like even if his own is a touch dysfunctional, tries to keep stoking that light in her eyes that flares up when she talks about anything but the crows.

as much as he’s trying to recover from the ossuary, trying to find his softness and regain his humanity while also struggling against spite’s influence, rook is a beacon to him. look at her, someone so hurt by the world still trying to save it, still wanting so badly to help even though no one has ever tried to help her. lucanis wants to help, wants to be so good for her, wants to show her that there’s life outside being a crow, wants to make that life with her.

it’s a slow burn for them both— it’ll take a while before rook lets herself fall for lucanis, she might even go about with someone else like emmerich or davrin, someone who doesn’t know as much about where she comes from. but lucanis is as much something she’s never seen before as she is a surprise to him, a crow who can be soft, can make stupid jokes and care for others, who makes grocery lists and waxes poetic about coffee. what’s she’s seen as privileged ignorance melts away to reveal lucanis’ soft, sticky sweet center, and by the time she finally realizes it, rook is already addicted.

[dlatl98]

Maedhros and Maglor raised the twins completely wild. It’s not that they are indifferent or anything, they were raised with other Fëanorian brothers. They were raised by Fëanor and Nerdanel. Their standards are ridiculous to others. No matter how much the twins run wild in the forest, they can’t be as good as Celegorm and Aredhel in their prime (but Maedhros was a bit resentful that he had to take care of Aredhel too). What about the Ambarussa? It’s perfectly normal for the clothes they put on their children in the morning to turn into rags by evening. Even if the twins blow up the laboratory, they can’t be as mess as Fëanor, Curufin, or Celebrimbor. The house is a mess? Don’t worry. I’ll tell the kids to clean up their own toys. They’re cleaning up now? It doesn’t look that dirty. Maybe it’s because there are only two of them, but they’re not dirty at all compared to when they were seven. You two are fighting? It's okay. I know you still love each other. Children will grow up well as long as they have a healthy body, eat well, sleep well at night, and study everything they teach, especially spelling, perfectly.

[vodika-vibes]

Hi! I don't know if I can ask you this (if I can't, please delete it and I'm sorry!). But would it be cool if you could to do a Mystic Gods, Same Face AUs with Boba or Jango? (I'd go with Boba because Fav, but I'm dying to see what you'd come up with for Jango), nsfw 👉👈

Let The World Burn

Summary: After your parents marry you off to a man old enough to be your grandfather, you find yourself unwilling to care about the state of the world. Drowning in misery and choking on your rage, you do the impossible.

Pairing: Jango Fett x F!Reader

Word Count: 2505

Warnings: Smut, reader is not having a good time before she meets Jango, reader sold into marriage

A/N: Hihi! Thank you for your request! As it happens, I have a half written Boba fic for this AU sitting somewhere, just waiting for Boba to come back from the war and settle into my brain so I can write him. I hope you like it!

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It’s been ten years.

Ten years ago, today, your mother and father married you off to a man old enough to be your grandfather. You had been 18 years old at the time and, for some reason, believed that your parents had your best interests at heart.

That belief was quickly shattered on the day of your wedding. When you begged your mother to not make you do this, and she smacked you and told you to grow up and stop being selfish. 

That specific moment was the moment you lost all faith in people as a whole. 

Although, you’re one of the lucky ones. Your husband has no interest in children or a family. He married you because you’re young and attractive. “The perfect trophy wife,” he calls you as he gives you a couple thousand credits to get your hair done and have your nails done.

All you have to do is wear make-up, plaster a pretty smile on your face, and ensure that everything everyone does in his house is done to perfection. And, you’ve managed it.

You’re more than capable of managing your husband’s ridiculous expectations. You do the hair thing, and the nail thing, and the make-up thing. You’ve gotten so good at faking a smile that the other wives you regularly interact with genuinely think you’re happy.

And your husband is happy with you. Happy enough that your weekly allowance is nearly three thousand credits.

The truth is you hate them. Every single one of them. If you could get away with killing all of them, you would do it and you wouldn’t lose a wink of sleep.

“Wife,” You set the delicate mug you’ve been nursing for the last fifteen minutes to turn in your chair and regard your husband. “You’ve been staring out the window for several minutes.”

And it’s weird, and you need to stop, goes unsaid.

“Apologies, husband.” You offer lightly, “I was thinking that I should ask the landscapers to change the garden for this season. The roses did atrociously last spring, and I won’t have it this year.”

There’s the sound of a newspaper rustling, “As you like, wife.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you’re about to cast your gaze back out over the garden, when he speaks again, “The other Moffs are having a gathering tonight. Formal wear only.”

You sigh silently, “I will check my spring wardrobe for an appropriate dress.”

“Good. You know what I like.”

“I will also ensure that your dress uniform has been pressed.”

“Good.” The room falls silent again, and you fold your hands lightly around the mug, helpless rage threatening to strangle you.

If only there was a way for you to be free.

Ah, well. Castles in the sky.

Later that evening, you find yourself sitting at a small table with several of the other wives. Your husband had been pleased with your choice of a dress, long and form-fitting, and a pale shade of blue that you accentuated with matching make-up and nail polish. 

All in all, you look amazing. But then, so do the other women here. 

You’re half listening to the woman on your left, you can’t for the life of you remember her name, as she talks about her most recent shopping trip. You wonder if she’s as vapid as she acts, or if it’s an act to keep herself safe.

Maker knows you’ve once had a whole conversation about nail polish with another spouse since you’re supposed to be a brainless trophy wife. So maybe they think you’re vapid too.

You murmur a quiet excuse to the women who are supposed to be your friends and slip out of the banquet hall. If anyone asks, you’ll tell them you need to check your make-up. But no one is going to ask.

Because no one cares.

You’ve been completely alone in the world since you were 18 years old. And it’s not fair.

You take a moment to slip your heels off, and then you pad down the hall. Escape is impossible, you know this, but maybe you’ll find a library. Or a garden. Or someplace where you can just be yourself for a moment or two.

Stars, do you even know who you are anymore? Probably not.

You push open a thick wooden door and pause as you enter the room. The room is large and grandly decorated. With a massive bed in the center of the room, though this doesn’t look like any bedroom you’ve ever seen in your life. 

For one thing, the room is lit with braziers filled with blue flame. For another, weapons are covering a table against the far wall. You step into the room, and there’s the oddest sensation of someone watching you.

“Ah. So this is the Grand Moff’s kink room.” You murmur as you pad across the room to peer at the weapons, “Gross.” You pick up a blade and examine it carefully, “Maybe this is why he’s not married. Every time someone sells their daughter to him, he kills them.”

You pause, scrunch up your nose, and set the blade back on the table. “Or, I’ve been watching too much reality tv.” You’re not paying the most attention, though, and the dagger drags across the tips of your fingers. Blood pools on your fingertips, and then drops to the stone floor.

“Fuck,” You hiss, the familiar curse feeling unfamiliar on your lips after so long not using it. You stick your fingers in your mouth, to try and stop the bleeding. 

It’s then that you notice that the feeling in the room has changed. 

You turn to look at the room properly, your brow furrowed. You watch as the flames grow higher and higher, and you watch as the stone carving on the floor, which you hadn’t noticed until that moment, bursts into flames so bright that you have to throw your arm in front of your eyes to shield them.

You’re still blinking the spots out of your eyes when a warm hand presses against your cheek.

The man standing in front of you is not any of the Moffs in the building. He’s younger, with darker skin and curly hair. He’s also a lot more fit than most of the men you’ve interacted with over the last decade.

He’s also completely naked.

Your face flames and you immediately focus your gaze on the ceiling. Ironically, despite being married for ten years, you’ve never seen a naked man before.

The man releases a low chuckle, and you shiver at the sound, “There’s no need to be shy,” His gentle touch encourages you to bring your gaze back to him, “There you are.”

“I…who are you?” You ask, “I’ve never seen you before.”

He smiles, it’s a nice smile, “My name is Jango. I’m here because you summoned me.”

“...I did what now?”

His smile widens, “You summoned me. You’re the only person in the room, after all.”

“I…have so many questions.”

“I bet you do.” He drags his fingers down your bare arm, and then takes your hand in his. He glances at the rings on your fingers, and clicks his tongue, before removing both rings and tossing them into a brazier, “Married?”

“Unfortunately.” You’re still staring at him, “My parents sold me to my husband when I was 18.”

He hums in understanding, “Ask your questions.” Jango is still lazily touching you, his fingers trailing down your arms, and across the satiny material of your dress, before gliding up your bare back and across the back of your neck and down your throat.

“You said I summoned you?”

“You did. Not intentionally, perhaps, but you still did it.”

“Okay,” His fingers glide across your lips, “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re my priestess. You serve me, and I protect you.”

“Serve you how?”

He chuckles and moves even closer to you, and you should probably be nervous. Right? But you feel comfortable. Safe, even. It’s been a long time since you felt safe anywhere, let alone in the presence of a man.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Jango’s voice is low.

And he’s right. You can feel something. A connection towards the man standing before you. You can feel his devotion to you, and it kind of makes you want to cry. 

Jango’s fingers find the zipper on the back of your dress and he slowly pulls it down. You don’t stop him. You don’t even consider stopping him. His gaze remains locked on your face as he pushes the dress off your shoulders, “Tell me to stop,” He murmurs, “And I will.”

“I’ve never—”

“I know.” His lips glide across your cheek and down your jaw as your dress pools at your feet, “I’ll teach you.” Jango takes your heels from your hands and drops them on the floor, and then he guides you to the bed, “It’s better this way,” He murmurs as his lips move to hover over yours, “I don’t have to unteach you shame.”

Jango’s lips catch yours in a passionate kiss, and you eagerly surge into his touch. You feel cherished. Loved, even. You’ll give Jango anything, so long as he continues to make you feel like this.

He turns the both of you, so he’s able to sit on the edge of the bed, and he positions you so you’re standing between his spread legs. A glance at his cock reveals that he’s already hard, and there’s precum leaking down the side of his length.

You have the ridiculous notion that you want to taste him. Though the words seem to stick in your throat. You don’t even know how to ask if you’re allowed to.

Jango smoothly removes your panties and bra, both can be classified as lingerie, though he’s the only person who isn’t you, or the laundry staff, who’s ever seen them. 

You jolt in surprise when his fingers dip between your thighs and find your clit with ease. “It’s okay,” He murmurs, “I’m going to make you feel amazing,” Jango kisses around one nipple, and then moves to the other, and you’re pretty sure he’s driving you insane.

“J-Jango, I don’t—”

He watches you calmly, his thumb moving in slow circles around your clit, “Tell me, priestess.”

“I don’t know what to do.” You whisper, helplessly.

He laughs softly, though you know instinctively that he’s not laughing at you, “I’ll teach you. Don’t worry.”

His thumb continues its slow and steady movement, and you find yourself clenching around nothing. For a moment, you worry that your legs are going to give out, but Jango seems to be attuned to you, because the next thing you know, you’re straddling his lap.

Slowly he eases you down his cock, a heavenly groan escaping his lips as he settles you completely on him. You feel full, so full. And you can’t help but wrap your arms around his neck and press your face against his shoulder. 

“There we go,” he murmurs as he strokes your back and lightly thrusts up into you. How he’s managing that with you sitting on him, you’re not sure, but you’re also pretty sure you’ll figure it out, “Such a good girl,” Jango praises.

His words send lightning down your spine, and you release a quiet moan as you clench around him.

He pauses and then his arms tighten around you, “Taking me so good,” Jango continues praising, “Like you were made for me. So good.”

You whine quietly, “Jango—”

He chuckles and grips your hips tightly so he’s able to bounce you on his cock, “I’m going to take such good care of you, Princess.” Jango breathes, his voice heavy against your ear, “You’re never going to go without.”

He feels so good, you didn’t know it was possible to feel this good. You clench around him tightly and accidentally drag your nails down his back, pulling a pleased groan from him.

“There we go, cyar’ika. Mark me as yours,” One of his hands slides up your back to fist in your perfectly curled hair, pulling you back so he’s able to crash his lips against yours. 

Jango’s tongue slides against your lips, and then presses passed your lips to map out the inside of your mouth, and you immediately submit to him, your arms tightening around him.

He breaks the kiss, though he keeps his lips just over yours, “Tell me, beautiful.” Jango’s hand dips between you and presses roughly against your clit, pulling a strangle moan from you, “What do you want?”

You hear him, but you’re not able to answer. There’s a coil tightening inside you and you’re so close. So very close that, when Jango stops thrusting into you and stops pressing against your clit, you almost sob.

“Shh, shh,” He kisses you slowly, gently, “I’m going to give you what you need, I promise.” Jango presses his forehead against yours, “What do you want?” He repeats.

You know, instinctively, that he’s not talking about sex.

“I…I want,” You whisper, a whimper falling from you as he starts to slowly thrust into you, “I want them all to burn.” It’s the first time you’ve ever admitted it out loud, but Jango looks pleased with your wish.

He starts thrusting harder and faster, his lips closing over yours in a deep kiss that seems designed to steal the breath from your lungs, and with a press of his thumb against your clit, you clench around him and cum with a muffled whimper.

Jango’s pace becomes a little harder and a little faster, as he chases his release, then there’s warmth as he spills his seed deep inside you. He flips the pair of you so that you’re lying on the bed, and then he pulls out of you.

You’re breathing heavily, and you’re trying to reengage your brain, but you seem to be struggling with it a little bit. You watch Jango watch you, his gaze locked on your pussy, a hungry look on his handsome face.

And then his gaze meets yours again, “Stay here,” It is both an order and a request, “I’m not done with you yet.”

You blink at him, “Where are you going?”

The smile he directs at you is vicious, “You have a wish, and I’m going to fulfill it.” He leans over you and brushes some hair out of your face, “You want them to burn, so they’re going to burn.”

Your breath catches in your throat, “You don’t have to—”

“My beautiful priestess,” He kisses you again, “I am the God of Vengence. I’m happy to do it.” Jango presses one more kiss against your lips, and then he turns to the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Then Jango is gone, and you stare at the closed door for a moment wondering if, when he comes back, he’ll let you suck his cock. That’s a good reward for killing the people you hate the most, right?

@n0vqni

@bad4amficideas

@justiceandwar98

@tiredbi-peach

@dukeoftheblackstar

@trixie2023

@kimiheartblade

@padawancat97

@falconfeather23435

@etod

@bb8-99

@continous-mistakes

@yoitsjay

@cc--2224

@adriennelenoir

@cdblake1565

@sweater-sloot

@heidnspeak

@wax-birds

@silly-starfish

@lonewolflupe

@maniacalbooper

@rebell-ious

[glisten-inthedark]

I did most of this with voice to text because I’m rushing to get ready lol so sorry if there are any errors 

I’d love for Ted to become aware of all the upside down stuff and have a much harder time processing it than Karen, but ultimately choose to stay behind for his family (maybe a parallel to season one nearly running away before returning to help fight, though I don’t see Ted doing as much damage as Steve does lol)

But specifically, I want there to be some sort of scene where, the entire season Ted has been on the outskirts of some Byler interactions, like any Byler interactions that involve it occurring in front of or partially in front of the rest of the party, but the audience just assumes that Ted being Ted hasn’t noticed or hasn’t picked up on the subtlety of each interaction 

But then after Byler has gotten together, but they haven revealed this to either Karen or Ted yet, there’s a scene where after a battle—maybe protecting the Wheeler house from monsters in which Will was in protecting people/the house/maybe weed gun or some other weapon and protected not just but also maybeor Ted himself but either way was badass and essential to victory— we see Will spending some time with Holly and Karen and maybe the other party members and he’s comforting or making her laugh or drawing with her or something that is showing his caring and comforting and supportive side,

And Mike is watching fondly from the other room when Ted walks up beside him and quietly says, “I see why you love him so much” or “I see why he is so important to you” and even if it’s the latter with a more subtle implication behind his words, Mike still freezes and stares at his father in panic and fear and a tiny little bit of hope, and Ted turns to look at his son and gives a smile that almost looks like a grimace, but it’s Ted so he kind of looks like he hasn’t smiled in a long time and is still getting used to how it feels so it’s not that he’s actually grimacing, it’s just that it takes practice. And he rests a firm hand on Mike’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything else, but Mike starts to smile and nod and then gives his dad a hug which surprises Ted but Ted ultimately returns it with some awkward pets but their firm pets, it just means that he’s out of practice not that he doesn’t care

And now I have to run out the door lol hope this is coherent!

Hello! First of all the sheer dedication to send me this, I could never lmao so don't worry about any typos!

You see, I absolutely love this! Because yes, I also desperately want Ted to become aware of the UD and to know everything his children have been through.

Like, I do feel like the biggest problem of his character is how he's not there for his children or his wife, him learning about all of it and choosing to stay behind would make for an amazing character growth.

I genuinely believe he's going through major changes we just aren't privy to yet, it'd be pretty awesome to Mike to know he can count on his parents especially after everything.

I need this family actually sitting down and talking ngl lmai

[smallishzine]

Just a small heads up, if you include shipping you may wanna make it clear that there are ships and what ships are there. A lot of people aren’t comfortable with shipping, especially since I’ve seen people say Joel thinks it’s a bit weird to be shipped with anyone other than Lizzie (needs to be fact checked, this is just what I’m seeing in boat boys comment sections). Maybe consider making the ship stuff a separate section or just telling people in advance (pinned post, bio, anywhere clear works) that it includes shipping so those who don’t like it can walk away.

important info about the zine plz read even if you didn’t send the ask:

thank you for the heads up! We’re about to get super rambly and vaguely off topic but we promise all your points get addressed. This is actually a great opportunity to clarify, because I realized I didn’t explain myself particularly clearly, if some one does choose to include shipping, its all going to have to be subtext (as always except for shadowbeans whose alternate ship name I still refuse to use), but that is for non-canon ships. Regardless of how people feel about it, c!Joel and c!Jimmy did in fact kiss in Real Life smp, and c!Joel and c!Sausage did in fact have a child together in esmp2, so we’re not gonna rewrite events. Basically when I say shipping in the context of this zine I mean taking relationships the c!Joel had with other people and creating moments that didn’t necessarily happen but feel plausible for the characters that are able to be interpreted as romantic as well as platonic. Also, everyone’s definition of ship art is different, so the level that I was thinking is pretty mild (and btw I’d like to interject here that this is not me dissing on shipping or ship art love shipping so much that I found a ship called the relation and I never left it, but I also know that people have all sorts of comfort levels with different things so this zine is going to be dry docked but I assure you that out there on my super secret personal blog we are very much lost at sea). Like, to give some examples of what would be okay versus not okay for the zine: kissing is pretty much off limits, honestly mostly because that’s a pretty boring zine piece, there’s nothing going on except the ship, but anything where any sort of romance is up to the interpretation, such as hugging, handholding, spending time with, these are all normal things, but also this can’t be the focus of the piece. Please no one just draw like Joel and someone hugging and call it a day. Implied shipping is allowed to feature in your piece, not be the main focus of it. That’s just not an interesting zine piece. Valid art/writing, still amazing stuff keep sharing it on the internet it’s very interesting, just not in the context of this zine. Anyway, you are correct about not everyone being comfortable with that stuff, so if any piece comes off as really shippy without violating the guidelines we’ll make sure to label it correctly, but also, I should make it clear, I’m really hoping that shipping doesn’t become the focus of this zine. It is a Joel zine, so Joel should remain the focus, and any shipping would be subtextual and not central to the zine. There are many great Joel ships out there with lovely content to consume, but that’s not really the focus of this zine. Also, that aside, if Joel doesn’t want his character (because we are talking about shipping cs here. Cc!Joel is a lovely person, but this zine is going to be in-character. Also while cc!Joel should absolutely be respected in what sort of fan content he wants people making about him, his character is, well, just that: a character. Its like saying you can’t ship two characters from an animated tv show because their irl voice actors aren’t comfortable being shipped. It’s just two different things) shipped with characters who don’t belong to his wife, he should probably stop making his c! kiss all those men. And have children with them. And send them love hearts in the mail. And call them babe. If he did it in canon it’s probably safe to say we’re good having them do it in fan content. But again shipping should be an extremely small part of the zine if it’s there at all and should be subtextual enough that even people who don’t ship can still positively engage with the zine!!! If it needs a warning, it’s probably too shippy.

also all this aside if I’m handling this wrong guys I’m sorry I’m only one person and it’s really stressful trying to please everybody I promise I’m trying my best but I just wanna get together with a bunch of other people who share this strange fascination with the bean man and make art and writing about it I don’t wanna get canceled or something I promise I’m trying my best. I’m really struggling to balance my love of creating shipping fan content and realizing that not everyone is comfortable with that and it’s really difficult and stressful I just can’t we all just draw and write what makes us happy I just want this to be a fun experience and being yelled at on the internet for drawing two characters who’s ccs aren’t in an irl relationship being something other than friends is not my definition of a good time. I’m not accusing you anon of doing anything like that the ask was very respectful but I’m worried this post will prompt less polite people to come and yell at me.

-mod Dinn

[highslover]

Maeve’s storyline but right!

I have always though the Maeve plot line didn’t made sense and recently I read a fic (spencer reid x reader) where reader was a serial killer of serial rword and I thought how much better that could’ve been.

Maeve’s plot line was weak in many ways. My biggest pet peeve is that it was that aggressive from the start and Spencer did nothing, which I don’t find in character. That meaning her stalker (Diane).

Let’s assume his first consult with Maeve was pretty normal, how could he imagine she had a stalker? But in order to keep talking to her they went through using letters first. And maybe Spencer thought it was romantic and interesting, but pseudonyms? That’s a bit much.

Spencer knew all along about her stalker, he tells Hotch that much after she goes missing. So you are telling me Spencer found out this girl he likes isn’t leaving her house, she is hot using her phone and is using letters to communicate with pseudonyms to protect herself and didn’t do something? I agree he might’ve been respecting her wishes, but by this time Spencer has been working with the FBI 9 years, he is not naive as he was, he is a social protector, it just doesn’t makes sense he let it go that far.

Again, from the beginning is crucial here because I don’t think he would’ve let it slide just like that. If it had grown progressively while they were together, yes maybe their attachment would’ve clouded his reasoning, but by the time they started talking Diane had made Maeve quit her job and broke up with her fiancé so??? It just doesn’t make sense for HIS character. I believe that at leasttt he would’ve investigated by himself.

But non of that happened so the plot just doesn’t cut it. Instead, if it would’ve been a serial killer? That’s interesting.

Point 1. A serial killer who kills men that are serial rapist is in many ways human. It’s imposible to not like as audience. And Spencer is often the one who empathizes with the criminals (lol beautiful baby 🥺).

Point 2. Her story could’ve been a great episode, we could’ve seen how smart she was (something from Meave’s character) but at the same time how traumatized she was, her story, how evil are the men she kills. She could’ve been the same age as Spence, he could’ve done the interview, connect, blah, blah, blah.

Point 3. I think they could’ve find a way were they didn’t have anything to really hold the case, victims (of the men) not pressing charges and friends who offer alibis for her. So she makes a deal with Spencer because she is also tired and she knows she cannot stop. A letter once a month because she likes his big brain.

Point 4. She is arrested but gets her letter and Spencer gets his, where she is smart and interesting and whatever. Out of nowhere they are writing themselves not just once a month. And they talk every sunday. (Again part of Maeve storyline, everything was there!!!!) (Also I think she could’ve been an assistant for a geneticist and help him with his migraines)

Point 5. And everything is good and they form a bond but Spencer would never admit he likes her and maybe even feels something more, because he is a good guy. But in this time he starts to read every philosopher that has written about good and bad (also talk it with Blake!! best part of the Maeve plot).

Point 6. After this we are only missing her dying and I wish I remember the name of the fic but something similar could happen. In the fic she scapes prison with help and goes to find Spencer because she knows of a human trafficking organization and she wants to liberate them, so she kinda kidnaps Spencer and they go there. Because she wanted to do it, deep down Spencer knows this a suicidal mission for her.

Point 7. They get there, she gets kill by local police but she saves women and children and got to spend her last day or two with Spencer, the only person that made her wished everything she did never happened and maybe she could’ve have a great life.

And ta-da! we traumatized Spencer with an interesting plot that makes sense (at least for me). And far more complex I think, something that maybe even MGG would’ve like. But who knows, is this against copaganda???

[cloudabserk]

wait i recently heard that in the books armand was like 12 when he was kidnapped (and that’s how he had a whole job and everything as a monk beforehand) ? (i haven’t read the vampire armand i’m going off rumor)

see that wouldn’t be surprising but in the vampire lestat i remember lestat being like “he was a small child with no awareness of anything other than mother and father and god and the devil”. which implied to me he was like 8 or 9 at most.

but maybe lestat is just culturally ignorant and obtuse about children? he’s looking at a short 11 year old with a strong belief in god and going “ok so he’s like 7 and not that bright”

[cuteniaarts]

Wine stains on porcelain

(Alternatively: @katkastrofa and I have created 5 OCs in 3 days and I suffer from chronic “I wanna draw the little guysssssss” disease)

[goblins-and-gloves]

Angry at parents hour!

Undiagnosed autistic fuckers are delulu.

[soft-serve-soymilk]

Bitches be fighting (it’s the head children 😘☺️)

[twistpixel]

Tbh the only thing I have to say abt uth is that winick kind of nailed it with “doing it because he took me away from you” because that is exactly the language Bruce uses when he’s talking about his grief and death the people (usually women) in his life are “taken away from him”

[cuteniarose]

It’s almost 6 a.m and I can’t sleep because I’m being plagued by thoughts of The Latest OC

[jewishbarbies]

born to live my life in peace forced to see tiktoks making the mom from hereditary a feminist example of female rage

[cats-in-the-clouds]

my sister got engaged and we’re all really happy for her but my bitter rain cloud of a dad (who naturally she told last) is giving her a bit of passive aggressive grief about it despite her boyfriend being like the best man of our generation (presumably either because he’s not catholic or because my dad sees them as young dumb unemployed people who aren’t ready for marriage or because he’s mad he barely has any real love with his own wife or something). so like pray for us? i wish i knew what to do