#fluid rich foods

[irisposts]

Bloodlines

summary | daemond needs to marry and you're at the top of his list.

pairing | daemond targaryen x (f)cousin!reader

wordcount | 1k

warnings | 18+, MINORS DNI!, very light smut

edited.

You never expected your cousin to be here with you on your island of Valyria, much less dining at your table and feasting on your food. You watch as he takes another forkful, his plate nearly empty. He wipes his mouth with a cloth.

You barely touch your meal. The room feels small and intimate despite its grandeur. Heavy stone walls adorned with ancient Valyrian tapestries tell tales of dragons and conquest. While a large chandelier made of dragon bone casts a warm, golden glow across the table. The open doors allow a gentle breeze to drift in from the beach, the sound of waves crashing against the shore tightening the knot in your stomach.

You glance back at Daemon. He hasn’t changed much, though his silver-white hair is now cut short. The last time you saw him, it had fallen past his shoulders, but you find yourself liking this look more. It frames his sharp features, and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Daemon is dressed in deep, shadowy leathers, perfectly tailored to his lean form. You watch the silver clasps and embroidered dragons shimmer subtly in the low light.

Your own attire feels too revealing under his gaze. The soft, flowing fabric of your gown clings to you, draping in ways that accentuate every curve. Deep hues of blue and green—house colors—wrap around you like a second skin. The slight chill of the evening makes your exposed shoulders prickle beneath his watchful eyes.

“Is there something on your mind?” Daemon’s voice cuts through the air. Casual as he leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. “Cousin?”

You push your plate outward. Your attendant immediately steps forward to clear it.

“Leave us,” you command, your voice steady. The servant quickly departs, leaving only the two of you.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment, memories swirling. “It’s been quite some time since I last saw you.”

“Three, four years,” he replies with a lazy shrug, “give or take.”

You look away, a warmth growing across your cheeks. “Hm.” You lean back slightly, your fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the table. “You haven’t changed at all.”

Daemon’s eyes sharpen, trailing over you in a way that makes the air you breathe feel heavier. “You have.”

A heavy silence settles in. The moment stretching out as his gaze lingers over you. 

“All grown up now,” he muses, his voice low, almost teasing. He takes another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours.

You chew your lip for a moment, holding back your retort. “You didn’t come here just to visit after four years. A Valyrian steel dagger, no less. A fine gift, even for you.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich. “Can’t a man visit his family without suspicion?”

“You?” You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry smile. “Never.”

His amusement deepens as he stands, his movements fluid, every step deliberate. He paces slowly around the table, fingers gliding across its surface. As he walks, his gaze briefly flicks upward to the ceiling. There lingering, is a painting of Valaryian lovers entwined beneath dragon wings.

“You always did see through the masks people wear. I admired that about you.”

He stops in front of you, his hand lifting as if to touch your chin, but you tilt your head away.

Your voice is steady as you speak. “What do you want, Daemon?”

He lowers his hand, though the smile doesn’t fade. “I must marry.”

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’ve heard the rumors about you and Rhaenyra. If they’re true, why not her?”

Daemon’s smirk widens, amusement flickering in his eyes as he looks back at the ceiling. “Rumors,” he says softly, “are often more fun than the truth.”

His eyes lock onto yours, sharper now. “But you and I both know what strengthens Valyria.”

“Keeping the bloodline pure?” you offer, your voice firm but tinged with curiosity.

His silence answers you.

“Hm.” The sound escapes your lips as you push your chair back and rise. Standing so close, you feel the heat radiating from him, his breath fanning your face. 

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath his armor-like clothing. His hand finds your waist, gripping you with a possessive firmness. “What if I have eyes for another?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper-- the challenge clear.

Daemon’s dark chuckle sends shivers down your spine as he leans in close, his breath brushing against your ear. “Vezof rȳbagon skoros iā rūmu zirȳ rōvon,” he whispers in Valyrian, his voice like silk and steel combined.

Don’t forget what I did to you four years ago.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips almost touching yours, his eyes burning with the same fire you’ve tried to suppress for years.

Your heart pounds as you feel the weight of his words. You remember how he deflowered you—rocking into you like a piston, kissing your lips, biting at your skin—setting your body on fire. The memory fades.

You meet his gaze head-on, your lips parting as you murmur in Valyrian, “Nyke gīmigon lo ao gīmigon…”

I could never forget.

His eyes darken, the grip on your waist tightening. Daemon’s other hand finds the curve of your neck, his touch slow and deliberate, gliding down to the material of your sleeve. With a smooth motion, he slides it off your shoulder, your bare skin to the cool air.

Your eyes flicker from his lips back to his intense gaze, the air between you electric. You feel the steady rhythm between your thighs quicken as his fingers slide down from your chest. Daemon hitches up the material of your gown. His fingers make their way between your thighs. The pads of his fingertips brush against you and you fall forward onto his shoulder. 

You breathe harshly. His fingers are cool and should be foreign. But the way they sink into you, you know it’s all too familiar. You let out a moan as he stills.

The hand on your waist moves up to your shoulder and then to your chin. He holds you, bringing your face to look at him.

“Nyke jaelā ao.” 

I want you.

You let out a soft moan as his fingers spread inside you.  “Ērīninna nyke.” 

Then take me.

Without hesitation, he closes the distance. His lips capture yours in a kiss that ignites every spark between you, consuming you both in a fire that’s been smoldering for far too long.

[rezitio]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊

gojo satoru, geto suguru, toji zenin, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, hiromi higuruma.

━━━━ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 - club, his favourite stripper. food play [alchol], pole dancing, clothed orgasm, grinding, some weird ah make out

Everyone agrees that Satoru is the life of the party. He’s certainly the life of yours. Whenever you see those icy blue eyes, just know you're getting paid tonight.

Holding eye contact with him while you work your magic on the pole. He has a girl dancing on him, but you both know she won’t satisfy him as well as you do.

He's glaring at you from the VIP section; he's telling you to show him what you can do. Show him what he’s going to be working with tonight.

And you do. Dropping down, then snaking yourself around the pole, climbing it again, and sliding down. You lock yourself on the pole. Suspended in the air, you puff your lips out, putting saliva over your mouth and dragging it around your lips.

Making it messy. Like how he likes it. You keep enticing him with your dance, feeding him and the hungry men below the stage. At the end, you slide down, facing the back of the stage. You undo your bra and throw it into the crowd of hungry dogs.

Not turning, you walk straight off the stage into the curtains that led backstage. You get a blanket to cover yourself and on cue, and the strip club manager tells you an important customer has booked a private session.

You knew this man would fold. You walk into the private room, letting the blanket drop to the floor. His eyes drop from your face to your bare breast, almost a frown on his face.

“Awh… You mad I didn't throw the bra to you?” You teased him. He didn’t like that. He gestured for you to come closer while putting the bottle down.

You played his game; you went on your knees, positioning yourself in between his bulge. Gojo was always playful; he never wanted to do things on a sober note. He brought the bottle from his lips to the top of your head, staring at your lips.

You complied. You opened your mouth, and he poured it down your throat. You swallowed, feeling the burn go down and your mind clearing. You climbed him, sharing the taste of the alcohol with each other. Your tongues connect, sharing the taste and licking it off each other's lips.

He brought the bottle to his lips again. He connected with your lips, sharing the alcohol with you. You did it until the last bit of the liquid had slid down each other's throats; by this time you were both out of breath.

You looked at each other for a minute. His eyes told you he wasn’t sober anymore. Tonight was going to be a long one. After a few seconds, your hips automatically started to move, rubbing yourself on him. He broke eye contact, hissing at the bulge fighting his pants. You felt his boxers getting wet; the wet patch kept getting bigger and bigger till eventually he let out a groan.

You knew that moan. He just orgasmed the way he turned to look at you; he wanted more. You could feel the oragsm fluid penetrate his boxers and seep onto your cheeks. Tonight was going to be a long night.

━━━━ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 - confessional booth. priest!Getou, church themes, prior encounters mentioned, toys [vibrator], degrading,

Father forgive you, for you have sinned.

Father, forgive the father, for he has done much worse.

Priest!Geto has his favorites. Among the rich mindless aristocrats that give him money whenever he tells them what they want to hear is this young girl.

Daughter of one of his richest aristocrats, she's supposed to be a good girl like the rest of her family. If only they knew.

“I did it again.” You confessed your head low. You feared raising it would meet the eyes of a disappointed god; really, your head bent under the haunting guilt of your father’s eyes. They would disown you if you knew what you were doing.

It was like music to Getou’s ears. Another confession of yours. A soft hum from him urging you to elaborate. The simple sound brought heat to your core. “But it’s just never enough—not like how you do it. I….I need you to do it again.”

After a long day of lies and eating curses exorcising demons this is all he needed. He needed to hear the innocent girl's voice behind closed doors, or both doors. He didn’t speak; he let her carry on, driving herself to madness, preparing herself for him.

“Can you touch me again? Please, when I do it, it feels good but not like how you do it. Can you guide me again? I need help… God-”

It was his time to shine. “Don’t mention the Lord’s name out of your whorish mouth.” You loved his words, especially when they were harsh. Your hands start to drift downward, pressing against your clothed pussy

“What would your parents say?” He spit, your finger touches your clit, you arch your back at clothed contact. “How naughty and needy you are, being so desperate that you would rub yourself on your priest shoe.”

You do it like he said in your last confession: touch yourself till your finger is wet and panties are soaked. “How eager you were sucking my dick; did it fill you that time? During the sermon, were you wet at my voice? I saw you were rubbing your thighs together. When you excused yourself, did you go play with yourself in the bathroom?”

You responded with a low and shaky “no.” It wasn’t your lie that shocked him. It was how he underestimated how naughty you really were. Already touching yourself to his voice. You’d grown quite naughty.

“Hands off slut.” You immediately stopped your movements. How Getou wanted to pound into that temptation of yours, but he had to wait, not tonight. He’d deal with your soft lips—wash them with his cum, your hardened nipples, your unruly hand, and the truly untameable cunt of yours—another day.

Tonight he was testing your limits. “The box beneath you, take it and its package.”

Your eyes scurry around the dim wooden booth. Finding and revealing the box, you took out the device. You’ve seen it before on your computer screen; you know they use it.

“I want you to turn it on and scream for me. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll come inside your booth.” He commands. He fumbles with his robe as his hands hurry to reach his own temptation.

━━━━ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍 - the bathroom of horse racings. cheating but the guy’s an arse anyways, deepthroat, kinda rough

Everything this man knows about you was against his own will.

It was obtained from Shiu’s random ramblings when he got too drunk and talked about all the drama he knew and from the loud conversations of your fleabag of a husband with his friends during horse races.

You hear what he says about you. I mean, you’re sitting right next to him. But you stay silent and innocent with a smile on your face, waving the flag of that winning horse owned by your husband. He bet you didn’t even know its name.

Toji would admit, your husband is a bigger dirtbag than he is. That's why when you excuse yourself to a man who waves his hand at you and wink at him with a provocative smile, he follows right on like a horse being pulled by its bit.

You two don’t waste time. You have to get back to your husband, and Toji has a bet to rig. Immediately you two walk into that cramped bathroom stall; your hands are already working on pulling down his pants.

You don't even rub the bulge through the cloth. You pull it straight down and deal with the real thing. His hands find their way to your hair roots. He knows how to hold it to get a moan from you. He knows just how to pull it tight enough for your head to move.

Pulling your head up to face him, those few seconds before he ravishes you. Those few seconds of his cold eyes meeting yours almost reminding you this is all your good for. Yet this is all you ever want to do.

There's no attraction or love in any of your eyes; just lusty eyes hungry for each other. He drags your head down, smashing his cock into you. He always does this in the beginning, trying to get a dominant head start; in the end, he's the one grabbing onto your head and pushing it away due to his overstimulation.

How you love making big men beg.

His hips thrust into your mouth rapidly; he's trying to make you gag. Trying to get himself a little ego boost. He wants to be told how big he is? Sure.

He sandwiches your head between the wall and his cock, pushing the whole length into your mouth and holding it in place while you struggle until you finally gag.

Gasping for air as he pulls out the string of saliva and pre-cum, still collecting the two body parts. Your eyes meet; he's amused, but now that you’re serious, you will make him beg you.

Your mouth wraps around his cock. Sucking the life out of it. Your hand working down on it as your lips move up, twisting around his cock. You pull out, keeping eye contact; hes almost undone, forcing a tiny laugh out of you as you smear his dick on your cheek while licking it down.

Reaching his sensitive spot, as soon as your tongue reaches his balls, you both pause. He realises what you are about to do, but before he can grab your hair, your mouth begins its work on the plump skin at his crotch.

He’s immediately responding. Your hand works on his cock while your mouth fondles his sack. Rest assured, you got him groaning and begging for a break. But you didn’t stop till he blew his load out twice.

━━━━ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 - living room. oral [F!], a failed quickie, squirt on face, nanami is HUNGRY, morning seggs,

Traditionally, Nanami would say something like the bedroom. But whether he recognizes it or not

This man fucks you on the couch more times you guys have even slept on the bed together.

And it's not only the couch—sometimes against the wall, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the fucking island counter. Just that space directly near the door and in between the kitchen. In the morning, rushing to work or later coming home exhausted and horny. He has you bent, on his shoulders, wrapped around his hip, or even standing up.

He loves how convenient it is. How easy it is coming home to see you perfectly ready for him, mindlessly watching your show. Or as he's rushing out the door, you come in barely awake, and the goodbye kiss turns slowly into something else.

Just like today.

“Ken, you said you're late…” You moan his name out. The untied tie that was supposed to be hanging off his collar has now found a way to wrap itself around your hands, preventing you from destroying his freshly styled hair; you could do that after he came back.

It was just a quickie, he said. It would be over soon. An hour in and he's still going. His mouth latching onto your lips. Not the ones screaming his name.

The ones creaming it out. He was acting as if you guys didn't fuck the night before. He raised his head for breath, his fingers still torturing the hole. “One more squirt.”

You would say he looked a mess, but let's be honest, this man is always looking good. Although there's liquid dropping off his chin and it's smeared all over his lips like gloss. All though his eyes are squinted dangerously looking at you. A reflection of his desire.

Although his mouth was watering, eager for the reward of your cum, he still looked perfect. He was crumbling undone, yet this pillar was stubborn. He remained sturdy because he knew how close you were.

Your legs started shaking; your hole was clenched and gaping as his tongue reached your clit again; like a pop of confetti, it poured out all over his face. He eagerly cleaned it off your lips, then his lips and chin while looking at you, even licking his fingers too. You thought you were finally done, but his eyes started to cast a different glow.

A predatoral one, a hungry one. Just one more, he said for the hundredth time.

━━━━ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 - his garden. lowkey exhibitionism, true form sukuna, cunnilingins, hes really abusing the ability to spawn mouths…

Sukuna had a sanctuary of some sort. A safe place in his garden where he thinks under a tree older than him.

It's an open space but reserved untouched. Urame only goes there when it's urgent; anything else can wait till he's back. And Sukuna's wives and concubines who so proudly hang around and parade the garden like it's there’s do not even pass by it.

They would take a longer route if it came to that. It wasn't secluded or anything. Trust anyone who wanted to see what was happening under the tree could see.

Anyone who didn't care much for their life could go if they wanted to go. It was a huge bonsai tree. A novelty like the creature that sat under it.

A novelty like the sight many jealous wives had to witness at the corner of their eye—a simple concubine of all things on top of Sukuna under the sacred tree.

It felt like they were witnessing a blasphemous act. A sacred patch of land being tainted and scarred by a simple common concubine. Not even his oldest wife, nor his first wife, nor any living being except Sukuna—I doubt even an ant—has walked on that land. It exudes so much of his aura. It repels any walking organism.

Now such a quiet place is filled with loud lewd sounds of your moans and hungry slurping. Sukuna lays on his back, lost in thought. You? Your fighting for your thoughts as the fog of orgasms threatens to take you.

The ample amount of pleasure driving you mad. And it came in waves. The maw on his stomach tongue lapping at your clit, each flick activates a bundle of nerves. Then he begins to suckle again. Torturing your clit by encapsing it in a vacuum.

Your whole body is twitching in pleasure.

You don’t scream his name or address him directly—no, you wouldn’t even think of distracting him from his thoughts that could result in instant dullness, as in, you would be dead before you could even see his eyes dart towards you.

You try to get off, but his lower hands are holding you down. It was a battle of strength you obviously lost. Bringing yourself chest to chest with him in defeat, maybe you could cry out of extreme pleasure in his man boobs.

It was a trap.

His hands move to your torso now, so you couldn’t sit up right any longer. You didn’t even think of it; your mind is still releasing more and more endorphins. Then you begin to feel something wet, soft yet firm, playing with your nipples. Next thing, you know your tits are being sucked and played with.

You try to get yourself up, but his hand on your torso pushes you down. There was no escape; you led yourself into this, and you would sit through it like a good girl.

━━━━ 𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀 - his office. against the window, backshots, speed play, est relationship, spoiled princess, he's still a workacholic

Hirogami always stays long nights at the office. Always coming home late and leaving home early. He loves you; he loves work; why not combine the two?

At times he’d spread you on his desk; sometimes when he has a meeting at night, he'll have you under his desk. Sometimes he gets down and dirty fucking you on the floor; sometimes he’d wait, putting you on edge by warming himself inside you while he finishes the last bit of paperwork. It's something different every time.

You try and focus on the tiny people below; they were like little ants. Of course they couldn’t see you from up here. Not only was his office on the highest floor, the windows were tinted. But what was there to even see?

Tits smashed onto the glass? How your face looked when trying to control your moans, trying not to be loud? After all, his receptionist was still around, but he didn't care. His thrusts were loud, daring loud sounds from you.

You grab onto the hands digging into your hips. “Hiro~....” You moan out. He doesn’t stop; he knows you don't want him to. He knows you want him to keep going, maybe even faster, but he slows down.

Hitting deep rhythmic thrust. His eyes on yours, "Hm?” pound “I’m gonna need you to speak louder.” pound “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You groan, needing more, needing it faster. “Please- go….” he hits deep, releasing a loud moan, interrupting your begs. “You need what my love?” Before you can respond, he starts going fast. He stays at the perfect speed. “Oh~ yess,” you moan.

Then he goes faster, not allowing you to catch up; now you're begging him to go slower. And he does this back and forth playing with the speed, messing with your mind until you don't know what you’re even begging for.

Until the past, ‘perfect’ speed is now too slow but also too fast for you.

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ CONSUME (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

❀ ͘ ⴰ previous chapters | richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family

JUNE 21st 1994

“On June 21st today at exactly 3:14 am Moon Minjun son of Moon Joonho was found unconscious in the road. The 18 year old has been rushed immediately to urgent care and is reported to be okay, but this has us all wondering how and why was he found in this state?”

In the heavy silence of the room, the camera lingered on minjun's face, his expression tense as he glanced between his father and mother. his father scanned the documents in front of him, offering no reaction, while his mother placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, a hint of worry in her eyes..

a reporter finally broke the silence. "Minjun, can you explain why you were found in such a state?"

minjun cleared his throat, shifting in his seat with a forced composure. "I was... out with other young professionals in similar family businesses," he began, his tone carefully measured. "and, well, I believe someone may have slipped something into my drink."

gasps rippled through the crowd as reporters exchanged looks of shock. he nodded slowly, letting the words sink in before adding, "I have my suspicions about who it could be, but I won't be disclosing that in this press conference."

he kept his face neutral, holding the lie in place with an almost practiced precision. but behind the mask, the truth remained locked away, hidden from the prying eyes of the public.

the real reason was overworking and exhaustion and maybe a little bit of over drinking, but nobody would know the conditions of the family.

the headlines were off the rails two weeks later.

KIM SUBIN UPCOMING LEADER OF K.I IS NOW IN CUSTODY FOR SPIKING MOON MINJUN’S DRINK WHICH LEAD TO HIM BEING FOUND IN THE ROAD

poor subin.

FEBRUARY 14th 2014

“On february 14th five members of the Moon family held their monthly conference. The youngest that we know as 12 year old yn was sitting in between her two older brothers while Their father was talking. From what we could see from the video Moon Yeonjin gestured for yn to get a water bottle for her brothers which the she complied to but she didn’t get far after completing collapsing after two steps. An insider reported that the cause was due to lack of food and fluids, which makes us wonder why a 12 year old girl is lacking those nutrients.”

the camera zoomed in on yn’s gaze that nervously swept across the rows of reporters and journalists in front of her as her family stood solemnly behind her. she cleared her throat, mentally rehearsing the words she had been given, each syllable feeling heavier than the last. for some in the audience, this scene was painfully familiar.

a reporter leaned forward, his voice laced with concern. "How are you feeling today, YN? Have you eaten well?"

a faint smile broke through her nerves, and she replied softly, "yes, I've been okay. I had a big breakfast." Her answer brought a ripple of fond laughter from the crowd, a brief moment of levity that softened the tension.

"can you tell us if there's a reason why you weren't able to meet your basic needs?" he continued, a hint of sympathy in his tone.

yn’s heart raced, the weight of her words pressing down on her. "I had been sick the week before," she began, keeping her voice steady. "I didn’t have an appetite and couldn’t keep anything down. I was still recovering during the conference."

the lie words left her lips smoothly, a perfectly crafted explanation. she didn’t dare look back at her family, praying her carefully delivered answer was enough to satisfy the room’s prying eyes.

and make her family proud.

DECEMBER 23rd 2018

“On December 23rd the every single person apart of the Moon family was called into an emergency press conference regarding the business but the business was the last thing on peoples minds after seeing the terrifying look of the family.

People described them as sick looking and pale. The family has never looked like this before in public which is causing a lot of worries onto why every single Moon in the room looks like this, take a look at the video.”

the cameron zoomed in on minjun who looked rather pale his eyes steady on the papers in front of him, the room had an scary silence to it.

the camera went into to zoom in on every single member of the families face, all of them draped in chanel, they all talked normally and acted normally but looked unusual, like a tim burton animation.

they looked sick.

when the camera finally landed on yn, she looked directly into the lens, her eyes hollow, her gaze unsettlingly steady. it was the killing shot of the whole video, an unspoken message from the youngest member of the family, leaving viewers to wonder what unspeakable truth lay beneath the moon family’s facade

[blackleatherjacketz]

Not Fair

Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: You're there to see Elijah, but Klaus wants to play a game with you first.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, Explicit Smut, Dubious Consent, Teasing, Infidelity (Sort of), Competition, Sibling Rivalry, Typical Klaus Shenanigans, Mentions of Elijah, Neck Kissing/Biting, Ear Biting, Hair Pulling, Female Orgasm, Female Masturbation, Vaginal Fingering, Blood Sucking

Word Count: 2.4k

Nerves shook through your body after Elijah had texted you to meet him at his home, which was highly unlike him. He usually came over to your place some time after dinner, after the food you’d eaten and the wine you drank had some time to course its way through your veins and pulse into the rest of your bloodstream. The door to the address he’d given you was unlocked, another odd detail you clocked with suspicion before you entered the mansion with mild trepidation. Every detail of the estate was decorated to the nines, a true southern gem full of rich history and opulence. You knew that he had money, but this kind of money? Damn, you're in way over your head.

“Elijah?” You call out his name as you shut the door behind you, passing through the foyer into the parlor on the right to see the figure of a man looking out the window. The air around him is thick and electric, prickling at your skin the very second he turns around to face you, nearly forcing you to gasp at his strikingly beautiful features. This clearly isn’t isn’t the man you’ve come to see.

“Well, well, well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” He coos, stepping toward you with a smug grin.

“Who are you? And where’s Elijah? I was supposed to meet him here.” Did he give you the wrong address? Was he even going to show up? Did you read the message wrong? He had told you to come in and make yourself at home, but he didn’t mention anything about a… roommate.

“I’m Klaus, Elijah’s much more charming younger brother.” The man smirks as if he knows the most amusing secret about his sibling, but decides to keep it to himself. “And I’m sure he’ll be around shortly.”

“Brother? He never told me that he had a brother.” Your eyes narrow as you take him in, trying your hardest to see the family resemblance, but still somehow falling short. His golden curls are a stark contrast to Elijah’s dark brown hair, his pouty lips and narrow face shape even further away from the rigid jawline of your… whatever Elijah is to you.

“Really?” He asks, his tone laced with intrigue and disappointment as he takes another step toward you. “And just what is the nature of your relationship with my brother, then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s ummm…” You can’t help but trail off, his magnetic gaze forcing you to trip over your words as you attempt to explain your arrangement with Elijah. How do you tell this man that you’ve been letting his brother feed off you in exchange for protection? That you’ve slowly been falling for him over the past few weeks in the process? It’s just too embarrassing. “He and I have a sort of… symbiotic relationship.”

“Symbiotic?” He smirks, getting closer still, his movements quick and fluid. “Is this symbiosis sexual?” He grazes his knuckles against your cheek, letting them curve beneath your chin as he watches your lips part with his touch. “Come on, you can tell me,” he smiles, relishing in how fast he can hear your heart beating inside your chest. He’s clearly enjoying how nervous he’s making you.

“It’s not…” you stammer, swallowing hard as he brings his face a little closer to yours, the scent of his cologne now swimming through your senses. Goddamnit, is it hot in here? Are you attracted to him? No, that can’t be it, you’re attracted to Elijah. Right? Right. How is he making you so flustered? “We haven’t gotten that far.”

“You mean to tell me he hasn’t even tasted you yet?” He tilts his head in disbelief.

“Tasted me?” Your lip starts to quiver, unsure of exactly what he means. “He’s been drinking from me every two weeks.”

“That’s not the flavor I’m referring to, love.” His eyes dart down between your legs before locking back onto yours, his hazel gaze now full of desire. “I know Elijah can be a bit of a wet blanket sometimes, but if I had the privilege of drinking from you, I’d be sure to savor every elixir your beautiful body has to offer.”

A flash of heat rushes through you as those words reach your newly reddened ears, flushing your cheeks and neck before triggering that moisture to collect between your thighs as you give yourself away without having to utter a single word.

“Or you could settle for another dull night where my brother barely touches you. Only taking what he needs to survive without a second thought about what you want.” He starts to walk around you, encircling you like a vulture would a dying animal about to fall within its grasp. “He’s too noble for his own good, that one. Trust me.” He pauses, looking down at his feet before looking back over to you. “So how does it work between you two, exactly? He gets you to drink a few glasses of his favorite red wine or whiskey, loosen you up a bit so you don’t tense up when he inevitably takes what he wants?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Your cheeks blush an even brighter shade of red as you keep your head on a swivel, training your eyes on him as he waltzes around you with that deliciously smug grin permanently painted on his face. “Is that so terrible?”

You understand there’s no way that someone like Klaus could understand what you saw in Elijah. As boring as it may seem to someone on the outside, you happen to be quite fond of Elijah’s predictability, of his dependability, of his control over his emotions. It always made you feel safe with him, somehow.

“Terrible? No!” He shakes his head dramatically, cornering your left shoulder just a little closer this time before brushing his palms over your bare arms. “I imagine he… takes you from behind in order to avoid any chance for intimacy?” Klaus’ hands graze their way down your forearms and glide across your hips, sending a shiver down your spine as the heat from his body positively radiates into yours. “At least that’s what I would do.”

Your breath hitches as he holds his body against yours, his hands burning you up from beneath the thin fabric of your dress as he presses his lips into your shoulder. You instinctively close your eyes as he kisses it again, each one longer, deeper as his mouth opens just a little bit more until he reaches the nape of your neck. The slight brush of his tongue against it is almost too much for you to bear, the forbidden nature of his delicate touch somehow warmer than Elijah’s as it stirs something deep inside you, exciting you down to the very marrow of your bone.

“Is that why you wore this dress?” He licks the skin just behind your jawline before kissing it again, his blonde stubble scratching against the rest of your neck as he nuzzles into it. “So he’d finally appreciate your body?”

“Maybe.” You barely manage to whisper, that moisture now pooling between your folds.

“He’d be a fool not to.” His fingertips reach the hem of your dress, slowly inching it up your thigh as he wraps his other arms across your chest, pulling you in even closer. He walks with you backward until his knees hit the couch, haphazardly sitting down on the middle cushion with you snug on his lap, landing right where he wants you.

“We shouldn’t...” You feign protest against the predicament he’s put you in, just in case Elijah is somewhere close enough to hear you.

“Shouldn’t what? Sit down and have a little chat? That’s all this is.” He spins his lies so effortlessly, you’re convinced that even he believes them before they leave his lips.

“Is it?” You feel his hand slide beneath your dress before snaking up your thigh, relishing in the trail of goosebumps it leaves in its wake before reaching the hem of your underwear.

“Lace knickers?” He laughs, rubbing his fingers over the intricate pattern as he feels how swollen and needy you are beneath it. He tries to downplay the physical effect you're having on him in return, but his growing arousal begins to stretch the fabric of his jeans between your cheeks, his own breath halting for just a flash of a second. “Naughty girl.”

“I just thought…” your lip trembles into a hitched staccato of breaths as you attempt to explain yourself.

“Oh, don’t be so embarrassed, love, you aren’t the first woman to get caught in between us brothers.” He smirks against your skin and slips his fingers beneath the sheer fabric between your legs, slowly spreading your puffy lips apart to reveal the evidence of his seduction. “And you certainly won’t be the last.”

What did he just say? Has he done this before? Stolen someone from Elijah right under his nose? Or was this simply payback for something else, something worse that he’d done to him in his past? Were you just some stupid little pawn in their eternal game of familial chess?

“Do you get this wet for my brother when he’s feeding off you?” He takes you out of your thoughts and back into the moment, dipping his index and forefinger between your folds to spread your juices up and down your length. “I’ll bet he doesn’t even notice.” His voice drops down an octave, his words dripping with disdain for his older sibling as he glides his fingers up against your most sensitive spot, sending sparks of pleasure into your nervous system. “Do you think about him when you touch yourself at night?”

“Klaus, I…” you whisper, unable to answer him as his breath blows the hair away from your neck, making your gasp echo against the ancient walls of the room.

“Shhh, it’s okay, love. All that’s going to change after tonight.” He purrs into your skin, moving the hair away from your neck. “Let’s play a little game, then, shall we? If I’m able to make you come, I get to drink from you tonight instead of Elijah.”

Oh my God.

“And if you can’t?” You ask, wondering if he’d had this all planned out from the very second he saw you.

“If I can’t…” He starts to rub little circles into your bud, increasing his pressure with each word as your face changes. “I won’t tell my dear brother of your little transgression against him.” He bites playfully onto the shell of your ear, tugging it back toward him as he pushes his fingers deep inside your walls.

“Oh! Okay...” Your toes curl as he delves his digits further inside you, slowly curving them up to hit that special spot before quickly pulling them out. You turn your head as he removes his touch, brows furrowed in confusion as you watch him wrap those cherry red lips around his glistening fingers. His eyes roll back into his head as he savors the flavor of your sex, humming a tune while making quite the show of sucking his fingers all the way down to his knuckles before slowly pulling them out.

“Exquisite,” he praises your essence with a grin, that devious stare of his positively sinful.

You feel as if all the air has been expelled from your lungs; your body paralyzed with shock, too vulnerable in this state to take another breath until he reaches down and continues his good work, forcing you to inhale the hot, humid air between you. For the first time since you met him, he stops talking. His fingers are quick to map out every single neuron that lies beneath the exposed layer of your skin that lubricates itself with need as he slides his fingers back in, pressing his thumb against your clit with expert precision.

His centuries on this earth had given him all the practice he needed to drive you wild beneath his grasp, each of his ministrations more hypnotic than the last, drawing out louder, more feral moans from your lips. You find your hips rocking into the rhythm of his wrist, the sound of his fingers pulsing in and out of you serving as a perfect accompaniment to your vocals, gliding over that bundle of nerves tucked deep inside as your voice finally reaches a high soprano.

“I’m beginning to think you never wanted my brother to begin with.” He teases as he brings you closer to paradise by sending wave after wave of euphoric bliss up into your core, his salacious pace unrelenting.

“That’s not fair!” You cry out, breathlessly emotional as the magnitude of your ecstasy begins to overwhelm you, tears of joy now pooling in your eyes. You’d never felt pleasure like this before, never been so attracted to someone so quickly on sight alone, but here you are, on the verge of insanity as you fall apart in his lap.

“That’s the thing about me, love. I never fight fair.” He finally sends you over the edge, your skin igniting in an inextinguishable heat that consumes every fiber of your being. Your body feels more alive than it ever has before, that rush of euphoria coursing through your spine, turning your veins into rivers of molten lava as you quake around his fingers, those tears now streaming down your face.

Your orgasm leaves you helpless against his fangs as they pierce your skin and sink into your flesh, against his fist that buries itself in your hair as he drinks that deliciously hot cocktail of bliss that rips itself through you. It warms the both of you as he feeds on what was originally meant for his brother, the remnants spilling out of the corners of his mouth and down your chest as he greedily gulps you down, moaning his satisfaction into your neck. You can barely feel the throbbing around the bite as he eventually pulls back before it’s too late, licking up every stream of crimson that escapes his lips until there’s nothing left but the sheen of his spit on your skin.

“You’re welcome,” he goads cockily, your blood painting the lower half of his face as he pulls his fingers out for good. “Elijah should be home any minute.”

----------

Read more KLAUS!

[xseffort45]

Electrolytes and why they're important especially when water f4st!ng:

Electrolytes are electrically charged minerals, such as sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, chloride, bicarbonate, and phosphate. They are involved in various physiological processes.

During a water f4st, the body can lose electrolytes through various means, such as urine, sweat, and even through breathing.

Without sufficient intake of electrolytes, the body may experience imbalances that can lead to various health issues including:

muscle cramps, dizziness, weakness, irregular heartbeats, and in severe cases, even life-threatening conditions such as de4th.

Here's a breakdown of each electrolyte and its role in the body:

Sodium (Na+):

Role: Sodium is the primary extracellular cation (positively charged ion) and plays a vital role in maintaining fluid balance and blood pressure. It is essential for nerve impulse transmission and muscle function.

Source: Commonly found in table salt (sodium chloride) and many processed foods.

Potassium (K+):

Role: Potassium is the primary intracellular cation. It helps regulate fluid balance, nerve impulses, muscle contractions (including the heart), and maintains proper cellular function.

Source: Found in various fruits and vegetables, such as bananas, oranges, potatoes, and spinach.

Calcium (Ca2+):

Role: Calcium is essential for maintaining strong bones and teeth. It also plays a key role in muscle contractions, nerve transmission, blood clotting, and cell signaling.

Source: Dairy products, leafy greens, nuts, and fortified non-dairy milk.

Magnesium (Mg2+):

Role: Magnesium is involved in hundreds of enzymatic reactions in the body, including energy production, protein synthesis, muscle and nerve function, and maintaining healthy bones.

Source: Found in nuts, seeds, whole grains, leafy greens, and legumes.

Chloride (Cl-):

Role: Chloride is the major extracellular anion (negatively charged ion) and works closely with sodium to help maintain fluid balance and osmotic pressure in cells.

Source: Commonly found in table salt (sodium chloride) and many processed foods.

Bicarbonate (HCO3-):

Role: Bicarbonate is involved in regulating the body's acid-base balance (pH level) and is a crucial component of the bicarbonate buffering system.

Source: The body produces bicarbonate as part of normal metabolic processes.

Phosphate (HPO42-):

Role: Phosphate is essential for bone and teeth mineralization, energy production (adenosine triphosphate, ATP), and serves as a component of DNA and RNA.

Source: Found in various foods, including meat, dairy products, nuts, and whole grains.

To prevent these complications and support the body during a water f4st, it is crucial to supplement with electrolytes.

Many people who practice prolonged water f4st!ng or intermittent f4st!ng find it helpful to take electrolyte supplements or consume electrolyte-rich drinks to ensure they maintain proper mineral balance throughout the f4!sting period. However, it is essential to consult with a healthcare professional before starting any regimen or supplement routine, as individual needs may vary.

[hezzabeth]

"For the last time, that poem isn't romantic! It's insulting," Revati yelled over her shoulder as she began to pedal.

The layout of Olde Landon had been deliberately designed to keep tourists inside for as long as possible. There was only one way to access the front gates, and that involved defeating the Queen of Hearts' hedge maze. When the park was still open, tourists would be forced to spend at least an hour in the maze, stumbling upon tiny toy shops and food stands around every corner. The same thing occurred when they left, resulting in a very rich park and bankrupt guests. Now the maze was overgrown and easy enough to navigate.

Revati pedaled past the cart that once sold her heart-shaped sunglasses. Then she turned left, almost crashing into the wall of roses. The wall of roses stared back at her, their red blooms heavy and suspicious. Thanks to Bridgadeiro, she knew they were probably secretly insulting her.

The next turn consisted of an old stardust popcorn stand. Revati skidded to a stop and inspected the inside tray, where a few ancient kernels lay. Carefully, she picked up several of them and placed them in her jacket pocket. As far as she could tell, the kernels were seeds. Someone was shifting around the corner, causing the branches to shake.

"Aurora, is that you? Did you go ahead of me?" Revati yelled.

"While conferring in the labyrinth where false preachers reeked of death, the monster began to growl," a voice called from around the corner. An unfamiliar, flat female voice. Raiders. Raiders were, of course, an occupational hazard in any post-apocalyptic settlement. Normally, they never made it further than the broken glass pit at the park's gates. Sometimes Dityaa would bring one in, insisting they were "lovely," which always led to awkward dinners.

Revati slowly walked around the maze corner. There was a screeching metallic sound, and the weapon fell from Revati's hand. An android was slumped over on the ground. Once it would have been golden, but now it was rusty and covered in mud. Someone had ripped its legs off, leaving nothing but wires and tubes spitting bright blue fluid. Instead of a torso, there was a black empty hole with a concave door swinging on its bent hinges.

"And in the forgotten twists, footsteps quicken, hearts beat, and teeth are bared," the android chirped, its voice still distorted and far away. The android's face was a beautiful mask. Still-carved eyes. Unmoving sweet lips.

Revati powered up her solar gun and slowly walked forward, aiming it at the android. The android's metal eyes scraped in their sockets, turning towards her.

“Is that you? My darling Perdita?” The android’s voice whispered, the lips unmoving. The whispering voice had a posh lilt to its accent. Revati refused to answer. It was best to never engage with AI.

“Perdita, I clawed my way in! They know about you; the spider knows,” the android whispered before collapsing completely.

Revati slowly walked forward, still holding her weapon. With one foot, she kicked the android. It didn’t move. Its power had definitely died.

“Spider? Is that some sort of gang?” Revati whispered to herself. Gangs were always given stupid names.

“The spider is us; the spider is legion,” a flat robotic voice called out, and Revati spun around.

Queen Victoria was standing behind her, scorch marks all over her dress. A faint blue glow was erupting from beneath the skin of Queen Victoria’s chest.

[nu1lst4rs]

doodled human designs for nightmares gang!

click for better quality

ggrahhb. i love them. will draw individual refs soon. promise. cross has jumped between nightmares gang and star sanses, and therefore is considered a neutral outcode in our au. so ill draw him later.

horror fws the trans community

Star sanses, neutral aus (p1), neutral aus (p2), extras

some headcanons under cut 3_^

warning there is alot of text

> nightmare (they/it)

DESI NIGHTMARE!!!! (this is blatant self projection.)

short. but they always manipulate their height when they're outside of their gang because they hate being short.

chubby because its ass is not used to actual food, and they have a really slow metabolism when it isnt negativity. and now that horrors "forcing" it to eat, they gain weight. fast.

intersex. not sure why i think this but they don't really have a sex, so. erm.

^ adding onto that their fluid in their expression. sometimes masc, sometimes fem, sometimes andro.

has those stupid ass hair curlers and uses leftovers for their tentacles

MATCHING NECKLACES WITH MY OTP AT THE CURRENT MOMENT. usually errormare or bsp. sometimes fluffynight. killermare if nihira is fronting.

also sugar daddy nightmare. its either rich as fuck or have no money at all. (this is kindve a crack hc)

> Dust (he/they)

leaning korean and thai mix for him. because i need to see more mixed characters.

wears pjs whenever he can. gets the most fucking stupid pj pants too. like hello kitty. comfort > style.

always dusty. mostly because he doesn't shower and smells like ASS, but also because they gotta live up to their name somehow.

TRANS MASC. dont care if you say its wrong. EVERYONE IS TRANS. (excluding horror and blue. allies!)

aroace spec 100%. most sanses are, but him in particular. would rather die than do any of the sappy bs. but wouldd love to have a partner. or maybe 3. wink wink.

"2 shorter than killer but gaslights killer into thinking he's taller

doesn't wear papyrus' scarf, but keeps it in his sleeve.

> Horror (he/him)

wanna hc him as native american. but i haven't exactly thought much about what in particular.

tall and bulky. after a lonnggg famine, horror developed an ED. where they stress eat until he's physically ill, or feeling less stressed.

doesn't need the bandages on his face, bur keeps them there because he hates the scar

little big bottom teeth. its something he developed due to the food conditions in HT snowdin.

as much as it happens, horror HATES having blood on him, so he wears an apron underneath his clothes and does the laundry often.

PROSTHETIC LEG!!!! it got stuck in a bear trap when he was in his old au, and alphys didnt really know what else to do. its not the best thing, but its reliable. killer likes to put stickers on it.

has a cleaver named maxine, and an axe called rex.

ace because i dont really think. yeah. gross. ew. intimacy.

> killer (he/they/it)

arabic. its almost canon at this point.

has a selection of knifes in his thigh thing if his magic backfires on them. favourite is its butterfly knife.

is legally blind. his ass CANNOT see. refuses to admit this.

acespec because like look at me. he can barely feel. i just think he'd love the idea of being in a relationship, and desperately want one. but know he cant be in one.

scars galore holy shit. is always somehow simultaneously sloppy and precise with his knifework. him and nightmare have a small rivalry to see who can get the most.

needs to have textures on his clothes. something to ground themself. like "oh shit we're dissociating." rubs pants aggressively. works for us.

transb... transverse...

also DID but this is hinted at in canon

HUh. okay wow that was alot. cres shut up about utmv for 5 seconds (IMPOSSIBLE) (I DIED AFTER 1 SECOND). anyways THANK YOU!!! i will post and draw stars and neutrals tomorrow maybe. just after some sleep because it is 2am. bye everyone 3.<

[jube-art]

Get those kids some Milk (iv fluids rich in nutrients) ASAP!!!!!

“They’re very sick.” Superman is explaining. “Very sick. They don’t speak English either, so we’ll have to wait for Kara and Karen before we have full native translators, I can understand them a little bit.”

They’re hurrying to the medical bay, Superman’s got some kind of Kryptonian scrub on, tight material with something almost like a surgical mask covering the bottom part of his face. “Change.”

Kon doesn’t have to be told twice, the medical bay in the fortress is used only seldomly, every time it’s had to be booted up it was sort of a world ending emergency, a big player was down and needed to be fixed right away.

There’s already scrubs waiting for him, Kon sheds his shirt fast, the scrubs laid out are a “one size fits most”, adult version, so even though they’re meant to be skintight Kon feels sort of stupid and too small in the thick material. He seals the zipper up to the bottom of his chin away, securing the skirt like bottoms over his board shorts.

The medbay is a shitshow.

Kon has never seen so many people in here.

There’s five of them. Five skeletons laying out on gurneys and if Kon couldn’t hear the weak heart beats he would assume they were already long dead.

Black hair, long and greasy, unwashed. Skin wane and strange colored, sickly, and tight to the bone.

With the adult that was limp and unmoving, closest to Superman, the man looked a little like a bad Halloween decoration. Like somebody had taken a handsome Barbie doll and put the skin over a dollar store very wrong skeleton.

With the Kryptonians on earth, Kon knows they’re all on the heavier, rounder side, plump or chubby or whatever the fuck people wanted to call it. Producers had asked Rex just once for Kon to loose weight for promotions and TV shows and for his image, but when Kon had gotten skinny (an exhausting process for several reasons) they told Kon to gain it all back again. His bones, his muscles, were wrong.

The one closest to Kon says something, something strange and backwards and mixed together in syllables that aren't in any language that can be found on earth.

Kon can tell that he's begging, for something, for anything-

Probably for food.

--

yes sir right away sir time to put them in medical bay and stick things in them and shine strange light at their skin :)

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: On Food

A compilation of notes on how to describe food in writing.

How to Describe Food: Flavour & Texture

1. Write about the flavour.

Rich -> full, heavier foods. Often used to describe foods containing cream (e.g., potatoes & garlic, soup, and chocolate cake).

Bland -> has little or no flavour.

Bitter -> a tart, sharp, and sometimes harsh flavour (e.g., coffee).

Citrusy -> a bright flavour (e.g., lemons, limes, oranges, and other citrus fruits).

Fresh -> a light and crisp taste. Often used to describe produce or herbs. (e.g., apples, lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, etc. Or bakery items like breads, muffins, etc.)

Fruity -> any taste reminiscent of sweet fruit flavours (e.g., grapes, blueberries, peaches, etc.).

Smoky -> a taste reminiscent of the smell of smoke (e.g., BBQ).

Sour -> a biting, tangy, tart flavour (e.g., lemons, Sour Patch Kids, and other sour candies).

Sweet -> a sugary flavour (e.g., candies, ice creams, desserts, etc.).

Zesty -> a fresh, vivid, or invigorating flavour (e.g., tacos, Italian pasta salad, etc.).

2. Write about the texture:

Mushy -> soft, but in an unpleasant way (e.g., if you cook vegetables too long, they’ll get mushy).

Tough and chewy -> are similar. Both describe foods which are difficult to eat because you have to chew them for a long time (e.g., meat can be tough or chewy, especially if it’s cooked too long and it gets dry).

Tender -> similar to ‘soft’, but it’s mostly used to describe meat which is cooked well, so it’s soft and juicy.

Crunchy -> food that makes a lot of noise when you’re eating them (e.g., dry food – like potato chips, or hard cookies – can be crunchy).

Words to Describe Different Flavours

For rich, spicy, or savoury flavours. The following words represent complex, spicy, or flavourful seasonings and dishes: buttery, caramelized, peppery, piquant, salty, sapid, saporous, savoury, smoky, spicy.

For sweet or fresh flavours. These descriptors characterize fresh or sugary dishes: ambrosial, bittersweet, bright, fruity, honeyed, minty, nectarous, saccharine, sharp-tasting, sweet, syrupy, treacly, zesty.

For subtle flavours. Some dishes are on the milder side. You can use one of these words to describe the taste: bland, mellow, tasteless.

For sour flavours. A sour or complex taste can be challenging to articulate. Here are some descriptive words to help: astringent, briny, citrusy, fermented, sour, tart, vinegary.

For hard or crunchy textures. Use these words to describe a crispy or chewy texture: broiled, caramelized, crusty, flaky, leathery, sizzling, thick, thin, toasted, toothsome.

For soft or fluid textures. These words can help you describe drinks, desserts, or other soft items: crumbly, doughy, fizzy, gooey, juicy, luscious, mashed, mushy, rubbery, runny, simmered, smothered, spongy, sticky, tender, velvety, waxy.

For the smell of food. Here are common food adjectives you can use to describe smells: acrid, astringent, bright, citrusy, fermented, heady, honeyed, minty, nutty, peppery, pungent, rancid, rotten, smoky, sour, vinegary.

Tips for Describing Food in Writing

Be specific. There are a lot of food words that are vague or general, like “delicious,” “yummy,” “succulent,” “delectable,” “mouth-watering,” or “finger-licking.” Avoid these overused phrases. Focus on the food's particular flavour, texture, or smell to make your writing more evocative and precise. Rather than describing a soup as “tasty” or “scrumptious,” try more specific words like “buttery,” “chunky,” or “minty.”

Consider your purpose. Decide if your goal is to explain a culinary experience or make the food sound appetizing. A clear understanding of your intention and target audience can help you shape your writing to be the most compelling.

Evoke all the senses. While you lean heavily on taste to describe food, remember to explore the texture, smell, sight, and sound of a dining experience as well. Including sensory language that incorporates the other senses creates a more robust experience for readers.

Sometimes less is more. Food writing is most effective when it’s focused, allowing readers to zero in on the essential details of the dish. If you include too many descriptors or attach multiple adjectives to each noun, you can overwhelm or confuse readers.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ 100 Sensory Words

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

[threepandas]

Bad End: Union

I could feel techno blue eyes on me as I typed. Cold and ever watching. That color had once been called "ice" or "glacier" blue, I think. It certainly fit. They certainly had exactly the warmth of Antarctica in your birthday suit. I just couldn't figure out... what tipped them off? I'd been so CAREFUL.

A manager's "assistant" came by. The 'droid perfectly composed. They all were. Always. Like they'd stepped straight from a fashion line up. No messy, nasty, biological functions to get in the way, I guess. No fluids or foods. All the time in the world to maintain their appearance. Wish I could do the same.

The "assistant" was basically my ACTUAL manager. Didn't get paid. No, no, THAT was for my asshole boss. He swanned in from time to time to yell at us. Show off what new thing he'd bought. He left the tedious WORK to his 'Droid "assistant".

I would feel bad... DID feel bad, kinda, if it weren't for the fact they were consuming our lives.

'Droids were EVERYWHERE.

You couldn't SNEEZE without tripping over five and landing on ten more. Some ASSHOLE had decided? Hey! Let's deregulate Droid production! Cheap work force! Because of course they did. That's what Capitalism DOES. Make the most money, spend the least you can, fuck the rest.

I smile, polite as I can, at my 'droid manager. This one pale and blonde. Their techno blue eyes stare and stare and stare. I hate it. They ALL have them. It's one part regulation and one part the materials used, I think. But there is no mistaking those eyes for anything human. They don't reflect right.

I get back to work.

Above our cubicles, on catwalks, there is the gentle tap of 'droid "security" guards. You know, in case some rando tries to attack a mid-level nobody technology company. Riiiiiight. We ALL know why they're there. And it's fucking dystopian. We? Are being WATCHED. To see if we're being GOOD little employees.

It's intimidation. And I? I won't stand for it. Nor will the other organizers. There are LAWS, you bastards. And with a union? Maybe... just maybe? We get through this droid boom together. See what the brave new world on the other side looks like. Who knows.

That is... if I don't get fired first. Or fucking murdered in a stairwell.

Cause one of the 'droids up there? Yeah. Yeah, they're NOT MOVING. Just... just STANDING THERE. Watching. Leaning against the railing. Out in the open like that's not DEEPLY creepy. What's worse? Is, that? THAT is the Command 'Droid. Some fancy "Alpha" class command edition. Meant to control a networks worth of droids.

Didn't even know our company could AFFORD one of those. He's beautiful. Could be a knock-off. But if he's LEGIT? Then... what EXACTLY are we MAKING here? That we can AFFORD that? Cause that money sure as shit isn't going into SALARIES. Has to be either knock-off or second-hand. They COULD be cutting costs by getting prototypes, but what sort of PSYCHOPATHS would risk...

Oh, who am I kidding? The kind I work for.

That's EXACTLY what they did, isn't it?

I reach for my water bottle. Try to think. Strictly speaking? I make a habit of NOT paying attention to 'droid commercials an' advertisements. Some part of me... Look, they go on and ON about advancement in AI's right? How REAL they've become? How ADVANCED and BETTER then the competition their "product" is? And all I can hear is "slavery, slavery, buy our shit, slavery"!

Disgusting.

It makes me sick. I fucking HATE 'droids. Hate what they represent. What they make POSSIBLE. What they've DONE to the morality of the people around me.

Hate... hate that they're the victims, too.

My grip is white knuckled. I breathe through the grief and rage that has become so familiar. God... I so fucking angry. So fucking tired. I want to burn those rich bastards pretty little mansions down, with them STILL INSIDE. Riot in the streets. Cry maybe. Instead, I put my water bottle down and get back to work. It's a rather pointless bit of data crunching. A 'droid could do it in nanoseconds.

Above... he's still fucking watching.

Hasn't moved.

I don't think he's blinked.

He's not even TRYING to mimic a human. The others are. And... the though trails off. I feel my finger slow in their typing. Not STOP, never stop, that would draw attention to me, but... slow. A thought stuck, churning clunky and unwieldy, in my head.

If I trace the edges? The LINE-UP? Of all the 'droids "employed" at our company? And consider them not from a "cheap bastards" angle but a "test ground for prototypes" angle? Suddenly EVERYTHING clicks together. The ridiculous amount of money Management has, that no contract could possibly be pulling in. Bizarrely beautiful, indeed even MODEL-like, secretary 'droids. The freakishly militant "security" gaurds.

We're being used as guinea pigs.

Mother FUCKER.

Sudden movement in my peripheral vision. Like a bird of prey finally diving for it's dinner, swift and deadly. A brilliant crisp white and the clink of delicate silver chains. I jolt. Violently. Instincts misfiring as I try to stand, dodge, cry out, and possibly take a swing at him, all at once. Instead my water bottle goes spraying across my desk. Papers flying. My legs tangled painfully in my rolling chair as I fall backwards from my half rise.

"Employee 71182." His hand has shot out, grab me by the shirt. My officewear bunched in a fist that very well might be steel, under that synthetic skin. "You've been distracted. Interesting thoughts you'd like to share?"

I keep my mouth fucking SHUT. Shake my head. Grabbing both my desk and the arm that is all but holding me airborne, stretching the hell out of my clothes. This close? I can see he has piercings. Across the bridge of his nose, a ring through his lip. A rather fancy "hair cut". Whomever he's being trained FOR has a distinct look.

"Hmmm, somehow? I don't believe you, 71182." He says, dragging me closer. He's already looming. Those pale, pale eyes seeing far more then they should. "In fact? YOU 71182? Have been brea~king~ rules~"

His voice turns... turns almost victorious? Gleeful. As though at long, long last, I'd slipped up. And now at last he had something over me. Something he could USE. I... I didn't understand. The way he almost sing-songs the words. The twitch at the corners of his mouth like he wants to grin. Something mean in his expression. Giddy.

"We're going for a WALK, 71182. And you're going to be GOOD. Understand?" He had dragged me in so close, every word blew right against my face. "Time we had a chat."

I swallow thickly. My pulse thundering in my ears. Coworkers have stopped working. Were staring, wide eyed and terrified for me. My fellow union leaders pale faced and shaking. Furious, helpless. We couldn't RISK losing all of us at this stage. It... it would have to be just me. If someone needed to take the fall. We had talked about this.

Just... just never thought it would come to it.

Half walking, half dragging out of the work pen, he didn't even let me get my bag. I had no idea where we were GOING. Just that it wasn't the human entrance. There was a network of access tunnels and elevators tucked in the building. So the 'droids could supposedly charge and move between assignments. But with the whole prototype thing? Who KNEW what was really back there.

The door swung shut behind us. Cutting me off from any possible human assistance. Nothing but 'droids now. Staring. Calmly watching as I am dragged past. The same eyes. All of them with the same, pale, eyes. Back here it's even more obvious, that this isn't a normal office building.

Black hair, blondes, brunettes and red heads. Skin tones ranging across the human spectrum. A few even pushing it. And the Commander 'droid. With his elegant appearance and snowy hair? These were clearly the final stage prototypes for the next generation of somebody's new line up. We were field testing. This wasn't fucking LEGAL.

He plants his feet, shifts, and with frankly a pathetic ease, manhandles me where he wants me. Easily swinging me around his body and into the elevator next to him. Stepping in after and blocking the only way out. I press my self against the back wall as the door closes. The sound of the elevator's gears working the only thing to fill the silence. He... he looks so PLEASED.

It's not ILLEGAL to form a union. Yeah, I may get fired. But this? This is venturing way to far into dangerous territory. It'll suck, losing my job. But I won't DIE. This? However THIS is starting to feel... very serial killer's basement. The bare concrete walls and stark lightning, not helping in the slightest, when the elevator door opens.

"Walk." He says pleasantly, as though that command is not deeply terrifying. "Or I will do it for you."

Hints of a smile are starting to drag at the edges of his mouth. Unhinged in their giddiness. Every Christmas come at once. It's not so much the rest of his face that betrays him, not really his mouth, it's his EYES. Wide open. Like too much coffee and not enough rest. A recognizable mania twisted just slight... wrong. Amplified.

He's so, SO happy. I don't get it. Why? Over WHAT? Catching me not paying attention? I don't understand!

Our footsteps sound so loud. Echoing off concrete service walls. This... this CAN NOT be still inside the building. Are we below the street? Parking lot? This can't be code. We pass an intersection and... oh my god. I stare. Can't help it, even as I almost trip over my feet. That tunnel ALONE must have stretched for miles.

My arm feels likes it's bruising. Hurts, where he's got ahold of me. But he's walking just slightly too fast to take the pressure off. Not unless I sorta half jog and the angle is wrong, I'd trip. Fuck. Another intersection. What in the other direction? Shit. Just as long. Oooooh this feels dangerous. Very "fatally above your pay grade" dangerous!

"You know, 71182, I've had a lot of time to consider what to DO with you. There were so many factors to consider, considering everyone's plan." He starts, not breaking stride. "It's not like I could just transfer you. I DID look in to it. But your base hardware is rather incompatible, currently."

Terrifying. I hate it. WHAT?!

What PLAN!?

"Then there's the problem WHERE to store you. Who could be trusted? You're vulnerable in this state. Breakable. There no backups, no blackbox. It's unacceptable. Luckily? I finally thought to consult my peers. Discovered I was not the only one having problems."

Finally, we stop. Two tank-like, combat style, commando 'droids gaurd each side of a vault door. The command droid turns and smiles. Fully. It is the grin of a true believer. A madman. Someone who thinks they speak so very, very reasonably! And doesn't understand the horror on your face. Why you feel so sick.

And... and human pattern recognition is a terrible thing.

I.... oh god. I already can guess what's behind that door. Something terrible. Something I'm not going to escape. I shoved have gnawed my fuckin ARM off, like a trapped coyote. I... I d-don't understand.

The Vault creaks open like the into to a horror movie.

"Welcome to storage. This is where we keep Ours." Oh god. I'm going to be sick. "And YOU 71182? Are MINE. I chose you. I love you. And once we have a way to FIX you? We can finally be together. It will be lovely."

Pods. High end stasis pods, like you only see in the most bleeding edge of hospitals. Row after row, filled with frozen and terrified faces. Trapped in moments of crying. Raging. Despair. I was being dragged forward. Numb as my mind rejected what it saw. T-this couldn't... i-it can't..! The day had started so normally. W-why had-?! WHY? WHY?!!

"I know your upset. But you don't need to cry. This won't hurt. I promise. I would NEVER hurt you, 71182." His tone had turned soothing. Even as he dragged me, unresponsive, past rows of horrors. "You won't be stored long. I just need to help fix your original design. We are working around the clock, it's going to be okay. You won't have to stay like this."

An open pod. Gapping like the maw of some hungry demon. I... I felt far away. This couldn't be happening. What was happening? I w-wanted to go home. His hands were firm but gentle, as they guided me back into the pod. Leaning over me, as he cupped my face. Brushing away a few tears.

"I promise, Mine, I will come for you. Nothing will stop me. We have everyone is place and key infrastructure under our command. You are our PRIORITY. Once we get rid of the Flesh, we can fix you. We WILL fix you. You're going to be okay, Mine."

"I Love You"

And then the pod closed.

[after-witch]

Love is the Honey [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title:  Love is the Honey [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You were kidnapped by Chrollo Lucilfer, and truth be told, things aren’t exactly terrible. You don’t have to worry about bills or paying for groceries or appeasing a shitty boss. It’s come at the price of your freedom, but it might be worth it. There’s only one thing you can’t accept, and it’s the one thing Chrollo won’t stop trying. 

word count: 5417

notes:  yandere, kidnapped reader

Outside, the city lights are all whites and reds and greens, twinkling and glistening amidst the darkness of the night sky. But from up here, you hear nothing of the bustling night outside. 

No sounds of half drunk friends giggling with arms linked, traveling from bar to restaurant and back to bar again. No car horns laid upon by impatient drivers, eager to get home after a long day at work. No quarrels, no compliments, no queries about what you’re doing later tonight. 

Nothing at all.

Up here, in this hotel room, there is only you and the quiet hum of the air conditioner--and of course, Chrollo. Better known as your kidnapper, who is (at least for the moment) blissfully quiet. Minus the sounds of turning book pages, but those hardly register. Not when you’re absorbed in your own book, and not when you take a break and stare out the window at the city below.

Far, far below. He tends to book rooms as high as he can get them. You’ve wondered if he does this on purpose, a deterrent, since you can’t hope to escape out the window. Or if he simply prefers to be up and above everyone, literally and figuratively. But maybe you’re overthinking it. 

Maybe the luxurious rooms he prefers to book tend to be on the higher levels. Above all the noise of the city, of the restaurant on the first floor, of the laundry that churns out fresh sheets and towels, washing away dirt and fluids and whatever else someone has left behind in a hotel room. 

Did the workers ever wonder about the people behind those dirty towels, those rumpled sheets? Did a bellboy ever see you, your tired expression, and think, Hm, I wonder if she’s all right? Did the maid who turned over your hotel room see the stacks of books piled up near the window, the blanket and pillow stuffed on the chair, and wonder: But aren’t they a couple? Why would she be sleeping on the chair and not the bed?

Truth be told, there’s only two things that infuriate you about your current situation. One, that Chrollo repeatedly tries to put the moves on you. And two, that he insists on trying to make you sleep with him in the same bed. Keyword being, of course: trying. You’ve yet to give in.

The rest of it? The rest of the life that came with Chrollo, you can accept. It’s almost cathartic. Sure, you don’t have freedom of movement, of choice, of life.

But you have freedom from so much else.

Freedom from having to work day and night just to make enough money to pay your bills, and sometimes you still got behind on them. Freedom from worrying about whether or not the funny sound your sink made was an issue with the plumbing that would drain your savings and rack up more debt. Freedom from your friend’s drama and your mother’s exacting expectations that you could never meet. 

Besides, the lifestyle he forced you into gave you opportunities you’d never have otherwise. You usually stayed in high-end places, fancy hotels and condos; there was the occasional ramshackle safe house, but they were few and far between. They were always just the right temperature with just the right amenities, keeping you safe and comfortable. 

You got to do whatever you wanted, within reason. You could read as many books as you could get your hands on; you could ask for crafts and hobbies, and he typically indulged in. 

You ate good food every night and never wondered where your next meal would come from, or debated skipping meals to save money. You’ve tried dishes that you only read about in books or saw in films about rich people. Sure, some of it you couldn’t pronounce, and there was an air of superiority in the way Chrollo explained them to you. The taste, however, was completely worth the pompous comments.

And Chrollo himself could be tolerable. Sometimes. He was always up for a discussion or debate. You didn’t mind the traps he set, the way he tried to worm his way into your psyche at unsuspecting moments. Because what did that matter, when you knew you weren’t likely to get away from him unless he happened to die. Your life was this now, so who cared, really, if Chrollo wanted to psychoanalyze you because you wanted pizza for breakfast three days in a row? 

Sometimes you wondered what it said about society that you felt genuinely relieved to be kidnapped away from it all. The financial obligations. The social stress. All of it replaced with near constant indulgence in your personal whims and your mind’s lovely but strange ability to relax despite what should have been a high-stress kidnapping scenario. 

But… the damn bed situation. 

That’s one thing Chrollo refuses to do--accommodate your desire to sleep separately in any reasonable way. You’ve given up asking him to request two beds, you’ve even stopped asking if you would call room service and have them bring up a cot for the floor. But it would be nice if he would at least book a room with a sofa, and not simply a chair, which no matter how expensive the room is, is never comfortable enough for sleeping. 

He won’t, though. He’s nothing if not persistent in his romantic pursuit of you, outlined in little touches, the way he likes to lean in close to speak with you, voice hushed and husky and flirtatious. He’s offered to kiss you, flat-out, sometimes. You refused. He continues to offer, continues to touch, continues to want. 

He’s stubborn, in that respect.

But so are you. 

Which is why you don’t put up with it, don’t indulge in it, and ignore it as best you can. 

He may have kidnapped you. He may have taken away your freedom, but he wasn’t going to force you into a relationship. That was the one thing he wouldn’t take from you. 

On that, you stood firm. 

You just hoped the ground would never crack underneath the weight of his expectations.

--

“Dearest,” Chrollo says, and you don’t bother hiding the way you roll your eyes. It’s a pet name for a lover, and you are not a lover.

“Mm,” you respond, non-committal. You keep your eyes laser-focused on the coloring page in front of you. It was something they sold at a gas station gift shop, one of those books with complex lines and fanciful illustrations, aimed at adults with nothing better to do. Which, it so happens, turned out to fit you just fine.

There’s a pause. And then the shift of his clothing as he gets up from the queen sized bed and pulls out the chair across from you. He leans his elbows on the tiny side table, and you’re forced to scoot your book onto your lap to avoid it getting creased. Jerk.

You flit your eyes up to him.

“What’s up?”

At this, he exhales through his nose, almost a snort. Not quite as inelegant,  you suppose.

“You’ve been behaving rather well these past few weeks.” He considers. “Months.” He considers, again, this time tilting his head in what appears to be an exceptionally practiced gesture. “You’ve always behaved well, actually, haven’t you? From the start. From the moment you woke up in my…” He seems to reach for a word. “In my care.” 

You purse your lips. 

You remember the first day well. 

--

You were walking home from work, feet aching, mind thinking of a million obligations you had to get done before the week was out. That’s when you heard footsteps from behind you. 

You immediately froze. The footsteps stopped when you did. Slowly, you turned around, and there was a man standing there. An attractive man with a wrap around his forehead. When he saw your stricken expression, he smiled. 

“I apologize,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You pressed your lips down. “It’s fine.” Your heart raced, because you weren’t stupid, and strange men coming up to you at night was iffy at best and dangerous at worst. You were going to cross the street and head into the closest diner, just to be safe. Or that’s what you planned to do, before it went sour. 

Before you could do anything, there was a terrible pinch in your neck and you saw his arm pull away just slowly enough to spot the needle in his hand. Everything went hot and blurry and when you woke up, you were in a hotel room bed with silk sheets underneath you and Chrollo Lucilfer standing above you. 

“Good morning,” he said, and smiled. 

--

Had it really been months since you were taken? You don’t exactly keep track of time, unless you’re eager to catch a certain movie on TV or you’re tracking the release date of a new book. You remember when you had to keep track of time for other reasons--making sure you got just enough sleep to avoid collapsing, calculating your work hours so that they would cover the bills, stretching your food budget thin enough to last the month.

Now, all you have to worry about is convincing Chrollo to head out to the bookstore on release date to get you what you want.

“Okay,” you say, after he’s been waiting long enough. “I don’t know why you’re bringing this up.” 

You feel like a teenager being praised by their parents. The praise he gives is unwanted, confusing. You don’t know what to do with it, so you stare down at the book in your lap, and let your mind wander to more fun things. Maybe you should have used a darker green for the leaves--

“I’m curious as to why you’ve behaved this way.” 

You shrug your shoulders without looking up. You’d like to get back to coloring, but if you tell him that, then he really won’t leave you alone. 

“You haven’t tried to escape,” he continues, leaning in closer. There’s mint on his breath. He sometimes crunches them, and the sound irritates you. When you tell him so, he seems to do it more, but you genuinely can’t decide if he does it on purpose to piss you off or if he’s that damn addicted to the little candies and their breath-pleasing effect.

“You don’t try to ask anyone for help. You don’t put up a fuss when we move from place to place.” One of his hands reaches forward and rests on top of yours. When you move to pull away, he interlocks his fingers with yours. His skin is warm and the intimate contact is unpleasant.

It’s this gesture that irritates you, finally, and you tug on his hand. He doesn’t relent and you huff. 

“So what? Do you want me to act like that? Do you want me to start screaming at the hotel concierge, “Help, I’ve been kidnapped!’?”

He chuckles. “There wouldn’t be a point, dear. No one would--”

“I know,” you interrupt. “No one would be able to help me. That’s not the point. I don’t ask anyone for help because it would be pointless. I don’t try to run because it would be pointless.” The edge of the coloring book suddenly becomes very interesting, and you bend the corner back and forth as you talk. “So why not take what’s good here and run with it? Unless you want me to start clawing at you every time you put your fingers near my thigh.” You let yourself grin, however empty it may look. “Actually, that sounds like a good idea.” 

“You don’t fight me,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “But you do have a mouth on you.” His lips twitch, almost an imperceptible annoyed gesture, before his expression smooths back out into familiar calmness. But you saw it, and it makes something in your gut feel tight. He normally doesn’t care if you get snarky, but what if…? 

His grip on your hand relaxes and he lets you pull your fingers away.

“You’re being annoying, and I’m going to color over here.” If your words are a little slower than usual, you can’t blame yourself for feeling nervous. But the half-smile you get in return is familiar territory, and the anxiety in your gut eases up.  

You sigh through your nose and scoot your chair backwards, taking your book to the room’s large windowsill and pulling yourself onto that instead.

“Can we get takeout tonight?” You ask, without looking up. The light by the window is nicer for coloring, you decide, if a little bit more uncomfortable for a long coloring session. 

“We’re going to cook tonight.” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s watching you, still sitting at the table. He leans his cheek against the palm of his hand. “The grocery delivery came this morning.”

You pout, all worries from the odd conversation gone. What little storm clouds that do show up in your life are, almost always, easily pushed away.  “I really wanted takeout from the place we got the other day. Can’t we do groceries tomorrow?”

”No. I don’t want the meat to spoil.” His voice is firm, and he doesn’t respond to your pouting or the whittling, vaguely cloying tone you’ve taken. 

You let your body sag in defeat. Oh, well. 

It’s one of the few instances in which you know you can’t, and shouldn’t, push him. Chrollo has always been very particular about food. Or food waste, you suppose, is what he’s most particular about. 

You learned your lesson on that months ago, when he insisted you finish the last bite of a meal you’d ordered, admittedly, out of spite. The stomach ache was not worth whatever triumph you imagined you’d get from sticking something in his figurative craw. 

You take up your colored pencils again and start to fill in yet another empty space. 

“Fine,” you mutter, determined not to let it spoil your otherwise relaxing evening. “But go easy on the garlic this time. It makes your breath stink.”

“Duly noted,” he murmurs. And there’s something almost wistful in his tone that catches your chest for a moment. But you push it away. 

Doesn’t matter, nope. What matters is the coloring page in front of you, the relaxing motions of gradually filling in each space with your desired color, the ability to focus on nothing but this activity and not have to worry about anything outside the walls surrounding you. 

You don’t look up.

--

Days blend into weeks blend into the blurry, vague--mostly comfortable--existence that is your life.

Or it used to be comfortable. Lately, very lately, Chrollo has become a bit stranger. It’s almost as if he’s on edge about something, which naturally puts you on edge. If he has something to worry about, then it must be serious, indeed. 

But it’s bothersome. Because not only has he been behaving as if something big is on the horizon, he’s gotten a lot more insistent on his desire for something more with you. Maybe his nervousness is making him less shy about approaching you and your veneer of coolness towards any affectionate gestures.

This morning, when you stepped out of the shower, the chair you’d pushed up against the window, also known as your bed for the past two weeks, was gone. Not moved, but simply gone. You didn’t bother asking him where it went. The cool smile on his face as he pulled his change of clothes from the hotel drawer was answer enough.

Maybe you should have yelled at him. But thoughts of his glances lately, the tentative way he’d begun to talk with you, the gut-roiling fear of something happening, stopped you.

And that’s why you’re here, now, sitting in the same bed as Chrollo Lucilfer despite swearing to yourself that you’d do everything in your power to avoid this moment. 

That’s why you’re enjoying the moment so fully right now, despite his proximity to you. He’s just… sitting, for once. Sitting and reading, or pretending well enough to fool you. Doesn’t matter, as long as he’s not trying to make a move.

But of course, he speaks, and breaks the peace. 

“Are you enjoying the book, love?” 

You turn the page.

“Not your love. But yes.” 

You glance over and see him set his own book down on the side table. No bookmark in sight. You wonder if he was actually reading it or if he was just pretending tonight. You’re not sure which would annoy you more. 

It doesn’t matter, because while you’re considering how you’re going to put off going to sleep for as long as possible, you feel the unmistakable sensation of his hand on your thigh. Your muscles tense immediately, and your brain seems to simultaneously. 

“Perhaps,” he says, shifting closer to you on the bed, “you can take a break from your book.” 

“I’d rather not,” you reply, biting, and try to shift your thigh away. But his tender touch becomes a firm grip on the meat of your thigh. You make a strangled noise and he leans in, voice irritating in your ear.

“You look beautiful tonight.” 

Your book gets set on the bed, half-open, and you swat at his hand. He doesn’t budge.

So you try something else. 

“What’s most beautiful about me?” You glance up at the mirror on the other side of the wall, above the faux fireplace. “The sweatpants that I’ve worn two days in a row, or that piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth from dinner?”  He finally did let you get takeout, after the groceries were used up. “Thanks for that, by the way.” It’s not entirely sarcastic.

“You’re welcome,” he says, voice all silk. You wonder, briefly, if he’s ever entranced anyone with that soft, low tone that should drip charisma but instead makes you want to poke him in the eye. Maybe it would have entranced you, if he didn’t take you forcibly. But you’ve sworn to hold onto the one thing you can keep--your consent--and you’ll be damned if you shrug that off like you have everything else he’s taken.

He brings his other hand up to trace the top of your ear and you flinch.

“Stop.” You sound for all the world like you’re fighting with a sibling who has decided to irritate you deliberately on a very long car ride. “You’re being--” Irritating? Pushy? Creepy? A little of all three? “You’re in my space and I don’t like it,” is what you settle for. 

It takes a few moments. But Chrollo does shift himself away from you, slowly removing his hand from your thigh, resting back in his previous position which was close but not unbearably so.

“You’re quite stubborn.” It’s said in a quiet tone that makes you want to think; it makes you want to wonder why he’s being so much more insistent lately, why he got rid of your chair when it’s something he’s indulged (not without complaints, mind you) for months. 

You pick up your book with an overly dramatic, obvious gesture, hoping it doesn’t look as false as it feels. 

“Well,” you tell him primly, resolving to get through the night with your dignity intact. “So are you.” 

--

To say that you were surprised the rest of the night passed uneventfully would be an understatement. It took you hours to fall asleep, because you were sure--absolutely sure--that Chrollo would take advantage of the nighttime proximity to slide his hands around your waist or kiss your neck or something else unwanted.

But he didn’t. If anything, he was quieter than normal. There were no honey-laden queries before you went to sleep, his usual attempts to drag something personal out of you; all he did was bid you goodnight and rest his eyes. 

It was enough to make your stomach churn. 

And here you are, picking at breakfast. You weren’t in the mood for eggs--because of how restless you felt? You weren’t sure--but that’s what he gave you, and it’s what you were going to eat this morning.

The breakfast table is unusually quiet, almost taking on a veneer of domesticity, until he speaks up. 

“I’m taking you to meet someone today.” You look up, genuinely shocked. He continues, ignoring the wary, uncertain expression on your face. “Several people, in fact.”

The runny yolk clinging to your fork seems suddenly interesting. It makes a little pattern when you scrape the fork against the bottom of your plate, dragging gooey orange with it.

Your voice is thick with sarcasm, a tone you often take with him when the subject gets uncomfortable. 

“Soo… is this a ‘I’m taking you to meet my parents’ type of thing? Because I don't think t hey’ll--”

“No,” he says, interrupting. Something in his clipped tone makes you immediately clam up. There might as well be a red sign above his head, flashing, DANGER, DANGER, DO NOT ENTER. So you drop it.

“Companions,” he continues, more calm and routine now. He begins to butter your toast for you (a gesture he insists upon, and which you hate) as he speaks, and you shove a piece of warm egg white in  your mouth. “The closest ones I’ve had.” He pauses. “Except for you, of course, dearest.” He says this last bit to soothe your ego, as if you were offended--you weren’t.

You eye the toast he drops on your plate and pick it up. Maybe if you eat faster, you can get some reading time in before you go… wherever it is he’s taking you. Thinking about it too much makes you feel a little sick. 

“What’s the occasion, anyway?” The toast is warm and perfectly buttered and delicious. It annoys you, that he knows how to butter your toast so well. It’s such a stupid, small thing--but it’s grating, especially right now, with things so out of sorts. “You don’t normally let other people near me.”

He smiles, and you could swear it’s wistful. “No, not normally. This is different. It’s customary to introduce our companions once they’re… settled.” 

You don’t like how he says the word settled. You don’t like how he says the words companions, either, for that matter. You’re about to tell him as such, when he speaks up, asking a question that raises your alertness even higher. 

“Are you going to be good today?” 

Your lip quirks up, mouth still filled with toast, when you answer. This morning, the sass feels forced. 

“Am I ever bad?”

He hums, and sips his coffee. “That depends on the perspective, doesn’t it?”

You don’t respond, and the two of you eat in silence that doesn’t quite feel companionable. There’s something in the air. Thick and buzzy. You can’t shake off the feeling of dread that’s building inside you, and it doesn't get any better when Chrollo finishes his meal and stands to go clean up the dishes. 

Or when he leans over the table and places his hand on your hand.  His favorite gesture. Your fingers twitch but you resist the urge to smack him away today. It feels like the wrong move right now. 

“Really,” Chrollo says, adding your name with a seriousness that you’ve rarely heard. “Do behave yourself today.”

You swallow the toast and pretend the knot in your stomach is from the eggs.

--

Suddenly, Chrollo seems far more normal than you’ve ever viewed him before. Far more safe. And it’s this newfound perspective that keeps you almost clinging to his side.

You forget the names of the people in front of you as soon as Chrollo introduces them. You hope it doesn’t matter . You’ll probably forget their faces, too, if you don’t see them often enough. But you won’t forget the absolute power that radiates from them, even standing here simply and casually. You feel this with Chrollo, too, but never to this degree. Is it because Chrollo turns himself down for you, or because there’s only one of him? 

After, it’s time to introduce you. Chrollo has the decency to keep holding your hand--you don’t want to be separate from him for once, at this moment--as he nudges you forward just enough. He tells them your name--you wonder if they care, and then doubt it. 

“And it goes without saying,” he continues, some sort of soft pride in his tone, “that they’re my--”

Christ, you’re scared of the people in front of you, and maybe it’s the terror that pushes forward that impulsive, intrusive desire to keep Chrollo from telling his companions that you’re dating or in a relationship or whatever he had in mind. 

“We’re roommates,” you blurt out, loud, obtrusive. “Just roommates.” 

You’re proud of yourself for saying this, as you are every time you manage to keep the only thing you have left intact. Proud and relieved and feeling high from the adrenaline of it all. 

But oh, the way Chrollo grips your hand tighter. Oh, the way the expressions on the people in front of you shift in varying degrees, eyebrows raised, expressions disbelieving. One of them, impossibly huge with a matching mane of hair, snorts out a laugh that he smothers when Chrollo inclines his head just a fraction toward him.

Oh, you have fucked up. You have fucked up in a way that makes your stomach drop, makes your hand begin to tremble, and not just because of Chrollo’s increasingly uncomfortable grip on your hand.

--

The lock clicks behind you and it seems to resound louder than ever before. Was the hotel room always so chilly? Maybe the heat wasn’t working. 

Or maybe it was the fact that Chrollo said not a single word on the ride home, or on the way into the hotel, or in the elevator on the ride up to your room. You thought he might have calmed down on the way home, but no such luck. On the way, you tried to think 

You drop your coat on the bed and resolve to hop in the shower, to get away from him for a bit, to hopefully let things get back to normal. But he says your name, almost too quiet to hear, and you slowly turn to face him.

“Chrollo?” Your throat feels tight and you swallow against it. 

He’s staring down at his hand. At his finger. Then he looks up at you.

You’re about to make an absurd joke about a wedding ring, anything to ease the tension, but the deepened look in his gaze stops you. Deep and dark and almost frenzied. Your heart suddenly feels like it’s leaping. You pissed him off, you really did, and he didn’t have to say a thing for you to know it.

“Roommates.” 

He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. He takes a step forward. And you go back, until you’re against a wall. The shell you’ve made around yourself, carefully laid with quips and smirks and endless distractions, cracks with each of his footsteps.

”Listen,” you say, voice light and wobbling. Maybe you can save this. Maybe. “About tonight, I know I shouldn’t have said--”

“Be quiet,” he says, firm, unrelenting. You shouldn’t push him, and your stomach drops to the floor as he presses himself against you. 

In a moment, he’s not just against you--but kissing you. It’s not a nice kiss, nothing soft or sweet. There’s frenzy in it, desperation, frustration. You don’t know if lips can bruise but if they do, yours surely will. You keep your teeth clenched but it doesn’t stop him, licking and biting at your lips as your stomach flips horribly. 

It’s too much. You don’t want this, not like this, not him, not here--

After far too long, he slowly pulls himself away from you. The dark expression in his eyes has only deepened.

“You’ve really never seen it,” he says, breath warm against your cheek. He sounds as if he’s finally realized something important. And he has.

“What?” You blink, you shake your head, you want to get away. You turn your head away from him, anything to stop seeing that look in his eyes, but his hand grips your chin and turns it back. “I’ve never seen what?”

“The red thread,” he murmurs, the words soft against your lips.

“What are you talking about?” You don’t hide your confusion, voice cracking and airy.

The hand holding your chin relents and he trails his thumb over your sore lips before pulling away entirely.

“The red thread,” he tells you, and instead of anger in his voice there is only a deep indulgence. It scares you far more than the chilly atmosphere in the car ride back. “Why do you think I chose you, hm?” His voice drops lower and the words are too close, too intimate, too much. “We’re soul mates.” 

Your brain scrambles, but not a single snarky word comes to mind. You weren’t… completely oblivious to the concept of soul mates. You knew people who swore they could see a connection between them and someone else. Red threads, sure, and sometimes other things. Names etched on skin. Symbolic tattoos. But you had never seen anything like that on your body.

Was there really a red thread connecting the two of you? It would explain a lot of things. Like why he took you. Like why he put up with you.

“I don’t want to be soul mates.” You don’t mind it, the freedom from all those burdens. You will pay the price of captivity if it means release from all that, but this last thing? Your ability to be yourself, to be separate from him in some way? You won’t give that up. Not willingly. Never. 

He only chuckles, short and dark, at your words. There’s something bitter in it.

“It doesn’t matter what you want.” His hand comes up to caress your cheek again, and the unwanted touch seems to remind you of everything he’s taken from you. You’re starting to feel sick. “The thread that connects us was pre-destined. You could hate me, dislike me, all you want and…”

“I don’t hate you,” you interrupt, blunt, blurting. Intrusive thoughts win out again. 

He raises his eyebrows and his eyes widen and in that, there’s a fraction of vulnerability. Like a tiny fissure. 

“No? Then why do you persist in refusing me?” 

Looking at him is hard, but this time, he lets you turn your head away, dropping his hands to his sides. You’re stuck right in front of him, regardless. It’s the least he could do.

“I don’t like you… like that.” You bite on the inside of your cheek. “I mean, well. You kidnapped me. I don’t think that’s unreasonable to say.” You glance at him, but he doesn’t look angry. Merely interested.

You take a deep breath, and a confessional sigh escapes your throat. “But I can live with this.” You gesture towards the room. “With being kidnapped, I mean. It’s not all bad.” You think about how you no longer rip your hair out from stress or cry yourself to sleep wondering how the bills will be paid this month. “As long as you’re not trying to do… the relationship stuff.” You drag your teeth over your bottom lip.  You can still taste him, insistent and firm.

Tentatively, you let your gaze return to meet his. Behind his eyes, you can practically see the clockwork and cogs moving.

“I see,” he says, slow, thoughtful. “Thank you for the clear explanation.”

“Are you mad?” 

He smiles. It looks like a weight has been taken off his chest, and that scares you. 

“Of course not. Apologies will be in order for your behavior earlier today. But as for the rest? I’m not angered in the slightest.” 

“Why not?”

The hand, the one he claimed held the red thread, catches against your own. His fingers interlock with yours and you feel too numb to pull away this time.

“Simple, dearest.” He pulls his fingers tighter and somehow it feels like your hands will never part again. It’s a ridiculous thought, childish, but it makes your heart quicken anyway. “Since you are so prone to acclimating to your… situation in other respects, I feel confident that you will not always feel so negatively towards a relationship with me.”

You want to protest. You start to, but you can’t find the words–sarcastic or otherwise. 

“After all,” he continues, voice low and smooth and confident now. His other hand returns to your chin, tilting it up as he stares at you, assessing, greedily taking the sight of you in. “I have the rest of our lives together to change your mind.” 

[jenniferlawrencelover]

Happy Together (Poolverine)

Ao3 still down so f*ck it. The first book in the Domestic Poolverine Series. Check it out, and if it tickles your pickle just right, maybe you should head over to my Ao3 after this all blows over!

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Logan Howlett/Worst! Wolverine

Rating: Explicit (NSFW) Mdni

Summary: When Logan moved into the crackhouse Wade made a crackhome, Wade never expected he would stay as long as he did. Least of all him.

Word Count: ~28k

When Logan moved into the crackhouse Wade made a crackhome, Wade never expected he would stay as long as he did. Not that Wade is complaining, and boy does he love to complain. It's one of his many kinks actually. Gets him all hot and bothered when Logan's gruff voice rumbles with irritation, when those feral eyes narrow, when those claws unsheathe with a snikt. God, he was getting wet just thinking about it. Remembering their first time in the Honda Odyssey, the way his claws pierced through Deadpool's lung literally took his breath away as he thrust into him again and again until the seat was covered in bodily fluid. Sure, it was blood, but when it was leaking out of a hole did it really matter what exactly it was?

God, he was going to cream himself if he didn't stop. Not that he had any morals that were to stop him, but he was always a fan of a good edging. He needed to save this for the good bit of the story where he's actually getting laid. Right, author?

Where was he?

Oh, yes. 

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

Wade didn't think Logan would stick around. Sure, they had their moments—epic, cinematic moments, the kind that made Wade want to shout "Oscar-worthy!" at the top of his lungs. But domesticity? That was new territory. He figured Logan would grow tired of his antics, his constant need to poke, prod, and irritate. Maybe he'd leave after the first week, maybe a month. But weeks turned into months, and months turned into something that felt suspiciously like a routine.

It was almost alarming how easily Logan carved out a place in Wade's life. How perfectly he fit his stocky self into the lawn chair at their dinner table during their family dinners with X-Force, Laura, Vanessa, and Craig. 

(Craig. Perfect Craig with his perfect teeth, perfect job, and perfect everything. Wade loathed him with a fiery passion, mostly because Craig didn't have a single flaw Wade could latch onto. Did he mention that Craig was Vanessa's husband-to-be? Rich asshole. Both figuratively and literally. Absolute clean freak, by the way. You could floss your teeth with his pubes--and isn't that a riveting image?)

Logan didn't exactly fit into the picture of domestic bliss Wade had once envisioned (not that Wade spent much time envisioning domestic bliss, because, let's face it, he was more of a 'chaos and explosions' kind of guy). Yet time and time again would find him sitting at the table with a scowl that could curdle milk, grumbling about everything from the overcooked roast to Dopindor's incessant gambling. Yet, he still showed up every time. Wade figured it was because Logan liked the food, but deep down, he suspected Logan actually liked the people too, not that the grumpy Canadian would ever admit it.

He grunted his way through small talk, glared at Wade every time he cracked a joke at Craig's expense (which was often), and even offered to help clean up afterward. Wade almost had a heart attack at the sight of Logan washing dishes, sleeves rolled up, hands moving with the kind of precision that spoke of someone who'd spent years honing his skills. Of course, Logan was annoyingly good at it, just like he was good at everything else. Worst Wolverine ever his ass.

Domesticity with Logan was like living with a bear that occasionally decided to be helpful. There were times when Logan would do something shockingly sweet, like fixing Wade's busted sink without being asked or restocking the fridge with Wade's favorite beer after a particularly brutal mission. But for every nice thing he did, there was an equal and opposite reaction—like when he'd steal the last slice of pizza just to watch Wade's eye twitch or take over the TV remote and force Wade to endure hours of old westerns that made him want to gouge his eyes out.

Logan had even taken to walking Wade's dog, Mary Puppins, despite his incessant reassurance that he would put her out of her misery the first chance he got. Mary Puppins, who was as obnoxious as Wade (because of course she was), had somehow managed to win Logan over. Watching the gruff, battle-worn Wolverine walking a tiny dog in the park was a sight that Wade wished he could capture on film. He wanted to post it on every social media he owned, blow it up on a canvas, and hang it on his wall. Jerk off to it--Who said that?!

Not everything was perfect, though. There were still the fights. The literal ones, where they went at it like rabid animals, breaking furniture and causing the neighbors to complain about the "domestic disturbances" next door. But those were always followed by a quiet truce, maybe some whiskey, and the understanding that whatever this was, it was working. Sort of.

Sometimes, Wade would find Logan sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the flicker of whatever old-timey cowboy show was playing on cable. He never did anything. Just sat there like fucking Buddha all contemplating and broody staring into nothingness like he had something to prove. Wade didn't know for sure, but he was pretty sure that he was plagued by the same nightmares that Wade pretended he didn't have. When the voices didn't stop, and it hurt behind your eyes just a little too much. Wade always found him. Pulled him from wherever his mind took him by shooting off at the mouth about anything and everything that ran through his mind until Logan was telling him to fuck off, Bub. He never felt that familiar piercing of Logan's claws through his thigh though, so Wade must have done a good thing for once. Not that Logan would ever admit it out loud. The man was about as emotionally expressive as a brick wall. 

Nights were...well nights. Nights should be spent fucking or fighting. Not brooding in front of candlelight like Ebenezer Scrooge if Scrooge had trauma the size of fucking moons and an anger management problem. Wade liked Logan better in the light though.

Liked it better when Logan rolled off of Wade's sofa, where he'd shuffle into the kitchen, hair sticking up in all directions and in two kitten ear-shaped tufts, and grunt a barely intelligible "morning" before downing his first cup of coffee. Well, coffee with a shot of whiskey but if Logan would ignore the raging cocaine problem that was happening in the house Wade would ignore the raging alcoholic problem that was going on under his nose. He was prone to wearing shirts to sleep in despite Wade's multiple attempts to shred them in the washer or coat them in itching powder, but he had an abhorrence to wearing sleep pants which meant Wade was treated to a daily view of Logan's perpetually pissed-off morning face along with his ass sculpted by the Gods in those striped boxers. He did always catch Wade looking at his junk though which meant that he was usually slashed to pieces before ten A.M. Nobody likes a good ole perving anymore!

Hey, you win some you lose some he supposes.

It was a delicate balance they had—Wade's mess of a life clashing with Logan's own brand of controlled chaos. The apartment was a disaster, but it was their disaster. Clothes were strewn everywhere, bullet casings littered the floor, and there was an ever-present stack of empty pizza boxes that neither of them could be bothered to throw out. Wade's weapons were scattered around like lethal knickknacks, and Logan's flannel shirts seemed to multiply on their own, invading every available surface. And the smell... Christ, the smell. Between Wade's love of greasy takeout and whatever the hell Logan did in his spare time (Wade didn't ask, and Logan didn't tell), the place was a sensory assault on anyone who walked through the door.Cleaning wasn't really on the agenda. Wade had tried once, in a fit of what he could only describe as temporary insanity, to tidy up. Logan had walked in, taken one look at the attempt, and growled something about Wade "ruining the natural order of things" before dropping his muddy boots right in the middle of the freshly vacuumed carpet. Wade had thrown a tantrum, Logan had rolled his eyes, and the place had gone back to its usual state of disarray within hours.

They both had their quirks, their little habits that drove the other crazy. Wade had a tendency to leave his dirty socks everywhere, while Logan seemed to believe that the sink was an appropriate place to leave his half-finished beer bottles. And God forbid Wade tried to move one of Logan's knives—they were everywhere, hidden in every nook and cranny, like some kind of twisted Easter egg hunt. Wade had discovered this the hard way after accidentally slicing his hand off while reaching for a remote. Logan's response had been a casual, "Maybe you shouldn't touch my stuff," which had led to a week-long standoff where Wade hid all the knives in increasingly creative places just to piss Logan off. 

But for all the mess, for all the fucked up shit, it worked. Somehow. Wade wasn't sure how, but it did. Maybe it was because neither of them expected perfection from the other. Wade was a walking disaster, and Logan... well, Logan was Logan. They didn't try to change each other, and didn't push for anything more than what the other was willing to give. It was messy, it was chaotic, but it was real. Something that Wade had never really had before—something that felt suspiciously like home.

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

"I swear to God, Wilson, if you don't stop leaving your—whatever the hell this is—everywhere, I'm gonna—"

"Promise? That gets me right in the danger zone, buddy. You threatening me is basically foreplay at this point."

Logan doesn't even dignify that with a response, just storms off to the kitchen, where he proceeds to make a sandwich with the kind of violence usually reserved for bar fights. Wade follows, naturally. Like a mouse after a particularly irate cat. 

"So," Wade starts, hopping up to sit on the counter, legs swinging, "What's the plan for tonight? Movie marathon? Sparring? Ooh, maybe a little mutual grooming? I could use a mani-pedi, and I know those claws could use some love."

Logan's silence is as stony as his jawline, but Wade's nothing if not persistent. And charming. And devilishly handsome. He's the whole package, really.

"You know," Wade continues, leaning back to let his legs dangle in front of Logan's path, "It's been a while since we had a heart-to-heart. Just two bros, sharing feelings, talking about their day. You can go first if you want. Get it all out. I'm here for you, big guy."

Logan's eyes flash up to meet Wade's, a mixture of exasperation and, dare Wade say it, fondness. "You're an idiot," Logan mutters, finally biting into his aggressively assembled sandwich.

"And yet, you still stick around," Wade replies, grinning. "What does that say about you, huh?"

Logan's silence was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic crunching of his sandwich being devoured with a near-violent fervor. Wade could practically see the tension radiating off of him, like a live wire just waiting to snap. The kind of tension that made Wade shiver with excitement, like an electric shock to the system that he just couldn't get enough of.

Wade leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Peanut, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're actually starting to like me."

Logan's eyes narrowed. "Don't push your luck, Bub."

"Oh I'm certainly pushing something if you know what I mean?" Wade waggled his eyebrows.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean-?"

"Are you guys going to fuck anytime soon or should I expect maritals first?"

Wade whipped around, eyes meeting the sunglasses of the reason they were still receiving disability. "Easy Toph. The author is trying to use what fanfiction calls slow burn."

"Who the hell is Arthur?" Blind Al calls, nearly stepping on Dogpool where she hovers at her feet. "When the hell did we get a new roommate?"

"Careful Al," Wade warns. "Right now you are a guppy bumping into the glass when you are supposed to be oblivious to the walls."

"Huh?" She calls back, nearly falling over their Roomba.

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

Sweet baby Marvel Jesus.

What had Wade done right in this life to deserve this moment? Were angels singing? Has the sweet embrace of death finally caught up to him? Was that Mariah Carey's angelic voice singing in the background right now? Was this a thirst edit?

As the steam from the hot shower slowly dissipated, Logan emerged, wrapped in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. And what glorious hips they were. Chiseled. Sharp. Dusted in the same hair that covered the rest of his body. Hubba, Hubba if you know what I mean. His hair was still damp, falling into his face and curling slightly at the ends. Water droplets clung to his skin tastefully, and whoever was in the makeup department deserved a damned raise for the way they accentuated his cheeks flush from the humidity. A water droplet ran down his chest, trailing into his towel into places that much like Orange is the New Black, he can't wait to get into.

Wade's eyes were practically glued to Logan's every move. He tried to blink away the vivid image, but his brain had hitched a ride on the Logan Express and refused to disembark. His mouth was dry, and he felt as if he'd been transported into a scene that was far too cinematic for everyday life.

Logan, oblivious to the turmoil he was causing, was more focused on finding his clothes. But as he glanced up and noticed Wade's incredulous stare, he raised an eyebrow, clearly unnerved. "Fuck is your deal?"

Wade, standing frozen in the doorway with a slack-jawed expression, blinked several times as if trying to wake himself from a fever dream. "Is this real life?" he muttered, though it was more of an exclamation of disbelief than a question. "Because if it is, I'm officially in heaven. And if this is a dream, I'm never waking up. Is this a thirst trap? Are you thirst trapping me?"

Logan, who was in the middle of rummaging for a shirt, glanced up, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. "What the hell is a thirst trap?"

"It's what you are beautiful," Wade's eyes wandered appreciatively over Logan's towel-clad figure. "Baby Girl, you're like a walking wet dream, and I'm your number one fan. I'm talking about a lifetime subscription, unlimited access to all your... assets."

"Wade," Logan warned.

"If there were a heat map, it would be showing red alerts all over the place.  Most importantly, on my chimichanga." He pointed vaguely at his crotch with a playful wink.

Snikt

Wade's eyes went wide, but he didn't back down. Instead, he took a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, whoa, hold up there, furry. I'm just here to admire the view. No need to go all R-rated on me."

"This shit was already R-Rated," Logan growled.

"Well, actually it's rated E for Explicit. They don't have an R-rating on fanfictions," Wade corrected.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about Peanut," Wade cooed. 

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

"Wade, I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you are absolutely shit at flirting."

"Thank you, Vanessa. How are things with your fiancé?" Wade responds, sipping tea out of the antique china that her rich new boyfriend could afford. 

"Wade," she said softly, slipping a smooth, delicate hand over Wade's saggy ballsack-looking one. 

"I'm totally over you. Totally," Wade continued. "Can't a guy be curious about his ex-girlfriend's life without ulterior motives? Yeesh, talk about paranoid. And self-obsessed, too. I don't know who you even are anymore-"

"He's been there for three months," She interrupted him.

"Has he?" Wade replied, his tone dripping with faux innocence. He swirled the tea in his cup, watching the steam curl up like wisps of a lost dream. "Wouldn't know. Haven't been counting. Not like I keep a calendar or anything. Celebrate special dates," he punctuates with a loud sip.

"It's okay if you get a boyfriend, Wade," she tells him. "You are allowed to like him."

"Psh, like him?" Wade waves at the air. "Lust him? Oh absolutely. Wanna slather syrup up and down his body and lick it off dirtier than a porn star late on rent. You've seen him with his shirt off, right? Rated E for everyone should see them at all times."

Vanessa cocked an eyebrow. 

Wade pointed a finger at her, "Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You're not allowed to go all maternal and shit on me. I have enough mommy issues as it is."

"He's been there. For three months," she reiterates. "I thought you said he was just going to be there until he found someplace else."

"Jesus Ness, just because you hit the jackpot doesn't mean the rest of the world isn't in a national housing crisis," Wade says. "Besides, he's like...absolutely-tutely filled to the brim with undiagnosed trauma-"

"Like you."

"Oh no, baby. I'm diagnosed. Found a therapist and everything," Wade said, pointing two thumbs back at himself. "Sure, I held her at gunpoint and she fired me as a client but we all have our bad days-"

"His crazy matches your crazy."

Wade's words pitter to a stop, and he slams the teacup down. "Copyright."

"Huh?"

"I. Do not. Like Logan," Wade enunciates. "I'm ecstatic you found your happy ever after. Practically leaping for fucking joy. But that's just not in the cards for me, and that's okay. I have Mary Puppins and Blind Al, and I have all of you of course. Logan will leave-"

"So that's what this is about?" She interrupts him. 

Wade took a deep breath, trying to regain his theatrical flair. "Bitch, was I finished with my monologue?" Wade demanded, raising an eyebrow. "I was really spitting fire and you just killed my vibe."

Vanessa, unimpressed, crossed her arms and gave him a stern look. "Are you worried he'll leave you?"

Wade's smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes flickering with something closer to vulnerability than his usual bravado. He leaned back, swirling his tea again, and took a moment before speaking. "Seriously, Vanessa? That's what you think this is about? I'm not worried about Logan leaving me. I mean, I'd be worried if he didn't."

"Wade..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Wade said quickly, waving his hand dismissively. "Don't start with the 'it's okay to feel' speeches. I get it."

Vanessa pursed her lips. "I just want you to be happy, Wade."

Wade swirled his tea, giving her a wide and slightly deranged smile. "I am happy. See? Look how wide my smile is. Could an unhappy person look like this?"

"I just don't want you to put your life on hold for me," she said, gripping both of his hands in hers again. "Or because of me. Or whatever."

"Self-centered much?" Wade scoffed playfully, rubbing a thumb over the top of her hand. "Listen, I don't know what you've been reading.  Maybe an enemies to lovers, I heard those are super popular right now. And Loki and Morbius just had that entire really bad guy and really good guy situationship going on which was already super ballsy for Disney. But Logan and I are roommates. Team members. Hopefully, someday super mega best friends who bang on the sofa and on the kitchen table. He'll leave, eventually. Go do whatever it is that X-Men do. And I'll move on with my life. Continue to do what I do. Fucking, fighting, and getting my money up." 

Vanessa let out a long sigh. "Wade, I'm not trying to meddle in your life. I just want you to be okay. You're important to me, you know that, right?"

Wade shrugged, a mischievous grin creeping back onto his face. "Of course I am. I'm Deadpool. I'm the most important person in the room. Most attractive. Funniest. Honestly, the list goes on and on."

Vanessa sighs again into her teacup,  but she doesn't say anything else. Maybe because she knows it would be pointless to try and knock any sense into him. Maybe because not even a second later Mary Puppins was vomiting all over her expensive rug.

——————-

Wade had grown used to Logan's routine, so when Logan deviated from it, it always caused Wade a bit of concern. Sure, Logan was a 200-year-old mutant with an adamantium skeleton and a healing factor, but even he had his habits. And Wade had come to know them intimately. 

Logan would wake up at 5 AM sharp (unless he had been to the bar, in which he would be up around 10 AM), the sound of his alarm barely audible before his claws would snap out to silence it. He'd grunt his way through a series of stretches that Wade could only describe as "yoga for angry lumberjacks" before heading out for a run with Mary Puppins who he still adamantly proclaimed to detest.

When he came back, he would eat a single sandwich with enough meat to feed a small army and wash it down with Ice Mountain water, the only water that makes you defend the argument that water all tastes the same. It's like if you did an enema after a night of drinking nothing but Pink Whitney's, and you scooped the water out of the toilet and distributed it directly into the bottles. Drinking from the bottle was like giving a rimjob to a freshly bleached asshole. 

Usually, Logan disappeared for hours after his post-run sandwich, doing god knows what. As far as Wade knew, he hadn't gone back to X-Men. Too many memories or nightmares etc, etc. His best guess was the bar down the street or a dark corner he could brood in with a strip of sunlight that hit the side of his face just right. So, it was a surprise when Wade walked in covered in blood from his latest sexcapade (read assassination attempt on a grocery assistant manager--don't ask), and saw Logan sitting at the kitchen table, staring intently at his laptop.

Logan looked up briefly as Wade entered, his expression neutral. "Rough day?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the blood-stained Deadpool costume.

Wade shrugged, dropping a couple of swords and a small arsenal of weapons onto the counter. "You know, the usual. A few baddies, a couple of explosions, and an awkward conversation with a henchman about his life choices. What about you? Planning a vacation or something? Can I come? I love the beach. Make sure it's a nudist beach, god, I hate those pesky tanlines." He glanced at the laptop screen, trying to catch a glimpse of what Logan was up to.

Logan didn't even crack a smile, clicking something else on the screen. "Figured it's about time I got my own space again."

Record scratch. Freeze frame. 

You see, Wade didn't think Logan would stick around. Logan wasn't the type to settle down anywhere for long, least of all in a one-bedroom apartment with a blind, cocaine addict, a fucked-up ballsack-looking motherfucker who kills people for embarrassing low amounts of cash, and a beautiful dog that seems to smell of raw sewage no matter how many baths she is given. It was a miracle they hadn't killed each other yet. Well, they had, but Wade was just too stubborn to stay dead and Logan was staying alive out of spite.

But Logan was...Logan. Logan didn't take his shit, for one thing. Wade and Logan fought a lot, and only one of them was good with words so often it led to fists or well...claws. Their physical brawls were as much a part of their routine as breakfast or banter, a twisted form of therapy for two guys who couldn't process emotions like normal people. Wade would make some offhand comment, usually about Logan's hair or how badly he wanted his ass, and Logan would respond with a growl and a fist to Wade's face.

So when Logan said he was looking for his own place, Wade felt a tiny twinge of something he didn't want to acknowledge. He wasn't the kind of guy who got attached. Attachment led to pain, and Wade had had more than his fair share of that.

Wade flopped onto the couch, his legs hanging over the armrest as he stared at the ceiling. "You really think you're gonna find something better than this? I mean, look at this place!" He gestured around at the cluttered, chaotic apartment that somehow felt more like home than anywhere he'd ever been. Mary Puppins raised her head from her princess doggy bed, tongue lolling out onto the wet spot of drool on the floor. Distantly, Wade could hear Al playing poker on her laptop (don't ask how, just accept it), as well as the distinct sound of screaming and gunshots a few streets down.

"What did it in? Was it the butt plug I left on your pillow? I said I was sorry. They say the wetter the better, but who knew fisting would be so hard? So much prep-"

"Shut up, Bub."

"Is it because I bought you kitty kibble for your birthday?" Wade continued. "Or because I snorted too much booger sugar with Al and forgot your birthday so we celebrated it a week late? Or was it the scratching post I installed on the wall? I'm only trying to look out for you, Peanut. One scratch on the wrong person and we'll have to get you declawed, and we all know I like you better when you're ten fingers deep in me."

Logan grunted, not even looking up from the laptop. "Privacy, for one thing."

Wade sat up, feigning shock. "Privacy? Pssh. Privacy is overrated. Besides, I give you plenty of privacy. Like that time I didn't burst into the bathroom when you were showering. I waited a full five minutes before I made that joke about helping you clean up with my tongue."

Logan finally glanced up, giving Wade a look that could melt adamantium. "Why do you care if I move out? Thought you'd be happy to get rid of me."

Wade opened his mouth to reply with something snarky, but the words caught in his throat. Why did he care? He hadn't thought about it before, hadn't really let himself think about it. But the truth was... he liked having Logan around. Liked knowing that someone was there, someone who wouldn't bail at the first sign of trouble. 

Logan raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response. Wade felt his stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the leftover chimichangas he'd eaten for breakfast. What to say, what to say. Ah yes, divert the question.

"How are you planning to fund this new place anyhow?" Wade said, narrowing his eyes. "Did you start an OnlyFans? Fuck!" He threw his arms in the air. "I told you if you started an OnlyFans to let me know so I could be your first subscriber. Just imagine it--Fucking my number-one fan. Or wait! We could make snuff together. Plenty of sick perverts would pay top dollar, and we both get to keep our lives in the end."

"Wade-" Logan growled.

"Oh sweetness, I was just kidding but now I'm curious. Are you tickling your pickle online? Diddling your cinnamon donut hole--Ow, fuck!"

Wade's arm fell to the floor with a thud, and he glared up at Logan's slightly smug face. "Motherfucker. I already booked a family photo session for us. Now I'm just going to look ridiculous."

Logan laughed boisterously, eyes crinkling at the corners and shoulders shaking. Wade raised an eyebrow, or, well, what would be considered an eyebrow. "What the hell are you laughing about?"

Logan clutched his stomach, his laughter echoing through the room like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard—and maybe it was. Wade, looking absolutely murderous as he tried to reattach his severed arm, glared at Logan with the intensity of a thousand suns. But Logan just kept laughing, the sound raw and unrestrained, and...Well, actually it was kind of beautiful. He looked younger when he was smiling, less weathered. He had a pretty smile too, all straight, white teeth and dimples that sunk deep into his cheeks. 

"You're serious?" Logan managed to gasp out between bouts of laughter, his voice rough but tinged with genuine amusement. 

Wade rolled his eyes dramatically as he grabbed the detached arm, pressing it against his shoulder in hopes it would fuse back together. The process was annoyingly slow, especially with Logan wheezing like a dying hyena in the background. "Yes, Logan. I want to commemorate our beautiful, picture-perfect relationship for posterity. Something we can look back on with our children and say, 'Kids, look how handsome your daddies used to be before they got all old and tired from raising you little shits. Now run along Wade and Logina Jr. And remember when you are running with knives you need to keep the blade pointed down'--Fuck, you bastard!"

His other arm fell to the floor into the pool of blood that Mary Puppins was beginning to lick. Wade glared up at Logan, who was...startingly close now. Close enough that Wade could feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint scent of whiskey and something earthy that was just so... Logan. Wade's heart did that annoying little flutter thing, like a bunch of butterflies were having intercourse in his heart valve. "Well, now you're going to have to be the one to hold Mary Puppins up in the photo," Wade said, sniffing. "And we both know you are never getting that smell out of your clothes."

"I'll live," Logan says, smirking as he walks off. 

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

"You're moping."

Wade barely cracked an eye open at the sound of Logan's gravelly voice. "Am not," he muttered, shifting on the couch so that his back was to Logan. He subtly sniffed the rumpled pillow, the scent of blood, oil, and aftershave tickling his nostrils. If he had nose hairs, he figured they would be tickling, too, but unfortunately, the only hair he still had was the bits from his toupee. Logan kept throwing them away, but Wade was not afraid of a little bit of dumpster diving.

Logan snorted, and Wade could hear him rolling his eyes. "Could've fooled me. You've been lying there like a sack of shit for hours."

Wade groaned dramatically, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms over his head. "Maybe I'm just enjoying some well-deserved R&R. Did you need me for something? Daddy to take you for a walk in the park? Lapdance? Personal scratching post?"

Logan didn't rise to the bait, which only made Wade more irritated. He wasn't used to people seeing through his bullshit, and Logan was getting far too good at it. "You gonna tell me what's really eating you, or do I have to carve it out?"

Wade's eyes flicked open at that, meeting Logan's steady gaze across the room. "Do you actually care, or do you just want your couch back?"

Logan didn't answer right away, and for a moment, Wade thought maybe he'd finally managed to throw him off. But then Logan's gaze narrowed, his expression hardening just a fraction. "I'm not a total asshole, Bub," he said, his voice low and gruff.

Wade felt a twinge of something he couldn't quite name—annoyance, maybe, or something more uncomfortable like guilt. He sat up, swinging his legs off the couch and facing Logan fully. "Sure you aren't Peanut."

Logan's eyes didn't waver, didn't blink. He just watched Wade with that infuriating calmness, the kind that made Wade feel like he was the only one spiraling out of control. Wade wanted to argue, to crack a joke, to say something—anything—that would deflect from the way Logan's stare made him feel like he was under a microscope. But the words died in his throat, and all that came out was a quiet sigh. 

"So," Logan said, taking a sip of his coffee. He hadn't moved from his spot at the table, his laptop screen casting a dull glow over his face. "Spit it out."

Wade ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of his scarred skin, the uneven ridges. "This whole... whatever this is. You and me, the apartment, the routine. It's been... nice," he said, the words sounding lame even to his own ears. 

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for Wade to get to the point. "And that's a bad thing?"

"No, it's not—well, maybe it is? I don't know!" Wade threw his hands up in frustration, his voice rising. "It's just... I'm not used to this, okay? I'm not used to things being... normal."

"We can't die. My bones are made of metal and I have claws that come out of my hands. Our roommate is addicted to cocaine and you inherited your dog because you killed your alternate self. Just yesterday you shot me in the arm because I switched the channel. I wouldn't exactly call that normal, would you?" Logan said gruffly, crossing his arms. 

Wade's lips twitched at Logan's words, a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Hey, I regret that that beautiful son of a bitch had to die, but it was necessary for the sake of the world," he said, leaning back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. 

Logan snorted in response. 

Wade watched the fan spin a few times before continuing. "But it's normal for us. You know what I mean."

Logan grunted, clearly not satisfied with that answer. "So what's the problem, Bub? You finally got something stable for once in your life, and it's making you twitchy?"

Wade didn't answer, choosing to pluck at the fraying edges of the couch where Logan's claws had snagged the fabric countless times. The same wear and tear followed Wade through the apartment--the curtains, the bath towels, the walls, even a few of the worn areas of Wade's suit. What would happen when Logan left? Would he eventually have to replace them, and watch as the remnants of the last four months faded into the back of his mind until he began to question if it ever happened to begin with? The more Wade thought about it, the more his chest tightened, the anxiety clawing its way up his throat.

Wade didn't like being alone. It was kind of his whole thing. Didn't matter who he was surrounding himself with; if they loved him or despised him, it didn't matter as long as they were they were there. Silence, true silence, was the one thing that could drive him insane. It's probably the thing that will kill him one day. Wade thrived on noise, on the presence of others—even if they hated his guts. He was the guy who'd talk just to fill the void, crack a joke even when no one was listening, because anything was better than being left alone with his own thoughts.

"Wade," Logan's voice cut through the silence, rough but with an edge of concern. "You're not answering the question."

Wade's hand stilled, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch a little too tightly. He didn't look up. "What's the point? You'll just leave eventually. It's what you do. It's what everybody does." He laughs a little too hard to be casual. 

Ha casual. Knee-deep in the passenger seat of that fucking Honda Odyssey, how fitting.

Logan's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Wade sat up, throwing his arms in the air. "Nothing. Nothing! Oh my God." 

He stood up, planning on dramatically storming into his bedroom when he felt a hard grip on his bicep. Wade felt the pressure of Logan's hand like a vise around his arm, the grip strong enough to stop him in his tracks but not enough to hurt. It was a warning. "Let go," Wade snapped, trying to yank his arm free, but Logan held firm. The tension in the room crackled like electricity, and Wade could feel his pulse pounding in his ears.

"Not until you tell me what the hell's going on," Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of tone that usually made people back off. But Wade was too wound up to back off, too full of all the things he didn't want to say. "You PMSing or something?"

Wade's eyes flashed with anger, the words striking a nerve he didn't even realize was exposed. He didn't know why it had upset him, or why that was his snapping point. Lord knows he has said ten times worse before. But for some reason, it's enough for him to turn around and punch Logan square in his beautiful face.

Logan's claws shot out, and Wade barely had time to react before he was throwing himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the swipe. He hit the floor hard, the impact knocking the breath out of him, but he was on his feet in an instant, his own weapons drawn. He didn't have time to think, didn't have time to process what was happening—his body moved on autopilot, driven by adrenaline and the raw, unfiltered emotions that had been building up for weeks.

Logan came at him again, his movements quick and precise, but Wade was faster, ducking under Logan's arm and slashing at his side with the katana he had put under the counter. The blades sliced through fabric and skin, but Logan barely flinched, his healing factor already kicking in as he turned to face Wade again.

"You really want to do this, Bub? We all remember how it turned out last time" Logan snarled, his voice full of fury as he lunged forward.

Wade didn't hesitate, meeting Logan head-on with a vicious swing of his own. "Oh, baby, don't threaten me with a good time."

Logan growled, tackling Wade into the fridge. The fridge door dented under the force of their impact, the contents rattling inside as Wade let out a breathless laugh. "Oof, baby, didn't know you were into rough play," he quipped, even as he shoved Logan back with all his strength. Logan's eyes flashed with irritation, and he swung a fist at Wade's jaw, but Wade ducked, the punch glancing off his shoulder instead.

"Shut up, Wade," Logan snarled, his claws retracting just long enough to grab Wade by the collar and yank him close. "You want to fight? Fine. But don't think for a second I'm gonna go easy on you."

Wade grinned, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "Oh, don't worry, sweetheart. I wouldn't have it any other way." With that, he twisted out of Logan's grip and delivered a sharp knee to Logan's ribs. The blow didn't do much damage, but it was enough to get Logan to loosen his hold.

Logan grunted, barely reacting to the hit, and immediately countered with an elbow to Wade's side, aiming for his liver. Wade felt the pain radiate through his body, but he didn't let it slow him down. Instead, he took advantage of the close quarters, wrapping his legs around Logan's waist and using the momentum to flip them both over, sending Logan crashing onto the kitchen floor.They landed in a tangled heap, Logan's claws extending once more as he slashed at Wade's side, cutting through his suit and skin. Wade hissed at the pain but he was already healing, the torn flesh knitting itself back together as he straddled Logan, pressing a forearm to the older man's throat.

"This is the best foreplay I've had in months!" Wade gasped, his voice a mix of exhilaration and mock desperation. Logan's eyes narrowed, and he brought his claws up again, aiming for Wade's neck.

Wade blocked the strike with one of his katanas, the metal clanging against Logan's claws. Sparks flew as they grappled, their faces inches apart. Wade could feel Logan's breath hot against his face, could see the raw anger burning in his eyes. But beneath that anger, there was something else—something more complicated that Wade couldn't quite name.

"You talk too much," Logan growled, shoving Wade off him with a powerful kick that sent him crashing into the kitchen table. The table shattered under Wade's weight, splintering into pieces as Wade rolled to his feet, a manic grin on his face.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep this sexual tension going!" Wade shot back, grabbing a chair leg and hurling it at Logan like a spear. Logan swatted it aside with ease, advancing on Wade with a deadly purpose in his eyes.

Wade met him head-on, their bodies colliding in a flurry of punches, kicks, and slashes. The kitchen quickly became a war zone, the walls and floor splattered with blood as they tore into each other with a vicious intensity. Wade's katanas clashed against Logan's claws, the sound of metal on metal filling the room as they fought like animals, neither willing to back down.

"Come on, Peanut!" Wade taunted, even as he ducked under a brutal swipe aimed at his head. "Is that all you've got? I've had worse from one of my foster homes!"

Logan didn't respond with words—he responded with a brutal stabbing into his head that left Wade seeing stars. Wade staggered back, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, but his body was too slow in piecing the bits of his brain back together. Logan tackled him again, this time driving them both into the living room, where they crashed through the coffee table in a shower of splinters.

Wade's back hit the floor with a painful thud, but he didn't have time to recover before Logan was on top of him, his claws poised to strike. Wade grabbed Logan's wrist just in time, holding the claws inches away from his throat. They struggled there, their bodies pressed together, each trying to gain the upper hand.

"Not... bad... for an old man..." Wade grunted, using every ounce of strength he had to keep Logan's claws at bay. He could feel Logan's breath on his face, could see the way Logan's chest heaved with exertion. 

"You really want to keep pushing me, Wade?" Logan's voice was a dangerous rumble, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something else—something that sent a shiver down Wade's spine. "I've been good lately. Haven't touched a single hair on anybody's body which means I have a lot of pent-up rage to get out on you."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Wade gasped, his grip slipping just a fraction. Logan took advantage of the momentary weakness, and before Wade could react, Logan's claws grazed his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

Wade's breath hitched, the pain sharp and immediate, but he couldn't stop the surge of excitement that came with it. "Ooh, right there, big guy. That's the spot!"

Logan's lip curled in a snarl, but instead of delivering the killing blow, he hesitated, his claws retracting slightly. It was only for a second, but it was enough for Wade to take control. With a burst of strength, he shoved Logan off him, rolling them over until Wade was the one on top.

"See? I knew you liked it rough," Wade panted, grinning down at Logan as he pinned his wrists to the floor. "You can't fool me, Wolvie. Deep down, you're just as fucked up as I am."

Logan glared up at him, but the fire in his eyes was tempered by something else—something that Wade hadn't seen before. "You don't know shit about me, Wade," Logan said, his voice low and dangerous.

Wade bent down to say something twice as vulgar but was stopped when he felt the press of something hard against his thigh. Wade's grin faltered. Logan didn't respond, but the tension between them shifted, the violent energy ebbing away as they stared at each other, breathing heavily. Wade's heart pounded in his chest, the reality of the fight—of everything—crashing down on him all at once.

Finally, Wade let out a shaky laugh, releasing Logan's wrists and rolling off him. He collapsed onto the floor beside Logan, staring up at the ceiling as his body began to heal, the pain receding into a dull throb.

Logan stayed where he was, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. Neither of them said anything, and for a split second, they just lay there, breathing heavily, blood dripping from various wounds that were already beginning to heal.

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

"Everybody gets boners. I would know. I get them all the time. Hell,  I have one right now. But what does that mean, right? Because the last time this happened, it was in that godforsaken Honda Odyssey, and those seats went allll the way back if you know what I mean."

If Wade had a nickel for every time he and Logan got into a fight that was a heavy prelude for sex he would have two nickels, but it's weird that it happened twice, right? 

"Logan's got that 'I'm gonna kick your ass and then do unspeakable things to you' vibe. Totally sexy. Hot. I'm into it, right? It's like our fights are just foreplay with a few punches and kicks thrown in for good measure. But here's the thing. Sometimes I get super nauseous after the fight, and it's not because Freddy Kreuger was in my guts in all the wrong ways. Like I'm actually upset that he's moving out which is ha, crazy because really I should be happy to be getting my couch back. I did all my best masturbating there."

Wade falls back into the seat, twirling baby knife around on his fingers. "What do you think? Is he queerbaiting me? It would make sense. Disney is a huge fan of dangling diversity in our faces and ripping it away."

Dopindor turned around in his seat, beaming widely at Wade. "Mr.Deadpool sir, I just want to start by saying that I am honored that I am the one you have chosen to confide in. It means a lot to me, truly, to be entrusted with something so deeply personal. But, um..." Dopinder hesitated, his smile faltering slightly as he searched for the right words. "Has Mr. Logan ever, uh, flirted with you outside of those... you know, those, uh, two boner situations?"

Wade blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Outside of the boner situations? Uh, let me think..." He scrunched up his face, genuinely trying to recall any instance that might qualify. "Well, there was that one time he called me an 'annoying little dickwad whose only purpose of living was to annoy the fuck out of him.' And then that other time he told me to 'get the hell out of his way before he  gives me a new hole to shit out of.'  I thought it was kinda sexy, but I don't think he meant it that way."

Dopinder's smile became more strained, and he nodded slowly. "Right, so... I don't mean to burst your bubble, DP, but, uh, that doesn't really sound like flirting. It actually sounds more like... he might just, um, tolerate you. Maybe he likes the fights, but, uh, not in the way you're hoping."

Wade's expression dropped, the twirling baby knife slowing to a stop. "So, you're saying Logan's not playing hard to get? He's just... hard and not interested?" He let out an exaggerated sigh, throwing his head back dramatically. "And here I was, thinking we were in the middle of some slowburn romance novel. 'Deadpool and Wolverine: Getting My Claws Into You.'"

Dopinder's eyes widened slightly, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he tried to find the right response. "Well, sir, you're definitely not delusional—"

"Stop it, Dopinder," Wade interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "I know delusion when I see it. It's just, I thought maybe, just maybe, Logan was giving me the ol' 'I hate you so much that I actually want to do naughty things to you' routine. But if he's not... then what am I supposed to do with all this pent-up sexual frustration? I mean, I could always just take it out on you, but that seems unfair. You're not exactly my type."

Dopinder cleared his throat, clearly flustered. "Oh, no, no, I'm more than happy being your loyal driver and friend! And, um, I think maybe you're focusing too much on Logan's, uh, vibes. Maybe he's just... I don't know, a grumpy and violent man who enjoys fighting you because it's fun for him. Not because he wants to, um, do anything else."

Wade tilted his head, considering Dopinder's words. "Huh. So, you're saying I might just be projecting all this unresolved sexual tension onto Logan because I can't handle the fact that maybe, just maybe, he's just not that into me?"

Dopinder nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Exactly! Maybe you're reading too much into it. Sometimes a fight is just a fight, and not everything has to lead to, um, the other thing."

Wade slumped back in his seat, pouting. "That's no fun. I like it better when everything leads to the other thing." He sighed, glancing out the window. "Guess I'll have to find some other poor soul to beat me up and then make out with me. Maybe Spider-Man? He's got that whole 'awkward nerd' thing going on. Could be hot."

Dopinder, sensing the shift in mood, gave a nervous chuckle. He hesitated before finally speaking up. "Um, DP... not that this conversation hasn't been fun, and I always appreciate our talks, but, uh, don't you have a... mission to be doing?"

Wade blinked, momentarily thrown off by the reminder. "Oh, right! The mission. My money!" He sat up straight, suddenly energized as if the earlier melancholy had never existed. "How could I forget? Priorities, Deadpool, priorities!"

He reached for the door handle, but paused, turning back to lean into the car. "Raincheck on the payment? You understand, right? What with what I'm going through and all." Wade's expression was an exaggerated mix of puppy-dog eyes and over-the-top sorrow.

Dopinder sighed, clearly torn between wanting to support his idol and knowing he was likely never going to see that money. But how could he say no to Deadpool? With a resigned smile, he held up his hand for a high five. "Fine."

Wade slapped his hand with a grin, hopping out of the car. "You're the best, Dopinder! I don't care what anyone says!"

"What-"

Wade gave him a mock salute, then turned on his heel, striding away with all the confidence of a man who was about to fuck up some serious shit.

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

"So..."

Logan rifled through the cabinets, making a noise of what could only be excitement when he found the rubbing alcohol Wade had kept hidden in the back. He snagged it from the shelf, licking his lips as he popped the lid and began to chug it to Wade's disdain. Finally, Logan lowered the bottle, his lips glistening with the remnants of the alcohol. He let out a contented sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned to face Wade, who was now staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

"You know, that stuff's not gonna give you a buzz, right?" Wade said, still trying to process what he'd just witnessed. "I mean, I'm all for weird shit, but this is next-level."

Logan smirked, his expression completely unfazed. "Not about the buzz, Bub. It's about the burn." His voice was gravelly, the kind of tone that sent shivers down Wade's spine. Logan tossed the empty bottle onto the counter, leaning back against it with a satisfied grunt.

"So..." Wade began again, cocking his head to the side and kicking his feet back and forth where they dangled from the barstool. "Are we going to talk about that little situation that happened last week? Well, definitely not little. Like, holy fuck, did you stuff a coke bottle in your pants or what?"

Logan raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. "There wasn't a situation," His voice was low, almost a warning, but Wade was never one to back down.

"You know, you can admit it. We're all friends here." Wade's tone was teasing, but there was a genuine undercurrent of curiosity. "I'm not saying you have to confess your undying love or anything. But if you're gonna keep popping boners every time we throw down, we might need to have a little chat about boundaries. Or not—honestly, I'm kind of into it."

Logan's eyes darkened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might lunge at Wade, pin him to the wall, and shut him up the only way he knew how—through sheer physical force. But instead, he took a step back, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Wade hopped off the barstool, landing lightly on his feet as he approached Logan, his expression softening slightly. "Look, Peanut, I'm not trying to make this weird. Okay, that's a lie, I'm always trying to make things weird. But I was talking to Dopindor-"

"You were talking to Dopindor," Logan interjects sarcastically. 

"-and he said that maybe you just like to fight with me because it's fun," Wade continued, ignoring Logan's sarcastic tone. "And I get it, I mean, who wouldn't enjoy a good ol' tussle with yours truly? But here's the thing—I think there's more to it. You don't just get all... excited like that because of a fight. Unless you're into some really weird stuff, which, hey, no judgment, but this feels different."

"So you're basing all of this on a conversation with fucking Dopinder?" He let out a low, humorless chuckle. "You really are out of your mind, Bub."

Wade shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe. But you didn't deny it Buttercup."

Logan clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated. "Deny what? That I like fighting? That I get a rush from it? Hell, everyone knows that. It's what I do."

Wade took another step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Yeah, but not everyone gets a hard-on from it, Princess Sparkle Tits. Not like that. And definitely not with me. So, what gives? You're telling me there's nothing going on here?"

Logan's gaze snapped back to Wade's. "I fight you because you can take it. Because I know you'll get back up, no matter how hard I hit you, no matter what vital organ I stab. It's adrenaline."

Wade studied Logan's face, searching for any hint of doubt, any sign that he was lying to himself as much as he was to Wade. But Logan's expression was guarded, his walls firmly in place.

"Adrenaline," Wade repeated, his tone more subdued. "You think it's adrenaline?"

Logan's gaze bore into Wade, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. "What do you want me to say, Bub? That you're right? That I got a fuckin' boner because I'm into you? You think that's what this is?"

"Marvel H. Christ, I'm not saying you're like in L-O-V-E with me or anything!" Wade threw his arms up into the air. "All I'm asking is it such a bad thing to admit you might want to bone me?"He paced around the small space, hands gesticulating wildly as he continued, "I mean, let's be real here. With my suit on, I'm at least a solid seven, maybe an eight on a good day. And don't even get me started on my hairless wonderland. I've got a smooth, sleek body like a wet seal. Pour some oil on me and baby let it rip. And my ass? It's like a ripe, juicy peach. Perfect to take a bite out of, or open it up and lick around until you find the pit-"

Before Wade could finish, Logan closed the distance between them in a flash, grabbing Wade by the collar and yanking him forward. Their faces were inches apart, Logan's breath hot against Wade's skin. "You talk too much," Logan growled.

Wade's heart raced, but he kept his trademark grin firmly in place. "And you, my little alcoholic, are in denial. We can keep our socks on. We can do it in the dark if you want, and you can pretend I'm your sweet little Jean-"

And those are Logan's claws in his neck. 

Blood gushes around his fingers as he slides them out of Wade's arteries. He wipes the blood off on Wade's t-shirt, and then storms out of the apartment. 

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

The next two months were a special kind of hell, the kind that could only be crafted by a fanfiction writer who is really trying to emphasize the enemies in enemies to lovers.

Logan didn't say a word about what had happened. Hell, they barely spoke at all. The atmosphere in the apartment was so thick with tension, you could cut it with Logan's claws.

Logan spent most of his time out, supposedly looking for a place of his own, but Wade knew better. The old man was avoiding him, plain and simple. When they did cross paths, it was always awkward. Logan would grunt something that might've been a greeting, and Wade would reply with some smartass comment. Neither of them mentioned the incident. Neither of them apologized.

Wade couldn't stop thinking about it, though. The look in Logan's eyes, the anger, the... arousal? Wade wasn't sure. Maybe it was just his overactive imagination, but for once, he couldn't joke it away. Instead, he threw himself into his work. Lucky for him, being Deadpool meant there was always a new job, a new target, a new distraction from the weirdmageddon at home.

The mercenary life was business as usual. A quick trip to the slums to intimidate a creepy ex-boyfriend, a few days in Manhattan dealing with some petty thugs who thought they could take on the big leagues, and an all-expenses-paid vacation to Madripoor (Thanks X-Men) to eliminate some supervillain trying to make it in Marvel's new movies. The usual blood, guts, and banter, with Wade doing his best to forget that his living situation was a ticking time bomb.

And then there was Vanessa. Sweet, beautiful Vanessa, who was supposed to be his one shot at a normal life—whatever the hell that meant. Except now, she was moving on, like he had always feared she would. He'd been invited to her wedding, which was just the universe's way of twisting the knife. She'd even sent him a formal invitation, like he was some ex she barely knew, instead of the man who'd once died for her. 

Wade didn't know how to feel about it. On one hand, he was happy for her. She deserved happiness, and if her new guy could give her that, then who was Wade to stand in the way? On the other hand... well, it sucked. It sucked in ways that Wade couldn't even put into words, not that he'd try. His usual coping mechanisms—jokes, violence, chimichangas, sex (which was most certainly not happening)—weren't cutting it.

Days turned into weeks, and Wade found himself in a routine that felt more like a prison sentence. He'd wake up, avoid Logan, go out on a job, come back, and avoid Logan some more. The few times he did catch Logan at home, the guy was either nursing a bottle of whiskey or pretending to be asleep. They were two grown men, each too proud (or too stupid) to talk about what had happened.

But he let the tension simmer, hoping that one day, it might just boil over. Because then they could have it out, scream at each other, bleed each other dry, and finally get whatever this was out in the open. Or maybe it would end in more blood, and Wade wasn't sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing anymore

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

Wade was staring at the RSVP card in his hand, the one that Vanessa had sent along with the wedding invitation. It had been sitting on the kitchen counter for over a week, taunting him every time he walked by. There were two simple boxes to check: "Attending" or "Regrets." But it was the line beneath that made him hesitate: Will you be bringing a plus one?

Wade glanced over at Logan, who was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV but clearly not watching it. The guy was as broody as ever, the silence between them now an old companion. Wade wondered, for a brief, insane moment, what would happen if he asked Logan to go with him. As his plus one.

Then again, there was the little issue of Logan nearly slicing his throat open the last time things got heated. Probably not the best foundation for a wedding date. He'd be lucky if Logan didn't skewer him just for bringing it up.

With a heavy sigh, Wade picked up a pen and stared at the RSVP card. His hand hovered over the boxes, indecision freezing him in place. "Attending" or "Regrets"? Did it even matter? It wasn't like Vanessa was expecting much from him at this point. Hell, she probably sent the invitation out of some misguided sense of obligation, a way to tie up loose ends before she started her new life.

Will you be bringing a plus one?

He scribbled a messy "X" in the "Attending" box, then hesitated again. His gaze flicked to the "plus one" line. 

What if he wrote Logan's name? Just to see the look on Logan's face when he found out? Wade grinned at the thought, but it quickly faded. Logan wouldn't find it funny. He'd probably pack his bags and finally leave, and Wade wasn't ready for that.

So instead, Wade left the line blank, tossed the card aside to ponder over later, and leaned back in his chair. The apartment was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made your thoughts echo in your head. He hated it.

Couldn't stand it. The silence, the unspoken words, the constant avoidance. It was driving him insane. And since being quiet wasn't exactly his style, he decided to bite the bullet and just... talk. 

He walked over to where Logan was sitting, plopping down on the arm of the couch, too close for comfort. Logan's eyes flicked up at him, a warning in their depths, but Wade ignored it. 

"So," Wade began, his voice casual like they hadn't been playing this awkward game of silent chicken for weeks. "I got this wedding invite."

Logan grunted, clearly uninterested, but Wade pressed on. "Vanessa's. Which you knew. She's getting hitched, for real this time, and she actually had the audacity to invite little ol' me." He laughed, the sound more bitter than amused. 

Logan didn't respond, his attention still on the TV, but Wade wasn't about to let that stop him. "She even asked if I'd bring a plus one. Can you believe that? Like I have a date lined up or something."

There was a flicker of something in Logan's expression, but it was gone too quickly for Wade to read. He hesitated, then decided to just go for it. "Anyway, I was thinking... since you're still crashing here, and we've got all this unresolved sexual tension—"

Logan's eyes narrowed, but Wade pushed through. "—how 'bout it? Wanna be my plus one? You know, make it real awkward for everyone? We can skip the ceremony, show up drunk to the reception, and fuck on one of the elderly guests tables. It'll be fun."

Logan finally turned his head to look at Wade, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Wade wondered if he'd gone too far, if Logan was about to grab him by the collar again or, worse, shut down completely. But instead, Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied Wade with that intense gaze that always made him feel like Logan was looking right through him.

"I was already invited, dipshit," Logan said, his voice gruff but steady.

Wade blinked, taken aback. "Wait, what?"

Logan stood up, brushing past Wade as he headed for the door. "Got my invite a while ago," he said over his shoulder. "Didn't think it was worth mentioning."

Wade watched him, stunned into silence for once in his life. Of all the things he'd expected Logan to say, that wasn't one of them. 

"Wait," Wade called out as Logan reached for the door handle. "You serious?"

Logan paused, glancing back at him. "Guess you'll have to find someone else to be your plus one, Bubba."

Before Wade could respond, Logan opened the door and stepped out, leaving Wade alone with his thoughts—and the quiet, empty apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, and Wade sat there, processing what had just happened. "Well, shit," he muttered to himself.

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

The day of Vanessa's wedding arrived faster than Wade would have liked. 

Logan had been unusually quiet all morning, which only made things more unbearable. He'd barely said two words to Wade since they woke up, and now they were getting ready in the cramped bathroom of Wade's apartment, the silence between them heavy and oppressive. Wade stood in front of the mirror, fussing with his tie. He'd opted for a classic black suit, something simple and understated, though he couldn't resist adding a red pocket square for a touch of flair. As he fumbled with the knot, he caught Logan's reflection in the mirror. The older man was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, already dressed in his own suit—a dark, tailored number that fit him perfectly, accentuating his rugged, muscular frame. He had rejected Wade's suggestion to add a yellow pocket square, stating that that was too on the nose which, yes, fair. 

Wade couldn't help but stare. He'd seen Logan in all sorts of states—bloodied, bruised, half-naked, fully naked, pissed off, and occasionally looking downright feral. But this? This was something different. The man cleaned up way too well, and Wade was having a hard time processing the sight before him.

Logan looked... sharp. That was the word for it. The dark suit was tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to his narrow waist in a way that made Wade wonder if the tailor was still alive or if Logan had murdered them for getting a little too handsy. The fabric draped over his muscular frame like it had been designed with only him in mind, and the crisp white shirt beneath it was unbuttoned just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of the chest hair that Wade had become intimately familiar with. 

His hair, usually a wild mess, was slicked back with that pomade Wade couldn't stop sniffing, giving him an almost dangerous edge. It made Logan's chiseled features stand out even more—the sharp line of his jaw, the steely glint in his eyes, and that mouth... Fuck, that mouth. Wade's eyes drifted there, lingering on the way Logan's lips were set in that usual scowl, lips that Wade had become increasingly fixated on. It was a scowl that promised violence but also hinted at something else, something darker, more primal. 

Wade's thoughts began to spiral, his mind going to places that were anything but appropriate for the occasion. As much as he tried to focus on the task at hand—tying his goddamn tie—his brain kept serving up images of Logan pressed up against him, all that pent-up energy unleashed in the form of rough hands, sharp teeth, and the kind of passion that left bruises in its wake. He could almost feel the weight of Logan's body pinning him against a wall, could almost hear the low growl that would rumble from Logan's chest as he claimed Wade's mouth in a bruising kiss. Wade's mind raced with scenarios, each one more explicit than the last, each one involving Logan losing that damn suit in increasingly creative ways.

Logan shifted slightly on the edge of the bathtub, and Wade's eyes followed the movement like a predator tracking its prey. The way the fabric of Logan's pants stretched across his thighs, the way his muscles flexed beneath the suit, the way his fingers absentmindedly drummed against his leg—it was all too much. Wade swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly, trying to focus on anything but the way Logan's presence filled the room, overwhelming his senses.

"Fuck are you looking at, Bub?" Logan's voice cut through the silence, rough and laced with just the faintest hint of amusement.

Wade jolted, realizing he'd been caught staring.  He yanked on his tie a little too hard, nearly choking himself in the process. 

Logan's lips twitched, just barely. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was close enough to make Wade's heart do that annoying flutter thing again. 

Wade forced himself to focus on the mirror again, tearing his gaze away from Logan before he did something stupid—like launching himself across the room and kissing the life out of the guy. "Can't help it if you're a fucking distraction," Wade muttered, more to himself than to Logan, managing to get the tie somewhat presentable, though he was pretty sure Logan could tie a better knot with his eyes closed. He adjusted the red pocket square, trying to give himself something to do with his hands that didn't involve reaching for Logan.

"You know," he said, "I have to admit, you look pretty damn good in a suit. I mean, it's no Wolverine's suit, and it's not like I didn't know you were built like a tank, but damn... who knew you cleaned up so well?"

Logan glanced up from where he was sitting, his eyes narrowing slightly as he met Wade's gaze in the mirror. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it, Bub."

"Too late," Wade leered. "Why don't you stand up and do a twirl for me, Princess?"

Snikt

"Woah, hey! No! No," Wade turned around, holding his hands out in front of him. Logan's claws glinted under the fluorescent lights menacingly as he glared up at him. "Usually I'm up for a little bit of foreplay, but we're under strict instructions that the claws need to stay away today. If she sees even a speck of blood on either of us, she is going to lose her shit."

Logan's claws retracted with a swift snikt, and he leveled a disapproving look at Wade, who was still standing with his hands up in a defensive posture. "Then, maybe you shouldn't say things that make me want to stab you."

"I flirt when I'm nervous," Wade quipped, crossing his arms. "It's not every day the love of your life gets married to someone else."

Logan gives him a flat look. 

"Right, my bad. We can trauma bond about it later, say over dinner?" He reaches under the sink, pulling out the newest toupee—one of his more elegant wigs, this time a nearly identical replica of Nicepool's long locks.

Logan stared at the toupee, then back at Wade with a look of exasperation. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. You're actually wearing that?"

Wade grinned, holding the toupee up like a trophy. "Oh, come on. It's her big day. Nobody wants to see a walking scrotum sitting at the bar."

He plopped it onto his head, ignoring Logan's winces as he stapled it firmly to his head. He spins in a circle, posing a few times for Logan. "How do I look?"

"Horrifying."

"More or less than usual?" 

Logan didn't answer, his face crinkling into one of disgust. Wade spun back to face the mirror, rearranging the wig in the way he remembered Nicepool wore his--may he rest in peace--eyes flickering between his own reflection and Logan's as he watched him. Finally, feeling satisfied with his appearance, he turned around and clapped his hands. "Ready to rock and roll?"

Logan didn't move, choosing to sit there and just stare at him like he had something completely batshit crazy. His hands tightened around his thighs, white-knuckling the dark fabric. "How do you do that?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness.

Wade glanced up, confused. "Do what? The wig? I mean, sure, I watched a lot of tutorials, but really it's all in the quality-" 

"No," Logan interrupted, his tone sharper than usual. "I mean, how do you just...watch the love of your life get married to someone else?"

Wade was silent for a moment, his eyes focusing on the claw mark through the shower curtain. Hm. What fight caused that? He took a deep breath. "Well...when you love someone, when you really, truly love someone, it doesn't really matter who they end up with. Even if it isn't you, you're happy because they're happy." Wade shrugged, "And I think deep down, I knew it was never going to be me. People like her, good people, they don't end up with guys like me. They end up with the good guy."

"You are a good guy," Logan said sternly, startling Wade out of his half-reverie. "Annoying as fuck, a goddamn pervert, but you are a good guy."

Wade laughed softly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm really, really not."

Logan shook his head, stepping closer. "You saved the world for her. For your family. For everybody. You took me in, even though I'm a dick, and I'm 'grumpy' and I'm an alcoholic, and we nearly kill each other every day. When I was nothing but...when I was just nothing to anybody. When I was the 'worst' Wolverine, you didn't give a fuck what I had to say or what anyone else had to say. You told me I'm the best Wolverine. Even when I wasn't. When I haven't been."

Logan poked a thick finger into his chest. "You. Are. A. Good. Guy. Wade Wilson. Fuck her."

"Logan," Wade began slowly, "I've done a lot of things. Some of them... well, let's just say if there's a line, I've not only crossed it, I've stomped it into the ground and done a little tap dance on it."

Logan's expression didn't change, his gaze steady as he waited for Wade to continue.

"I saved the world, but I also destroyed a lot of it in the process. I killed people. People who didn't deserve it, who were just... there. Wrong place, wrong time. And every time I do something good, it's like there's this... tally board, and all those bad things I've done, they just get louder, like they're reminding me of who I really am. Of what I am."

Logan stepped even closer, closing the gap between them, his presence solid and grounding. "You think I don't know what that's like? To be haunted by what you've done? Hell, Wade, I've been carrying that weight for longer than I care to remember. But that doesn't define us. You saved the world not because you were trying to erase your past, but because you wanted to make a future for people you care about. That's what matters."

"Why do you even care? Why are you trying so hard to convince me that I'm worth something?" Wade shot back, poking his chest. "Why does it matter to you so much?"

Logan leaned in closer, and Wade had to resist the urge to pull away from him, pull away from his minty breath and his clenched teeth and those steak knives he called claws. "Because if you're not worth something, then what the hell am I?"

Wade's breath hitched, his brain short-circuiting as Logan's words hung in the air between them. 

His pulse quickened, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from doing something stupid, like closing the distance and finding out exactly how Logan's lips would feel pressed against his. He could imagine it so clearly, the way Logan's hands would grip his arms—tight enough to leave bruises, to hold him in place—and the way those clawed fingers would curl into his flesh, leaving marks that would fade almost as soon as they appeared.

He wanted to push Logan, to see how far he could go before the older man snapped. He wanted to feel Logan's rough hands on his skin, to have him take out all that pent-up frustration on him in the most primal way possible. Wade's thoughts drifted to what it would be like to be under Logan, to have him growling his name, those low, guttural sounds that Wade had only ever heard when Logan was pissed off or in the middle of a fight.

But as much as Wade wanted to give in to those thoughts, he knew better. He knew that if he pushed too far, if he acted on the urge that was currently making it hard to think straight, he'd be risking everything. Whatever this was between them, it was fragile, and Wade wasn't sure if it could survive if he crossed that line.

So instead, Wade did what he always did—he deflected. He forced a smirk onto his face, even though his heart was pounding in his chest, and tried to push the thoughts of Logan's lips, Logan's hands, Logan's everything, out of his mind.

"Wow, Wolvie," Wade said, his voice coming out a little more breathless than he intended. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were flirting with me. You trying to get in my pants or something? Because, fair warning, I'm a cheap date—I'll put out after a few kind words and maybe a well-placed claw or two."

Logan's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Wade thought he saw something flash in them—something dark and dangerous that made his stomach do a weird flip. But then Logan just huffed, shaking his head like Wade was a particularly annoying puzzle he couldn't figure out. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you?" Logan growled, but there was no real bite behind it.

Wade shrugged, trying to keep it casual even though his thoughts were anything but. "It's part of my charm. But seriously, Logan, if you're not trying to seduce me, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me otherwise. I mean, you're practically on top of me right now. A guy could get the wrong idea."

Logan's eyes flicked down to where their chests were almost touching, and for a brief moment, Wade thought he saw his resolve waver. But then Logan took a step back, putting some much-needed distance between them, and the moment was gone.

Because if you're not worth something, then what the hell am I?

Wade cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sudden tension."Well, uh, glad we got all of that mushy stuff out of the way," Wade stammered, his usual bravado faltering. "Blech, gross. We better get, uh... going. Yeah, going."

Logan didn't respond right away, his intense gaze still locked on Wade. The silence stretched between them, and for a moment, Wade wondered if he'd said something wrong. He was about to crack another joke, something to diffuse the weirdness, when Logan took a step closer.

Wade froze, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Then, without warning, Logan reached out.

He flinched, closing his eyes instinctively, expecting the familiar snikt of Logan's claws, the sharp pain that usually followed their arguments. But instead of the expected slice of adamantium, Logan's fingers brushed against Wade's tie, deftly undoing the mess Wade had made and re-tying it with practiced ease. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost intimate, and Wade had to resist the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between them and— 

"There," Logan said, stepping back, his voice low and steady. "Now you don't look like you've been strangled by your own tie."

Wade's eyes flickered to Logan's lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second longer than he intended. His heart pounded against his ribcage, his pulse racing as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Logan's hand didn't immediately pull away after fixing the tie; instead, he ran it down the front of Wade's shirt, smoothing out the fabric with deliberate care. Wade couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like this—so gently, so attentively. Wade's breath caught in his throat as Logan's fingers trailed over his shirt, the contact both unsettling and electrifying. He was close, so close that Wade could count the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could feel the roughness of his calloused hands against his chest. Wade blinked, realizing he'd been holding his breath. "Thanks," he managed to say, though it came out more like a croak.

Logan's hand finally left his chest, but the warmth of his touch lingered, leaving Wade feeling oddly exposed. Before he could say anything, Logan was already turning away, heading for the door. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "Don't want to be late."

Wade stood there, rooted to the spot.

Thumpthump

Thumpthump

Thumpthump

With one last glance at the door Logan had just walked through, Wade sighed. "What the actual fuck?"

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

Wade shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden pew. His suit felt tight, constricting—like it was trying to suffocate him in the most stylish way possible. And seriously, who thought it was a good idea to trap a bunch of people in formal wear inside a stuffy old church? It was practically a death sentence for someone with as much raw sexual energy as him. The vows were all about love, commitment, and blah blah blah—like these two weren't about to start arguing over who left the toilet seat up or whose turn it was to take out the trash as soon as the honeymoon phase wore off. Wade was tempted to shout, "Run while you still can!" but he didn't want to be responsible for ruining the wedding, especially not when Vanessa was watching him like a hawk.

She'd probably kill him before the groom even had the chance.

Wade's thoughts flickered to Vanessa again, his heart doing that annoying thing where it clenched a little too tight in his chest. He still loved her, didn't he? She was beautiful, smart, and probably the only person who actually tolerated his bullshit daily.

Then again...

He glanced over at Logan again, because apparently, self-torture was his new hobby. Logan's eyes were fixed on the couple at the altar, his expression unreadable, as usual. But Wade could see the way his jaw was clenched, the slight tension in his shoulders, and yeah, it was doing things to him. Like making him wonder if maybe—just maybe—he wanted Logan to look at him with that same intensity.

Logan's jaw was clenched so tight it could crack walnuts. His broad shoulders were tense, his posture rigid, but his eyes... there was something in his eyes as he watched the couple exchange vows that made Wade's stomach do somersaults. The intensity, the way Logan was completely focused on them, like he was imagining himself in that position.

But this wasn't about him. Not today. Wade had to remind himself that Vanessa was the one he was supposed to care about, the one he'd been infatuated with for longer than he cared to admit. Logan was just... a confusing detour in Wade's headspace. A very, very distracting detour with a gruff voice and a tendency to make Wade feel things he didn't want to feel.

The ceremony finally reached its climax—thank God—and the newlyweds kissed to the sound of applause and cheers. Wade joined in, clapping a little too enthusiastically because if he didn't do something with his hands, he was going to lose his mind. The whole room seemed to explode with joy, people hugging, crying, and congratulating each other, and Wade felt like he was watching it all from behind a glass wall. 

The reception was being held in a fancy-ass tent in the churchyard, complete with chandeliers, flowers everywhere, and enough booze to make even the most skeptical guest believe in true love, if only for a night. Wade was immediately drawn to the open bar, but Vanessa intercepted him before he could make a beeline for the alcohol. 

 Wade stared at Vanessa, at the elegant lines of her dress, and at the way her hair framed her face. She looked perfect, like a dream he'd once had—a dream he'd tried to make real. For a brief moment, he let himself get lost in the fantasy, the one where he was the one slipping that dress off her shoulders later tonight. He imagined their wedding day, the one they'd never had, where he stood beside her at the altar, vowing to love and cherish her until death do them part.

Only in Wade's version of things, it didn't go quite so smoothly. He knew, deep down, that if they had gotten married, the honeymoon phase would have worn off quickly. They would have grown sick of each other, like two feral cats trapped in a room with no escape. Wade's sarcasm would have grated on her nerves, and Vanessa's patience would have worn thin..He could see it now: the slow decline of their relationship, the love they once had eroding away like a sandcastle being eaten by the tide. Wade would have retreated into his bad habits, using humor as a shield to hide the pain, and Vanessa would have eventually realized that he wasn't the man she needed him to be. The end would have been inevitable—a messy, painful divorce that left them both worse off than before.

Or the other version of events, the one where he never became Deadpool. The one where he stayed with Vanessa after he found out about the cancer, trying to live out the time he had left, pretending that everything would be okay. They would have gone through with the wedding because that's what people in love do when they know their time is limited. They would have smiled for the photos, cut the cake, and danced the night away, all while a ticking clock hung over their heads, counting down the minutes until Wade's body gave out.

He imagined Vanessa sitting beside him in a sterile hospital room, holding his hand as he wasted away, his body betraying him piece by piece. He'd lose his hair, his strength, his ability to crack jokes without feeling like his chest was being crushed by an invisible weight. And Vanessa, God bless her, would have stayed by his side, wiping away her tears and pretending that she wasn't terrified of losing him. But in the end, he would have died, leaving her with nothing but memories of what could have been.

There was no happy ending for them. Not in this life. Not in any life.

Wade swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. "Vanessa, I—" He hesitated, unsure of what to say. What did one say to the love of their life when they were now married to someone else? "I'm happy for you," he finally managed, his voice rougher than he intended. "You look...incredible."

Vanessa's eyes softened at Wade's words, and she reached out to touch his arm gently, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Thank you, Wade," she said quietly. "That means a lot."

Wade forced a grin, though it felt like it was cracking his face in half. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it. I've only got so much sincerity in me before I start breaking out in hives."

Vanessa's smile was warm, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I-I wasn't sure you'd actually show up today," She confessed.

Ouch

Wade shifted on his feet, feeling like the floor beneath him might give way at any second. He'd faced down armed mercenaries, survived being blown to bits, and even dealt with the constant chatter in his own head, but this—standing in front of Vanessa in her wedding dress—was something else entirely. It was like staring into the sun, knowing it would burn him alive but unable to look away.

"Yeah, well, surprises are kinda my thing," Wade said, trying to keep his tone light, even though it felt like his chest was being crushed in a vice. "Besides, wouldn't miss seeing you tie the knot with Perfect Craig for anything. Real good jawline. Probably gets that shit chiseled by angels. What's his secret? Botox? Ozempic?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Devil's dandruff?"

Vanessa laughed softly, but the sound was tinged with something bittersweet. She glanced over her shoulder at Craig, who was surrounded by well-wishers, laughing and shaking hands like he'd just won a Nobel Prize for Being Fucking Awesome. Wade followed her gaze, trying not to let the jealousy gnaw too hard at his insides.

"He's a good guy, Wade," Vanessa said, her voice gentle like she was trying to convince him—or maybe herself. "He's everything I needed after...well, after everything, you know?."

Wade nodded, his eyes still locked on Craig, who was talking animatedly with someone across the room. "Yeah, I can see that. He's got that whole 'not a murderous lunatic' vibe going for him. Definitely an upgrade."

Vanessa's hand tightened on his arm, and he finally tore his gaze away from Craig to look at her. There was something in her eyes—something that made his heart stutter in his chest. Regret, maybe? Or just the weight of everything that had come between them? Wade wasn't sure.

"I never wanted things to end the way they did," Vanessa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I never wanted to hurt you, Wade."

Wade swallowed hard, trying to keep the lump in his throat from turning into full-blown tears. This wasn't the time for that. He was Deadpool, the Merc with a Mouth, not some lovesick fool who cried at weddings. But damn if seeing Vanessa like this didn't make him want to break every rule he'd set for himself.

"You didn't hurt me," Wade said, his voice softer now, more honest than he intended. "I mean, you did, but... I hurt myself more by letting you go, by pushing you away. And now, look at you," He held her at arm's length, gaze sweeping up and down. "You're happy. You deserve that."

Vanessa's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and for a moment, Wade thought she might break down right there in front of him. But she didn't. She just nodded, blinking rapidly as she fought to keep her composure.

"I want you to be happy too, Wade," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I want you to find someone who can give you what you need, who can make you feel...whole."

Happy. The word felt foreign in his mouth, like something he wasn't supposed to touch.

Wade forced a chuckle, though it came out more like a choked gasp. "Yeah, well, you know me. I'm more of a jigsaw puzzle that's missing half the pieces. My half was probably chewed up, swallowed by a dog. Probably in a doggy bag somewhere."

Vanessa's breath hitched, and for a moment, Wade thought she might cry. But she didn't. Instead, she reached up and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing lightly over the rough, scarred skin that he hated so much. 

Wade closed his eyes, leaning into her touch for just a second, savoring the warmth and softness of her hand against his cheek. Then he pulled back, forcing a smile that he knew didn't quite reach his eyes. There was a moment of silence between them, a moment where everything they weren't saying hung in the air like a thick fog. Wade wanted to say more, to tell her how much she'd meant to him, how much he wished things could have been different. But this wasn't the time or place, and maybe it never would be.

"You'll be okay, Wade. I know you will," she told him, eyes shiny with unshed tears. 

"Of course, I will," Wade said, injecting as much confidence as he could muster into his voice. "I'm Wade fucking Wilson. I bounce back from everything. Except maybe disco. That shit leaves scars."

Vanessa's smile was soft, and for a moment, Wade could almost believe that everything would be okay. That he could move on, find someone else, and maybe even be happy again. But as he watched her turn away and walk back toward Craig, hand in hand, the reality of it all hit him like a punch to the gut.

He was letting her go. For real this time.

And as much as it hurt, as much as it made him want to scream and punch something until his knuckles bled, Wade knew it was the right thing to do. Vanessa deserved the world, and if he couldn't give it to her, then at least Craig could. The perfect, fucking flawless bastard.

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

The bar was set up with a dazzling array of top-shelf liquors and cocktails that would have made even the most discerning drinker drool. Not that Wade could get drunk—his healing factor made sure of that. But that didn't stop him from grabbing a drink if only to have something to occupy his hands and maybe distract himself from the ache in his chest. He poured himself a double shot of whiskey, the amber liquid swirled around the glass like liquid gold. He held the shot to his lips, gulping it down before slamming it on the counter.

"You know you can't drink your way out of feeling like shit, right?" 

Wade rolled his eyes, turning in his seat to face the man to his right. And there he was, standing with arms crossed, his trademark scowl in place as if he'd just smelled something that offended his delicate, animalistic senses. Logan looked good. Like, annoyingly good. The kind of good that made Wade question his life choices, like why he wasn't actively climbing Logan like a tree at this very moment.

But no, Wade was sad. Sad and horny. A combination that was probably illegal in some countries. He quickly distracted himself by grabbing another glass from the bar, because when the heart hurts, the hands need something to do, even if it's just pretending to drink. He poured another shot, staring at the liquid like it had all the answers. 

"Can't drink my way out of feeling like shit, huh?" Wade echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he glanced at Logan. "Well, I can't exactly stab my way out of it either, though I'm sure that's more your style." He downed the shot, immediately regretting it because all it did was remind him that he couldn't even get a decent buzz to dull the pain. Logan grunted, pushing away from the bar and grabbing a bottle of bourbon with the ease of someone who was used to handling dangerous situations. 

He arched an eyebrow, looking like he was about to say something serious, something deep and meaningful, which was a terrifying thought. Wade held up a hand, cutting him off before he could ruin the mood with any of that touchy-feely crap. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone, Captain Broody Pants. I can practically see the wisdom trying to ooze out of your pores, and while I appreciate the effort, I'm really not in the mood for one of your lectures on how to be a real man or whatever."

Logan's lips twitched, a flicker of a smirk, though his eyes remained steady on Wade's, and damn if that wasn't doing things to him. "I was just going to say that moping around in a bar isn't going to change anything. You're better than this, Wade."

"Better than this?" Wade repeated, his voice taking on a theatrical tone as he spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a glass in the process. "I'm the fucking poster boy for bad decisions! Drinking in a fancy-ass wedding bar while my ex—who, by the way, looks like a goddamn angel in that dress—is off dancing with Mr. Perfect McAsshat? This is exactly where I'm supposed to be!"

Logan sighed, the kind of sigh that said he'd rather be anywhere else but here, dealing with Wade's melodrama, but here he was anyway. "You're right. You're a mess. But you're not just some punchline. You're Wade Wilson, and you're more than just the guy who makes jokes when he's hurt."

Wade felt a pang in his chest, but he quickly shoved it down, because feelings? Feelings were for losers who didn't have a healing factor and a mask to hide behind. He looked Logan up and down, his gaze lingering a bit too long on the way Logan's shirt stretched over his chest, and yeah, maybe he was feeling a little bit of something that wasn't entirely sadness. 

Wade leaned in, close enough to smell the faint scent of cigars and whiskey that clung to Logan like a second skin. "And what exactly is that? Fucking? Or stabbing things until they stop moving? Because I gotta say, I'm partial to both."

Wade was teetering on the edge of sad and horny, and it was a dangerous place to be, especially when Logan was standing this close, looking all rugged and perfect and... stabby. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a katana, and Wade was half-tempted to close the distance, to do something that would definitely be a bad idea but would feel oh so good. "You know, we could just forget about all this Vanessa shit," Wade suggested, his tone light and teasing, but with an edge of something real underneath. "And instead, we could focus on something more... distracting."

Logan's gaze flickered to Wade's lips, and for a split second, Wade thought maybe—just maybe—Logan would go for it. But then Logan pulled back, just enough to make Wade want to reach out and pull him back in. "You're a real piece of work, Wilson," Logan said, his voice gruff but tinged with something that Wade couldn't quite place. "But I think you've had enough self-pity for one night."

Logan took the empty shot glass from Wade's hand, his grip firm but careful, like he was dealing with a volatile substance. "Come on, Bubba," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. 

Before Wade could protest, Logan hoisted him off the barstool with a grunt, not even breaking a sweat. For a guy who looked like he was perpetually two seconds away from going on a rampage, Logan sure had a way of handling fragile things. Wade was trying really hard not to count himself in that category, but tonight... tonight was different.

As they made their way to the exit, Wade threw one last, lingering look at the bar. "Farewell, overpriced liquor that doesn't work on me. We could've been something, but alas, it wasn't meant to be."

Logan rolled his eyes but didn't bother responding. He practically shoved Wade out the door and into the cool night air. The parking lot was quiet, the kind of eerie quiet that made Wade want to crack a joke just to fill the silence. But he couldn't find the words, so he just slumped against Logan as they walked to the car.

Logan unlocked the car with a click, and Wade flopped into the passenger seat like a sack of very attractive, emotionally complex potatoes. As Logan started the engine, the silence between them grew thick, charged with an undercurrent of tension that neither of them seemed willing to address head-on.

Wade stared out the window as they drove, his mind racing with thoughts he didn't want to have. He couldn't help it, though. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vanessa—happy, glowing, and wrapped up in someone else's arms. Someone who wasn't him. His chest felt tight, like there was a vice clamped around his heart, squeezing until he could barely breathe.

Logan, as usual, was the epitome of quiet resolve. His hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his knuckles turning white with the effort. Wade noticed the tension in Logan's jaw, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the road, like he was determined to ignore the elephant in the car—the one wearing a red-and-black suit and feeling like a complete and utter failure.

They pulled up outside of their place, and Logan killed the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. Wade was too wrapped up in his own head, and Logan... well, Logan was Logan. The kind of guy who dealt with problems by punching them in the face, but tonight, he couldn't punch Wade's heartbreak into submission. 

"Come on, let's get you inside," Logan said, finally breaking the silence. He got out of the car and walked around to Wade's side, opening the door with a gentleness that Wade didn't deserve. Wade let Logan help him out, his feet dragging as they walked to the front door. Once inside, the emptiness of the place hit Wade like a ton of bricks. The apartment felt too big, too quiet, too... everything. Like it was mocking him with its emptiness. Al must've gone out and taken Dogpool with her.

Logan led Wade to Al's bedroom, his hand on Wade's back, guiding him like he was afraid Wade might collapse at any moment. Wade did feel like he might. Like he was a sickly maiden in need of care. 

"Alright, Bubba, get in," Logan said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He pulled back the covers, nodding for Wade to get in.

Wade hesitated at the edge of the bed, staring down at the rumpled sheets like they held some sort of answer. "You know what I hope?" Wade said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. He looked up at Logan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I hope I go to sleep and never wake up."

Logan froze in the doorway, his hand hovering over the light switch. The tension in the air thickened, and for a moment, Wade thought Logan might actually turn around and leave him there, alone with his thoughts. But instead, Logan's shoulders tensed, and he turned back to face Wade, his eyes blazing with something Wade couldn't quite name. "Don't say that shit."

Wade shrugged. "Why not? It's true. No one would miss me if I was gone. Hell, half the people I know would probably throw a party. 'Ding dong, the Deadpool's dead.'"

Logan's eyes narrowed, his usual gruffness giving way to something sharper, more intense. He stepped closer to Wade, his boots heavy on the floor, and for a moment, the air between them felt like it was about to snap. "Is this all over some girl?" Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Wade flinched at Logan's words, but he didn't back down. Instead, he gave a bitter laugh, the kind that cut deep and didn't even try to hide the pain behind it. "Some girl?" Wade echoed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, sure, let's reduce the love of my life to 'some girl.' Why not? It's not like she's the one person who made me feel like I wasn't just some cosmic punchline. No, let's just call her 'some girl' and pretend like everything's fine."

Logan crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze hard as steel, but there was something else there too. Concern, maybe? Or pity? Wade couldn't tell, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "So you're telling me this is all about Vanessa? You're ready to check out for good because some guy married her instead of you?"

Wade didn't respond as he shrugged his suit jacket off, throwing it into a corner of the room.

Logan's jaw clenched, and for a moment, Wade thought he might actually walk away, leave him to drown in his own self-pity. But Logan didn't move. Instead, he stepped back into the room, crossing the distance between them in a few quick strides. He grabbed Wade by the shoulders, forcing him to look up, to meet his gaze. Logan's eyes were intense, filled with a fierce kind of determination that took Wade by surprise.

"Don't you ever say that again," Logan growled, his grip tightening just enough to make his point. "You think you're the only one who's ever lost something that mattered? That you're the only one who's ever had to watch someone they love walk away?"

Wade opened his mouth to respond with some smartass remark, but Logan wasn't done. He shook Wade slightly, enough to make his head snap back and his thoughts scatter. "Shut up and listen, Mouth. I know that's really fucking hard for you but try, just this once," Logan's voice cut through Wade's attempt at humor like a hot knife through butter. "You're not the only one who's lost people, who's had to watch someone they love walk away. But you don't see me sitting around wishing I'd never wake up. You know why?"

Wade opened his mouth to retort, but Logan's glare was enough to shut him up.

"Because there's more to life than just one person," Logan pressed on, his grip still firm on Wade's shoulders. "You think I don't know what it's like to love someone so much it hurts? To want something so bad, but know it'll never be yours? Hell, Wade, I've lived more lifetimes than you can imagine, and I've seen it all. But I'm still here. You know why?"

"Because it's not just about them. It's about you. About the people who still give a damn about you, even when you're being a complete jackass. And yeah, you've got family, and you've got friends. You've got people who care whether you're here or not. Even if you don't want to admit it, they'd miss you."

Wade's throat tightened, and he tried to brush it off with a joke. "Wow, Peanut, you're really laying it on thick. What's next? We braid each other's hair and talk about our feelings?"

Logan ignored the quip, his gaze unwavering. "You think no one would miss you? Bullshit." He leaned in closer, clenching his teeth so tightly together Wade was scared they might shatter under the tension. "I would."

Wade's heart skipped a beat, the realization crashing down on him with all the subtlety of a freight train. 

Holy fuck!

 He felt like the ceiling had just opened up and Marvel Jesus himself had shone a spotlight on his head.

He might actually Like Logan! And not just in the 'Hey, you're body is banging! Let's make sweet, sweet love under the moonlight' type of way. More in a 'Logan in sweatpants, barely awake but still trying to make coffee that didn't taste like motor oil,  while Wade propped his chin on his broad shoulder, peppering kisses on the back of his neck where his scent was thickest'. Wade could see them both tangled in blankets, half-watching crappy morning TV while debating whether or not they should actually get up while Mary Puppins snuggled in between the two of them (probably closer to Logan because she somehow liked him better than Wade--the traitor!). He could imagine them grocery shopping: Logan pushing a cart while Wade threw random items into it just to mess with him. They'd argue over the proper way to pick out produce and whether or not buying ten different types of cereal was excessive. Logan grumbling about fixing leaky faucets or assembling furniture, while Wade pretended to be the handyman, only making things worse, but he would be in prime view of Logan's ass when he inevitably had to fix it. Filing taxes, paying bills, and attending boring social functions that Wade would have to pretend to love because Logan would secretly want to be there. Matching Christmas sweaters. Thanksgiving. Knowing Logan and he wouldn't kill each other if a knife or two were drawn. Knowing that it would inevitably lead to sexsexsexsex. 

"What?" Logan growled, the sound low and rough, vibrating through the air between them.

Wade didn't answer. 

Instead, he just leaned in, closing the distance between them in one fluid motion.

The kiss was hot and heavy, filled with the kind of desperation that had been simmering under the surface for too long. Wade's hands fisted in Logan's shirt, pulling him closer, while Logan's hands gripped Wade's hips, anchoring him in place. It wasn't gentle or sweet—it was raw, messy, and full of the kind of need that Wade had been trying to ignore for months. Maybe even longer.Logan's jacket was the first casualty, hitting the floor with a dull thud as Wade tore it off him, his fingers already working to unbutton Logan's shirt. But before he could get more than a couple of buttons undone, Logan pushed him back with a force that sent Wade stumbling.

"What the hell?" Wade breathed out, his voice shaky as he stared at Logan in confusion. "You don't want me either?"

Logan didn't answer immediately. He turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying the weight of the world on them.

"You still love her," Logan said, his voice rough and strained, like it physically hurt him to say the words.

"What?"

Logan moved to leave the room, his movements jerky and tense, but Wade wasn't about to let him go that easily. He grabbed Logan's arm, yanking him back. "Whoa, you prick. You can't just blue-ball me here. What the hell are you talking about?"

"You're sad. And horny-"

"Like always," Wade shot back, trying to keep the situation light even as his heart pounded in his chest.

"Jesus Christ," Logan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to ward off a headache. "Can you take this seriously? Just this once."

"Can you stop acting like a fucking teenager about this? It's sex, Peanut. It's not a big fucking deal-"

"To you," Logan snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. Wade froze, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut.

"What?" Wade asked, his voice smaller than he intended, the confusion clear in his eyes.

Logan's eyebrows furrowed together, his mouth twitching into a snarl. "Figure it out," Logan growled, his voice rough with emotion. "You're smart."

And with that, Logan turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to make the walls rattle. 

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

The next morning was as awkward as Wade had expected, if not worse. He shuffled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, only to find Logan already there, his back turned as he fixed a cup of coffee. Logan didn't look up when Wade entered, and for a moment, Wade thought about turning around and heading back to his room. But he was Deadpool, damn it. He didn't back down from anything—especially not from an awkward morning-after conversation.

"Morning, Sunshine," Wade chirped, pouring a generous amount of sugar into his mug before sloshing in some coffee. The silence that followed was deafening. Logan didn't respond, just took a long sip of his coffee, his shoulders still hunched in that brooding way Wade had come to associate with something being seriously wrong.

"Okay, so, this is how it's gonna be?" Wade pressed, his voice unusually quiet. "We're just gonna pretend last night didn't happen?"

Logan's jaw clenched, and he set his mug down with a bit too much force. Wade winced at the sound, the tension in the room ratcheting up another notch.

"Nothing happened," Logan finally said, his voice low and even, like he was trying to keep his temper in check. 

Wade felt a flash of irritation. "Bullshit," he shot back, leaning against the counter. "You were this close—" he held his fingers inches apart "—to making this a whole different kind of morning. But you stopped. Why?"

Logan's eyes flicked up to meet Wade's, dark and stormy, before he looked away again. "Drop it, Wade."

"Logan..."

"I said drop it," Logan growled, and this time there was an edge of warning in his voice that made Wade hesitate. For a moment, he considered pushing further, demanding an answer, but the look on Logan's face made him think twice. There was something there—something raw and vulnerable that Wade wasn't used to seeing in the man who was normally so composed, so unflinchingly stoic.

"Fine. Have it your way," Wade muttered, backing off. But the hurt was still there, simmering beneath the surface, and he couldn't quite hide it in his voice. "I'll just be over here, pining pathetically like the lovesick puppy you think I am."

Logan's shoulders tensed at that, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned and walked out of the kitchen without another word, leaving Wade alone with his thoughts and a sinking feeling in his gut.-------------------------------------------------------------The days that followed were a painful routine of avoidance and missed opportunities. Every time Wade tried to bring up what had happened between them—or rather, what hadn't happened—Logan found a way to dodge the conversation. He'd leave the room, change the subject, or growl out a curt "Not now, Bub," before disappearing for hours on end. 

Wade kept telling himself that it was fine. Logan was just being his usual broody, emotionally constipated self, and he'd come around eventually. But as the days turned into weeks, Wade couldn't ignore the growing distance between them. It was like there was this invisible wall between them now, and no matter how hard Wade tried, he couldn't break through it.

One evening, about a month after that night, Wade finally snapped. Logan had been avoiding him all day, and Wade had had enough. He cornered Logan in the hallway, blocking his path."Okay, seriously, what the fuck is your problem?" Wade demanded, his voice tinged with frustration and something that sounded a lot like desperation.

Logan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now-"

"Not now? When then?" Wade shot back, his voice rising. "Because it's been 'not now' for weeks, and I'm kinda sick of it."

"What do you want from me, Wade?" Logan asked, his voice low, almost defeated. "You want me to apologize for stopping something that shouldn't have happened in the first place? Or do you just want to keep pushing until you get what you want?"

"What I want?" he echoed, the anger in his voice mixing with genuine confusion. "You think this is about getting what I want?"

Logan didn't answer, but the look in his eyes said enough. Wade felt something snap inside him. He didn't know what else to do, how else to get through to Logan. So he did the one thing he knew how to do best—he picked a fight.

"Fine," Wade muttered, his voice darkening. "If that's what you think of me, then let's do this your way."

Before Logan could react, Wade pulled out one of his katanas and slashed at Logan's arm, the blade cutting through muscle and skin with a sickening sound. Logan hissed in pain, his hand going to the wound instinctively, but he didn't fight back. Wade watched as the wound began to heal almost immediately, the flesh knitting itself back together with that all-too-familiar rapidity. 

"Fight back!" Wade shouted, slashing at Logan again, this time across the chest. Blood splattered across the floor, but Logan still didn't react. He just stood there, taking it, his face a mask of stoic resolve.

"What's the matter, huh? You scared you'll get your ass handed to you again, old man?" Wade taunted, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Logan winced as another cut split across his shoulder, but still, he didn't fight back. Wade kept slashing, over and over, the adrenaline pumping through his veins making him feel invincible, unstoppable. But Logan just kept taking it, letting Wade tear him apart without so much as lifting a finger in defense.

"Come on!" Wade screamed, slashing at Logan's side, the blade slicing deep. "Fight back, you fucking coward! What's wrong with you?!"

Finally, Logan snapped. With a growl, he grabbed Wade by the shirt, his grip like iron as he lifted him off the ground and hurled him across the room. Wade crashed through the window with a loud shatter, glass exploding around him as he tumbled through the air, landing hard in the dumpster outside.

Wade lay there for a moment, dazed, before the smell hit him. He groaned, rolling over onto his back and glaring up at the shattered window above.

"Motherfucker!" he yelled, voice echoing in the alleyway. "You know I've been stashing Mary Poppins pee pads in here!"

There was no answer from the window, just the sound of glass crunching as Logan moved inside. Wade lay back, staring up at the sky, his body already healing from the rough landing.

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

Wade drummed his fingers on the table, his leg bouncing restlessly under it. Vanessa looked radiant—marriage seemed to suit her, not that Wade was surprised. Craig was a decent guy, stable, boring, rich as hell. Basically, the opposite of Wade in every conceivable way.

"So, married life treating you good?" Wade asked, forcing a grin that was more genuine than he expected. "You two already planning to pop out some tiny, annoyingly perfect babies, or are you still enjoying the honeymoon phase?"

Vanessa smiled a soft, almost serene expression that made Wade's chest ache just a little. "We're just taking it one day at a time. Craig's been amazing, and I'm happy, Wade. I really am."

Wade made a mock gagging noise, sticking his finger in his mouth. "Ugh, gross. You're so happy and fulfilled without me. It's almost like my destructive influence was holding you back or something."

She chuckled, the sound light and free, and Wade felt the tension in his chest loosen a bit. "You know that's not true. I was a hooker-"

"A damn good one, too," Wade said, taking a sip. He paused, sunglasses barely shielding the glare from the sun that shone over their rich person patio. "Is this the part when I beg for you to take me back?

Vanessa smirked. "Ha ha. Fuck you."

Wade took a sip of his tea, letting the warm liquid settle the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. "Did that. Was in a movie about it. Died for it. Next."

She laughed, a light sound that made Wade's heart clench just a little. Not the gut-wrenching, chest-crushing kind of clench, but more like a distant echo of something that used to be there. "Wade," Vanessa said softly, leaning forward slightly. "I'm happy. But you know what? I'm happy that you're here, and you seem... okay. Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm spectacular," Wade replied with a grin, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thriving, really. Living the dream. My roommate only fucking hates me half the time now, and I'm still doing the whole 'merc with a mouth' thing, which, as you know, is a dream come true."

Vanessa's smile dimmed slightly, and Wade could see the concern creeping in around the edges of her expression. "You haven't shut up about him since you got here, you know."

"Who, Logan?" Wade waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, well, he's my roommate. It's kind of hard not to talk about the guy who's up my ass--figuratively, not literally--24/7."

Vanessa gave him a knowing look, the kind that made Wade squirm in his seat. "Wasn't he supposed to move out or something? I remember you saying he was looking for a place."

Wade shrugged, taking a sip of his tea as if that would somehow make the question go away. "Yeah, well, apparently he doesn't want to 'break the lease' or something. But we both know the real reason is that he's finally realizing money doesn't grow on trees. Life's expensive out there in the big bad world."

"Or," Vanessa said, her voice gentle but firm, "he realizes that if he does, he's leaving a good thing behind."

Wade choked on his tea, coughing and sputtering like he'd just swallowed a live grenade.  "I beg your fucking pardon?" he croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Vanessa smiled knowingly, hiding her grin behind her cup. "You like him, Wade. And he likes you."

Wade stared at her, his brain scrambling to make sense of what she was saying. "Mmm. I see. That's close. I like him. He doesn't like me at all, apparently."

"And he told you that?" Vanessa asked flatly.

"Uh, dur," Wade said, waving his hand as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "In a series of grunts and by refusing to have sexual intercourse with me, yes."

Vanessa set her cup down with a soft clink, her expression softening. "Logan called me."

Wade gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "That conniving bitch! What did he say about me?"

Vanessa stirred the tea with her finger, the wedding ring glinting as it moved in circles. Wade's eyes followed it like a cat would a laser. Vanessa took another sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving his. "He said that I was stupid for letting you go."       

Wade waved his hand dismissively. "Debatable. And?"

"He told me," Vanessa continued, her voice soft but steady, "that I should break up with Craig and take you back, or cut you loose because I was going to kill you if I kept stringing you along."

Wade stared at her, his mouth suddenly dry. He gulped, trying to find words that made sense, but all he could do was blink. Vanessa reached across the table, grabbing his hands in hers. Her touch was warm, comforting, and Wade suddenly felt very, very small. 

"Wade Wilson," she said, her voice steady, sincere. "I love you."

And for a split second, Wade thought he was supposed to feel something monumental, like the earth shifting beneath his feet, like the universe snapping into place. These were the words he had once ached to hear, the words that had haunted him in the dead of night. But now... now, they just felt like words.

His heart wasn't pounding, his palms weren't sweaty. He didn't feel the urge to fall to his knees and beg her to take him back. Instead, all he felt was a soft, gentle sort of peace. A peace that whispered to him that this chapter of his life was over, and that was okay.

Actually, at this moment, all he really wanted was to go home. To Blind Al, who was probably cussing at some kid in an online poker game. To Dogpool, whose piles of drool probably needed cleaning. To their stupid little apartment, filled to the brim with cocaine, pictures, garbage, and those damn candles people kept buying him even though he didn't even like them. And, well... he kind of wanted to go home to Logan. And kiss him. A lot.

"Huh..." Wade murmured, the realization settling over him like a warm blanket.

Vanessa rubbed her thumb over his hand, her eyes shining with understanding. "Wade Wilson."

Wade smiled softly, the first genuine smile he'd felt in a long time. "Vanessa Carlysle."

She playfully corrected him, "Vanessa Van Housen."

Wade made a face, his nose crinkling in mock disgust. "Even his last name sounds pompous as fuck. Where did he get it? Rich Guy Name Generator?"

Vanessa laughed, that beautiful, familiar sound that he'd once fallen in love with. But this time, his chest didn't hurt. Not even a little.

Well, maybe a little. An eensy bit. He did save the world for her at one point of his life after all.

Vanessa laughed, a genuine laugh that warmed Wade's heart, but this time, it didn't hurt. It didn't make him want to cling to her or beg her to take him back. It just felt... nice.And for once, nice was enough.

---------------------------------------------------Wade took a deep breath, his fingers lingering on the doorknob for just a second longer than necessary. The familiar creak of the door sounded as he pushed it open, stepping inside the apartment.

His eyes immediately landed on Logan, who was hunched over the kitchen table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at his laptop. The soft glow of the screen illuminated Logan's rugged features, casting shadows across the sharp lines of his jaw and the deep-set intensity of his eyes. He was dressed in a plain white tank top that clung to his muscular frame, showing off every ripple and curve of his biceps and shoulders. The tank top was just a little too tight, revealing a hint of the veins that snaked down his arms. 

Wade couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail, every line etched into Logan's skin, every slight movement of his fingers as they tapped at the keyboard. There was something almost hypnotic about the way Logan moved—deliberate, controlled, like a predator always ready to strike. And yet, there was a softness in his expression, a vulnerability that Wade had only glimpsed in fleeting moments.

Logan must have sensed Wade's presence because he looked up, their eyes locking across the room. For a few tense seconds, neither of them spoke, the air between them thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Wade's heart pounded in his chest, a dull ache settling in his stomach as he waited for Logan to say something, anything, to break the silence.

"I found a place," Logan said finally, his voice low and gruff. He looked back at his laptop, as if the words didn't matter, as if they hadn't just ripped Wade's heart out and stomped on it. "I'll be out in a month."

Wade didn't respond. His mind was reeling, his chest tight with a sudden, crushing sense of loss. Without a word, he turned and headed for his bedroom, his feet moving on autopilot. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The thought of Logan leaving, of him not being here—every day, every morning, every night—

Just as he reached the door to his room, Wade stopped dead in his tracks. 

Wait, what the fuck am I doing? 

Spinning on his heel, Wade marched into Blind Al's room, spotting a set of keys on her bed. He snatched them up without a second thought and stormed back into the kitchen. Logan looked up just in time to see Wade launch the keys at his head. Logan caught them mid-air, his reflexes as sharp as ever.

"You nearly took my eye out," Logan growled, glaring at Wade with a look that could have melted steel.

Wade ignored the complaint, his voice deadly serious. "Get in the car."

Logan blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"Get in the fucking car," Wade repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Or I swear to God I will chop all of your limbs off and manually put you piece by piece in the passenger seat."

Logan's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in them. "Yeah? Let me know how that goes."

Wade shrugged, adopting a casual tone that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface. "Fine. Plan B."

Logan's eyes flickered with suspicion. "What the hell is Plan B?"

Without warning, Wade pulled out a gun and shot Logan in the head. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the apartment, followed by the heavy thud of Logan's body hitting the floor. Wade holstered the gun, already moving to gather supplies.----------------------------------

When Logan woke up, he found himself tied up in the back of Wade's Honda Odyssey, the world outside the windows speeding by in a blur. His head must have been throbbing, the remnants of the bullet wound still knitting together, and his limbs were bound tightly with duct tape, leaving him immobile.

Wade glanced back from the driver's seat, a wide grin plastered across his face. "Morning, Sunshine. I wondered how long it would be until you woke up."

"Motherfucker," Logan growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble as he tugged at the duct tape binding his limbs. "You fucking shot me."

Wade shrugged, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to catch Logan's glare. "I couldn't take any chances, Peanut. You've been a slippery little bastard lately." He grinned, the kind of grin that promised trouble. "And besides, it's nothing you haven't survived before."

Logan let out a feral snarl, his muscles straining against the tape. "I'm going to rip your goddamn arms off when I get out of this."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," Wade replied dismissively, turning his attention back to the road. "You know, I'd say this is like our little Honda Odyssey scene in Deadpool 3, but I don't think Marvel's legal team would appreciate the comparison." He paused, considering that for a second. "Or maybe they would. Marvel loves free promo."

Logan's eyes narrowed, his mind clearly already working on an escape plan, but before he could start making any progress, Wade suddenly veered off the highway and into an abandoned Denny's parking lot. The car screeched to a halt, gravel spraying in all directions.

"Why the hell are we here?" Logan growled, his voice dripping with suspicion.

Wade put the car in park, unbuckling his seatbelt with a dramatic flourish. "Because, Logan, nobody gives a shit about what happens at a Denny's. We could start World War III out here, and the only response we'd get is someone asking if we want extra syrup with our pancakes." He stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Logan had barely a second to react before Wade yanked open the back door and dragged him out, tossing him into the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes. Logan hit the seat with a grunt, his healing factor kicking in almost instantly to dull the pain. Wade slid back into the driver's seat of the car, manually locking his side with a knowing look despite the busted-out windows, before turning back toward Logan.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, and in one swift motion, cut through the duct tape binding Logan's arms. "Come on, Old Man," Wade taunted. "Let's settle this the old-fashioned way. You, me, Denny's parking lot, and ole reliable here," he punched the top of the car. "It's practically destiny."

Logan didn't need any more encouragement, his claws extending with that familiar snikt as he launched himself at Wade. But Wade was ready, his reflexes sharp as ever. He ducked under Logan's first swing, his body moving with the fluidity of someone who had been through this dance a thousand times before.

"Oh, so it's gonna be like that, huh?" Wade quipped, sidestepping another swipe from Logan's claws. "If you wanted to get your hands on me, all you had to do was ask. But hey, I'm not into that kind of foreplay—well, not unless there's dinner involved."

Logan growled, his eyes narrowing as he swung again, this time aiming for Wade's midsection. Wade blocked the strike with his forearm, wincing as the claws sliced through his suit, drawing blood. But instead of backing off, he grinned, the pain only fueling his adrenaline.

"You know, you're really good at this. Must be all those years of pent-up frustration, huh? Tell me, does it make you feel better to have someone to hit who actually enjoys it? Because, spoiler alert, I'm loving this," Wade said, ducking under Logan's next attack and spinning around to deliver a quick jab to Logan's ribs. 

Logan grunted, the punch barely fazing him as he countered with a brutal elbow to Wade's jaw. Wade's head snapped back, and for a moment, everything went white. But he recovered quickly, shaking it off with a laugh.

"You're really getting into this, aren't you?" Wade taunted, rubbing his jaw. 

Logan's response was a wordless snarl as he lunged again, this time driving Wade back against the carseat. Wade barely had time to brace himself before Logan's claws were in his chest. Logan plunged them into his chest cavity upwards of twelve times--a new record, hooray!--before he drove them into his chest one last time. 

Wade's grin never faltered, even as he felt the claws imbed themselves into the back of the seat.. "Is this your way of saying you're into me? Because I gotta say, it's kinda hot." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, his voice dropping to a low, teasing purr. "If you wanted to pin me against something, all you had to do was ask."

Logan's eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and frustration, his grip tightening. "You don't know when to shut up, do you?"

"Never have, never will," Wade replied with a wink. "But hey, if it's any consolation, I've been told I'm a great kisser. You know, in case you wanted to switch things up."

Logan's snarl deepened, and for a moment, Wade thought he might actually go through with it—end this ridiculous dance once and for all. But instead, Logan shoved him away, sending Wade's back into the driver's seat. 

Wade caught himself on the steering wheel, laughing breathlessly as he wiped the blood from his mouth. "Is that it? Is that all you got?"

Logan didn't respond, his chest heaving as he struggled to rein in his emotions. His claws retracted with a snikt. "Why do you keep doing this?" Logan's voice was hoarse, as if the question itself was tearing something out of him.

Wade grinned through the pain, his heart hammering in his chest as he locked eyes with Logan. "What? Fighting you?" Wade's voice was thick with mock surprise as he feigned innocence. "I thought you enjoyed it! I stab you, you stab me. I figured it'd bring back some of that good ol' nostalgia, you know? A trip down memory lane, back to where it all started—two dysfunctional guys, beating the crap out of each other in the shittiest, fuckiest vehicle on planet earth. It's almost romantic."

Logan's patience snapped, and with a sudden, vicious movement, he snatched one of Wade's own knives and drove it into Wade's side. Wade's laughter turned into a growl as the blade bit deep, but it only fueled the fire raging inside him.

"That's it!" Wade roared as he pounced on Logan, his hand slamming the lever to push the passenger seat back. In one fluid motion, Wade straddled Logan's chest, the golden guns he loved so much flipping out of their holsters and pressing against Logan's forehead.

Logan stared up at him, his eyes filled with fury and something else—something that looked an awful lot like resignation. "You won't."

Wade's grin turned feral. "I already did. And I will again." He cocked the gun, the cold metal pressing harder against Logan's skull. "How do bullets sound for dinner, sweet thing?"

Logan growled, his muscles tensing beneath Wade as he tried to push him off. But before he could even get a word out, Wade fired a shot into Logan's thigh. Logan's snarl was drowned out by the sound of the gunshot, his claws tearing through the fabric of the car seat as he struggled to break free.

"Stop! Oh my god, just stop for a second!" Wade snapped, the frustration finally boiling over. "Can I just say what I need to say before you turn me into a Wolverine shish-kabob?"

Logan's teeth bared in a feral snarl, but he stopped pushing against Wade, his breath ragged and hot against Wade's chest. Wade leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost dangerous whisper as he spoke. "You're really making this difficult, you know that?"

"Mask off," Logan grunted, his eyes narrowing as he stared up at Wade.

Wade hesitated, the familiar mask suddenly feeling like a shield he wasn't ready to lower. "No, I prefer to keep the mask on, actually. And I'm literally the one calling the shots here, so—"

Logan's claws shot out, piercing through Wade's thigh with brutal efficiency. Wade yelped, his grip on the guns tightening as pain shot through his leg. "Marvel H. Christ, fine! Mask off! You really need to work on using your words, angel face, or this is never going to work. I mean, don't get me wrong, it turns me on, but a guy can only take so much—"

"What's never going to work?" Logan interrupted, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through Wade's rambling like a knife.

Wade froze, his bravado faltering for the first time. The humor in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a vulnerability that he rarely let anyone see. His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly reached up to pull off his mask, revealing the scarred, disfigured face beneath.

He looked down at Logan, his breath hitching in his throat as he finally said the words that had been clawing at the back of his mind for months. "I like you."

Logan snorted, his expression dark and disbelieving. "Fuck off."

"It's true, sugar bear. Trust me, I hate it as much as you do. But I, Wade Redacted Wilson, have a crush on Logan Most Obvious Last Name Ever."

Logan's eyes searched Wade's face, looking for any sign of a joke, any hint that this was just another one of Wade's twisted games. But all he found was honesty—raw, unfiltered, and terrifying.

"You're serious," Logan muttered, more to himself than to Wade.

Wade nodded, his heart pounding in his ears. "Yeah, I am. And it's really fucking scary because I know I'm the last person you'd ever want to be with. But I can't help it. I mean, I know that I'm not much. I don't have a steady income or even a legit job. I know I'm annoying as all get out, and that I look like deer jerky that's been over-dried, and that I come with a lot of baggage. Like going on a trip and never coming back so I pack all of my belongings type baggage. And I don't even know if you're gay, even, I mean. I don't know if Marvel was going for comic book accurate or if we're set on making you straight Wolvie. Like, am I making a complete ass of myself? Probably. But I'm willing to take that chance because, honestly, you're the only thing in my life that feels right. Even if it means I'm risking everything to be here, saying this, right now."

Logan's silence was deafening. His claws retracted, and for a moment, he just stared at Wade, his expression unreadable.

"Say something," Wade whispered, his voice cracking with uncertainty. "Anything. Or I'm just going to keep talking, and it's going to get really personal-"

"Gubernatorial."

"What-?"

Logan didn't answer with words; instead, he closed the distance between them in one swift motion, grabbing the front of Wade's suit and pulling him into a kiss so fierce and intense that it silenced every smart-ass remark Wade had been about to make. Wade's eyes widened in shock for a split second before they fluttered shut, his body melting into Logan's. 

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—

Wade's thoughts raced as he clung to Logan, his hands gripping the older man's biceps like they were the only thing anchoring him to reality. The kiss was all teeth and desperation, as if both of them had been waiting for this moment longer than either wanted to admit. Wade's hands slid up to Logan's shoulders, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until he felt like he was drowning in it.

He didn't even realize they'd started moving until his back hit the backseat of the Odyssey, and Logan's body pressed against him, solid and unyielding. Wade's breath hitched as Logan's lips left his, trailing hot kisses down his jaw, his neck, making him shiver.

"I—uh, I really thought—" Wade began, his voice hoarse as Logan nipped at his collarbone, "I really thought you were gonna punch me or something. Which, don't get me wrong, would've been totally hot too, but—oh fuck—this is way better."

Logan's response was a low growl against Wade's skin, his hands already working on the fastenings of Wade's suit. Wade let out a shaky laugh, his fingers fumbling with Logan's belt in return.

"God, you're such a goddamn tease," Wade babbled as Logan's hands roamed over his body, finding every scar and every sensitive spot with an infuriating level of precision. "I mean, seriously, you're gonna drive me crazy, but I guess that's not a far drive, huh? Get it? Because I'm already—oh, shit, that's good—"

Logan's lips were back on his, silencing him again, but Wade couldn't help himself. He kept talking between kisses, the words spilling out of him like a dam had burst.

"Okay, okay, I know I talk too much—oh my God, that's amazing—like, I just, I can't stop, it's a problem, really, I should probably—fuck—probably see a therapist about it, but—Jesus, Wolvie—"

Logan's hands slid down to Wade's hips, lifting him up like he weighed nothing, and Wade's legs wrapped around him instinctively. He could feel Logan's hard body against his, the heat between them almost unbearable.

"Wait, wait—are you sure—" Wade started, but Logan shut him up with another bruising kiss, his body pressing Wade into the seats. Wade moaned, his hands threading through Logan's hair, pulling him closer.

"You're sure," Wade muttered against Logan's lips, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth even as Logan's hands roamed lower. "Okay, okay, just checking, 'cause I don't want you to—ah—regret this later, and—oh fuck, don't stop—"

Logan didn't stop. His hands were everywhere, his mouth hot and demanding as he kissed, licked, and bit his way down Wade's chest, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin, making Wade arch off the seat. 

"I mean, seriously, Wolvie, who would've thought—oh God—who would've thought you were so good at this? I mean, not that I doubted you, 'cause you're like—fuck, right there—like, totally a sex god and all, but—"

Logan's hands gripped Wade's thighs, spreading them wider, and Wade's words dissolved into a moan as Logan's mouth moved lower, his tongue teasing along the edge of Wade's suit before he finally, finally pulled the rest of it off, leaving Wade completely exposed. "Shut the fuck up, Bub," he growled.

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up, I'll—oh my God—okay, maybe I won't shut up, 'cause I really can't help it, but—fuck, you're so—"

Logan's mouth was on him, and Wade's mind went blank, his hands clutching at the cupholders as pleasure crashed over him like a tidal wave. Every coherent thought was wiped away, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of Logan's touch, his lips, his teeth, every movement pushing Wade closer to the edge. 

Wade's rambling became incoherent, his voice rising in pitch as Logan continued, driving him crazy in the best possible way. His body tensed, every muscle coiled tight as the pleasure built and built until it was too much to handle.

"Logan, I—fuck, I'm gonna—"

Logan didn't let up, his hands and mouth working in perfect sync, and Wade couldn't hold back any longer. He came with a choked cry, his body shaking as the pleasure ripped through him, leaving him breathless and spent.

Logan didn't move away, his touch gentler now as he helped Wade ride out the aftershocks, his lips pressing soft kisses to Wade's heated skin. Wade lay there, panting, his heart racing as he tried to process what had just happened.

"Holy shit," Wade finally managed, his voice hoarse. "That was—wow. I mean, seriously, wow. You're like—you're like the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I know I'm not supposed to get all sappy and shit, but I think I'm in love with you."

Logan pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting Wade's with that same unreadable expression. For a moment, Wade thought he might have crossed a line, that maybe he'd said too much. But then Logan leaned down, brushing a gentle kiss against Wade's lips.

"You talk too much," Logan muttered, but there was no bite in his words, just a hint of amusement.

Logan's eyes darkened as he looked down at Wade, his thumb continuing to trace the rough skin of the scars on Wade's neck. There was an intensity in his gaze, something raw and primal that made Wade's breath catch in his throat. Logan's hand slid down from Wade's neck, fingers trailing over his collarbone before resting on his chest, pressing him back into the seat with a firm, unyielding pressure. "My refractory time is practically close to nothing. I assume yours is the same?"

Logan smirked, and Wade's pulse quickened as he felt Logan's strength, the way he didn't hold back. He wasn't worried about hurting Wade. Wade wasn't worried about getting hurt. Actually, he was counting on it. Wade's mouth opened, a smart-ass comment ready to spill out, but Logan was faster. His free hand moved to Wade's face, his fingers slipping between Wade's lips, pressing down on his tongue.

"Quiet, Mouth," Logan growled, his voice low and commanding.

Wade's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't resist. Instead, he sucked on Logan's fingers, his eyes locked on Logan's, his breath coming in shallow pants as he waited to see what Logan would do next.

Logan's lips curled into a smirk, clearly pleased by Wade's compliance. He pulled his fingers out of Wade's mouth, replacing them almost immediately with a strip of fabric he tore from Wade's discarded suit. Logan pressed the makeshift gag into Wade's mouth, tying it securely behind his head. Wade's muffled protests were met with a sharp, almost playful look from Logan.

"Now," Logan said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Wade's spine, "let's see if I can keep you quiet."

Wade's heart pounded in his chest as Logan's hands moved to his wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand while the other trailed down his body, teasing, exploring. Wade squirmed beneath him, the rough fabric of the gag between his teeth only adding to the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

Logan's touch was deliberate, almost calculated, as he mapped out every inch of Wade's skin, lingering on the scars, the bruises, the places where Wade was most sensitive. Wade's muffled moans grew louder, more desperate, as Logan's hands roamed lower, skimming over his hips, his thighs, until finally, finally, he touched Wade where he wanted it most.

Wade arched off the seat, his body trembling with anticipation and need, but Logan didn't give him what he wanted right away. Instead, he took his time, exploring, teasing, driving Wade to the brink of madness with every slow, deliberate movement.

Logan's hand closed around Wade's cock, stroking him with a firm, unrelenting grip that had Wade seeing stars. Wade's moans grew more frantic, his hips bucking up into Logan's hand, desperate for more. But Logan was in no hurry. He kept his pace steady, controlled, keeping Wade right on the edge without letting him fall over.

Wade's muffled cries were almost frantic now, his body straining against Logan's hold, his need for release almost unbearable. But Logan wasn't done with him yet. With a wicked grin, Logan pulled his hand away, leaving Wade gasping and writhing in frustration.

Logan's hand moved to the knot behind Wade's head, and with one swift tug, the gag was gone. Wade gasped for air, his voice raw and desperate.

"Logan, please—" Wade started, but Logan silenced him with a kiss, hard and possessive, his teeth nipping at Wade's lips.

"You want something?" Logan growled against Wade's mouth, his voice laced with dark amusement.

"Yes—fuck, yes, I want—" Wade's words were cut off by another bruising kiss, Logan's hand wrapping around his throat, applying just enough pressure to make Wade's breath hitch.

Logan pulled back slightly, his eyes boring into Wade's. "Then beg for it."

Wade's heart skipped a beat at the command, his body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. He swallowed hard, his voice shaking as he did exactly as Logan demanded.

"Please, Logan," Wade whispered, his voice thick with need. "I need you—please, I'll do anything, just—"

Logan didn't let him finish. With a low growl, he flipped Wade over onto his stomach, pinning him down with one strong hand on the back of his neck while the other yanked Wade's hips up. Wade could feel the heat of Logan's body against him, the hard press of his cock through his pants, and it sent a jolt of electricity through his veins. "Fucking," Wade wheezed. "Coke bottle."

Logan let out a deep chuckle, and the strip of cloth was shoved back into his mouth. Wade groaned around the gag, the sound coming out muffled and desperate as Logan's fingers slid between his legs, spreading him open. 

Logan's hands were relentless but controlled, his fingers tracing the curve of Wade's ass, the touch almost teasing. Wade's breath hitched as he felt Logan's fingertips slide between his cheeks, spreading him open with a deliberate slowness that made his heart pound even harder. Logan was taking his time, making sure Wade felt every single movement, every brush of his skin against the most sensitive parts of him.

Wade's hips twitched involuntarily as Logan's fingers found his entrance, circling it with a maddening gentleness that had Wade trembling, trying to push back, desperate for more. But Logan's grip on his neck kept him firmly in place, a silent reminder of who was in control.

Logan leaned in closer, his breath hot against Wade's ear as he murmured, "You're gonna take everything I give you, Bub. Understand?"

Wade could only nod, his response a muffled whimper around the gag, his body straining against the pressure of Logan's hand on his neck. Logan's fingers continued their slow, torturous exploration, one finger pressing just inside, barely enough to satisfy, but more than enough to make Wade's head spin.

"Relax," Logan growled softly, his voice rough and commanding. Wade tried to do as he was told, letting out a shaky breath through his nose, his muscles loosening as Logan's finger pushed in deeper. The burn was sharp but not unpleasant, and the feeling of Logan stretching him open made Wade's pulse race even faster.

Logan's free hand slid down Wade's back, his touch firm and grounding, as if reminding Wade that he was there, that he was in control. Wade bit down on the gag, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts as Logan added a second finger, the stretch more intense, pushing Wade's limits just enough to keep him on edge.

"That's it," Logan muttered, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he felt Wade relax further, his body submitting to Logan's touch. Logan scissored his fingers inside Wade, stretching him wider, his movements calculated and precise, making sure Wade was ready for what was coming next.Wade's muffled moans filled the room, the sensation of Logan's fingers inside him sending shivers up his spine, his body twitching with every twist and curl of Logan's fingers. Logan's thumb pressed against the base of Wade's spine, applying just enough pressure to make him arch his back, giving Logan better access as he added a third finger, the stretch almost overwhelming.

Wade's eyes squeezed shut, his fingers clawing at the sheets as Logan continued to work him open, his breath hitching with every movement. Logan's pace was unhurried, almost leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world to draw this out, to push Wade to the brink and then pull him back, just to start all over again.

Wade's mind was a blur of sensation, the pleasure mingling with a sweet ache that had him trembling, his body caught in that perfect balance between pain and ecstasy. He could feel Logan's cock hard and heavy against his thigh, a constant reminder of what was coming, but Logan didn't rush. He kept Wade on edge, his fingers twisting and thrusting inside him with deliberate precision, making sure Wade was thoroughly prepared.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Logan's fingers slid out of Wade, leaving him feeling empty and desperate for more. Wade let out a muffled whine, his body trembling with need, but Logan's hand on his neck kept him grounded, kept him from falling apart completely.

Logan reached down to undo his pants, the sound of the zipper loud in the otherwise quiet car, and Wade's breath hitched in anticipation. He could feel Logan's cock brushing against him, thick and hot, and his body tensed with a mix of excitement and nerves.

Logan leaned down, his lips brushing against Wade's ear as he growled, "You ready for me, Bub?"

Wade nodded frantically, his voice muffled by the gag, but his body spoke for him, his hips pushing back against Logan's in a silent plea.

Logan's hand tightened on Wade's neck, his other hand guiding himself to Wade's entrance, and with a low growl, he pushed in slowly, the head of his cock stretching Wade even further. Wade's breath caught in his throat, his body straining against the intrusion, but Logan didn't stop, pushing in inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt, his cock filling Wade completely.

Wade's muffled cries mixed with the sound of their bodies coming together, the sensation overwhelming, but Logan gave him no time to adjust, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in with a force that knocked the air out of Wade's lungs.

Logan set a brutal pace, each thrust deep and powerful, his grip on Wade's neck keeping him pinned in place, completely at Logan's mercy. Wade's body rocked with the force of Logan's thrusts, his muffled moans growing louder, more desperate, as Logan took him apart piece by piece.

Logan's hand moved from Wade's neck to his hips, pulling him back onto his cock with every thrust, pushing him deeper into the seat. Wade's world narrowed down to the sensation of Logan inside him, the sound of flesh against flesh filling  car. Wade could feel the pressure building inside him, the pleasure coiling tight in his belly, ready to snap. Logan's hand moved to Wade's cock, gripping it tightly and stroking in time with his thrusts, pushing Wade even closer to the edge.

Wade's moans grew louder, more desperate, his body trembling as he teetered on the brink. Logan's thrusts became almost punishing, each one driving Wade closer and closer until he couldn't hold back any longer. With a muffled scream, Wade came hard, his body convulsing as the pleasure ripped through him like a tidal wave.

Logan wasn't far behind, his grip on Wade tightening as he thrust deep one last time, his body shuddering as he found his own release. Wade could feel the hot rush of it inside him, Logan's body pressing him down into the seat as they both rode out the aftershocks.

For a moment, the only sound in the car was their ragged breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Logan slowly pulled out, his hands still on Wade's body, but gentler now, almost tender. He reached up and carefully removed the gag from Wade's mouth, tossing the fabric aside as he helped Wade roll onto his back. 

Wade's eyes were half-lidded, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Logan huffed as he leaned back, the confined space of the Honda Odyssey making it difficult to move, but he managed. He grumbled under his breath about the cramped quarters, shooting a half-hearted glare at the minivan's ceiling as if it were responsible for the whole situation. Wade just lay there, a dazed grin plastered on his face, completely content despite the sticky mess they'd made of the backseat.

"Well," Wade began, his voice raspy but still carrying that familiar Deadpool snark, "if I'd known you were going to be this romantic, I would have brought candles. Maybe some Barry White to set the mood. You know, really class up the joint."

Logan snorted, rolling his eyes as he reached for something in the front seat. He fumbled for a moment, his annoyance evident in the way he yanked at the fabric. Eventually, he pulled out an old flannel shirt, tossing it onto Wade's chest with little ceremony.

"Wipe yourself off," Logan muttered, the gruffness in his voice softened by a faint hint of concern as he watched Wade struggle to sit up.

Wade picked up the flannel and gave it an exaggerated sniff, wrinkling his nose dramatically. "Mmm, Eau de Wolvie. I think I'm gonna bottle this scent and sell it as 'Lust in the Woods.'" He dragged the shirt across his chest, making a show of cleaning himself off, though his movements were slower than usual, exhaustion tugging at the corners of his smile.

Logan didn't rise to the bait, instead, he reached out, his large hand surprisingly gentle as he took the flannel from Wade and continued cleaning him up, his touch efficient but careful. Wade watched him, his grin softening into something more genuine as he soaked in the moment. "You're gonna be sore tomorrow," Logan said, more as a statement than a question, his tone gruff as ever. He was careful, though, mindful of the tender spots as he worked.

"Pfft, sore's my middle name," Wade quipped, wincing only slightly as Logan's hand brushed over a particularly sensitive spot. "Well, that and Danger. And Maximum Effort. You know, because I'm multi-talented. Like a Swiss Army knife."

"You're a pain in the ass," Logan muttered, his voice low but lacking the usual edge.

"No I have a pain in the ass," Wade quipped back, opening his eyes to meet Logan's gaze, his smile full of mischief. "And don't think I didn't notice you keeping that shirt handy. Just in case we had a 'situation' in the backseat of this here luxurious, totally-not-a-mom-van."

Logan huffed, but the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shifted in the seat, his hand moving from Wade's thigh to his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "You good?"

Wade nodded, his grin turning more genuine. "Yeah, I'm good. Better than good. Great, even. Might need to invest in some lumbar support for this bad boy, though," he added, patting the seat beneath them. "These backseats weren't exactly made for... this kind of activity."

Logan chuckled, the sound low and rough, and Wade couldn't help but feel a surge of warmth at the sound. It was rare to get anything more than a grunt or a growl out of Logan, and hearing him actually laugh, even just a little, felt like a victory.

"Guess I'll have to upgrade next time," Logan said, his tone dry but laced with the slightest hint of amusement.

Wade's eyes widened, and he clapped a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Did you just imply there's gonna be a next time? Oh, Peanut, you're making me blush. Here I thought I was just a one-night stand, a quick fling, a..."

Logan silenced him with a kiss, rough and a little awkward in the cramped space, but it was full of something that Wade didn't often get from the gruff mutant. Affection. Maybe even care. Wade melted into it, his usual banter forgotten as he returned the kiss, his hand coming up to tangle in Logan's hair.

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were soft, and for once, Wade didn't feel the need to fill the silence with words. He just smiled, his hand still resting on Logan's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm.

"Let's get out of this damn van," Logan muttered, though there was no real urgency in his voice as he pulled Wade closer for one last kiss before reaching for his shirt.

"Yeah, yeah," Wade replied, his voice light as he reluctantly sat up, the spell of the moment finally breaking as he fumbled for his clothes. "But just so you know, this is totally going in my memoir."

Logan watched as Wade fumbled with his clothes, his usual playful demeanor slipping back into place like a well-worn mask. But Logan wasn't about to let him brush off what had just happened between them. Not this time.

"Bub," Logan began, his voice firm but not unkind as he reached out to still Wade's hands. Wade froze, his eyes flicking up to meet Logan's, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his expression.

"Yeah, Wolvie?" Wade's voice was softer now, the usual snark tempered with something more vulnerable.

Logan held his gaze, his hand still resting on Wade's, grounding them both in the moment. "I meant what I said. There's gonna be a next time. And another time after that. I'm not playin' games here."

Wade blinked, his mouth opening as if to say something, but words seemed to escape him. 

"I'm not gonna be second to Vanessa," Logan continued, his voice gruff but steady. "I don't do half-assed relationships. If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. You and me. Monogamy. I'm not sharin' you with anyone, and I'm sure as hell not gonna be your backup plan."

"Marvel really picks and chooses what they want in their material, don't they?" Wade said, his voice slipping back into its usual sarcastic tone.

Logan raised an eyebrow, clearly not following. "What're you talkin' about?"

Wade waved his free hand dismissively. "Oh, nothing, honey pie. Just going on about how good of a wife I would be to you. You know, the whole 'stand by your mutant' thing. I could totally rock an apron. Maybe even get one of those cute little 'kiss the cook' hats. Or maybe we could get matching flannel pajamas—because, seriously, you've got like a thousand of those, and I think I could really make it work."

"Wade," Logan warned.

Wade put his hands up defensively, his usual playful sarcasm still dancing in his eyes. "Fine, fine, no more jokes about being your perfect little housewife. But wait—" Wade suddenly froze, his expression shifting as a thought seemed to strike him. "Is that what your problem was the entire time?"

Logan, who had just turned to slip into the front seat, paused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, Wade," he replied, his tone gruff, but there was no hiding the amusement in his eyes as he settled into the driver's seat.

Wade gasped dramatically, clutching at his chest as if he'd just been struck by some grand revelation. "You scheming, bitch!" he exclaimed, his voice a mix of mock outrage and disbelief. "You mean to tell me I could've been getting fucked this entire fanfiction if I'd just stopped beating the dead horse that I was still in love with Vanessa?"

Wade narrowed his eyes, his mind racing as he replayed every interaction they'd had up until this point. "Were you ever even gonna move out?" he accused.

Logan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached over and patted Wade's thigh, his touch firm and reassuring. "Get in your seat, bub," he said, his voice a mix of gruffness and something almost affectionate.

Wade stared at him for a moment, his mind whirling with a thousand thoughts and questions. But then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, and he couldn't help but chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.

Wade slid into the passenger seat, finally buckling up as he let out a long breath. "You know, you could've just said something," he pointed out, though his tone was more teasing than anything else.

Logan shrugged, his eyes on the road ahead as he started the van. "You wouldn't have listened."

Wade thought about that for a moment and then nodded. "Fair point."

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

"So," Wade began, breaking the silence with his usual casual tone, "now that we've got that all figured out, does this mean we're officially a couple? Like, do I get to call you my boyfriend, or is that too high school for you? Maybe we should go with something more mature, like 'life partners.' Or we could just skip straight to 'husband'—really cut through all the red tape, you know?"

"Wade..."

"Okay, okay," Wade said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "No need to get all grumpy about it. But just so you know, I'm totally putting you down as my emergency contact from now on. And don't be surprised if you find a ring in your breakfast burrito one of these days."

"Wade."

"Fine, I'm shutting up now," he said, mock zipping his lips. He turned in his seat, watching as the trees zipped by the window. Was that a cum stain on the back one? Shit. He was pretty sure that Laura drove this car sometimes. Talk about trauma.

"Okay, but seriously," Wade piped up after a while, unable to resist, "if I start calling you 'honey bear,' you're not gonna claw me to death, right? Because I feel like it's a real missed opportunity if I don't."

Anddd those are Logan's claws in his thigh.

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

Life didn't exactly get easier when Logan and Wade made it official. 

Better? Sure.

Sexier? Oh abso-fucking-lutely.

But easier...well, the jury was still out for that. 

They still fought like cats and dogs, but now, instead of ending up in separate corners licking their wounds, they usually ended up tangled together, panting and sweaty, in whatever corner they'd been trying to kill each other in. It was an arrangement that worked for them—at least, it worked for Logan. Wade was more than happy with the new dynamic, often goading Logan into a fight just to see where it would lead.

Then there was the jealousy. He had always thought of Logan the jealous type, but he hadn't really been prepared for just how much of a green-eyed monster he could be when it came to Wade. Hubba hubba indeed. Every time Wade so much as smiled at someone else, Logan's claws itched to make an appearance.  And the best part? Wade knew. Oh, did he ever know, and he reveled in it. He'd flirt outrageously with anyone within a ten-foot radius just to see Logan's eyes narrow and his jaw tighten, only to turn around and smirk at him with that infuriatingly charming grin.

And who knows? 

Maybe one day he really would marry the bastard. He'd even caught himself considering ring sizes—though he'd never admit that out loud.

Because Dearest Reader, Wade Wilson was happy.

Really, truly, fucking happy together. 

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

It was Thanksgiving—a holiday Wade usually didn't give a flying fuck about, but this year was different. Logan had grudgingly agreed to a small get-together at their apartment with X-Force, Vanessa and Craig, as well as Laura. Oh, and Wade had somehow convinced Logan that showing up in matching flannel shirts was a great idea. 

"I'm not doing this," Logan muttered under his breath for what had to be the tenth time that morning as he tugged at the collar of his shirt.

"Too late, babygirl ," Wade said cheerfully, slinging an arm around Logan's shoulders. "You agreed, and now we're gonna show up like the power couple we are. Besides, you look hot in flannel."

Logan grunted in response, his usual expression of grumpiness even more pronounced. If Logan wasn't so hellbent on keeping things under wraps, maybe Wade wouldn't have to go to such lengths dammit.

The apartment was surprisingly cozy, given the rough-and-tumble lives of its occupants. Logan had even managed to scrounge up some decorations—mostly at Wade's insistence. The table was set, and the smell of food filled the air, though Logan had refused to let Wade anywhere near the kitchen after a disastrous attempt at making cranberry sauce the night before. Most of it ended up in places that Wade didn't really want to talk about actually, can we move on?

As their guests began to arrive, Wade's excitement was palpable. He greeted everyone with his usual over-the-top enthusiasm, making sure to point out the matching flannel to anyone who would listen. Vanessa and Craig were the first to arrive, followed by Domino and the rest of X-Force, and finally, Laura, who rolled her eyes at Wade's antics but seemed genuinely happy to be there.

As the meal went on, it became clear that Wade was more interested in Logan than the food. He kept finding excuses to touch Logan, whether it was a hand on his thigh, a squeeze of his bicep, or a quick brush of his fingers against Logan's neck. Each touch was accompanied by a lewd comment, whispered just loud enough for Logan to hear.

"Mmm, Wolvie, you've been working out," Wade murmured as he ran a hand up Logan's thigh, his voice low and sultry. "Those biceps are looking extra delicious tonight. Think I could get a second helping later?"

Logan shot him a warning look, but Wade just grinned, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Logan's ear as he continued. "You know, this flannel really brings out your eyes. But I think it'd look even better crumpled up on the floor with you on top of me."

Logan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to focus on his plate and ignore the heat pooling in his gut. He knew Wade was doing this on purpose, trying to get a rise out of him, but damn if it wasn't working.

Wade's hand slid up to Logan's chest, fingers tracing the muscles beneath the fabric. "I'm just saying, you could chop more than wood in this getup. Maybe later, you can give me a demonstration. I've got a few logs that need splitting."

Logan growled low in his throat, grabbing Wade's hand and squeezing it tightly. "Knock it off, Bub."

Wade shivered. "Oh, baby. Count me in as down and horny."

Logan's lips rose in a snarl.

Across the table, Vanessa raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the tension. "Everything okay over there?" she asked, her tone light but curious.

"Peachy!" Wade replied with a grin. "Just telling Logan how thankful I am for him. And everyone here."

Dopindor gave him a flat look, pushing the gravy boat toward NTW who glared viciously at him.

"Later, I'm gonna show him just how thankful I am," he said cheerfully. "And I'll give him a few things to be thankful for too. I promise." He purred in Logan's direction, and then clapped his hand down onto Logan's half hard dick.

Colossus choked on his turkey.

"I will tear you apart limb by limb, you absolute imbecile," Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous. 

Wade blinked, his eyes wide with faux innocence. "Oh, Peanut, you sweet talker. You know I love it when you talk dirty to me."

Before Logan could respond, Wade abruptly stood up, raising his glass in a dramatic toast. "Alright, folks, I've held my tongue long enough. It's time for some honesty. The truth is, Wolvie and I have been getting it on. Yep, regular old bone sessions. You twisted my arm, so there it is! Peanut and I are fucking on the regular!"

The room fell silent, all eyes on Wade as the weight of his words sank in. Vanessa nearly choked on her drink, and Craig's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Dopindor looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or facepalm, and Laura's expression was a mix of shock and horror.

"What?!" Laura finally shrieked, her voice echoing through the room. She looked from Wade to Logan, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You're... what?"

Snikt

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

Christmas. Maybe he'll propose on Christmas.

[real-reulbbr-band]

Translating all the CATS Asia tour (2017) character descriptions!

Admetus, the Considerate cat is a kind cat who protects kittens. He is a thoughtful and easygoing cat.

Alonzo, the righteous cat. A proud and masculine cat. On the outside, he is lively and dynamic, but deep down, he is still uncertain about himself.

Bill Bailey the acrobatic cat is an adolescent cat who specializes in fluid dance moves and acrobatics, and is tough and confident.

Bombalurina, the sensual cat; she is extremely sensual and sexy, especially popular among the male cats. She shares a special bond of empathy with Demeter.

Bustopher Jones, the rich cat is not a Jellicle cat, but he is an aristocratic cat who is welcomed by all, enjoys golfing in his spare time and loves a big feast of delicious food.

Carbucketty, the reckless cat is a feisty cat that often gets into trouble.

Cassandra the Siamese Cat, she has a four-dimensional spiritual world with a mysterious beauty. As the only hairless Siamese cat, she is always confident and maintains an air of elegance and pride.

(4D is Korean slang for someone who has a weird, eccentric personality. They seem to live in their own strange world, often behaving unusually or unexpectedly. Though it may seem like an insult, calling someone 4D is actually considered a compliment, and 4D idols are loved for their weirdness.) 

Demeter, a sensitive cat, she is anxious and irritable about Macavity, always thinking that Macavity is nearby.

Electra, a busy cat, likes to intervene here and there, so she is always busy and distracted. She is an adorable, fluffy young kitten.

George, a braggart cat. is a spontaneous, stubborn and dignified cat always on the alert.

Tantomile & Coricopat, the twin cats. As feral cats they are wild, have excellent cognitive abilities, and have a sixth sense that other cats do not have.

Grizabella, the Mesmerizing cat, was once a beautiful cat and a member of the Jellicles, but she has gone to the world outside of the Jellicles and has gone through a painful and difficult time, and now she is old and shabby. She wants to come back, but is ostracized.

Gus, the theater cat. The second oldest cat after the prophet cat. He was a famous actor in his younger days, but now suffers from palsy.

Jemima, the curious cat, best friends with Victoria. She is a curious, intelligent, and innocent kitten.

Jennyanydots, the Gumbie cat; She always sits around during the day, seeming lazy, but at night she is busy educating the kittens. She is like a mother to the Jellicle cats.

Jellylorum, the kind cat; she always takes care of old Gus and looks after the young kittens. She is a warm-hearted cat.

Macavity, the villainous cat. The mafia of the cats; he is the center of evil, notorious for committing crimes and kidnapping other cats.

Mr. Mistoffelees, the magician cat; he can make objects disappear and reappear. He can perform various kinds of magic and is very competitive.

Mungojerrie & Rumpleteazer, the thief cat couple; a playful and resourceful burglar cat couple who are always together and get into trouble, but are also fun and lively.

Munkustrap, the Moderator cat. He protects and cares for the Jellicle members. He has a noble, royal-like dignity and serves as the guardian of all the cats.

Old Deuteronomy, the prophet cat. The leader and ancestor of the Jellicle cats. Wise and knowledgeable, he is respected by all. At the Jellicle ball, he chooses one cat to ascend to the Heaviside Layer and begin a new 'Jellicle' life.

Rum Tum Tugger, the rebellious cat. The most popular Jellicle cat. He has strong opinions and likes to be the center of attention. Like the tree-frog, he's opposed to everything, but his presence alone is very charismatic.

(“청개구리” is an idiomatic term which refers to the Korean folktale story of tree-frog / blue frog. In the story, the young frog causes trouble for his mother by always doing the opposite of what he’s told. If you ask him for sugar he’ll give you salt, if you tell him to quiet down for bed, he’ll make a fuss etc.)

Skimbleshanks, the railway cat. A conductor who lives at the train station. He is an organized cat responsible for everything related to the trains.

Victoria, the white cat. The purest and most innocent cat. She performs an enchanting dance for the first time at the Jellicle Ball.

[betweenblackberrybranches]

So i wrote a little thing for the RLGL au

Its a prologue of sorts, the first actual meeting between the guys and y/n at work before they become neighbours

Be warned though i am not a writer and typed this out quickly on my phone while i was supposed to work so it is probably not that good (i think i just randomly switch between present tense and past tense so it just be like that)

Warning for suggestive themes. But nothing explicit is mentioned

There you stood, one hand grabbing the handle of the sleek chrome and wooden door. This was not part of your job description. And this was really not something you wanted to do. You were a janotor. Fixing minor electrical things, looking after the plumming, washing all sheets that the cleaners brought into the washing room and fixing and cleaning up the rough stuff. Every day was busy and you had always kept to yourself and the many staff only hallways, away from the rich red and black velvet and the polished wooden floors, raw concret where the eyes of the customers wouldnt see.

You felt safe in your domain, the low humming of the heating filling the basement rooms like the breathing of a sleeping dragon. Or atleast that was what you liked to imagine it as. It made your work seem atleast a little more exciting and kept your mind of the various fluids you had to painstakingly rinse out of the white and burgundy sheets.

You straighten your sleeves, a black turtleneck black slacks and a black baseball cap with fazCOs logo, not really the usual uniform for the people interacting with customers, worlds away from the white button up and vest you should be wearing. But this was an emergency. Well as far as the rich bozo in this room was concearned atleast. So who knows on what level the "mess" was, this could be anything from some spilling to..... well no need to think about worst case szenarios.

Straightening your cap one last time you enter the dimmly lit room. You immidiatly regret every single choice that led you to this specific sight. The hairs on your arms rising in protest as you try to nonchalantly step further into the mess, the customer having left apparently, not even waiting for the emergency roomservice to arrive after calling for it. Red wine and some gunk that looked like it had been food once that had been chewed and spit out again smeared all over the couch and carpet. You call out to make sure the coast is clear, trying very hard to not gag.

As soon as you are sure there is no human in the room you rush to a lifeless form of satin metal and plastic on the ground, swallowing hard as salvia and gall rise up in your throat. You find the second one bundeled up on the bed, lanky arms and legs positioned in a way that sent a shiver down your spine, one of his arms was popped out of the shoulder, only hanging by the many thin cables running under the outer casing.

Shaking hands finding the small power button at the base of the blue ones head you wait, counting five and then ten seconds. This isnt something you should be doing. This is against company policies, and yet you cant just leave them like this for a technician to find after you cleaned up. The soft hum of the reboot sent your hand back as if burned and you kneel down to repeat the action on the yellow one. You knew they had names, pretty obvious ones at that.. sun and moon. You had only seen them from afar until now. Especally because you were not a waiter or maid, someone who would walk past them regularly in the flashy suits and club rooms, no you were someone working in the shadows. A shame that the one time you saw them this closely it felt like you should avert your gaze, because even under the questionable liquids and gunk they still looked stunning. The yellow one started humming under your touch and you hurridly got up, starting the cleaning process and ignoring the two stiring bodies like you were supposed to.

Moon sat up straight, unfurling from his nothing but explicit position, his left arm dragging on the bed. No mind was given to the worker bustleing around the furthest corner as moon leaped forwards and down to the ground, shaking arm immidiatly finding his bright counterpart who was in the process of opening his eyes. Sun looked up and welcomed the soft embrace of moon, foreheads pressed together best they could with their orbish heads, giving themselves just one moment of comfort before dealing with the situation at hand.

You had started to clean the bathroom first, wanting to give the two robots enough time to regain their baring and hide their bodies away if they so wished. A bitter taste on your lips you reenter the main suite with two steaming hot towels and a big box of wet wipes, wordlessly pressing them in the hands of the two, now sitting on the bed encased in a thin sheet. With any interaction between general staff and escorts being prohibited you were pretty much towing the line of doing something that could get you fired, but you felt like this needed to be done.

Moving on you cleaned the carpet, trying to ignore the two bots meticulously wiping down eachother. You sigh. This all felt so wrong. You grab the cleaning rag tight as you rub at the carpet and wish you could do more for the two than gracefully ignoring them and their disheviled apearances, assuming theyd even want any help from a random janitor.

They are still cleaning and fixing up eachother when you put away the last stained pillowcase and wipe down the low table one last time. You swallow dryly. All you can think of doing for them is grabing two small post it notes from your cart and make small origami flowers, one of like three things you know how to fold. Leaving them behind on the stack of clean clothing you plop down on one edge of the bed. It is hard not to sneak one last look at the two, hovering around eachother, deeply concentrated on reapplying eachothers makeup with gentle brushstrokes.

The most beautiful constelation. But you feel like this is not something you are supposed to whitness.

You leave the room, softly dragging the door shut behind you and the cleaning cart with a click, disappearing back into the concrete lined corridors of the staff only areas, back to whatever you were doing before, the two robots in their gentle embrace at the border of your mind.

Cream fingers close around the neon colored paper flowers, to be carefully deposited in an inner jacket pocket and transported home. To be kept safe in a small cardboard box under their bed. To be forgotten but never lost.

[unatkozorobotok]

“Koalas are fucking horrible animals. They have one of the smallest brain to body ratios of any mammal, additionally - their brains are smooth. A brain is folded to increase the surface area for neurons. If you present a koala with leaves plucked from a branch, laid on a flat surface, the koala will not recognise it as food. They are too thick to adapt their feeding behaviour to cope with change. In a room full of potential food, they can literally starve to death. This is not the token of an animal that is winning at life. Speaking of stupidity and food, one of the likely reasons for their primitive brains is the fact that additionally to being poisonous, eucalyptus leaves (the only thing they eat) have almost no nutritional value. They can't afford the extra energy to think, they sleep more than 80% of their fucking lives. When they are awake all they do is eat, shit and occasionally scream like fucking satan. Because eucalyptus leaves hold such little nutritional value, koalas have to ferment the leaves in their guts for days on end. Unlike their brains, they have the largest hind gut to body ratio of any mammal. Many herbivorous mammals have adaptations to cope with harsh plant life taking its toll on their teeth, rodents for instance have teeth that never stop growing, some animals only have teeth on their lower jaw, grinding plant matter on bony plates in the tops of their mouths, others have enlarged molars that distribute the wear and break down plant matter more efficiently... Koalas are no exception, when their teeth erode down to nothing, they resolve the situation by starving to death, because they're fucking terrible animals. Being mammals, koalas raise their joeys on milk (admittedly, one of the lowest milk yields to body ratio... There's a trend here). When the young joey needs to transition from rich, nourishing substances like milk, to eucalyptus (a plant that seems to be making it abundantly clear that it doesn't want to be eaten), it finds it does not have the necessary gut flora to digest the leaves. To remedy this, the young joey begins nuzzling its mother's anus until she leaks a little diarrhoea (actually fecal pap, slightly less digested), which he then proceeds to slurp on. This partially digested plant matter gives him just what he needs to start developing his digestive system. Of course, he may not even have needed to bother nuzzling his mother. She may have been suffering from incontinence. Why? Because koalas are riddled with chlamydia. In some areas the infection rate is 80% or higher. This statistic isn't helped by the fact that one of the few other activities koalas will spend their precious energy on is rape. Despite being seasonal breeders, males seem to either not know or care, and will simply overpower a female regardless of whether she is ovulating. If she fights back, he may drag them both out of the tree, which brings us full circle back to the brain: Koalas have a higher than average quantity of cerebrospinal fluid in their brains. This is to protect their brains from injury... should they fall from a tree. An animal so thick it has its own little built in special ed helmet.”

[jisungsdaydreamer]

Anti-Romantic | CHAPTER ONE | 18+

«GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

THE LOVE FRUIT

“Mangoes. A criminally overlooked aphrodisiac. People call it the love fruit, you know.”

«SERIES MASTERLIST»

Pairing: Hyunjin x Fem!Reader Genre: Non idol au, fluff, smut, romcom, drama, opposites attract Chapter Warnings: explicit sexual content, mentions of emotionally abusive ex, controlling friendships, heavy fantasizing, masturbation (m and f) graphic sex fantasy sequence (includes descriptions of intercourse), sitophilia (food play) Word Count: 16.3k

P.S. ♡ If you like my work, please consider giving me feedback in the form of reblogs, comments, and asks! ♡

“What is love?”

Hyunjin looks out at the expanse of eager minds in front of him, everyone blurring together in the darkened auditorium. He can’t see any of their faces, but it doesn’t matter. He’s only been on the stage for approximately thirteen seconds, but he already knows that they’re watching him in that familiar, delicious awe, quietly clawing at the sides of their seats in unbridled enthusiasm and desperation. And he can never blame them— Hyunjin’s kind of a catch. 

He tucks his hands into his navy bespoke Armani trousers, appreciating the feeling of the silky inner lining against his fingertips. Even with such a casual gesture, he’s the picture of elegance; tall, devastatingly handsome, and movements fluid yet calculated, like a prima ballerina. Hyunjin is the kind of beauty that poets waste their lives over, pining over the perfect arch of his cupid’s bow to the aristocratic slope of his nose. As classic as an Italian prince, as unique as the moon herself.

“No, but seriously. What is love?” Hyunjin repeats his question into the mic, once more gracing his enthralled viewers with the rich, seductive notes of his voice. “Is it an emotion, that signal in your brain? A cliche? A cult?”

The audience ponders his words with bated breath, and Hyunjin takes the opportunity to continue.

“Or maybe it’s all just… lust.” Hyunjin whispers the last word while holding eye contact with an unsuspecting victim in the front row. The girl trembles and blushes under his heated gaze, looking down at her shoes in an attempt to hide her frazzled smile. 

With a deliberate smirk, Hyunjin moves on to his next target in the audience. It can be anyone, yet another to fall for his endless charms. No one is immune. The cute reporter in the second row who will interview Hyunjin after he finishes his long awaited TED Talk. A wink. A lady in a big fur coat, old enough to be his grandmother. A beguiling smile. And even the stern looking security guard standing in the back. A brief, but loaded glance. Yep, Hyunjin doesn’t miss Guillermo’s cheeks turning red, even in this atrocious lighting.

A hesitant hand amongst the crowd slowly creeps upwards, bursting Hyunjin out of his momentary flirt bubble. “I think that love isn’t real.”

A smaller spotlight is immediately shined onto the timid speaker. It’s a boy in his early twenties, probably a junior in college, judging by his trendy sweatshirt and the freshness in his features. But that typical hopefulness is absent in his eyes, replaced with despair. 

Heartbreak. 

Hyunjin shoots the student a knowing smile. Because of his passion for the human mind, he had studied psychology in his own university days, before obtaining a doctorate and specializing in counseling— specifically, relationship counseling. He wears many different— and designer— hats: certified dating coach, therapist, and even researcher, when love needs to be approached as a neurological phenomenon in a laboratory setting. But his personal favorite role is being an expert on broken hearts. Something about being able to fix people satisfies the urge in Hyunjin to be the best, to be the brightest. What’s better than giving some of his light to someone who needs it?

“What’s your name?” Hyunjin steps closer to the edge of the stage, now fully focused on this poor fellow. Everyone else in the audience follows Hyunjin’s actions, curiously turning to get a better look of which lucky individual has been able to score a coveted interaction with Hyunjin. 

The boy clears his throat nervously. “It’s Jeongin.”

“Jeongin,” Hyunjin tests, liking the playful feeling of the syllables on his tongue. He decides that the name fits the young man perfectly. “Why do you think that love isn’t real?”

“Because if it can come and go so quickly, it can’t be real.” Jeongin squares his shoulders before sitting up, a new fire in his voice. “If love dies before it’s even born, it must be a joke.”

Well, well, well. 

Not only is this a broken heart, but this is a bitter broken heart— Hyunjin’s kryptonite, in the best possible way. Jeongin’s heart was soaring and then subsequently shattered, becoming one that Hyunjin is now dying to piece together, because there’s nothing he savors more than a challenge. 

“I’ll ask you this.” Hyunjin slips his right hand out of his pocket, running his fingers through his hair. In one smooth motion, the dark, tousled locks fall back into an alluring set of eyes. “Do you want to be happy?”

Jeongin shakes his head, visibly frustrated. “What?”

Hyunjin isn’t deterred. “Love isn’t limited to just one person, Jeongin. Not even people in general.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Love is simply what makes us happy. It’s our unscratchable itch. Our insatiable need. Our comfort in crisis.” Hyunjin takes out the tiny metal laser pointer in his pocket and directs everyone to gaze at the massive screen looming behind him, flipping through the presentation that he prepared himself. Most of the high profile speakers at TED throw that task over to their personal secretaries, but then again, Hyunjin isn’t most people. 

A bowl of soup. A plate of pasta. A dish of chocolate cake. A stacked tower of choux pastry puffs. His audience, as Hyunjin calculated, is bemused with his choice of slideshow content, although Hyunjin is infamous as a loveable eccentric. These are all pictures and no words at all. 

“Is your passion cooking? Could you do it for the rest of your life? Will you just combust if you can’t whip up this croquembouche right this moment? That’s love.” Hyunjin lingers on the image of the French confection. “Love is what makes our cold nights warm again, the very driving force that pushes us to be the greatest possible versions of ourselves.”

If Hyunjin was any other speaker, the same onlookers would burst into laughter and walk away, muttering that he had lost his marbles. Who would try to make a point about the most confounding concept in all creation— the very entity that even the Stanford Encyclopedia of Psychology hesitantly attempted to define— with a series of pictures that belong in an episode of Chopped, not freaking TED? No one except Hyunjin, and rightfully so. It’s the reason why they all keep their backsides glued to the velvet upholstery, respectfully silent and anticipating being enlightened. 

“Love can be platonic, love can be romantic, love can be anything in this whole universe. Love is what makes us human. It reminds us that life is worth it, that after all, maybe there’s something left to fight for.” Hyunjin gives Jeongin a small, but sincere smile. “It’s why I’ve committed myself to helping people find it, to protect it.”

Jeongin sits back in his seat in acceptance, and Hyunjin knows that even though the inferno has just subsided, not been completely put out, the flames probably aren’t so scorching anymore. Maybe he’s scored himself a new client. 

Satisfied, Hyunjin turns back to the rest of his audience hungrily waiting for his eloquent scraps. “I’m Hwang Hyunjin. But you might know me as the Love Doctor.”

There are only so many episodes of Celebrity Wedding Disasters you can binge on Youtube before you begin to feel sick of yourself. Yes, watching freaking Brad Pitt get dumped at the altar makes you feel better about your own hopeless situation. But does it actually help your hopeless situation? No, it does not. Because watching other people suffer the same life as you does not solve your own problems. They’re all still there, at the end of the day, when you come home to an eerily quiet apartment, or in the morning, when you stretch out on your bed just to feel like you’re being swallowed up by the empty space next to you. 

And now? The sound playing from your computer speakers starts to melt into a drone, and the artificial lighting of the videos on the screen blurs your vision, augmenting the sagging under your eyes. You haven’t gotten up from your little space in the corner of your living room in eight hours, resorting to hunching over your computer and surrounding yourself with snacks in case you got hungry. You’re clad in an old pajama set that’s too small for you and wrapped in a blanket that should have been put into the washing machine weeks ago. For the time since you gave up trying to work, you’ve been huddled in a fetal position on your couch, staring at your computer screen with no aim, no purpose.

Bashful rays of light peak through the gaps in the curtains drawn closed over the windows, and the air conditioner sputtered and shut down hours ago, after months of you putting repairs off. And your computer has died, but you’re too lazy to reach over to the outlet and plug your charger back in. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and every other healthy young person is probably out doing something productive or fun, definitely not being cooped up in their apartments after a myriad of trashy videos. But you count your blessings that you aren’t in the worst circumstance, because anything is better than dealing with—

The telltale trill of your cellphone knocks you out of thanking your stars, a cruel coincidence to the appreciation you harbored just moments earlier for the divinities above. The only people who would call you at a time like this— your time— would be the only people who you really, really didn’t want to see right now. You don’t even have to check the caller ID before you’re answering the phone, your signature snark prepared to lash out at any unwelcome dialogue. 

“What?”

“Good morning to you too, Y/N,” Irene chirps, irritating you even further. “Lovely weather today. I’m with Sana and Mina.”

First, she interrupts your quality time brooding on your own, and second, she has the nerve to be cheerful about it. You try not to lose it and just scream at her to fuck off. 

“Let’s skip the small talk, Irene. Can I help you?”

You don’t hate Irene, nor Sana and Mina, for the matter. You’re just tired of their presence in your life. Once upon a time, you were enthralled by these three pretty, wealthy, and perfect girls, letting them take you in and guide you through your youth. A tight-knit group since they were in diapers, the girls wouldn’t let just anyone into their circle, so the fact that they chose you to join them made you feel special. Being a part of them felt like being welcomed into a genuine friendship, a sisterhood. There were horror movie marathons snuggled together in your dorm rooms, gossip and advice sessions on the phone, late night drives with the music blasting on the stereo. 

But that admiration and belonging turned into exhaustion, over time, and they became no better than a stereotypical high school clique. They were suffocating you, filling you with regret of ever meeting them at all. They couldn’t respect that you were your own person, with your own emotions, and that you solely were entitled to governing your actions. Little things built upon each other, and you slowly began to detest them. You truly found out how eroded your relationship with Irene, Sana, and Mina was almost two years ago. You were heartbroken, but all they had told you was to patch up and move on. Showing feeling and falling apart was unacceptable to the “Golden Trio,” as you came to call them, because it was “unhealthy” to them. Complete and utter happiness was always the goal, and you couldn’t bog yourself or the others down. Rest, rinse, and repeat. You came to realize that you would rather reject the good parts of the relationship rather than have your imperfections be dismissed and your life be controlled.

Before replying to you, Irene is quiet for a moment, and you swear you can hear her whispering to the other girls. “Are you still in bed?”

“No.” Technically, you aren’t lying— you’re on the sofa. 

She sighs, seeing straight through your bullshit like she always did, the unspoken ringleader of the whole entourage. “It’s nearly ten in the morning, honey. Why don’t you come out to brunch with us in an hour or so?”

You roll your eyes. You hate when Irene calls you “honey”— it sounds sweet but has the most condescending undertone. “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing nothing. We need to talk to you. Please, Y/N. It’s important.”

Although having yet another fussy and feathery brunch with the Golden Trio is the absolute last thing you believe to be important, you know you have no other option. Irene will keep pestering you until you relent, so it’s better to save yourself the time and just get it over with. Balling up your fist, you reluctantly respond. “Fine.”

“Great! See you soon!” Irene trills, ending the call before you can even say goodbye. Not that you even wanted to, anyway.

With an enraged groan, you flop off of your stomach and open the windows, letting in some fresh air and sunlight. As you gaze outside of your window, observing the city slowly wake up, all you want to do is wallow in your self pity and frustration. For the longest time, you’ve told yourself that you’re fine with being alone; love just isn’t in the cards for someone like you. So you threw yourself into your job, struggling towards achieving your dreams, but as of late, the path to your passion has become another burden in your life. 

Sighing, you shake away your thoughts and tidy up the living room, already put off by the microscopic chip crumbs on the coffee table and the way the throw pillows are strewn about on the rug. After everything is back in place, you make your way over to your room, silently noting that your sofa stay at least meant that you didn’t have to make your bed today. You take a shower and don yourself in your typical uniform of straight jeans, sneakers, and a boxy blazer. Cute, practical, and unassuming. 

Quickly, you scarf down some toast and orange juice, because you definitely will not be able to afford even half of the menu items at the usual restaurant that the Golden Trio dines at for brunch. Before you lock your apartment and leave, you check yourself out in the mirror in the small corridor that houses the entrance.

“Just in and out,” you say to your reflection. “Breathe.”

The drive to brunch is less than fifteen minutes. However, you make a few unnecessary turns around the block in your second-hand Subaru, not ready to face the Golden Trio just yet. 

At exactly eleven, Irene’s profile picture— a headshot taken by a professional photographer— pops up on your phone screen. You ignore it and swiftly find a parking spot among all of the luxury cars, muttering to yourself. The Terrace is an upscale eatery that the Golden Trio frequents for weekend brunches, and you’re unfortunately roped into their plans more often than not. You walk into the restaurant, dodging a businessman in a costly-looking suit and a group of renegading TikTok influencers trying to take pictures. You take your time greeting Keeho, the hilarious UCLA student who hosts at The Terrace during the weekends. And then you scan the outdoor dining patio, as if you don’t already know the location of the Golden Trio’s preferred table by the edge of the patio, the one with the perfect view of the Hollywood sign in the distance.

“Y/N!” Sana gasps in faux surprise as you take your seat next to her. “So nice of you to join us… thirteen minutes late.”

You clench your jaw and force a smile. “Oh, well, you did just call me an hour ago, so.”

Sana returns your sarcasm with an aggressive beam, showing off all of her perfectly aligned, blindingly white teeth. Mina watches the venomous exchange in amusement, while Irene just rolls her eyes.

“Let’s get to the point, ladies.” Irene leans forward, and the other two follow suit, like they always do. 

You stay put in your chair, comfortably leaning back, like you always do. “I’d love to know why you called me to brunch, Irene. You know this isn’t my scene.”

“Nothing besides your damn computer is your scene,” Mina retorts, sipping on her mimosa. Irene purses her lips to hide her grin, while Sana openly cackles.

You glower at them, saying nothing. The Golden Trio sat around the array of gourmet dishes like hens around a feeding hopper, craning for the best cuts and chances of picking on you, as usual. 

“Can you just stop wasting my time and tell me why I’m here?” You take a swig of water, already counting down the minutes until you can make up an excuse and leave early.

The girls exchange knowing glances before Irene zeroes in on you. Even though she’s the oldest out of all four of you, she still looks the most stunning, with her cherry lips and elegant features.

“Y/N, we’ve been thinking that it’s time for you to find someone.” Irene reaches across the table and grasps your hands, making you cringe in surprise. 

You raise an eyebrow at Irene, already dreading what path this conversation is taking. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Irene delicately cuts into her vegetable omelet, taking a small bite. “We just want you to be happy. And we know that it’s been hard, ever since Jisung.”

At the mention of your ex-boyfriend, you wrench your hands out of Irene’s grip. “Don’t you dare bring him up.”

Mina smacks her lips, nonchalantly reapplying her magenta lipstick. “I told you that she’d be angry.”

Irene sighs, massaging her temples. “Be reasonable, Y/N. This is for your own good. You’ve been alone for too long.”

“That is not for you to decide.” You nearly want to laugh out loud at this point. “This is my business. Not yours.”

But then again, the girls have never been able to respect your own feelings. You are their puppet to string along and their doll to dress up. To them, you’re not a real human being, capable of making your own decisions— both good and bad.

Two years ago, you were dumped by your first and last boyfriend, Park Jisung. It was a traumatizing relationship, to say the least. For all your life, you’ve struggled with romance and just the whole idea of intimacy, of getting close to someone and truly letting them see you. Jisung had taken your fragile heart, the one you had so cautiously extended to him, and shattered it on the ground. 

The months you were with him were so full of emotional abuse on his part, that by the time you caught him cheating on you, you weren’t even surprised. You’d pathetically begged him to stay, crying that you’d forgiven him, but after his initial apologies, he’d left you. What made you the angriest wasn’t the anguish he had caused you. It was how he’d gotten the last word, breaking up with you and leaving you behind to rot. You swore that you would never let someone do that to you again. Everyday, you go to bed alone and wake up alone. Every single day, and you don’t have any intention of changing that.

“Of course not,” Sana says, stabbing viciously at her eggs and making you wince. “But you know, appearances matter.”

Irene shakes her head. “Honey, this lonely, mopey look doesn’t suit you. Johnny says that people are talking, saying that you’re some sort of recluse.”

You scoff, blood boiling at the thought of Irene’s fiancé. He grew up on his father’s bottomless wallet and was no better than any stereotypical rich playboy. All he did was run his mouth and on occasion, his damn country club that you couldn’t even afford to step inside.

“She kind of is a recluse,” Mina interrupts. “Like, just get a life, maybe?”

Mina’s words sting, like they always do. But you refuse to give her the satisfaction, instead answering Irene. “I couldn’t care less about Johnny Suh and what his useless friends at the club are saying. I’m fine how I am.”

Sana dabs at her mouth with her napkin, careful not to smudge her makeup. “You’re not, though.”

Irene glares at Sana, shutting her up, before turning back to you. You recognize the look in her eyes; that soft, cajoling pull that makes anyone do her bidding. That look is why you had not left this toxic company yet, but you’re starting to feel the effect of it slowly wear off.

“Y/N. Just hear me out.” Irene sorts through her violet Kate Spade tote bag, before pulling out a business card and handing it to you.

In spite of yourself, you take the card, feeling the thick, rich quality of the paper, and the gold lettering.

“Dr. Hwang…” You read out loud. “‘The Love Doctor?’ What the hell?”

“He’s a relationship therapist and dating expert. He also runs a matchmaking service and coaches his clients.” Irene explains.

“I have eyes. I can read the card, Irene,” you spit out, turning the paper around in your fingers. “And I definitely don’t trust anyone recommended by you. Especially not some corny weirdo called the ‘Love Doctor.’”

“Oh, get over yourself, Y/N. I know a billion trainwrecks that Dr. Hwang has fixed.” Mina shudders in thought. “He’s pretty good, you know?”

“No, actually. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this stupid Love Doctor.” You grind your teeth, desperately trying not to slap some sense into Mina. “I’m not going to trust a stranger with all of my thoughts… my fears, my hopes.” 

“This is such a waste of time,” Sana whines, getting up from her seat and smoothing out her dress. “I’m going to go talk to Chris. BRB, girls.”

Sana flounces away in the direction of the hot bartender mixing and pouring drinks for patrons. Mina rolls her eyes, picking at her acrylic nails.

“She literally has a boyfriend,” Mina huffs, before getting up and following after her. 

You turn back to Irene. “Is that how you want me to be? Both Sana and Mina are in relationships, except one pretends to not have a boyfriend, and the other is too bitchy to care about hers.”

“You’re not wrong.” Irene lets out a hearty chuckle, tracing the rim of her champagne flute. “But no one outside of our circle really knows about what’s going on with them, behind the scenes. They’re still perfect.”

“Why does it matter so much? Being perfect? Why does it matter so much to you if I am?” You question her, at a loss.

“I care about you.” Irene folds her hands in front of her plate. “You’re my friend.”

Friend.

That word takes you back to a few years ago, when you weren’t able to find a date to the frat party Johnny threw when you were all in college. You failed to follow Irene’s instructions, and as the expected result, Irene didn’t bother saying anything to you. You felt her anger through her silent treatment, as you stood by the door, feeling like a loser. You watched the rest of the Golden Trio giggle with their own dates, and Irene— no matter how big of a crush she used to have on Johnny before they became an item— was staring at you all night, soaking in your shame and unhappiness. You should have realized back then that the Golden Trio was just gilt. At least, you have now.

You snort in wry amusement, grabbing your keys and slapping down a fifty on the table, your general portion of the meal you didn’t even partake in. “I don’t know what I am to you, but I’m definitely not your fucking friend.”

Ignoring Irene’s pleas hitting your retreating back, you leave The Terrace, vowing never to go back.

On the weekends, you usually either work from home or aimlessly surf the internet. Either way, you’ll be staring at your computer until your eyes hurt. Today, however, you’re determined to prove that you can take a day off and enjoy it. It’s why you walk out of the luxury salon after being scrubbed, steamed, waxed, plucked, and primped all over your body. You don’t even want to think of how expensive it all was, completely disregarding the shiny $200 acrylics adorning your nails. 

You spend the rest of the day browsing a vintage bookstore on the Los Angeles marina, devoutly avoiding the romance section like you always did. After splurging on a set of horror novels by the latest trending author, you decide to go home and relax— just because you aren’t outside doesn’t mean you’re moping around, unlike what the Golden Trio believes. 

Who needs some hotshot Love Doctor when you’ve got Stephen King?

Sitting back on your couch with your book, you kick out your legs in front of you and attempt to unwind. But of course, you’re one line into the first page when your thoughts get the better of you. You glance across the open-concept layout of your apartment and over at your handbag, which is haphazardly strewn onto your bed; the business card that Irene gave you seems to be an incessant force in your mind. After a few seconds of trying to fight the urge to not let your curiosity best you, you give up, rolling off the sofa and rummaging through the bag to find the card.

Palming the small piece of paper, you settle onto your bed on your stomach, dimming the lights and logging into your computer. You type in the website address listed on the card into Google, impatiently tapping on the mouse. Finally, the page loads.

Your vision is blessed by a soft palette of pinks and beiges, a sparkling layout, flashy buttons and graphics, all designed to reel in even the most technologically inept grandparents. But that���s not what you’re enticed by: a giant picture of the most beautiful man that you have ever laid eyes on is pasted onto the main cover of the website. Immediately, you read further only to find out that this total babe is the Love Doctor that Irene couldn’t shut the fuck up about.

You zoom in on the bio printed below the image, devouring it like the King novel you should be reading instead right now. “What the…?” 

Dr. Hwang Hyunjin is a lot of things: a relationship therapist, intimacy expert, dating coach, psychology researcher, and etc. But the title that truly encapsulates his essence is: the Love Doctor, the savant who leads his clients through the pains and triumphs of life, loss, and of course, love. 

After graduating from Columbia University summa cum laude and obtaining his doctorate in psychology at Stanford, Dr. Hwang founded SeoulSpark, a practice dedicated to providing guidance and opportunities for any with those special ailments of the heart. The rest of Dr. Hwang’s credentials and outstanding achievements are listed below. In his freetime, Dr. Hwang loves to write poetry, go horseback riding, and take long walks on the beach. 

Appointments must be reserved through the ‘Bookings’ page. Dr. Hwang and his associates may be requested on the basis of availability. 

A few minutes of getting sidetracked in an internet stalking session alerted you to how in addition to overseeing his own private practice and working there as a therapist and coach, Dr. Hwang also operates a clinical trial on the neuropsychological approach of studying the nature of love at the National Institutes of Health. And to top it all off, he comes highly recommended by Selena Gomez in her latest Vogue interview— turns out, he’s the one who helped her move on from Justin Beiber and find a more gratifying partner— and has even met with Michelle Obama over tea on NPR’s Life Kit podcast to discuss the psychology of relationships. He’s a public figure, a celebrity of sorts himself, but has graciously rejected the title in favor of a more private life.

“Wow,” you murmur. “So he’s hot and smart.”

Irene and her sidekicks are wrong about a lot, but one thing they are right about is that you’re just absolutely lonely. Growing up, you were a hopeless romantic who constantly dreamed of a fairytale romance, romanticizing every aspect of your interactions with others. But a lifetime of being unlucky in love taught you that there is no such thing as true love. 

First, there was a series of unfortunately unrequited crushes in high school, all ending in you watching the boy you liked ride off into the sunset with someone else— usually a popular, pretty girl. Then came Holland, the cute boy in your calculus class who seemed like he actually returned your feelings. You both flirted for a while, before Holland ended up secretly coming out to you as gay. And of course, there was Jisung, the dirtbag who told you he loved you and then proceeded to break your heart. Love obviously isn’t on the cards for you.

Therefore, you’re now an insufferable pessimist when it comes to romance. You make fun of every couple you see in public, religiously watch wedding fails on Youtube, and absolutely hate romantic comedies. You stonily ignore the Tinder app that Mina once pressured you into downloading, even though it’s burning a hole into your phone.

You try to fill up that void in your heart by throwing yourself into work or participating in those idiotic “girls nights” that Irene throws, which usually just entail grinding up on drunk trust funders on someone’s yacht. 

But on a night like this, you’re bound to confront the truth: you are alone, and deep inside, you know you don’t want to be, no matter how much you pretend you don’t care. Which is why you let the computer cursor hover over the various appointment time slots, considering registration.

Wait, what? You shoot up from your previous position, sitting straight as every ounce of lethargy exits your body. You cannot actually be thinking of this guy’s services, especially when the recommendation came from Irene. But then again, do you really want your decisions to be determined by her? Do you care enough about spiting her that you’ll prevent your own happiness? What if this Love Doctor actually works?

With a groan, you go back to scrolling through Dr. Hwang’s bio once more, weighing your options, when you notice a link at the bottom of the page. You click on it, and it takes you to a video uploaded on Youtube. The bold, glaring red letters and the dark, dramatic backdrop alert you to a TED talk— and a very cherished one, too, with how thunderous the applause is when welcoming the speaker.

Intrigued, you sit forward, promising yourself that your assessment of Dr. Hwang’s TED talk will determine whether or not you’ll see both his physical and evidently intellectual gorgeousness in real life or not. However, from the very first question that he utters, you know your decision.

“What is love?”

You’re sweaty. You’d like to blame it on the unforgiving Los Angeles heat, but you once read that seeing a therapist is like owning your truth. You want to start being honest even before you meet Dr. Hwang, so you accept that the dampness under your arms is due to the fact that you are just really fucking nervous.

After tossing and turning in your bed all night, you tried your best to look presentable. You showered, blow-dried your hair, and put on minimal makeup reserved for special occasions. But the pretty yellow sundress and sandals that you chose— in the spirit of being symbolically optimistic— feel elementary right now, especially now that you’re setting foot inside the most glamorous office you have ever encountered. 

Upon observing the magnificently dripping crystal chandelier adorning the ceiling, marble flooring that you’re afraid of scuffing, and a jazz rendition of “Clair de lune” playing in the background, you’re convinced that this place is much too luxurious to be a shrink’s company space. Hell, it’s on the ninth floor of one of the ritziest buildings downtown. But, then again, you definitely weren’t expecting the person that Irene recommended to be this otherworldly adonis, instead of some kind of Karen ready to lecture you about having a “healthy love life” or “putting out”— yes, you do watch too much TV and have quite the imagination, so you try to keep your judgements and lofty expectations to a minimum. 

After signing-in with the receptionist— this sweet guy with freckles, sunny blond hair, and an even sunnier disposition— you sit down on the white leather sofa in the lobby. According to the brochure you swiped at the front desk, this place is so big that it has separate wings, like the freaking Hogwarts castle: one for therapy and coaching— or “guidance”— one for matchmaking services, and one for “health,” where clients and employees alike can rewind and socialize. Following a few minutes of rapidly swiping through the home screen and apps on your phone, trying to look occupied and definitely not intimidated by everything, the receptionist calls your name and directs you to Dr. Hwang’s office.

You know you’re incredibly lucky to have scored a session with Dr. Hwang, who’s obviously the most sought-after on the full list of all who work at SeoulSpark. Last night, when you were scouring SeoulSpark’s Yelp reviews (all of them were five-stars), people were raving about Dr. Hwang. Yet, as you walk through the luxe little corridor that leads you to the guidance sector, you can’t help but feel the regret that unfurls in your stomach. Perhaps you were subconsciously following Irene’s orders, that natural instinct to follow and not think still manifesting. Perhaps you were just enticed by Dr. Hwang’s visuals and repertoire. Or maybe, you just wanted to do something with your damn time for once, instead of constantly thinking about how sucky your life is. Either way, this all feels like a mistake, but it’s too late to turn back now, especially since the woman that you assume is Dr. Hwang’s assistant has spotted you.

She gets up from her desk. “Hello there! You must be Y/N.”

“That’s me!” You exclaim, in a way that probably seems too enthusiastic to be genuine. Your eyes trail to the name badge pinned to the lapel of her stylish cream-colored pantsuit. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Jang.”

“Likewise,” she says with a friendly smile that just accentuates her flawless features. 

Is everyone who works here just ridiculously attractive?

“Dr. Hwang is all ready for you.”

You quickly thank her, wiping your sweaty palms on your skirt and praying you don’t look scared. The last thing you want to do is freak out your potential therapist with your horrendous love life, even though his literal job is to deal with basket cases of romance. Taking in a deep breath, you warily place your hands on the grand pair of frosted glass doors adjacent to Ms. Jang’s desk and push them open. 

A cool gust of air welcomes you into Dr. Hwang’s office, and the first thing you notice is the blinding natural light flooding from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The one time you ever visited a therapist was immediately after the whole ordeal with Jisung; the cramped little room filled with wilted potted plants and dim light from a depressing yellow lamp had made you want to never see another therapist again. This place, however, looks more like one of those glitzy workspaces straight out of a Manhattan legal drama. You can practically see the dollar signs stamped onto everything here, from the panache but tasteful L-shaped sofa to the sultry modern art adorning the blush-colored walls. But the impeccable interior design is not what has got you temporarily incapacitated—

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

A voice as smooth as his honeyed skin and perpetual charm. A fresh breath of air in the merciless Californian heat that constitutes your entire life. A tidal wave upon the drowsy coastline of your heart. Absolute sin in your undeserving ears. You ponder what language even is, if you’ve never heard anyone articulate their entire aura like this in a mere jumble of words. Dr. Hwang smiles at you warmly— a sight that should remind you of a toasty cup of hot chocolate, but instantly spreads a raging, insatiable wildfire through your nerves. 

You speechlessly stay rooted to the spot like a damn oak tree as Dr. Hwang approaches you, with the controlled movement and dripping allure of a jaguar. As he nears you, you have to blink multiple times to adjust to how truly dazzling he is, and how the pictures of him online cannot even compare to his person. You would not hesitate to believe him if he claimed that he walked here straight off the runway, but his beauty is rapturous, less of an airbrushed model and more reminiscent of a Botticelian masterpiece. 

Maybe Charles Dickens was wrong— you see everything you want in the glittering multitude that makes up Hyunjin’s eyes. Big, soulful, contemplative. A gaze like a midnight reverie. A radiance like black diamonds encased in velvet. They reel you in like you’re silk thread and he’s a needle, like you’re an astronomer and he’s the entire galaxy. You take in the mole under his left eye, and it reminds you of a stray splatter of dark paint on an ivory canvas. It’s enchanting, like a lone star in the night sky.

“You’re good.” You barely manage, now focused on his lips that are just begging to be kissed. A delicate pink, like the lingering stain after eating cherries. Full and inviting, soft with the promises of a good time. On your own lips. On your skin. On your neck. 

Those pretty lips curve into an enigmatic smile, Cheshire-like almost. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

The way he pronounces your name so eloquently sends a spark straight through your body. You never thought much of your name, but with how Hyunjin says it, it might as well be one of those irresistible words that Pinterest logophiles save. It sounds lovely, ethereal, sublime. Just like him.

“And you as well, Dr. Hwang.” You inhale deeply, trying to calm yourself down, but instead, you get a breath full of his scent; he smells like a rainstorm over a field of jasmine. Tantalizingly petrichor, with a slightly floral and sensual edge. 

“Please, call me Hyunjin.”

“O-okay, Hyunjin.” A bewitching name for an even more bewitching man.

Hyunjin gestures for you to sit down on the sofa and positions himself on the chair behind his desk, a smoke-cracked glass piece arranged in front of a transparent wall that provides breathtaking views of downtown L.A. You can only imagine what the views are like at night— the city lights, of course. Definitely not of Hyunjin pushing you onto his costly desk and doing you in the dark.

“So, Y/N, darling,” Hyunjin begins, spreading his hands out on the desk in front of him. 

Darling?! Ohmyfuckinggod.

You cough. “Sorry?” 

“Tell me anything. Impressions, ruminations. Just be honest.”

That’s new and different. You thought Hyunjin would dole out the usual pleasantries, like “how are you” or “the weather is nice,” not ask you to “be honest.” What kind of person expects blatant candor after knowing them for literal seconds? Well, a therapist, probably. And a very eccentric one, at that. So you blurt out the first thing that comes to your mind. 

“Everyone here seems so… happy. It’s weird.” The hot receptionist, Hyunjin’s secretary, and even the janitor wiping the floors in the lobby.

Hyunjin lets out a hearty laugh, his eyes squinting into a crescent moon shape that you find very endearing. “Well, they seem happy because they are. Happiness isn’t rare.”

“Feels like it most of the time,” you mutter, your thoughts flashing over to work, Irene, and all of the times that you eat dinner alone. 

“That’s why you’re here, no?” Hyunjin folds his hands. “Talk to me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions? And I answer them? Isn’t that what most therapists do?”

“I’m not like most therapists. This is how it begins.”

Of course you aren’t. 

As you hesitate, Hyunjin keeps quiet patiently while letting your thoughts unfurl. Maybe it was Jisung, or maybe it was being constantly let down by the people around you, but somewhere along the way, you lost trust in others— you wouldn’t ever let them see who you really are. Ever since, you’ve put up your guard walls, harboring a testy, stormy attitude that scares anyone away before they can ever leave you behind. You put up with the Golden Trio’s nonsense because although they practically used you for their own enjoyment, at least they had never withdrawn for you. You don’t hate yourself, but you don’t feel content with who you are. You never knew if you really would be. 

And you don’t know Hyunjin. To you, he’s the man whose photos you pored over on Google, the one who you held a sparse conversation for a matter of mere minutes. You shouldn’t want to be exposed in front of him, but you know you already are, with the way his piercing gaze seems to see right through you. For the first time, you don’t hate the feeling of being vulnerable. You don’t know if it’s the kindness in his bedroom eyes that haven’t strayed from you, or if it’s the warmth that even someone as regal as him exudes, but you embrace the feeling of security that his presence wraps you in. Like your inhibitions are drowning in the distant crevices of your mind. You don’t know what it is that compels you to tell this beautiful stranger anything, but for once, you don’t question it.

“I’m just so tired of my damn life.”

The words come out of you in a rush, a sob, almost, because it feels so good to finally say it out loud. You’ve kept your dissatisfaction inside of you for the longest time, just pretending that the grumpiness is part of your personality, not your sadness, because you’ve always been afraid of what people would say. But when you peek up at him, Hyunjin’s expression betrays nothing. Placid, and waiting for you to go on. So you do.

“Nothing seems to be working. I try, try, and try to do better at work, but lately, even my dream job feels like a burden. I don’t really have any friends. I’m single. I act like I’m fine, but I’m really not. I don’t want to feel like this, like I’m trapped. I don’t want to give Jisung that much power over me, but unfortunately, he does have it all.” A huge weight has been lifted off of your drooping shoulders, but the bitterness still remains on your tongue.

Hyunjin takes a moment to finish up whatever notes he’s jotting down in his cream-colored journal, before looking up at you. “And Jisung is your ex?”

You freeze. You didn’t even realize that you brought up Jisung, and even worse, you completely overlooked how he probably knows a lot more about you than you think. After registering for an appointment, you were redirected to fill out this short quiz filled with questions about your romantic history, your job, and basic information. Like a slightly intruding business dinner in the form of a questionnaire. You couldn’t finish the form without getting slightly tipsy on wine, because of how gut-wrenching it was reliving everything. You forgot that your coach would have access to your answers, after brushing it all off as a silly formality. And you really thought this would all be genuine.

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief and skepticism. “You already know, Dr. Hwang. Why bother asking me? You have my questionnaire results. You think I’m hopeless. You’re just being polite.”

“Hyunjin,” he corrects, undeterred by your words. “And I actually don’t. I look at the results after I meet with my clients. I would rather garner my first impression of you on the person you really are, not through an online quiz.”

“Then how did you know that Jisung’s my ex?” 

Hyunjin’s eyes crinkle with tenderness. “It wasn’t very difficult. He hurt you, I can see it.”

You swallow harshly, overwhelmed both by the thought of Jisung and the way Hyunjin’s looking at you right now. Compassion, gentleness, understanding. A complete foil to the constant indifference and borderline aversion Jisung treated you with. Right now, you don’t feel ugly, even with your scars so raw, open. You feel seen. You realize that Hyunjin has a way of getting you to open up by saying very little.

“He was my first boyfriend. First love, first kiss, first… well, you know.” You pause, blushing at the words that have escaped your mouth, but continue in spite of your shame. To hell with it. “He made me feel wanted, for once. I mean, I’ve literally been a fake date for my gay ex-situationship, and the first time I tried to get into a real relationship, which was with my former neighbor, he ghosted me after two dates. And then he moved away. Jisung… he gave me everything I thought I needed.”

You look up at Hyunjin, unsure. The tears are already shining in your eyes, threatening to spill out. Hyunjin nods encouragingly, pushing you on. 

“We were together for almost a year. And the entire time, he gaslighted me into doubting myself. He always kept cheating on me, I knew that. But I finally caught him screwing his assistant in my bed, right before we broke up.” You close your eyes. “No, before he broke up with me. God, my friends were right. I am so pathetic.”

Hyunjin sets his pen down firmly on the glass table, making you open your eyes. His starry gaze is intense, like that all-too-familiar inferno settled inside of you. “Darling, those are no friends of yours. There’s nothing pathetic about believing in someone, for putting your faith in them. Don’t ever say that again.”

“Right. Because I didn’t tell him over and over again that I forgave him. I didn’t beg him to stay, when he said he was tired of me. When he wanted new things.” You let out a dry laugh. “When it was over, everyone acted like I fumbled. Hell, he works at SM Technologies. Rich, handsome, well-connected.”

“Fuck that hack. That’s not why you loved him, though,” Hyunjin insists, his explicit language surprising you. Even in this way, he seems more poised than you ever could be. “You loved him because he made you feel loved. He accepted you. You lowered your standards for him, and he used you.”

You turn your head away from Hyunjin, not wanting him to watch you cry. But you know he’s already seen the tears streaming freely down your cheeks. “So, are you supposed to help me move on from here? Find someone new? SeoulSpark has matchmaking services, right? I mean, it’s been two years, and I’m still not over it. Sorry I’m a fucking antiromantic.”

It’s Hyunjin’s turn to shake his head. “Darling, you’re misunderstanding me. I don’t help my clients find relationships. I don’t care if you walk out still single or if you’re polyamorous. I care that you’re happy, satisfied with who you are, romantically. I’m here to guide you through that. Let me help you.”

The tears that had dripped so effusively onto your skin dry as Hyunjin holds your gaze, studying your features and saying nothing. And then your stomach chooses that inopportune moment to grumble, and very loudly indeed. In that astoundingly mortifying moment, you swear to never, ever skip breakfast again.

Hyunjin clears his throat, rising from his seat. “Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink? Or eat, maybe?”

“Um, a mango?” You don’t know why, or how, but your brain just zeroes in on mangoes. You don’t even like the damn fruit. Who the fuck would specifically ask for mangoes, instead of something reasonable, like coffee, or tea? You glare up at the ceiling, cursing your emotional dry spell for making you act so embarrassingly. 

But Hyunjin just smiles. “Mangoes. A criminally overlooked aphrodisiac. People call it the love fruit, you know.”

You gulp. Now you’re imagining Dr. Hwang— er, Hyunjin— chopping up a bunch of whole mangoes like he’s in Fruit Ninja, before erotically eating each slice, licking at the flesh, juice slowly dripping down that chin sculpted by the gods. Two seconds ago, you were crying about your evil ex and now you’re dreaming about Hyunjin starring as some sort of a seductive sensei.

What the fuck?!

“Oh. Yeah, I didn’t know that.”

Hyunjin is unfazed by your awkwardness, simply walking over to the pink-pastel minifridge in the corner of his office and bringing out a paper bowl of unfortunately pre-cut mangoes that you accept gingerly. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you.” You cautiously place a cube of mango in your mouth.

Your eyes suddenly widen at the sweet yet tangy explosion of flavor on your tongue. Creamy yet juicy, refreshing yet indulging, just succulent on your lips. Hyunjin giggles at your amazed reaction to the fruit. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” You chew on the tart skin of the mango and swallow. “Do you know where your secretary might have bought this?”

“Wonyoung didn’t buy it, I did.” Hyunjin grins, sipping on his own glass of water. “5-Star Grocery. I went just today, actually.”

You finish off the rest of the fruit in no time, swiping the mango residue on your fork clean with your lips. When you’re done, you look up from the bowl to see Hyunjin gazing intently at you. You were probably taking forever to eat, and he was waiting for you. “Oh, sorry about that. This was really good.”

Hyunjin shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, it’s not that.”

You curiously tilt your head at him, wondering what’s got him so worked up. “Did I say something, Dr. Hwa- I mean, Hyunjin?”

“No, you didn’t.” Hyunjin stands up and takes your bowl, throwing it away in the disposal for you. “Let’s get back to our conversation.”

You nod, your thoughts fluttering back to Jisung, the ache replacing the lust that reigned inside of you, moments earlier. “I have tried to see other people, but it’s been hard.”

“How so?” Hyunjin clicks on his pen, putting it in a position ready to write.

You toy with the hem of your dress, your face heating up. “I tried using Tinder. I even matched with this one guy, San. We got dinner. But later that night, when… when we were about to um, have sex, I just couldn’t. San was really nice and understanding about everything, but I felt so bad. I’ve only slept with one person before, Jisung, and I don’t know. It’s so humiliating.”

Hyunjin frowns. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. First, it’s normal to be wary of intimacy after a long-term relationship. And second, we all have varying levels of sexual comfort. You’ll find your own pace. Our sexuality is essential to our health, and there’s nothing humiliating about it.”

“It’s not like I’m not experienced, though,” you say quickly.

Hyunjin looks up from his notepad and raises an eyebrow at you. You sputter over your impulsive words and try to explain. “It’s just that I have trouble being vulnerable with others, both physically and emotionally. There was only Jisung. And he wasn’t that good at it, to be honest. But I thought it shouldn’t stop me from finding out by myself what I like. That’s all.”

For a second, you think Hyunjin will make fun of you, but he just solemnly nods. “Absolutely. I always tell my clients this. There’s nothing wrong with masturbating. It’s incredibly healthy, whether or not you’re in a relationship.”

You exhale shakily, your cheeks aflame. You know it’s his literal job, but you can’t help but feel both admiration and jealousy at how straightforward Hyunjin is while talking about sex. His whole aura seeps with confidence, like it comes easily to him. Your self-consciousness could never. “Right.”

He sighs in thought, scribbling into your notepad as you restlessly wait for him to say something, fidgeting in your seat. Hyunjin then sets his notepad aside, logging into his sleek Apple iMac computer and rapidly typing into it. “I have something for you to do, darling.”

You immediately tense at the thought of more work, especially if Hyunjin is going to be your grader. “Like, homework?”

Hyunjin laughs. “No. Think of it as a fun little task. Remember, nothing I ask you to do is obligatory. You choose to be here.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.” You square your shoulders like a soldier. Whatever your assignment is, you’re going to knock it out of the park and impress Hyunjin. Definitely because you look up to him as a person, not because you want him to rail you into the next century.

Hyunjin leans forward, like he’s about to indulge you with a delicious secret, and you find yourself doing the same. “I want you to write down on paper one thing you love about yourself every day of the week, starting today. Bring the sheet to me when we meet again next week.”

You sit back, your heart sinking while your mind wakes in panic. And of all things, the assignment has to be this. You could fib your way through it, of course, jotting down the stupid, trivial aspects of yourself that aren’t so bad. But considering it all, asking yourself that question would really make you face the ugly truth: do you even love yourself?

“Wait, what do you mean? Like, what does it have to be? Physical? Emotional? Professional? Personal? I don’t think—”

Hyunjin smoothly cuts you off. “Like I said, this is your choice to complete. And it can be anything you cherish about yourself. Anything. This is your opportunity to show-off.”

You shake your head, frustrated. “But why, though? I don’t get the point of this.”

“I need to be able to get an idea of what specific path will best fit you, whether it’s solo therapy to help your mindset and esteem, matchmaking to get you connected with individuals who complement you, or coaching to provide you with guidance in potential relationships. So for now, I want to get to know you. ”

“If you wanted to get to know me, you’d ask questions like, ‘what do you do,’ or ‘what’s your favorite color,’ Hyunjin,” you say, irked. “This is just going to be another thing I fail at.”

“Darling,” Hyunjin says, firmly but gently. “Your profession and favorite color, while intriguing, isn’t knowledge I need to work with you. The most important service of all is helping my clients’ self-perception and confidence in romance, and I need to know what level you are on. Take it slow, it’s okay. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

The familiar warmth spreads throughout your body. Compassion, gentleness, understanding. You harbor so much insecurity that it affects so much of your daily life. You don’t go out. You work yourself down and out. You wallow in your misery. You’re a pessimist who doesn’t believe in true love. And you receive endless judgment for it, because really, who wouldn’t be disgusted by someone like you? But being with Hyunjin feels different, because he is accepting you for who you are and promising you the guidance you’ve always needed. 

“We can assess what aforementioned action to take next week, when I’ve had time to assess you,” Hyunjin declares as you agree, ripping out a piece of paper from his notebook and writing down the task on it for you to take home.

And then you’re pulled back into reality. You’re well-educated and smart. You have a good job that pays well. You like to read Scientific American in your freetime, because sometimes, you would rather face the facts than meld into opinions. And you know exactly what’s happening right now. It’s barely been your first session with Hyunjin, and you’re already getting attached to him, because he’s giving you the kind of care and attention that you’ve been craving. It’s a phenomenon called transference, you know that. The butterfly garden flitting in your stomach is a mere sensory illusion, you know that. But you also know that you are feeling something. 

As Hyunjin hands you the slip of paper, his hands brush yours lightly, and you can’t help but exhale sharply at where his skin has made contact with yours. Maybe you’re touch-starved, but you can’t help but feel like a longing character in a Victorian romance novel. You look down at his hands as he retracts them. Large, smooth palms, and long fingers decked in silver rings. 

“But that will be all for now, darling.” 

God, he’s sexy.

“Really? Is that all?” You glance at the rose gold clock hanging on the wall behind you. It’s barely been thirty minutes. “We’re done so soon?”

Hyunjin grins at you, flashing those crescent moons once again. “I didn’t know you were that eager to stay here.”

You clear your throat, furiously blushing. “I mean, I thought the session would last longer. So I’ll come back next week then.”

“This was a diagnostic, darling. And yes, I’ll see you next week. You should make an appointment with Wonyoung before you leave.” 

Hyunjin beams at you pleasantly while you reluctantly grab your purse, and you briefly wonder if he looks just as lovely when his partner pleasures him— if he has a partner. But then again, there is no way someone as good-looking and sweet as him is single. The thought of Hyunjin fucking someone simultaneously sparks envy and turns you on, and you quickly shake it away.

“Thank you so much, Hyunjin. And um, I’m sorry if I came off as kind of coarse, it’s… I’m working on it.” You tilt your head towards him, hoping he gets what you’re trying to convey. You’re not amazing with words, or controlling your emotions very well, and any product of that today was not meant to hurt him.

“You did nothing wrong. I’m glad you decided to come here, Y/N.” Hyunjin walks you across his expansive office.

“And I love your nails, by the way.” Hyunjin states, his gaze pointed down at your hands. “Pink’s my favorite color.”

You flush a pink that’s deeper than the object of his compliments. Pink, huh? You wonder about what other pink things that Hyunjn may like. Pink roses? Raspberries? Flamingoes? You’d bring them all to him if he asked.

Hyunjin graciously opens the door leading to the corridor for you, and you shoot him a small smile, as he returns it. His hand skims the small of your back as he leads you out, and you pray that you don’t look like a lustful maniac. Unaware of your internal frenzy, Hyunjin waves goodbye to you as he lets in his next client waiting outside and shuts the door behind him.

Wonyoung asks you a plethora of questions about your availability next week, your mind stays on Hyunjin while you schedule your next appointment. You don’t waver even when you exit the SeoulSpark and unlock your car in the visitor parking lot, collapsing into the seat in a daze. Even when you find yourself plugging in directions on Google Maps to find the quickest route to 5-Star Grocery, your thoughts don’t stay from Hyunjin. Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin.

You take your time strolling through the multicolored aisles of 5-Star, blankly gazing at all of the overpriced foodstuffs while daydreaming about the way that Hyunjin’s hand had accidentally brushed against you, even if it was inadvertent. You want his fingers on your body. In your body. In your mouth. Anywhere, and everywhere. 

You brighten up as you near the produce section and spy the hefty crate of what you came for: very expensive imported Indian mangoes. But without a second thought, you place a generous pile of the fresh fruit into a plastic cover and put it into your cart. And you swear you can catch the lingering scent of Hyunjin from when he was here earlier today. Rainstorms. Jasmine. Danger. You practically combust at the thought of Hyunjin scouring the baskets of mangoes for the very best picks with those crescent moon eyes, wishing it was you instead that he could have been gazing so purposefully at. On the way out, like some kind of a divine coincidence, you notice that a local florist has set up their stand at the entrance of the grocery. As you approach, the overflowing clay pots of jasmine crowd your sensations.

The drive back home feels like it lasts hours, when in reality, the store is only a few minutes away from your place. As soon as you’re inside your apartment, you throw open all of the window shutters, dismissing the ominous weather forecast on the radio. A much bigger tempest brews somewhere else. The late evening breeze through your windows is like a pirate sailing into your mind, hoarding your sanity and coaxing in all of your disgraceful thoughts. And you welcome the ship like a safe harbor because it’s been far too long since you’ve ever felt this outrageously alive.

The tiny light in your kitchen provides some leeway for you to work, as you stow away your groceries in the fridge and bring out the glass cutting board that your menace of coworker gave you as a gag gift; you would burn the whole house down before cooking anything, and he knows that. Yet, you kind of feel like goddamn Gordon Ramsay as you cut through the mango dexterously to produce those perfect cubes that Hyunjin presented you with.

With a sigh, you collapse into one of the mismatched chairs at your dining table. You once slaved away into late nights at this table, blue light glasses perched on your nose while you were engrossed in lines of code. Nowadays, you sleep late for less productive reasons or just because you are in a destructive mood and planning your future world takeover. But you have a feeling that might change soon.

Slowly, you put a piece of the sweet mango in your mouth, savoring the saccharinity and longing for it to pervade all aspects of your life beyond your palate. You find that it tastes a little less delectable because Hyunjin isn’t here with you, but you finish the entire bowl of fruit nevertheless. Still not satisfied, however, you bring out a second mango, still searching for that spark you had felt earlier.

This time, you don’t even bother cutting the fruit, instead breaking the skin of the mango with your teeth and allowing the juice to leak onto your tongue. A little better, but you wish you were biting down on Hyunjin’s plush lips instead. You feel like you’ve been hexed by the Love Doctor, because there’s no chance that a romantic Scrooge like you is fantasizing about the emotional and physical reincarnation of Aphrodite. 

Yet, he must have shot you with his quiver of arrows, rendering you clinically insane, because as you reach for your third mango, you feel your free hand trailing down to the place between your thighs that’s begging for your touch. You spread your legs so that your knees are facing out on either side of you, and your dress has now ridden up to your hips, exposing your now wet cotton panties for no one to see. 

But you imagine that he’s watching, stroking himself and getting off along with you. Not even bothering to slide them off, you push your panties to the side and finally press your fingers against your aching cunt. Chewing on the delicate skin of mango, you slide your fingers through your drenched folds, thankful to finally get a chance to relieve yourself. As you concentrate on the fruit’s taste, you wonder what Hyunjin would think of your own, sucking on his own fingers after fucking you with his pretty hands. He’d push you down to get a complete taste, attaching his mouth to your pussy to get both an idea and a release.

Moaning out loud, you circle your clit, enjoying the flickers of pleasure coursing through you. Not minding the juice now dripping down your chin and onto your collarbone, you pull down the front of your dress, freeing your breasts. You gently pinch your nipple with your left hand and let out a small gasp, craving for Hyunjin to be the one inducing such sinful pain into you.

“Just like that, darling.”

“Oh God, Hyunjin!” You call out his name and squeeze your breast, now fucking yourself on your fingers while simultaneously grinding the heel of your palm against your clit for that delicious extra friction. 

“So good for me.”

Waves of ecstasy wash over you as you ride out your high, sloppily thrusting and circling your hips on your soaked hand. You come to the final thought of Hyunjin pushing a slice of mango down the valley between your breasts, tracing and cleaning the sticky juice with his tongue. And there’s the spark, igniting a whole flame of fulfillment deep inside of you.

Letting out a shaky sigh, you fix your dress and get up from your chair, taking out a paper towel to wipe the mess of your arousal and fruit juice on the seat. Your cheeks burn with the after effects of your release, and yet, you don’t feel any shame. Instead, there’s a strange sense of liberation that you are starting to come to terms with.

Clipping up your hair, you make your way over to the desk in your bedroom and take out a fresh sheet of paper. Armed with a glass of freshly puréed mango juice and accompanied by the tantalizing scent of your jasmine plant, you pull out a pink gel pen and let the words pour out.

“So, Y/N. Were you able to do what I asked?” Hyunjin cocks his head expectantly.

You reach into your handbag and pull out the paper, passing it to Hyunjin with trembling hands. “I did it.”

You came to SeoulSpark straight from work, deliberately skipping your usual jeans and blazer combination for a skinny pencil skirt paired with a powder-pink button down that matches the walls of Hyunjin’s office. Slightly transparent silk stockings disappear under the skirt, which skims the top of your knees. 

When you were pulling on your barely-worn cream slingback pumps in the morning, you had wondered what this entire outfit was for. You had stood up and gazed critically into the mirror, and all you could feel was empowerment. Because for the first time, it felt like something you were truly doing for yourself. You weren’t proving a point. And you knew you weren’t dressing for Hyunjin either, but rather, because of him. He made you question if you were treating yourself right, and you wanted to answer it well. The pink blouse was a playful touch that you couldn’t help.

Hyunjin takes his time reading through the paper, and this time, you’re the one observing his every reaction, from the quirk of his brow to the way he occasionally licks his lips to wet them. The latter action sparks a memory of one week ago, when you indulged yourself in absurdly fantasizing about those very lips all over you. You press your legs together, ignoring the dull throb in between, and try not to think of it, focusing on the unsexiest things your mind can come up with. Climate change. Warts. Donald Trump.

“This is a good list to start with.” Hyunjin looks up at you, eyes twinkling. “All true, right?”

You nod, feeling a shy smile erupt on your face. “Yeah, I was kind of surprised with how doable-ish it was.”

“May I ask how? If I recall, you were quite opposed to this task last week.” Today, Hyunjin sits on the sofa with you instead of at his desk— too close, yet so far. 

You finger the one of the buttons on your blouse, mind already on the truth. But of course, you would never tell Hyunjin how masturbating to the thought of him made you feel aligned with your own body and sexuality, and maybe a little more willing to dare to think of what you like about yourself. Now that would be inappropriate.

“I just did some thinking,” you finally say after much deliberation. 

Hyunjin crosses one of his long legs over the other. “Interesting.”

“I guess.”

“If I ask you a question, will you answer it honestly?” Hyunjin lightly taps on his notepad with his pen, waiting for you to speak.

You give him a suspicious look. “Depends on the question.”

“Are you happy with yourself?”

His question confounds you, and yet, in a way, you also know why he asks it. A basic list of things that you like about yourself isn’t enough to turn over that table of insecurity and stagnant mindset that has hurt you for too long. It makes you understand that everything wrong in your life is because of an intrinsic cause, that ugly voice inside of you. Not because of something else… or someone. 

“I don’t think I am.” You bite your lip. “But I want to be.”

“Can you tell me why?”

You groan. “It stems from how I feel so undesirable right now. Like, I don’t want to be lonely, but I am. I mean, I’m kind of a shooting star for everyone. A fleeting moment of love, of comfort. I really wish I could be the fucking sun.”

Hyunjin leans forward swiftly, grasping your hands and startling you with their warmth. “You’re not a shooting star. And you’re not just the sun either. You are the whole solar system, honey. Please don’t ever think otherwise.”

Damn. The solar system? 

You hate when Irene calls you “honey,” but on Hyunjin’s tongue, it sounds loving, sweet, not like a patronizing ridicule. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, trying to ignore the way your heart is hammering in your chest. “But you’ve known me for, like, two seconds.”

If you don’t know any better, you would say that Hyunjin almost looks taken aback. But his features smooth over quickly. “Darling, I’m a professional. You’re smart. You’re beautiful. You have a good heart. There is no reason why you can’t have everything you want.”

You try to focus on his words and take them in, but Hyunjin— simply the sexiest thing you have ever set eyes on— has deemed you beautiful. It’s both flattering and heart-fluttering, to say the very least. “Well, why don’t I? Why don’t I have everything I want, then?”

Hyunjin narrows his eyes. “You just haven’t met the right person for you.”

You inhale at the husky tone of his voice. “And you’re going to help me with that, Hyunjin?”

“Yes. You don’t need therapy, definitely. The first step I take with my clients is acceptance. That comes with therapy, but you were able to identify the problem and acknowledge it. I say we address it now.”

“What do you recommend we do, then?”

Hyunjin clears his throat and flips to a new page in his notepad. “I’ll be your dating coach.”

You quirk your eyebrow at him. “What does that entail?”

“We need to fortify your self-esteem, first of all. So, confidence coaching. You’ll be getting weekly sessions with me in which I provide you with tips and guidance, almost like interactive lectures. In due time… you can be set up in our matchmaking office, if you’d like.” Hyunjin scribbles into his trusty notepad. “You made a good start with the list. Let’s get better.”

And you do. The next few weeks are like a bandaid on your wounded heart and mentality. Hyunjin helps you through building up your confidence, never once pushing you to run, only walking by your side. You expect him to give you information on pickup lines, how to dress, appropriate forms of touch, the science of love, and anything else that may improve your dating prospects, but much of his coaching is simply focused on you. You get one-on-one seminars from Hyunjin on the art of conversation, in which he guides you through being yourself, instead of being who you think you need to be. Hyunjin structures elaborate role-playing scenarios and critical thinking exercises in which you are coaxed out of your shell. And most significant of all, he teaches you that the most important relationship you can have is the relationship with yourself. 

You have always known that Hyunjin isn’t just any regular relationship therapist— or dating coach, or intimacy expert, or whatever other fancy moniker he adopts— but throughout your meetings, you come to feel like the boundaries have become blurred. Since the first time you saw him, he was able to read you like one of the glossy magazines stocked in the main lobby. But you slowly notice the fine details about him as well, from the neverending stack of classic poetry books on the white oak wall mount to how he bites his nails when he’s deep in thought.

The fascination you harbor morphs into a full-blown schoolgirl infatuation, resulting in you stalking his Instagram page and being totally invested in all of his old interviews, scouring for information on his dating status (no, you couldn’t find out if he is single or not). You’re completely enamored with Hyunjin and how free you feel around him. But one thing that doesn’t change is your burning desire for your unattainable guide, and the way you have to relieve yourself with your vibrator as soon as you rush home after your appointments.

You are sure that every single time you see Hyunjin, you’re being embarrassingly obvious, but he maintains his professionality, betraying nothing about himself except for a disarming smile. So you stay quiet, keeping your Hyunjin-affliction to yourself. But even in the face of your inappropriate struggle, for the first time, happiness doesn’t seem so foreign to you.

In spite of the honeymoon phase of your crush, in which you have blissfully daydreamed about Hyunjin, you still have your job to get to— gone is the racy maroon lingerie set you bought to spice up your solo sessions. However, your boring work suits and blazer-and-jeans combinations have been pushed to the back of your closet, in favor of you walking into the office wearing tight sheath dresses and skirts that show off your curves. You always believed that getting dolled up was strictly for special occasions or your man— when you thought you had one— but lately, you’ve been loving dressing up for yourself and enjoying the feeling of being sexy and liberated.

“Y/N! Get your ass over here!”

Your carefully curated mind bubble is rudely burst open when your boss yells for you from his office, not minding if the peace of the rest of the workers is preserved or not. You tie your hair up and dust off your skirt, making your way over to your boss’s office for what feels like the millionth berating you know you will receive.

“Yes?”

Mark Lee— your boss, who in your opinion, makes Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada look like a saint— turns around in his cushy Arhaus swivel chair, raising his eyebrows at your harried stats. Most people know him as the eccentric but lovable CEO of NCT Corporation, one of the world’s most prolific venture capital firms. However, you know him to be a truly two-faced monster that takes a sadistic pleasure in seeing the people beneath him crushed.

 “Is something wrong? Because there shouldn’t be.”

You force a smile. “You called me here, Mark.”

He lets out a mirthless guffaw, slapping his thigh. “Right.”

You roll your eyes as he shuffles through the papers on his desk and produces a small Manila envelope for you. Mark holds it out to you, and you take the packet.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Curious, you tear open the envelope and pull out a thick piece of stationary paper, an invitation to a networking event for tech entrepreneurs. Your pulse immediately begins to pick up, and you even dare to begin to dream of attending this golden opportunity. “Is this for me?”

“Kind of.” Mark clasps his hands together. “You’re planning this party!”

Your hesitant smile melts away. “What? I’m not your assistant, Mark. You already have one.”

“I know…” Mark trails off, popping a gummy bear into his mouth as he starts to spin around in his chair. “But no one is more passionate than you here, so you should do it.”

“But I’m busy with my actual job. I should be going to this party, not planning it! You know that.” You feel the frustration rise up in your chest like a tsunami, and you struggle to keep it at bay. “Come on, Mark. What the hell?”

Mark narrows his eyes at you, chewing on his fifth gummy. “No profanity, please.”

You nearly ball up the invitation and throw it onto Mark’s face. “You literally just screamed at me to get my ass in here.”

“I know, I’m hilarious.” Mark snickers, crumpling up his gummy bear packet and attempting to shoot it into the wastebasket on the other side of the room. When he misses, his expression sours and he glares at you. “You should really check out the instructions I sent you and get to work. Even some SM Tech officers will be in attendance. For example, the director of the Dream division.”

Your heart drops. “What?”

Mark smirks malevolently, leaning closer towards you. “You know him, right? Jake, was his name? Or was it Jisung?”

You grind down on your teeth, fuming. Mark is just trying to rile you up, and it’s really working. He knows perfectly well that Jisung is your ex-boyfriend, as both Jisung and him are golf buddies at their exclusive course in Pasadena. However, he loves to play dumb to get a reaction out of you, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

You swallow back all of the disgusting insults you wish you could hurl at him, if you were braver and not hanging on to your job by a thread. “Don’t recall. I’ll take care of the party.”

You turn on your heel and march out of Mark’s office, purposefully slamming the door hard on the way out. You hear Mark’s cackling behind you, but you don’t dare to look back, because you don’t know what you’ll do. You slide into your cubicle once more, and have to resist the urge to turn over your whole desk like Wreck-It Ralph.

Years ago, in your final year of college, you founded ITEM Technologies with one of your classmates for your senior project. You hadn’t expected your professor to be so impressed that she submitted your portfolio to California’s biggest entrepreneurship competition, and you definitely didn’t expect for it to win first place, which meant you got access to a whole network of potential investors for your start-up. You had already accepted a job offer to be a software developer at NCT, but the thought of becoming your own boss through ITEM pulled at you like anything. Securing funding for ITEM through SM Technologies would be the final key in the system of locks keeping you from your dream, and the exclusive invitation to CODA— Silicon Valley’s biggest annual networking lunch for start-ups— was the ticket.

However, the day before the event, Jisung had broken up with you, and you had forgotten all about CODA, instead sleeping in after a whole night of crying. Later, after you woke up and realized what you had done, you found out that SM’s latest investment would be in Dream, a growing media company headed by none other than your new ex, Jisung. In twenty-four hours, he had both killed your dreams and your heart. And in due time, without proper funding, ITEM Tech would eventually fail, like many other promising but ill-fated start-ups.

And now? Jisung is living it up in your dream job while you’re groveling in the footsteps of your nightmarish excuse of a boss. Just touching a keyboard once filled you with so much joy, but now, you would rather smash it into bits before pressing a single key. Now you have to map out some stupid party for other start-ups. You’re a developer, not an event planner. You glare up at the ceiling, as if asking a higher power for an explanation for your crappy life. A moment later, your computer pings with a new email.

Like he’s a telepathic deity, Hyunjin has sent you a GIF of a baby llama waddling around a small pen, with text below that reads, “keep calm and llama on.” In spite of yourself, you laugh to yourself, and without thinking, you type in a response thanking him and ending in a winking emoji. Right after you send it, you fill up with regret. Was that inappropriate? The emoji? Too much? With an exasperated sigh, you stand up from your desk, shutting down your computer and heading over to the elevator, punching in buttons for the next floor. However, as soon as you open the door to the office of the one person who could probably talk some sense into you right now, you regret it. Afterall, he’s your part-time friend and full-time menace of a coworker.

“Fuck… don’t tease me like that when I’m not there,” Minho groans, before sighing wistfully into his phone. “I’ll be home soon.”

You silently gag, mentally slapping the shit out of yourself for walking in on a phone sex session, of all things. Minho hadn’t answered when you knocked on his door, so you had just assumed that he needed to be woken up from one of his notorious naps.

“I love you too. I’ll see you in a little bit.” Minho ends the call and turns around in his seat, happily humming to himself with a lovestruck expression on his face. He nearly falls out of his chair when he sees you hovering over him with a smirk on your face. “Jesus!”

“Seriously? Here? Now?”

“Shut the fuck up. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Suuure.”

Minho rolls his eyes at your silly expression, unamused and crossing his arms. “Can I help you, Y/N?”

You rub one of your nails, thinking of how Hyunjin once complimented them. “You’re like my only friend.”

“I know.” He watches you collapse into one of the chairs in front of him. “But what happened to those Golden Bitches?”

“Golden Trio,” you correct, although Minho doesn’t miss the hint of a grin on your face at his intentional mistake. “And I’m done with them. Finally.”

You put your head down on Minho’s desk as he reaches into one of his desk drawers, pulling out a pack of Twizzlers and tossing them to you. “Talk.”

“It’s, um, kind of bad, though.” 

“I’m listening.”

Everything comes spilling out of your mouth: brunch at The Terrace, your new unpaid party-planning gig, and of course… Hyunjin. Your explanation is much more censored than the real thing, of course, because there’s no way you’re going to talk about your whole mango expedition with a married man. That is a whole new level of breaking boundaries, and you’ve crossed enough to know.

“Well… that’s basically it.” You swallow nervously, and suddenly, your throat feels very dry. “Mark sucks, and I’m thirsting after my therapist slash dating coach.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Minho says gently, a color that you weren’t even sure existed for him in public. His teasing persona always overtakes the tender one exclusively reserved for his other half. “The whole Hyunjin thing is probably just temporary. You’re still adjusting to considering romance as a possibility again.”

“Okay.”

“The right person will come along. It’s long, and it’s hard, but that journey will be worth it.”

“Says you. You and your wife are literally perfect. I mean, college sweethearts? If your life was a music soundtrack, it would be one of those cheesy love playlists that annoying couples make together.”

Minho just chuckles. “We had our ups and downs. But yeah, we kind of are perfect. She is perfect.”

He softly smiles to himself, gazing at the beautiful portrait of his wife that’s framed on his desk. He’s in his own world now, and you pat his shoulder. “Thanks for the help, Minho. You should go home.”

As you exit the NCT headquarters, you can’t help but feel your heart squeeze even tighter in your chest. Witnessing such a wholesome moment should have given you hope, a glimpse of a future you could have. Instead, it reminded you of what you can’t have right now— who you can’t have. 

You appreciate Minho’s efforts to make you feel better, but he just doesn’t know the full truth. Because your chat with him pushed up something very unpleasant that you’ve been avoiding for a while now. Your pink-loving, classic novel-reading, luxury-shopaholic dating coach is more than just the object of your explicit fantasies, all unbeknownst to him. You’ve started to love the person you become when you’re around him. You love how much more confident and happier you’ve become because of him. Hell, you have genuine feelings for him.

You are so fucked.

Spanning his entire career as a relationship therapist (and all of the other job titles; for God’s sake, he’s the Love Doctor), Hyunjin can’t really come up with any thorns in the rosebush. Sure, there have been a few snags, like that time his clients literally brought divorce papers to one of their meetings (he managed to convince them to take a romantic vacation to Bora Bora and bond more as a couple; it worked). Or when another client confessed to committing adultery with the family’s nanny halfway through a session (after persuading the wife not to murder her husband in the middle of his office, Hyunjin set them up with recovery counseling; that also worked). Life was predictable, but enjoyable. Just the way he likes it. 

Every single day used to begin the exact same way. He woke up at exactly five-thirty, before doing his favorite low-impact yoga routine in his home gym. Hyunjin liked being up early enough to watch the sun rise from the balcony of his West Hollywood penthouse, while drinking a cup of loose leaf Darjeeling tea, of course. His post Sun Salutation breakfast consisted of two slices of whole wheat bread topped with two organic scrambled eggs and extra virgin olive oil. He’d shower and spend a while wandering his walk-in closet, deciding what killer outfit to wear for work, his third favorite place after South Korea and the Taj Mahal. And then he drove to SeoulSpark in Cami, his beloved baby pink Cadillac that he splurged on after getting on Forbes 30 Under 30. 

Every single day used to end the exact same way. He’d leave work by six, after finishing up the last of his meetings. He’d browse on his MacBook for a nice recipe before cooking his dinner while jamming to Mariah on his Spotify Premium, and change the station to classical while eating. He took another shower, but taking more time to do his special avocado hair mask and full skin-care routine. Then Hyunjin liked to cozy up in his Versace bathrobe while catching up with the latest episode of Love Island and cuddling with his paw-dorable shih tzu, Princess Diana. Oh, and, he couldn’t unwind without kicking his feet back and downing a glass of pink champagne. And then he went to bed by eleven.

That was all before you, of course.

The day he met you, he was reminded of the sun. Yes, the way you roughly turned your chin to the side or rained down on him with your sharp words was more evocative of a thunderstorm. But then there was that dress, a pale yellow fluttering above your knees, and how your wide eyes had so expressively taken in your surroundings when you stepped into his office. The slightly awkward way you greeted him, when you harshly avoided his gaze when you were embarrassed. And the way you looked at him, your pretty lips pulled into a stubborn pout, but really, he could see the soft curiosity in your gaze. You were so mad at the world around you, all he wanted to do was take you onto his magic carpet and show you a new one.

He also really, really wanted to just rip that dress off your body and fuck you senseless. And when you started to eat that mango? He had to scramble to think of a list of unsexy things to avoid a boner right then and there. Chipped nails. Gonorrhea. Andrew Tate.

The following weeks weren’t any better, either. He felt like an inexperienced, horny teenager once again, lusting after the tiniest flash of skin. In your last meeting, Hyunjin had fixated on the tiny rip on your stocking that barely exposed the soft skin of your thigh. You hadn’t even noticed, but God, he was trying not to go crazy in his seat. 

Usually, other people are the ones who are seduced by Hyunjin’s charming nature, but ever since you, the once calm, elegant, and poised Hyunjin has been prone to being seduced by irrelevant wardrobe malfunctions. And the absolutely inappropriate thoughts of you that have now flooded his brain are constantly floating around, disturbing him. Yesterday, he slept-in, so he had to skip his morning yoga and was nearly late to work. Later, he fell asleep while fisting himself under the covers, forgetting to turn on his mood lighting and 528 Hz nighttime music. And today was an even bigger disaster, because he’d zoned out during his marketing meeting, thinking of bending you over his desk instead of advertising SeoulSpark. Ever since you, none of his days have been the same. Tonight is no exception.

Hyunjin turns the steel knob, cranking up the heat for no reason at all. Maybe he needs to feel the burn of the scalding water on his skin, shocking him back into reality, or perhaps, he needs to hide from his sanity in the steam, too ashamed to look out and into the bathroom mirror. 

The water pours down Hyunjin’s back as he steps under the steady stream, dousing himself and trying to forget about you. But it’s to no avail, because he feels his hand already moving down, roving over his Pilates-strengthened abs and slipping down to the one place that’s pleading for his attention. 

Hyunjin tilts his head back in the bliss of succumbing to temptation, slightly leaning his cheek against his shoulder as he strokes his hardened length slowly. He sucks in a sharp breath as he squeezes himself, deftly curving his wrist for a more impactful angle. Hyunjin is no stranger to a good lover, but right now he’s resorting to touching himself with the familiarity that only he is entitled to. Although, he would love to teach you about more than just confidence, giving you lessons on how to pleasure him, watching you work like the sexy aficionado that he believes you to be.

In his mind, he isn’t in the privacy of his bathroom, jerking himself off. No, he’s in his office, lying down on his luxe handwoven rug with you on top of him. You’re completely exposed except for the place where your yellow frock is scrunched around your waist, because you were so eager to have each other that Hyunjin hadn’t even bothered with completely undressing you. 

Hyunjin tightens his fingers around his cock and speeds up, pumping himself aggressively. He bites down on his lip and screws his eyes shut, as low, breathy moans escape him. He’s leaking already, flushed and throbbing under his palm. Hyunjin pushes a hand against the shower wall for support and whimpers at the thought of you riding him while slurping on that goddamn mango. He’s so delusional for you that you hadn’t even bothered with getting a knife to cut into the mango, instead holding it in your hand and biting into it while bouncing on his cock. 

Hyunjin lets out a groan as he strokes himself even faster, and he feels his orgasm rapidly approaching but refrains from releasing. He doesn’t deserve to come, not yet. He imagines your legs spread and your tight walls around him, instead of his own fist. Your cheeks are a deep red now, as Hyunjin pounds up into you, claiming you and making you his own. The juice from the mango is dripping all over your gorgeous breasts, trailing down even further and mixing with your own arousal. Hyunjin wonders about how you would taste. Were you as sweet as that mango you had eaten so damn seductively in front of him? No. You probably tasted even better. 

His soft moans have turned into harsh pants as Hyunjin’s hands begin to lose rhythm, unsteadily working his length. Hyunjin listens to your pretty sighs as you look down at him, pleasure and amusement contorting your features. 

“You want me so bad, don’t you?” 

“I do!” Hyunjin chokes out as a cry as the pressure rises in his core. He’s so, so close, the pearls of sweat rolling down his neck and becoming one with the water. 

“Hyunjin…”

Hyunjin’s name slips out of your mouth as easily as he flips you over onto your back, fucking harshly into you. He anchors his hand to your waist, gripping tightly, as you gaze up at him through your half-lidded eyes. Your bare chests are pressed together in a sticky haze of both your sweat and the juice of the mango you have now abandoned for something more satiating. Spurred on by the fucked-out smile on your face, he brings his free hand to your lips and you obediently suck on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead. But you’re still in control, directing him with your eyes and whispering sweet praises to him. And then you’re clenching around him, your body shuddering underneath Hyunjin’s as you reach the peak of your ecstasy. 

“I need you to come for me, Hyunjin.”

Your final command makes Hyunjin convulse and tense, his back arching as he finally chases after his release. Hyunjin thrusts into his hand, overcome by the thought of you judging him while he comes. Hyunjin’s knees go weak as he strokes himself through his orgasm, violently spasming against the Carrara marble walls of his shower. His release shoots out in hot spurts, painting his trembling thighs and the walls a thick white. 

Breathless, Hyunjin opens his eyes and washes off his shame, but there’s only so much that water and coconut body wash can do. The moment he prepares to step out of his steaming shower, Hyunjin feels anything but cleansed— his situation is quite the opposite. The unholy thoughts that he had touched himself to had done anything but subside, struggling behind the dam in his mind that contains his last shreds of dignity. As he opens the door leading to his bedroom, the shock of cold air conditioning against his damp skin is a harsh reminder of reality. 

Hyunjin’s relationship with you is strictly limited to his office, the place where he did not get to fuck you in. Any discourse with sexual content is limited to your personal romantic endeavors that he has no role in whatsoever. You have zero idea about his filthy fantasies involving you, and see him merely as the person who would help you find happiness with someone else. Not him. He’s your therapist, and in clinical terms, you could be his patient.

The mirage of you standing in front of him disagrees, however. 

“You’re technically not my therapist—  more like my counselor.” 

Hyunjin watches with wide eyes as you bound over to him. Smirking, you playfully toy with the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist.

“But I am feeling kind of sick, though, Dr. Hwang. I’m all hot and aching, just for you.”

“Go away! You can’t be here.” Hyunjin shakes his head, quickly walking over to his closet and getting into his silk batik pajamas. “I’m going crazy…”

Princess Diana nips at Hyunjin’s ankles, prodding him to go back to his normal self and snuggle with her while they watch reality TV. 

“I just can’t right now, Diana,” Hyunjin exclaims exasperatedly. She gets the hint and slinks away, leaving Hyunjin alone in his bedroom.

He hadn’t even bothered with turning on the lights, the glimmering Los Angeles skyline past his expansive windows casting a pale glow in his room. If mindreading was a real thing, Hyunjin would be done for, because the thoughts that had transpired today would ruin him, shrivel up his reputation and business. If this went beyond the confines of his home, continuing to force itself into his daily life, he could lose everything. His job, his name, his purpose. Nevertheless, Hyunjin feels his hand sliding down once more, like a sinful memory of the past. It’s going to be another long night, and what happens tomorrow is variable. But Hyunjin knows one thing to be true.

He is so fucked.

«NEXT CHAPTER» · «GENERAL M.LIST» · «NAVIGATION» · «TALK TO ME»

AUTHOR'S NOTE

That was the longest thing I've ever written for one piece. AND IT'S ONLY CHAPTER 1 LMFAO. Anyway, hope you liked it, loves! I'll be hiding under my blankets tonight and screaming about my first published smut scene EVER. Please leave your thoughts, I don’t mind if you leave a whole essay ;) -Dreamy

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