#i feel like i got posessed

[dr1lldash]

i attempted to write angst but it ended up being like 40% me bullshitting ow lore, 40% fluff and 20% angst

venture x overwatch agent!reader 4.4k (oh my god)

You had been a member of Overwatch for only a few short weeks when you first met them. You had gotten word of a potential attack by Talon in Petra, and Winston had personally chosen you to go with the team.

“It won’t be dangerous,” he told you, “Well, it won’t be any more dangerous than usual.” You were to go with Hana, Lena, Brigitte and Lucio. You were friendly enough with each of them, meaning that the silences on the aircraft ride over weren’t too awkward.

Stepping off the aircraft, the hot air hit you full blast. It wasn’t humid, so it was manageable, but you were glad you wore as little clothing as possible. A tank top exposed your arms, and the pants you wore as part of your uniform were loose, allowing for decent air flow.

The five of you were surrounded on all sides by high, rocky cliffs, and as you looked around, you noticed a steep dropoff only meters away from your ship. You made a mental note, taking a step to your right to ease your anxiety. Tents littered the ground, long cables stretching out and disappearing into caves. You followed Brigitte past the tents, up a small staircase and into one of the caves. You were trying your best to pay attention to what was being said while still admiring the desert surrounding you, but you failed.

“What did she say?” you whisper to Lena, who was only a foot or so ahead of you.

“Talon is trying to get some artifact that the Wayfinders have been working to get, we’re gonna stop them.” She gives you a look. “Could you not hear her back here?” You shrug. “Let’s move up, then!”

The two of you walk faster to pass Hana, now standing almost directly behind Brigitte and Lucio. Brigitte turns back to look at you and flashes a smile. “Isn’t this exciting? I’ve never been here before. Or to any archeological dig, actually.” You nod back, trying to match her enthusiasm.

As you get deeper in the cave, the air cools significantly and you shiver slightly, suddenly wishing you had dressed in layers. You see a rather large monitor with a holograph globe behind it, a few members of the Society studying them and talking amongst themselves.

“Dr. Faisal?” Lucio greets the man staring at the monitor, glancing down to take notes in his notebook every few seconds. “It’s good to see you.” The doctor turns around and Lucio holds out a hand, which the doctor happily shakes.

“It’s great to meet you all,” he smiles. “I wish it were under better circumstances, but we’re happy to have you all here.” He gestures behind your group. “If you’d follow me this way, I have information more relevant on another computer.”

The five of you move apart, making a walkway and following the doctor up a rocky incline. The monitor there is very similar to the one he was taking notes at, but features small, pulsing blue dots, one a few meters away from the others. “Talon,” Hana almost growls.

“Indeed. We think they’ll be here before nightfall.”

“Why are they coming here? Do you know what they’re looking for?” Brigitte questions.

The doctor shifts nervously on his feet. “We don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, but we know where it is.” He pauses. “We just uncovered a hidden treasure chamber, just above our heads, but we haven’t yet been able to explore it. Someone should be trying to find a way in as we speak.”

“Someone?”

“A member of our team, someone all too eager to volunteer.”

“Is it possible there’s anything else Talon is interested in?”

“There is a potential excavation site that we haven’t yet been able to find a safe way into. It’s far down, and the floor above it is very unstable. We’re unsure if we’ll ever be able to explore, although I doubt Talon has the same penchant for life that we do. I’d hate for us to miss something important, but I’d hate for someone to get hurt more.”

“Can we see?”

Dr. Faisal nods. “Of course, I just ask that everyone is careful.” After the five of you nod, the doctor leads you away, down a few more sets of crumbling stairs, through a storage room and into a large, open area where the sun is able to beam directly onto you. The floor is crumbling, more than the other parts of the site, and you’re able to look down into the abyss. A cold wind blows through the cracks in the floor, and as you lean forward ever so slightly, a strong hand grips your arm, pulling you backwards. As you try to regain your footing, rock falls from where your feet had just been, widening the gap.

You turn back to look at your savior, and you’re met with a pair of beautiful brown eyes, thick eyebrows and a barbell pierced through one of them. “Thank you,” you say, blinking rapidly.

They look down at you, face a bit softer than it was a moment ago. “No problemo,” they say, flashing you a grin. One of their teeth is chipped, and you can’t help but think that it suits them really well.

“Sloan,” the doctor starts, “thank you for joining us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Sloan responds, releasing your arm and rubbing the back of their head with their hand. “I did manage to get through the wall, though!”

“Was there anything of interest?”

“Oh my God, yeah! Tons of gold, a bunch of pottery, and some things I can’t even begin to describe!” They bounce on their heels for a moment, then seem to remember where they are and calm themself down. “I asked some of the others to pack it up so I could help you.”

Before anyone can respond, a loud, metallic whirring fills the air. Talon had found you. Lucio speaks, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard. “Doctor, go help the others get the artifacts onto our ship. We’ll drive Talon off, we’ll keep the site as safe as we can. Do you need a weapon?”

Dr. Faisal waves him off. “No, I trust all of you to keep us safe.” He turns to look at Sloan. “Do you want to fight?”

“Absolutely.” Their voice is calmer than it was a few minutes ago, and as you turn to look at them again, you see a fierce look in their eyes. “You all get out of here, I’ll make sure everyone and everything is protected.” The doctor nods in understanding.

“Please, don’t get hurt.” They flash a grin at him.

“Who, me? I’ve got a lot more to see before I die.” Dr. Faisal gives them a look before patting their shoulder, turning and jogging further into the caves.

A deep laugh chills your spine as he disappears. “Are you waiting for us?” A tall, muscular man is stalking towards you, followed by several other figures in black uniforms. “How kind of you.”

The battle that follows is a blur. You’re struggling to keep up, and although you manage to knock a few Talon members to the ground, they keep getting back up. The floor further crumbles beneath your feet, but you seem to be the only one bothered by this. You have completely lost track of Sloan, but every so often you hear a loud drill beneath your feet before they fly out of the ground, distracting whoever is currently fighting you before they dig back down into the earth.

Slowly, Overwatch comes out on top. Some of Talon’s forces drag their fallen comrades off, presumably back to their ship, while the others, visibly exhausted, fight until they fall. You think the battle is almost over, and you start to relax, until you hear Sloan call out, “Watch out!”

Time moves in slow motion as you turn your head and see Doomfist cocking his fist, staring straight into your eyes. He flies through the air, and right as he’s about to hit you, a figure comes between you, blocking you from the punch. Sloan lets out a loud grunt, falling to the ground as Doomfist lets out a sound of disapproval. Looking around and finding himself alone, he rolls his eyes.

“We will be back.” He walks off at almost a leisurely pace, and a minute later, you hear that same whir of an aircraft fill the air and slowly fade.

Exhausted, you fall to the ground. “Is everyone okay?” Brigitte calls out.

Lena, Lucio, Hana and you all give out some form of affirmation. You look to your side, and see Sloan lying face-down. Only their chest seems to be moving. You reach out to touch their shoulder, shaking it gently. “Sloan?” They don’t respond.

“Sloan is hurt.” Immediately, the entire group gets their second wind. You race back to the aircraft with Hana, grabbing a stretcher and carrying it back. Brigitte helps Lucio to gently load them on, and you follow closely behind as you load back onto the aircraft. Sloan is barely moving, letting out groans of pain in random intervals, and their chest is moving more and more rapidly. The flight to the nearest Overwatch base feels like it takes forever.

Even as the medic team takes them away, you follow closely behind, tears welling up in your eyes. “Is everything okay?” The worry in Angela’s voice is clear, but you can’t get words out without sobbing.

“They’re a member of the Wayfinder society,” Brigitte explains. “They helped us fight off Talon, but they got hurt. I don’t know how badly.”

“They were helping me,” you manage to say, “Doomfist would have killed me. Are they going to be okay?” Angela does her best to reassure you, telling you that the fact that they’re still breathing is such a good sign.

“Their vitals aren’t ideal, but they haven’t lost a lot of blood. I think they broke some ribs, but I’ll have to check for internal bleeding.” She takes both of her hands in yours, looking you straight in the eyes. “I promise you, they will not die. Everything will be okay.”

You know she doesn’t make promises she can’t keep, but you still can’t calm yourself down. Angela releases your hands before she runs into the med bay. There’s a small window allowing you to look in, but as you glance in, you see Sloan connected to several tubes and you know if you keep watching, you’re only going to make yourself more worried. You allow Brigitte to walk you away, taking you back to your room.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks, rubbing her hand on your shoulder. “I can get some food for you, we can watch a movie -”

“I’ll be okay.” The sobs are beginning to subside. “I just need to sleep.”

“Okay.” She lets go of you. “You can call me if you need me. You know where my room is, right?” You nod. “They’re going to be okay. Angela is the best of the best, I promise.”

She exits your room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You fight them as hard as you can, and as the adrenaline fades from your body, you realize how exhausted you are. You curl into a ball, clutching your pillow to your chest, and allow sleep to overcome you.

You wake up hours later to sunlight streaming in through your window. You rub remnants of tears from your eyes and stretch, wincing at the aching in all of your muscles. You sit up, swing your legs over the side of your bed, walk to your bathroom and take a long shower before changing out of the sweat-stained clothes you’ve been wearing since the day before. You’re still exhausted, but you feel a bit refreshed.

You skip breakfast, making your way to the med bay to see how Sloan is doing. You almost don’t want to enter their room. There are less tubes attached to them than there were the day before, but they still look unwell. They’re sleeping, and there’s a consistent beep on the heart monitor next to them. You watch them through the small window for a minute before deciding to enter their room.

There’s a stool underneath a desk in the corner of their room, and you pull it out to sit on it next to their bed. You fiddle with your hands in your lap, unsure of what to do or say. It’s not like they can hear you while they’re unconscious, anyway.

“Thank you for saving me.” The words are barely audible, and your voice cracks a bit as you say it. Tears start to well up in your eyes again, worrying about what could happen to them or what could have happened to them. You know you wouldn’t have been holding onto life as well as they are, that you probably wouldn’t have even made it back to the base.

“Any time.” Their voice is hoarse and it sounds like it took effort for them to get the words out. You look up at them to see a soft smile on their face, eyes smiling as they look back at you.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were awake.” You stand up. “I can go, I’m sure you need rest.”

“Can you stay?” These words are clearer. “I was only sleeping because I was bored. There’s nothing for me to do here.”

“There’s the TV, if you want to watch that.” You grab the remote off the desk and offer it to them. They shake their head.

“TV doesn’t interest me like people do.”

“Oh.” You set the remote back down on the desk, sitting down on the stool again. “What do you want to talk about?”

The next few hours pass by quickly. Sloan asks you questions about yourself, and you answer as best they can. Sometimes they go off on tangents about completely unrelated things, usually regarding the Petra digsite, although sometimes they talk about omnic history. You make a mental note to ask Echo to visit them.

Their stomach rumbles, interrupting your conversation. “Have you eaten today?”

“Not since breakfast.” They pout. “I asked for something sweet, but nobody would bring me anything.”

“I’ll ask Dr. Zeigler if I can give you something. She said your vitals were fine yesterday, I’m sure I can bring you a cookie or something.” They flash a grin at you, making your heart skip a beat.

“You’re the best!”

You walk out of their room, stopping by Angela’s office to get permission. She double checks Sloan’s vitals on her computer, and nods in agreement. “They can have something small. A cookie, a piece of cake.” She looks up at you. “They’re recovering well. I’m glad you’re talking with them.” You fight the blush spreading on your cheeks as you walk to the canteen. You get lunch for the two of you, and a small slice of chocolate cake for Sloan.

Their face lights up as you walk back into their room. “Hey there!” You hand them the tray with the cake on it, and they’re quick to start eating. The conversation picks back up easily, and the sun shining through their window fades sooner than you would expect. They pout as you say your goodbyes, but let you go after you promise to come back the next day.

Sloan stays at the base for the next eight weeks, the two of you spending as much time together as you can every day. Angela lets you know that they broke several ribs, as well as bruising their jaw and pelvis. Their injuries could have been a lot more severe, and considering the circumstances, they should have been, but they were as okay as they could have been. She manages to convince the Wayfinder Society that they are better off recovering in a stable environment, and although they want to get back to the digsite as soon as possible, they relent, allowing themself to stay at Overwatch’s base.

About six weeks into their stay, when they’re mostly healed but the medical team still wants to keep an eye on them, they get their own room just down the hall from yours. The Society sends a bag of their belongings, and they waste no time pinning posters and maps all over the wall. Seeing them in their own clothes is a huge change from the hospital gowns you’ve grown used to seeing them in. Most of what they were wearing at this point were simple t-shirts with cargo shorts or jeans, but it suited them so well. They looked much more comfortable, too, which made you happy in a way you can’t fully describe.

One day, you were walking to their room from yours, intending to get breakfast with them in the canteen as the two of you had been doing since they got a little bit more freedom. As you’re about to knock on their door, you overhear them talking.

“I’m so glad you’re safe. You make my life so much better, I really don’t know what I’d do without you, Rosetta.” Your heart sinks. You had come to terms with your slight crush on Sloan a little while before, but you should have known that they already had a significant other. Someone as attractive and funny and passionate as Sloan wouldn’t be single, after all. You decide not to bother them, figuring that they’re on the phone with their partner, and you make your way back to your room, resigning to having snacks for breakfast.

A few minutes later, you hear a knock on your door. “[Y/N]?” Sloan’s voice calls out. “Are you there?”

You hesitate before answering. “I’m here.”

“Are we getting breakfast?”

“I’m not feeling well, sorry.”

“Oh, uh, okay.” You hear them take a step back. “Feel better soon.”

You don’t answer them, instead wrapping yourself in a blanket and looking out your window. An hour passes, and you hear footsteps pause in front of your door before disappearing in the direction of Sloan’s room. When you open your door, you find a box filled with tea bags, honey, cough drops and a book, with a note telling you it’s from Sloan, small drawings littering the paper. You take it in your room but leave it on your desk.

The next day, Winston once again asks you to go on a mission, this time in Rio de Janeiro. Lucio once again joins you, as well as Winston himself. It’s quick, you leave in the morning and you’re back in time to fall asleep in your own bed, but you’re glad to have the distraction from Sloan. You’re trying to get over your crush on them, you really are, but you can’t help but feel hurt that they didn’t mention a significant other. You’d been talking almost nonstop for two months, you almost thought they felt the same way about you.

It doesn’t help that they had taped a note on your door while you were gone. It was a simple “I hope your mission goes well!”, but it makes a lump form in your throat. You want to crumple it up, throw it away, but you can’t bring yourself to. You set it on top of the book they gifted you the day before, crawling into bed and fighting the urge to cry yourself to sleep.

You’re woken up the next morning to a soft knock on your door. “[Y/N]?” Sloan’s voice is low. “Are you awake?”

You want to stay silent, pretend you’re asleep, but you force yourself to answer. “Yeah.” It sounds colder than you meant for it to.

“Do you want to get breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh.” The enthusiasm that you usually hear in their voice is gone, and you feel your heart twist. “I guess you’re still sick. Have you drank any of the tea?”

“I don’t like tea.” A lie. Despite not talking about it before, they had gotten your favorite kind of tea.

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence. “I’m sorry.” You hear their footsteps fade in the direction of their room once again, and you turn on your side to cry on your pillow.

It’s petty to act this way, but you need space and you can’t just ask for it. This hurts both of you, but you’re sure it’s for the best. They’ll be gone in another week or two anyway, back with Rosetta, and they’ll forget all about you. Sloan will be back to the Wayfinder Society, and you can focus on work again.

You end up crying yourself to sleep, waking up hours later to a soft knock on your door. You recognize the pattern as Sloan at this point, but they don’t say anything, they just walk away. Confused, you open your door to find a dinner tray with a bottle of water and a slice of chocolate cake. A sticky note on the tray confirms that it’s from Sloan, reading “I miss getting dinner with you. I hope you feel better soon.” There’s a scribble towards the bottom. Your guess is that they started to draw something but decided against it, which somehow hurts more.

You eat slowly, drinking the water bottle rather quickly. The cake is dry, and the frosting sticks to the roof of your mouth. You set your tray on your desk, next to the box of gifts from Sloan that’s laid forgotten for the past few days

You sigh, looking once again at the unopened bags of your favorite tea. They’re probably sleeping, but you need to try to talk to them, to apologize for how you’ve been acting. Some sort of closure will make you feel better, and you need to accept that they aren’t going to be yours. It’s not fair to cut them off like this, not to them and not to you. Determined, you exit your room, walking down the hall to Sloan’s room.

Your determination wears off as you approach their door. You put your hand up to knock, and realize you don’t know how to start the conversation. Do you tell them what you feel? Do you apologize and hope they don’t ask questions? Do you just ask them to grab a late-night snack with you? God, are they even going to be awake?

You start to lower your hand when their door opens. Sloan looks at you, a look of surprise on their face. “I didn’t expect to see you. Are you feeling better?”

Tears start to well in your eyes and you don’t fully understand why. You turn to leave, but Sloan grabs your wrist. “Did I do something? You won’t talk to me. I…” They let out a sigh. “I thought we were friends.”

You blink the tears away, turning back to face them. “I want to be friends, it’s just hard.” Sloan looks down at their hand, still holding onto your wrist.

“I know what you mean.”

“You really don’t.”

They won’t look you in the eyes. “I really like you, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Tears start to flow on your cheeks, making it harder for you to breathe. They look back up at you.

“You just want to be friends, and I ruined it. I should have kept it to myself, I’m sorry.”

You’re confused. “What do you mean?”

They cock their head at you. “Is this not about my note?”

You shake your head slightly. “What note?”

“The one inside the book.” You grimace slightly.

“I…haven’t opened it yet.”

“Wait, then what is this about?”

“What does the note say?”

Sloan lets go of your wrist, bringing their hand back to rub at the back of their head. “I, uh. I forgot.”

“I can go read it.” You turn to go, but Sloan grabs onto you once again, this time a bit tighter.

“I like you.” You turn to face them, eyes wide. “I liked you the first day we met, and I swear I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m really glad that me getting hurt meant we could spend more time together. These past few weeks, eating and talking and just hanging out have been some of the best times in my life outside of the Wayfinder Society. I’m really sorry if I made things awkward, [Y/N], but…I like you.” They let go of your wrist. “I’ll ask Dr. Zeigler if I can go tomorrow. I wish we could have been friends.”

This time, you reach, grabbing them on the forearm. Their skin is softer than you would have thought, warm and muscular. “I really like you, Sloan.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” There’s a frown on their lips. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

You reach out to grab their chin with your other hand, pulling it softly towards you and placing a gentle kiss on their lips. Their eyes widen for a second before they close, placing their free hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to them. Your lips start to move together, the kiss deepening ever so slightly before the two of you pull apart. “I really like you, Sloan,” you repeat, your lips ghosting over theirs.

“Me too,” they whisper. “I mean, I really like you, too, [Y/N].”

“Do you have to go tomorrow?” You look up at them, admiring their features.

They shake their head. “I think my ribs hurt again. And my jaw.”

You laugh, pulling away from them just enough for the two of you to breathe. Their hand is still on your back, and you let go of their forearm, sliding your hand down to theirs instead. They lace your fingers together. You hesitate, worried of what their response will be, but you ask anyway. “Hey, Sloan?”

“Yeah?” They mumble their response, looking down at your hand in theirs.

“Who’s Rosetta?” Their eyes snap up.

“Do you want to meet her?” They don’t wait for a response, running back into their room. You hear a few things hit the floor, but before you can ask if they’re okay, they’re back in front of you, albeit out of breath. Cupped in their hands is a rock with some sort of purple crystal sticking out and googly eyes glued on the front. “Ta-da!” They flash a grin at you. “She’s so cute, right? I got worried that she was gonna get hurt when the Society sent her over. Sometimes her eyes fall off, but she’s all good!”

You feel a sense of relief, and your crush deepens just a bit. “She’s adorable,” you tell them. Their eyes are on Rosetta, cooing at her and making faces. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

[lucabyte]

On autonomy, and what it means to be Obliged to Help.

Bonus:

[cicadacelebration]

obsessed with whatever this thing is why is she like that

[97tears]

“Serge liked having control of gilbert” no he doesn’t That’s not true

[urlocallesbiabs-reblog-sideblog]

the last time reigen let dimple possess him, it was, well, — it felt fucking great, despite everything. standing in the eye of the storm, indestructible, fast, strong, agile, powerful, together; having entrusted him with reigen's useless old little body and gotten a 200% return on the investment! so what if he wanted to feel something at least a little bit like that again, if he missed the crowdedness under his skin? so what if he's been feeling kind of lonely lately, especially when off work, what with mob being busy, and himself not being all too close to tome-chan yet, and not letting himself get all too close to serizawa? so maybe reigen starts letting dimple possess him from time to time, just, casually. most of the time the possessions aren't even justified, but it's not weird if they don't talk about it. dimple enjoys being able to breathe, and says exactly that; reigen enjoys being together, and says nothing of it.

reigen never admits any of his reasons, obviously; neither does dimple admit that he deeply appreciates what reigen does for him. it's just a weird little thing that happens between them, largely unacknowledged, mentioned either not at all or through crude lighthearted jokes, with emotions welling in the whitespace between words.

over time, reigen gets his head out of his ass, and him and serizawa become good friends, best friends, boyfriends, even, and later move in together. the thing with dimple continues to happen because there's no real reason for it to stop, and frankly it's not like they ever discuss that; it just carries on. katsuya's been noticing for quite a while that Something has been happening, but he never felt like it's his place to ask, especially when it seemed so silent — nearly non-existent, despite being very real. well, whatever arataka chooses to do with his free time, right?

***

one night katsuya stays out drinking with his school friends a little later than he was expecting, and comes home a little drunker than he was going to. he finds arataka in the kitchen, chopping some vegetables, main lights off and over-the-counter lights dim and amber around his frame; he's so, so pretty, and katsuya hugs him from the back, reaching to try and place a kiss. arataka turns around, his face flashing a wide grin and very bright red cheeks. "oh hi," dimple says. katsuya backs off clumsily, and stammers, "ah, i'm so sorry! i was expecting arataka to be here, but it's you, ah-h-h, this is awkward, again i'm so sorry!"

"no big deal," dimple waves off, and turns back to chopping. "fyi, usually when i'm here, it doesn't mean reigen's not — i don't displace him, yanno? just hanging around in his head, it's like buddy time." he grins again. "right now he isn't, though: i'm just puppeteering the thing. he passed out on the couch waiting for you, and i thought y'all wouldn't appreciate not having shit to eat for breakfast. i'll whip up some stir-fry for tomorrow and dump this back where i found it for a good night's sleep, dw about it"

"ah," katsuya says eloquently, "thank you."

he doesn't leave the kitchen, still — changes positions, getting comfortable, leans on the counter, and watches dimple work. his quick movements, his(?) elegant hands, his concentrated expression, his(?) golden hair, his red cheeks. he looks so handsome like that.

"you look so handsome like this," katsuya says before his brain-to-mouth filter catches up to the rest of him.

dimple puts the knife down and stretches his(? arataka's?) hands out before him, admiring. "it's a beautiful body," he admits. it's not a grin, but smile, softer this time; private, even. "don't tell reigen i said that, but — i really enjoy this; being like this. not just the whole getting to be alive, running around and breathing and eating thing, though of course that too, but also — you know what i mean," he shifts a shoulder up. "possessing anyone is fun, but possessing reigen..." he runs one of his(?) hands down another of his(?) arms, lightly — almost reverently. "it's nice."

katsuya's breath hitches.

he's standing closer than he remembers being. arataka is so pretty like that, in this soft lighting; dimple is so pretty like that, in this soft body.

"i still want to kiss you," katsuya whispers.

dimple's breath, just for a flashing moment, hitches too; he wouldn't admit it. "go ahead," he says, louder than a whisper, but way quieter than his voice.

katsuya does.

it's not chaste and not desperate; gentle-slow and quick-curious, soft, warm, almost exactly the same as every kiss he'd had before, just like this, but so unlike them, and almost tangibly new.

it feels great.

"it feels great," dimple breathes. "it's been a long time, and i've kind of... forgotten what it's like. so i've always wondered how it would feel if i did it."

"you mean, kissing in general, or?..." katsuya makes a terrible, embarrassed pause. "...kissing me?"

dimple shrugs, and turns back to the cutting board again. chop-chop-chop! katsuya stares, maybe a bit dumbly.

***

katsuya wakes up in the middle of the night, slightly less drunk but significantly more disoriented, and stumbles towards bathroom, and gets arataka's phone flashlight shone right into his fucking face (and then quickly towards his feet with a bit-louder-than-necessary apology).

" 'm going to the bathroom", katsuya explains.

"ah, i'm just heading back. samesies moment!" arataka jokes.

katsuya buffers.

"i kissed your boyfriend last night and i'm so sorry!"

"...you are my boyfriend, tsuya," he raises an incredulous brow, and then a hand to brush at katsuya's forehead. "you alright, buddy?.. uh, do you mean you gave me a kiss while i was asleep? if so, it's fine, you shouldn't worry about little things like that-"

"no! i mean kinda yes? agh, i mean dimple-was-posessing-you-while-you-were-asleep-and-i-kissed-him-and-he-kissed-me-back-i'm-so-sorry!"

"ah yea he does that someti- you What? dimple WHAT? wait, did you just call dimple my BOYFRIEND?"

***

the conversation that ensues is horrible. not because anyone's fighting — no one is even angry, unless you count violent bafflement as a subtype of anger — but because a honest, serious, 3-way conversation regarding dimple, gayness, feelings, and gay feelings for dimple, by definition can not be not horrible. arataka takes a smoke break in the middle. (he quit 5 years ago, but a guy needs exceptions). katsuya feels the closest he's ever felt to a heart attack, and that's including all his previous life experiences. dimple grows out a weird little perfunctory foot to tap it in the air.

but they try their best, and they figure things out.

in the end, not much changes; they still don’t talk about too often, but now it feels more like comfortable lack of necessity rather than avoidance; they all just get it. and occasionally, dimple possesses arataka while he kisses katsuya, and oftentimes vice versa.

it's nice.

[wormthing]

frankenstein's creature is the world's most normal girl

[localfandom]

okay but i feel so bad abt the actual jimmy in adon : (

[mbat]

idk who this person is but i fuck with them

[infectedpaul]

when she gets worse >>>

[crunchchute]

me itching to post some cosplay pics i just found because i look good there but also fighting for my life to Not post them cause i dont want my face online

[4giorno]

im feeling so much in this trailblaze quest. first i was so impressed by caelus's VA's sob acting and next i got fucking obliterated by that jumpscare in the corridor

[todayisafridaynight]

making all of you read this cute arasawa fic right now about jo and ichi's tattoos this isn't a request it's a demand

[ruvi-muffin]

Slowly but surely "home" is starting to feel safe again

It's been nine years

[hiwelcometothemonstersancturary]

Wha?! I would NEVER feel guilty for any of this!

Writers should NOT feel guilty about:

Skipping a day of writing.

Not having a perfect first draft.

Partaking in sinister, arcane rituals for inspiration.

Working at their own pace.

Enlisting demons and/or helpful spirits to aid them with editing.

[chauvinist-without-a-cause]

Some customer had to have bought the box of jell-o pops that killed communism in the mind of Boris Yeltsin. What an artifact to pass out to the kids one afternoon

[eupheme]

— you’ve got me wanting you

[part iii of sugar, sugar] | [part ii] [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 7.4k

tags: jealous/posessive!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, wingman!wade, flirting, feelings, (another short) miscommunication, immature humor, light angst, use of alcohol, threat of violence, use of alcohol and smoking, semi-public sex, bathroom sex, PiV, creampie

As the days pass, you think your time spent with Logan is pretty much perfect. Well... almost.

(Or - a dash of insecurity, some badgood advice from Wade, a near-fight at a bar, and the confession of overdue feelings.)

Those two nights spent with Logan turn into more.

The days are bleeding together, blurring. You fit well with him, you think. Together in Wade's apartment - spanning that space between their chatter and silence. Softening edges, though you think he's softened, too.

A stray cat coming around. 

Bristling, with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Slowly learning that he can lean into your touch. 

Your days since have been spent humming as you work. It had been an anchor once, this routine of yours. Getting up early used to give you something to get up for. Enjoying the whirlwind of prepping, measuring, making, decorating. 

Now - you're grateful for how quickly the day passes because it means you can't overanalyze. Because it means by the time you catch your breath at the end of the day, you're already heading home to him. 

Takeout was brought over to their apartment. A crappy movie with a hand curled around you, sending your heartbeat racing. The night ending at yours, hours between dusk and dawn spent learning every inch of each other. 

You think it's pretty much perfect.

Well... almost.

“Do you think Logan likes me?”

It slips out of you. Something that’s been worrying at you, a splinter trapped just beneath your skin. You regret asking almost immediately - the sun glinting off the silver needle as you push it through the lycra suit. 

“You mean the guy that’s been fucking your brains out for the past couple weeks?”

“Wade.”

“Oh, sorry.” He lines his knife up, poking a hole in the top of his styrofoam container - coaxing the waitress from lunch to give him a ‘take-home-margarita’. A cheerful “baby knife!” as he sheathes it again,” I mean the guy that’s been having totally-chaste-and-appropriate adult sleepovers with you?”

You understand what he’s getting at. Stalling, holding up his suit - another gash sewn shut with black thread, “You sure this is okay?” 

“Mhmm,” He hums, “Gives me that bride-of-frankenstein vibe I’ve always wanted. Besides, anything is better than before.”

“You insisted, you helpless little man-baby.” Al adds, from her lounge seat, “Learn to dodge.”

Wade splutters - your lips twitching, as you work.

“See what I live with?” He gripes, “Maybe the two of you outta trade. It’d be cramped, but I bet the three of us could sardine it.”

“You wouldn’t last a week without Althea,” You snort. A beat, before you gather the courage to circle back to the topic at hand, “And besides, that’s just it. I’m not sure he wants to sleep with me." 

The summer breeze feels better up here, on the roof. The whip of the wind cooling you, as you work your way across the once-again battered suit - propped up against the brick parapet. 

“Okay, time out. Missing link here.” Wade gives you a sideways look, before his head pivots, "You cannot hit me with this fake virginal act when I literally heard you two fuck an hour after you met."

A beat, "And like, pretty much every day since then. I think I even heard a howl last night-"

Your eyes roll, "Wade. He’s not a werewolf, he did not howl-"

"Well, not anymore.” Wade smirks, “And funny that you assume I meant the Moan Wolf, but I could have meant you-"

You groan, head cradled in your hands, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, we'll keep it down. It's just-"

It’s just you’ve been here before - this liminal space between an excellent physical connection, and more. You've done the hookup thing - casual, friends-with-benefits, lonely strangers. Thought you had learned how to keep your emotions in check, especially with those past experiences.

But you’ve never met someone like Logan before. 

He makes you feel bare. Soft-hearted and stripped down - wearing your feelings on your sleeve. Opening yourself up - only for your fingers to brush up against a brick wall, in return. 

Wade must catch your tone because he sets down the styrofoam container - the pink umbrella tucked against his ear. 

"Alright Sugarbuns, tell Papa Bear what's bothering you." 

You grimace at the names, another flicker of regret lingering in the corners of your mind. But you find yourself talking. Letting those worries flow from you in a rush.  

But Wade would know, wouldn't he? It's his friend, after all. 

"He leaves after."

His eyebrows raise, and you continue, "I mean, he'll stay for a bit but he always winds up on the couch by morning.  I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and he’s out there. I mean, I thought he'd want a bed, after where he's been staying, no offense-"

Thought he’d want to stay with you. 

You nudged at it once. Getting nothing more than a grumbled excuse about not sleeping well, something about nightmares. Something you accepted, only to find him tucked in your bed a few days later - curled in your sheets when you had rushed back to the apartment after leaving your phone. 

Hadn’t wanted to push, even if it confused you. Wouldn’t he want comfort, after a bad dream? You always did. 

"Offense taken, Blind Al and I are excellent bedmates," Wade interrupts, "But please, continue."

His joke eases you a little. Risking a sideways glance, finding him already looking at you.

“I like him, Wade. I just really want this to work out.”

He hums, sympathetically. Knowing all too well the complexities of like and love. How you feel deeper than you’re letting on - he always was perceptive, after all. 

A beat, before your head turns. 

"Do you think it's me?" 

He does laugh then, his shoulder leaning to bump yours, "Sugar, you have a two-hundred-year-old boyfriend who's gone through a massive amount of trauma and has an alcohol problem, and you want to know if it's you?"

"Fuck." The heels of your palms press into your eyes, "Okay, okay-"

"I literally traveled through the void with him, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-style. The John Candy to my Steve Martin, and even after saving the world he still wanted to kill me."

"Wait," Your head lifts, "Why would you be Steve Martin in that scenario?"

“He’s the main character, as am I.” He barrels past your question, "The point is, if he didn't like you, you'd know. You just need to be-"

"Patient." You finish, "Yeah, I know." 

And you do know. Even since that first meeting, you've known that he's been eaten up inside. Cracks of the man beneath leaking through his gruff exterior, as you had sat together on that couch. 

But Wade called him your boyfriend, but he's not. Not really - no conversation to indicate that's how he saw himself. 

It just left you confused. Vulnerable. Enough that you did dumb shit like this - going to Wade for romantic advice. The man who proposed with a ring pop and thought that a prostate orgasm was a sign of being soulmates. 

"Maybe you’re giving him too much. Withhold a little," Al interrupts, making you jump, "That's what landed me my second husband. Begged for it like a dog, and was married the next month. God rest his soul."

Wade mouths an exaggerated “what the FUCK" at you, before shooting a dark look in her direction - only just then seeing her smirk.

"Oh, you’re joking? She came to us for help and you’re joking-” A sniff, as Wade turns back, "So anyways, don’t do that. Do something normal. Like internalize it, until it makes you snap."

His face screws up, as he adds, “Or, maybe try it? That bricked me up a bit-”

"Or,” Al adds, “Maybe you should just talk to him, Sugar."

Althea always knew how to cut to the chase and give the hard advice you needed to hear. You just wish you weren’t afraid of the answer.

‘You’re both right,” Your head dips against Wade's shoulder, “I owe you. Again.”

Silence lingering, though it’s not uncomfortable. Leaving you to think about what he said.

The suit passed over to him, when you tie the final knot, “Done.”

“Thanks,” A beat passes, as he gives you a sideways look, “Any chance you want to cash in on that favor tonight?”

You know better than to agree without more info - an eyebrow raising as you wait.

“Vanessa is coming over tonight.” Wade gives you a meaningful look, “It would be great to have the apartment to ourselves for a bit.”

The serious tone does not last, as he smirks, “I fully intend to break my months of celibacy the second the opportunity arises.”

“Months?” You hadn’t realized it had been that long. Thought he would have moved on, in some ways. 

“Years, actually,” He adds, casually, “Turns out my obvious romantic hangups plus this-”

A gesture at his face,” Are a total boner-killer. As well as having an elderly roommate, apparently. Especially one who won’t leave.”

You shoot him a sharp look at the self-deprecation, Al’s voice cutting through.

“I told you, I’m hitting the casino for singles night.”

“Okay. I can drop Al off and pick her up,” Your mind is already racing ahead, “And Logan and I can go out to dinner or something.”

The prospect is exciting. Despite the time spent together, you haven’t really gone on too many dates yet. After your long hours and his rotating work schedule, your meetings have mostly been late-night. Quick meals whipped up in your kitchen. A rotating pile of delivery menus. 

“That would be great.” He smiles, “Thanks, Sugar.”

“Of course.” You smile, before adding, “What are you going to make?” 

A frown, when he hesitates.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to wing it.”

“I wasn’t winging it,” He protests, “I was going to hit up ol’ reliable.”

“For a second-first date? You can’t do takeout from Buns and Roses.”

A sigh, as you turn to face him, tugging out your phone, “You should make something nice. I have this recipe bookmarked for engagement roast chicken. I’ll help you-”

He tugs your phone out of your hand, scrolling through the eight-paragraph opener before the start of the recipe. 

“Make this for her, show her you’re serious-,” You start.

Wade finishes, with a smile. 

“-and there’ll be a cock ring on it before midnight.”

You keep catching yourself looking at him.

It’s almost embarrassing how bad you have it. Still not used to seeing Logan like this - away from your small apartment. 

Seeing him at work was different - a very cognizant realization that you were on the clock. The counter between you like a barrier, even when you slip a coffee and pastry across it. A lightning-quick kiss pressed into his cheek. The relentless teasing from your coworkers, after. 

But here - crammed in a booth, his hand slipping just under the hem of your dress, a palm curved against your thigh - it’s something else, entirely. Even in this dark corner, you have to resist letting your hands wander. Eyes flicking to the deep cut of his button-down flannel - dark hair peeking out from the curve of his white tank. The blue and grey pattern pretty against his skin. 

A curl of smoke pours from his lips, a cigar fit between two fingers. 

Logan had been curious to find you in the apartment when he got home. The aroma of the roast chicken wafting through the space, as you talked Wade through the last steps. The slow sweep of his eyes over the pretty sundress you wore, tugged from the back of your closet. 

It hadn’t taken much convincing, when you asked him to get dinner out with you. Even with Althea in tow, safely dropped off for her night out. 

“This is nice.” You smile, and his eyebrow lifts.

A glance around the room.

Dinner spent at a local pizza joint - stories shared, wound between updates about his new job at the local lumber company. About Laura, who you met two weeks ago. So much like Logan that it still catches you off-guard. Shared expressions, shared tempers. 

You think that it must have been hard for both of them, this reunion. That comparison between the Logan in this world, those memories that stay with her. She views him the same - even you can see that. He’s told you it came as a shock, but it’s easy to see how he’s warmed, with time. Finding joy, within the shared grief.

The conversations spill over into a bar you know well. Unsure what to do with yourselves with the order of “staying away”, the sun still setting when you had stepped inside.

“Not sure nice is the word I’d use, sweetheart.”

“Anywhere is nice if I’m with you. I am sorry, though. I know it’s not-” Your hand waves, shyness creeping in as you lean into his shoulder, “Wasn’t sure where else to kill some time. Dopinder and Buck run a tight ship, it’s really not so bad.”

“Mm. Guess this is nice, then.” He corrects, a hint of a dimple as he smiles, “But you let me take you somewhere safer next time, yeah?”

“I’m safe with you.” 

You miss the way he looks at you, as you take a sip of your drink. The brush of his fingers against your skin. His voice going low, goosebumps rising as he murmurs in your ear. 

“How much longer do we have to stay out?”

A question that’s been on your mind as well. 

“Well, Al’s thing is over at ten,” Your teeth worry at your lip, “But, I guess we could sneak back early. It’s just, Wade-”

“What about Wade?” 

It’s unfair, how he crowds you in the booth. Torso twisting to face you. The warmth of his hand - how you’re aware of each and every movement he makes. It takes you a moment to answer.

“Wade is… Wade,” You manage, “But he doesn’t really ask for much. I owe him, you know?”

“You owe him?” He chuckles, “He’s lucky you stuck around after he tried to give you cocaine-”

“Hey,” You smile, “That was Al.”

That had been your second run-in with your neighbors. Only desperation had sent you over to the apartment, needing a cup of powdered sugar for a personal favor. Under-estimating how much you needed, in your rush to finish some cookies for a friend’s baby shower. 

Meeting Al instead. The powdered substance swapped when her roommate had rearranged the apartment as a prank. Only Wade bursting from the bathroom, a towel slung low from his hips, had saved you from disaster. The nickname had formed when you hadn’t written them both off. 

“And besides, Wade was the one who introduced me to you.”

Logan’s expression softens, “That is something, isn’t it?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment. Eyes drifting lazily down to your lips, with a low hum, then further. It sends a heat blooming in your cheeks, an unconscious press of your thighs together.

“I’m, um, gonna let Dopinder know we’re heading out.” You breathe, “He’ll worry if we irish goodbye.”

“You sure?” He husks, with another exhale of smoke - and you can feel the heat rising from your cheeks to your ears. 

“Yes,” It comes out breathy.

“Um, yeah. You finish that, and I’ll be right back.”

Your elbows pressing into the sticky bartop as you wait - watching Dopinder work his way through pouring pints of beer for a crowd of bikers, all in dark leather.

A glance over your shoulder, finding the booth tucked in the corner. The dark head of hair, the expanse of his shoulders - a thick arm slung across the back - as Logan waits for you. 

It makes you smile, and you almost miss the bump of a shoulder against yours.

“Oh!” You squeak, shifting to the side to make room, “I’m so sorry, I-”

The apology dies on your tongue, as you glance up at the man leaning against the wooden post at the end of the bar. Eyes drifting over the black field jacket, up to dark eyes. 

“Been a while, darlin’.” 

You inhale a breath, in surprise. Close to two years ago, if you remember right. Numerous meetings spread out over months, before he slipped out of your fire escape and into the early morning.

No note, no text. Walking out just as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had never been anything serious - he had made that clear - but you can’t pretend that it hadn’t hurt. 

“It has,” You agree, a low twist in your belly, “How have you been? Didn’t think I’d see you outside Hell’s Kitchen.”

Unable to help that flicker of worry, even after everything. It’s always been ingrained in you - thinking of others more than yourself. 

“Should ask you the same,” His eyebrow arches, “This isn’t your kind of place. Taking up mercenary work, beautiful?”

“I’m here with someone.” It comes out clipped, a glance over your shoulder - the nerves eased when you spot his form.   

“Mountain man?” 

A scoff - lip curling over sharp teeth, “Taking you to a place like this… You can do better than that. You can do-”

“You?” It’s your turn for your brow to raise, “We both know how that goes, Frankie. This-”

A pointed finger, gesturing around the room, “Was my idea. Things are different. I’m different.”

There’s the hint of a smirk - dark eyes that drag slowly down. Flicking back up to yours, as his voice pitches low, “I’m sure some things are the same.”

Your head shakes, “Not like that.”

There are lingering shades of purple that fade to yellow across his cheekbone. Never was good with this. All that time spent glancing out your window, waiting for him to show up, battered and bloody like he used to. All he did was keep you out, keep you at arm’s length.

Maybe that’s why you’re afraid of it happening again. A little shake of your head - a reminder that you need to be patient like Wade said. Logan isn’t him.

“I know what I want, and it’s-” The words die, as you look for him, again. Finding only an empty booth - your stomach tying up into knots. 

A palm touches at your hip, a chest pressing snugly against your back. Startling you, as you breathe, “Logan.”

“This asshole bothering you, sweetheart?” It’s growled out, Logan’s eyes fixed on the other man. 

“Nice guard dog.” There’s an amused appraisal - narrowed eyes, tongue trapped against teeth. “He do tricks as well?

The fingers at your hip curl, the smallest tug backward to bring you closer. The words ground out between bared teeth.

“You watch it.”

Christ. This was bad, you need to find your tongue - and quickly. 

You twist, a hand resting on his chest. Only now does Logan’s eyes drop to yours, the tight pull to his features only just ebbing.

“This is Logan,” You smile, your palm pressing over his heart, “He’s, uh, my-”

And for a brief second, your words fail you. The tension is thick enough to cut, acrid in the air. Would labeling this right now send him running? 

The man cuts through before you can finish.

“Frank Castle.” His eyes flick back to yours, as he adds, “Sure you can guess how we know each other.”

The muscles beneath your palm twitch. A light pressure against your hip, urging you away from the bar - the words low in your ear, “Alright. Let’s go.”

A nod, and you’re giving Frank a tight smile - letting Logan guide you towards the back. No more than a step taken before his voice cuts through.

“You still got my number?”

You shoot him an exasperated look, “Frank-”

“Gonna be back in town for a while, baby girl.” His arms cross, as he leans, “Call me when things don’t work out.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before a fist closes around the collar of his jacket. Logan stepping into his space, a forearm shoving Frank hard as he pins him against the post.

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, bub.”

Fights are common in Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, but you can’t say you’ve ever experienced one. Fear licks inside you, meeting Dopinder’s equally worried gaze as he starts to rush over.

Frank’s smile is dark, “You don’t want to start this.”

It’s met with a growl. Silver points peeking between the dips of Logan’s knuckles, the fabric straining in his tight grip.

“Fucking try me, you piece of shit.”

There’s a metallic click - the press of something cold against Logan’s groin. 

“Should shoot your dick off for that.” 

“Okay!” You shove between them, then. A hand on Logan’s arm, tugging - the other at his neck, trying to guide him back to you. 

“Hey. It’s okay,” It’s softer now, soothing, “Baby, let’s go.”

His hazel eyes are wild when they find yours. Face twisted in a snarl, deepened with the shadows cast in the dim room. Blinking, as he comes back to himself. A dark look as his arm eases - stepping away.

This time, it’s you that leads him towards the back exit. Something gritted out as you leave that you miss, but sends Logan bristling. An apologetic look thrown at Dopinder, before you’re stepping together through the swinging door, into the wood-paneled hallway. 

Ducking down one of the hallways, next to matching doors leading to bathrooms, and a storage closet. An exit sign, gleaming red at the end. 

The music and voices are muffled. His face silhouetted in the light of a vintage beer sign, his features outlined in gold as his back presses against the wall. A gritted, inhaled breath.

You haven’t seen him like this before. Seen him mad several times. Grouchy and annoyed with Wade. The sharp temper that hid his hurt when he thought you didn’t want him.

None of those moments match him now. You’re not sure what to make of it - the way your skin prickles. Something in your belly flutters, a warmth that drips from behind your ribs, settling low. You never wanted anyone to get hurt. But that look in his eyes, how quick we was to find you - it makes you inhale a breath.

“We-,” You start - your fingers still curled around his bicep, “We should talk about this. You okay, Logan?”

His eyes flick to yours, jaw working. The fury has bled from them, the sharp etches in his face easing, even as his expression stays guarded. 

“Yeah. ‘m fine.” Logan rasps, “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

A beat, before it slips from him, “Was he one of the ones Wade scared away?”

“What?” It takes you a long moment to remember. Your brow pinching, as you shake your head,” Frank? No. It was-”

The pull of his brow is back, his frown deepening with your explanation. 

“It was just casual.” You finish, lamely, “It wasn’t anything. Never was.”

“Didn’t sound that way.” It’s gritted out. 

His head turns, eye contact dropping. A hand, raking through his hair - pushing the dark strands back, “Listen. If you want to go with him, it’s fine.”

You’re left stunned for a moment. His jaw working, hands jamming into his pockets. It’s defensive - it’s familiar. 

“I don’t want to go with him-” You start, but it only makes him sigh. 

“Then what were you gonna say, Sugar?” The look he finally gives you is searching, “I’m your, what-, your neighbor?”

“No!” You cry, “I was going to say you’re my boyfriend, but you’ve never-”

Logan’s pitches low, “I’ve never what?”

Your shoulders droop. Curling around yourself, as you lean into the wall next to him. He leans, matching your height - trying to catch your eyes. 

“I don’t know, Logan.” It’s almost too quiet to hear. He might have, if he had been anyone else. “I told you I liked you the day after meeting you. But you…”

A little shake of your head, “You keep everything so close to your chest. You leave in the night. It’s okay, I just… sometimes I don’t know what to think.”

When his arms cross this time, there’s something in his eyes. A dark glimmer, the tug of his lips.

“You think that I don’t like you, sweetheart?”

A tilt of his head, a sharp edge slipping into his tone, “You think I wasn’t ready to tear that asshole limb from limb for talking to my girl that way?”

Something low in your belly twists, desire thrumming in an echo that radiates through you. A sharp inhale of breath at his words.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You manage, transfixed.

It’s easier, this time, for him to step into you. Hands ghosting along your neck. Tipping your face to his, so you can’t look away. Can’t miss what he tells you.

“If-, if I open up.” It comes out hushed, his words soft and low, “You won’t like what you see, Sugar.” 

You reach for him - fingers curling around his wrists, “I like what I see just fine.”

He huffs. The barest hint of a smile, before his expression goes solemn. 

“This,” The word is punctuated by the way his thumb sweeps against your cheek, “Never goes well for me. Sleeping on the couch puts me between you and anything coming through that door.”

Your pulse races with the remorse in his words. He’s touched on the barest of details of his past. Those small moments shared in the night you met, riddled confessions in the late nights that have followed. 

“And the things I dream about-,” His eyes go hazy - lost in a memory, “They pull me back. I don’t want to hurt you because I can’t tell them from reality.”

The words slip from you automatically, without thought. Guilt floods through you, an ache from wondering - doubting. 

“You won’t hurt me.” 

“I will.” He breathes, “Sweetheart, I will. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”

Your head shakes - a stubborn set of your jaw, “You won’t. Please don’t shut me out, Logan. Please try…”

He huffs - eyes dropping to your mouth, as he leans. Hands slipping to cup your head, angle you to meet the press of his lips. A soft sigh that you swallow, something tender in the way he draws you to him. A hand curling around your back, splaying between your shoulder blades.

“Give me some time, okay?” Logan murmurs, when the kiss breaks, “Let me draw out the first good thing I’ve had in a long time. Just for a little longer.”

“Don’t have to draw it out.” Your body still curves to his, anchoring yourself to him. A hand touching his jaw so this time, his eyes have to stay on you.

“You deserve good things, Logan.” Your mouth brushes his, “Let me give them to you.”

The sound he makes is almost wounded, as if he wants to protest. 

As if he wants to believe you.

Breath ragged, as his hands trace down to grip at your hips. Leaning into you, your touch. What you offer him. A thigh fitting between yours, nudging against your core - and you think surely he must see how your eyes darken.

The rapid flutter of your heart, how it races for him and only him.

“Yeah?” He husks, as if reading your mind, “You ready to get out of here, Sugar?”

“Bathroom.” You breathe.

“Can’t wait that long.”

He’s on you the second the door swings shut. Fingers twisting at the lock, as his head dips - mouth finding yours again.

There’s a desperation to his kiss this time. One that you match with the way your palms trace up his chest. Fingertips at his neck, tugging him to meet you.

A thrill shoots up your spine. You’ve never done anything quite like this before. The space behind your ribs is soft and tender from his confession - already breathless before he deepens the kiss.

Backing you up against the old, chipped vanity that lines the wall. The stalls hanging open - empty as his hands trail down your spine. Fitting beneath the curve of your ass, tugging you up to fit on the counter. 

Finding your jaw again - guiding your lips to his, meeting the sweep of your tongue as he fits between your thighs. 

“Been wanting to get my hands on you all night.” He breathes, against your lips, “So fucking pretty, you know that?”

It sends a pulse through you, down to where you’re already responding to his touch. Your knees close around his hips, urging him closer. 

“Logan, please,” You hum, fingers tugging at his belt buckle. A palm pressing against the front of his jeans, where his cock strains against the denim. 

His moan is ragged, bucking into your touch. Fingers tracing up your waist. Letting your tits fill his palm, as you work him free.

“This okay?” Logan rasps, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty fuckin’ filthy, sweetheart.”

It’s hard to hold back a moan of assent, when his lips presses against your neck. Open-mouthed kisses up the column of your throat, the scrape of teeth pressing into your jugular.

“Good,” He growls against your skin, “Would’ve bent you over that fucking bar if you’d let me.”

It’s possessive. It makes you shiver - a sweep of his tongue, the suck of lips as he marks you. The sharp sting of his bite fading into sweet bliss. 

“Need you.” Your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking. The lightest of tugs to bring him closer, your thighs inching further apart.

He groans, “You have me.”

The pretty dress you wear is pushed up to your waist. His palm cupping you, feeling your warmth before he’s tugging the fabric of your panties to the side. 

Need rushes through you. A heave of your chest against his as your mouth meets his, greedy. A tilt of your hips, a leg lifting to hitch around his waist. Your hand curling around the edge of the counter, the other guiding the tip of his cock against your slick folds.

“Hold on, honey.” Logan’s fingers slip against your pussy, nudging inside, “Gonna be sore.”

“I can take it,” You insist, pleading, “I can take you, wanna feel it.”

His eyes darken. A little inhale of breath, watching as your lips part as two fingers press deep. Your teeth already sink into your bottom lip, muffling a whine.

Slipping them free, after crooking inside you. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough stroke to smear your slick around him. Lining the tip up with your opening, as his hands fit against your waist. His hips pressed snugly against the chipped counter, as he begins to tug you to meet him. 

You can feel every inch, as he moves you. He splits you open, your shoulders arching against the dirty mirror as your nails bite into the laminate. A hand pressed against his chest, as you urge him to go slow. 

A held breath coming in a rush, as he slips deeper inside you with a grunt. Filling that ache you’ve been carrying - your eyes dropping down to watch the slick shine of his cock. Sinking into you with the slow saw of his hips, a clink of his belt with movement. 

“Just for me, yeah?” He rasps, a hand drifting down. Fingers splitting where he fills you, drawing slick tips up to circle your clit.

“Just you.” You nod, breathless. Rocking into his touch, taking more as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. 

His teeth flash white, in the dim room.

“That’s my girl.”

The moan you’ve been holding back slips from you, as you clench down hard around him.

He hums, “You like that?”

“Yes.” You whine. Reaching for him, as he tugs you closer. The slow plunge of his hips turning into a shallow grind.

Fingers circling and pressing, in rhythm with the heady drag of his cock against your walls. Your fingers grasping onto his arms, his shoulders - the kiss is messy when he meets the tilt of your head. 

Leaning into you as his tongue licks into the cup of your mouth, your tits pressed up against his chest. A broad hand slipping from your waist, curving against the swell of your ass and squeezing.

“That’s it,” He rumbles against your mouth - eyes half-lidded. A groan when you nip his lower lip - grinning at the way you gasp, when his hips surge forward, “Atta girl, taking me so well.”

Each swipe against your clit feels like a countdown - hips angling until he finds that spot inside you that makes your teeth click together. That slickens him up even further, until he’s pounding into your wet, tight heat. 

Your fingers pinch down. Breath going short, until you’re panting. Unable to do more than buck into his touch, as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

“Couldn’t even wait to get home,” Logan growls, “Needed this cock so badly, didn’t you?”

“Needed you,” You whine, hips rocking to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut, as the winding pressure builds, “Fuck, needed you. Gonna make me-”

The words break on a bitten-back whimper. Your muscles go stiff, bracing yourself in his arms. 

“Want you to look at me, sweetheart.” He coos, with that steady roll of his hips. Nudging deep inside you each time, as his fingers circle against your clit, “Eyes on me when you come, alright?”

Your answer is a breathless nod, as you listen. 

You don’t think you could look away if you tried. Not with him right in front of you. So close you can see the pull of his brow in concentration, the pretty shade of his eyes. 

Fixed on you, as his lips part. The soft pant and grunt as desire throbs in your veins, your fingers curling into a fist in his flannel.

“Come for me, baby.” He urges, “Wanna feel you, let me fucking feel you come.”

It’s there, swirling inside you. Liquid heat between your thighs, yanking you to an invisible edge. Leaving you to dangle, breath held -

“Oh my god, Logan-“

You’re falling - clenching down hard around him. His name is a chanted prayer as he fucks you through it - a ragged, pleased sound rumbling in this throat as you pulse around his cock. The slap of his hips growing louder, more wet as your release coats his cock. His base and balls sticky, when they press flush to your cunt.

“That’s it,” He growls. Fingers leaving your clit, so he can grip your waist. Drive into you harder, chasing his own impending release.

“Come on, that’s my girl.”

It’s pulled from you, sweet and smooth.

“Yours.”

Logan’s moan is ragged, coming from low in his chest. His pace stutters - the steady thrust turning sloppy. A messy rut of his hips, grinding himself as deep as he can before he finds himself again. 

You forget the dingy bar. The flickering overhead lights. Filth and phone numbers scrawled on the walls. Everything narrows down to him.

How he holds you. Looks at you -  so much said in the way they soften. You don’t know how you ever could have doubted. 

Blinded with uncertainty. Fears from before, that will no longer have a hold on you. 

“Logan,” You sigh, your heel digging into the curve of his ass. Eyes still on his, as your plea slips from you, “Fuck. Don’t pull out.”

You want to feel him. The throb of his cock when he comes deep inside you. How he lingers, slick and dripping from you - now, and later, and tomorrow. 

A gritted-out groan, as the sharp tempo increases. Fingers pinching hard enough to bruise, and you’ll wear him there, too - fading marks against your hips. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - that look back in his eyes. Pupils blown wide, as his lips part with a groan, “Gonna be my good girl, gonna fucking take it?”

“Mhm,” It pitches high, as you nod. 

“Fuck.”

It comes out choked, as he loses himself in you. One, two, three thrusts, and Logan is growling - hands slipping down to tug you flush against him, as he spills inside you with a muffled shout. 

Hips grinding himself deep into you, his words a rough rasp in your ear, “Take it. Just like that.”

He pulses inside you, filling you with each twitch of his cock. Marking you fully, as he tests his teeth against your shoulder. A moan, as your thighs hitch around his hips - nudging him deep, where you’re wet and warm and wrapped around him.

Leaving him to grind every last drop into you, slumping back when his grip finally loosens. Your limbs feel like liquid lead, head tipped back against the glass. A groan muffled against your neck, as your fingers slip beneath the tugged-open flannel.

Nails scratching along his back, the tight muscles beneath easing.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Logan hums when he finally leans back - and you already miss his hands on you, as they shift to brace against the counter.

It feels cruel that he teases you like this. When you swear you can still feel the throb of his cock inside you. When he’s still sheathed to the hilt.

You groan, “Don’t make fun of me, Logan.”

“‘m not sweetheart,” He huffs, eyes going soft.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

There’s something off about your apartment - he can sense it the moment they make it to the landing. 

This is exactly what he had been trying to tell you. The when, not if, something will go wrong. His senses flickering into overdrive, nostrils flaring. 

Catching the light that creeps from under the door, when he knows you clicked it off. His hand automatically leaves yours, reaching out to tuck you safely behind him.

“Logan?” There’s confusion in your voice, a hand at his shoulder.

He shushes you, his words a low growl.

“Someone’s in your apartment. Stay here, sweetheart.”

There’s the soft snick of his claws, your fingers untwisting from his shirt. A breath, and then his hand is closing around the knob - a sharp jerk of his fist as his shoulder slams into the wood.

Teeth bared, as he bursts into your apartment with a snarl. 

All that fury bleeds to relief, and then disappointment.

“How’d you get in here?” Logan grits, his claws sheathing. 

Your voice joins his, from where you had peeked around the doorframe, “You okay, Wade?”

Hazy, morose eyes peer back at him - a hand lifting to wiggle “baby knife” at him. A newly-opened bottle of your cooking sherry in the other - a plate balanced on his chest, filled with a half-eaten chicken breast and vegetables. Legs stretched out on your sofa, Dogpool curled between his ankles. 

“She didn’t show,” Wade mutters, with a miserable smile, “Didn’t want to be alone.”

Logan can’t help the soft flicker in his chest when you go to him. Sinking to your knees by the couch - moving the plate to the coffee table, lifting Dogpool into your arms. She licks your chin as Wade lets loose a long, drawn-out sigh - flipping to face the back of the couch. 

"What was the point of the first two movies?" The words are muffled into the fabric, "Why would Disney do something like this? We were picking out baby names for fuck’s sake-"

“I’m so sorry,” You soothe - a hand on his back, “What can I do to help? Can I get you anything?”

Wade’s head turns to the side, with a long sigh.

“Thor’s phone number.”

“How about I take this,” You tug at the bottle, until it loosens, “And I text Peter? We can have a movie night, okay?”

He turns further, until he’s facing you again, “Even that one you hate?”

"Don’t hate it." You sigh, “It’s just so sad. I don’t know why it’s your favorite.”

“It’s not my fault they made that tree star look so goddamn delicious.”

You’re beckoning Logan over, a gesture to take his place. You hand on his arm, beseeching - but you don’t have to beg this time. The snarling dog inside him calmed - the fury from the bar and from the hallway ebbing at your touch. He can still feel your lips against his, when his eyes close.

The uncomfortable itch of opening up oneself still lingers, but it’s soothed by the way you smile at him in thanks. By the words that he still clings to.  

Logan has to fold himself into the space, knees folding. Mary Puppins tucked in the crook of his elbow - his other hand patting against a curved-in shoulder. 

Sincerity, as he offers, "Tough luck, bub.”

“It’s her loss.” You call, thumbs tapping away a message. 

“Her loss.” Logan echos, “You’re… you’re a good man, Wade. It’ll work out.”

It comes out clumsy. It always does - he never had a silver tongue like the Professor did. His edges as sharp as his claws, never one to waste words if his fist could do the job. 

Wade flips back over. The hint of a smile, “That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before his eyes are flicking over to where you pace, voice lowering.

“And I gotta ask, did you maul Sugar? What is with that mark on her neck?”

Logan huffs, lips twitching.  

“We’re all set,” You smile, “Your Emotional Support Peter is on his way. He’s bringing Al and some ice cream.”

A glance his way, the question written so plainly in your eyes - the lift of your brow. “That okay?”

It’s not the way he imagined this night going.

Had thought he’d take you to bed when he got back. Take things slower, this time.

Using his touch and the greedy press of his mouth to make sure you understand that he heard every word you told him. That he meant each one he said back - make sure you never made the mistake of thinking he didn’t care for you again.

But when he looks at you - how you’re ready to sweep into the kitchen to make some popcorn, he thinks-

That he might just prefer this. Even as messy as it is. 

He smiles back. 

The couch is crammed with far too many people. Five squeezing into a space meant for three at best. You’ve been half perched on his lap all night, his arm slung over your shoulder - tempted to pull you the rest of the way.

A couple months ago, his skin would have crawled to be this close to others. Would have peeled himself away with a scathing word and a sharper bite.  

But something softened him, during his time in this world. Days, to weeks, to months. 

Couldn’t go back, he knows that now. All the wishing and TVA TemPads couldn’t undo what was done - he’s known that for a while. It would take a long time, but he could try to come to terms with what happened. Try to do better, moving forward.

Starting with himself. A scrap of paper - snatched from a bottom of a flier with a brightly-printed 12-step program, shoved deep into his leather jacket pocket. Relearning how to be patient with others, and even more so with himself. Trying to listen what you and Wade told him.

He’s done walking away from things. You make him believe that whenever, if ever, he manages to open that tightly-sealed lid… you’ll stay.

The thought is one that he'll cling to.

“Alright. Enough bullshit.”  

It’s announced, as the credits roll - breaking him out of his thoughts. A creak of the couch as Wade shifts - crammed between you and Al, his head twisting on her shoulder to peer over his way. 

“‘m being serious now.” He insists, though the words slur together - the bottle stolen back during the movie and drained, “I’m so happy my two besties are falling in love, even if I am a jealous little bitch.”

A gasp, as he remembers - a reaching over to pat Peter’s shoulder, “Not that I’m forgetting about you, sugar bear. You too, Blind Al. I’d be just as happy if you two were dating. It'd be like a less fucked-up Harold and Maude."

A derisive snort from Al. 

Peter smiles, “Just happy to be here, pal.”

“Anyways, life sucks balls. Big, fat, sloppy, wet, balls, but goddamn if seeing you two happy doesn’t fill me with hope.”

Logan can hear the hitch in your breath. The pressure of your fingers, entwined with his. Embarrassment flickering across your face, when you are unable to help glancing his way. 

Exasperation and something else mixing in when you meet his gaze. Something soft and tender and directed so solely at him, that for a moment - he forgets to breathe.

Falling in love, huh?

Yeah. He might just be. 

a/n: i adore frank castle, haha. i thought he would be a fun person to pull in for a jealous!logan scenario - and thank so from the bottom of my heart for all the love on sugar, sugar - I honestly had no idea so many of you would like it, and I can’t tell you how much it means to read your sweet asks and comments 💖 this is all I have planned for them right now, thank you for letting me share this series with you!!! (though I am definitely not done writing for logan!)