#non-compliant to finale

[deancaspinefest]

Marigold

Author: Maxine | Artist: gloomyinks Posting on Sunday February 19

When Cas did his big confession and returned from the Empty, things were not going as well as they could have. Cas came back without either his wings or memory of said confession. After days of lies, Dean finally told him the truth and accepted his own love for Cas.

Two months on, they’re still disasters. It seems that love isn’t all that you need to successfully be in a relationship, and that Dean’s lies might have had a deeper impact on Cas than he previously thought. When Sam goes missing on a hunt, followed by Jack, Dean and Cas are forced to confront their issues while desperately trying to keep their family alive.

Keep reading for a sneak preview!

Cas sits, savouring the early morning quiet for about thirty minutes before he decides to get up and go back to his and Dean’s room. The door is slightly ajar, just like Cas had left it before going for his run. Dean is sleeping sounder these days and he deserves that.

He enters the room, the strange need to catch his breath making itself clear when he does. He looks at Dean’s sleeping form, trying to calm his mind and body down. He loves Dean. They love each other, and that’s enough. It’s all getting better, and it will continue to just get better and better for them until they reach that serene stability they all crave.

Cas changes out of his sweaty clothes quickly and puts them in a pile. He’ll shower later, with Dean. Dean really seems to enjoy that. Cas thinks of their wet bodies held together under warm, comforting streams of water. There’s something soothing about it. Intimate, but not in the sexy way; instead in the closeness that they share.

The bedcovers rustle when Cas pulls them back, and that seems to wake Dean up. He turns, eyes opening just a little, a sleepy smile on his face.

“Hey,” he whispers, “you just getting back from your run?”

Cas nods, too tired to answer with words. Something hurts in his chest again, and he can’t understand why it would happen in Dean’s presence too. It will go away at some point. It needs to go. Maybe when he and Dean shower later. But it will go. Eventually, it will be over, and Cas needs to believe that.  

Dean helps Cas adjust himself in the sheets and throws an arm around him, pulling him closer, until their lips meet. Dean’s kiss is soft, and Cas kisses him back, gripping Dean’s t-shirt. Their noses touch when they part. Cas can count the freckles on Dean’s face.

Still beautiful. Still Dean Winchester.

They stay like that, and Dean eventually falls asleep, holding on to Cas. Something about being there with Dean at that moment, comforts Cas. He leans in, soaks it all up, and buries himself in his boyfriend’s warmth.

Cas stays like that for what feels like an eternity, drifting in and out of slumber until he’s jolted back into the land of wakefulness. This time it’s the physical pain, and it’s back, as awful as ever, in his non-existent wings. Cas has to pull away, trying to get comfortable as images of a month ago start to come back to him.

Dean lied. Dean lied, and it hurts still, but Cas loves Dean, and everything is fine now.

[continue reading on Ao3 on Sunday February 19]

[jq37]

I've largely been thrilled with the amount of sister content for Adaine and Aelwyn in Junior Year considering that Aelwyn's main arc was more or less completed last season and she could have easily been benched like so many other NPCs were this season. The only thing I was hoping would come into play but didn't was the Nemesis Ward. Even if it never comes up though, I still love it so much as a point of characterization for her. That action says so much about who she is as a person. That she would take a piece of magic specifically intended for evil and make it good in the same way that her protective magic which should have been good was twisted to be used for evil the first 18 years of her life? Mwah. Chef's kiss.

[lyricalt]

[FIC] seven on high (destiny, candal)

Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: G Relationships: Andal Brask/Cayde-6 And around every corner, every familiar hallway—I keep expecting to see you.

(Cayde catches up with Andal.)

READ HERE

[srslylini]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends) Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends) Additional Tags: First Kiss, First Time, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Explicit, Dom/sub Undertones, If You Squint - Freeform, Soft Dom Caitlyn (League of Legends), Canon Compliant, Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Consent, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Hurt/Comfort, In a way, Crying, Lesbian Sex, POV Vi (League of Legends), Mature because of topics, breasts are like mentioned once, Clothed Sex, Neck Kissing, Trauma, No Dialogue, almost none, it starts with the shows dialogue and then we leave that behind, No Lesbians Die, Tension, Character Study, Dry Humping, One Shot, Author is Asexual, That means it took a few hours to write certain scenes, Author Is Sleep Deprived, no beta we die like Silco, leg muscles, Muscles, It's going to make sense Summary:

Vi finds that everything, everyone, around her is always changing. She can't keep up, can't follow. Scared as she is, she still tries to find her footing. There is a city to safe. Her sister to catch. Pain to ignore. And well, maybe a talk with Caitlyn turns into more than both of them could have ever expected.

or: that scene from season 2 episode 3 but with a creative spin. Is it realistic? Well maybe not, but the Author wanted those two Lesbians to fuck poetically and so they shall. The only dialogue is in the beginning, taken from the show "Arcane", everything else comes from me.

[moophinz]

Am I the only one that's really optimistic about Y8? Y7 was fantastic and we're basically getting an Avengers Endgame of RGG writers for Y8, it's hard for me to picture it going wrong. I wasn't too thrilled about them backtracking on Kiryu's ending, but I trust them to actually use him well in the game. The only thing I'm uneasy about is that it might be too long, just like Y5.

They did say that it was going to be the longest game yet iirc. So, that’ll be a breaker for some people unfortunately. 5 didn’t feel that long for me because I didn’t do the side stories besides Saejima’s. The length of the game isn’t what scares me, though. Time is meaningless to me

I’m apprehensive on some things and will likely ease up once I learn more. Everything’s just whaaaaaaaaat right now

[loverboybrightsideghost]

.

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It��s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I���m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[wheneverfeasible]

Random story idea. A bit of a reversal of the constant flirting Eddie does in fics. Non-S4 compliant.

Steve, a confident though not really out bisexual, is finally forced to hang out with Eddie “The Freak” Munson when he’s picking up The Party up from school. He sees Eddie, in all his nerd glory with his big hair and bigger eyes and thinks, yup. That’s the one.

Steve, who always falls so fast and so hard. Steve, who knows Eddie doesn’t like him and only tolerates his presence for the kids. Steve, who might not ever make Eddie like him how he wants too but maybe make him like him as a friend. After all, he’s still friends with Nancy and Robin.

Steve, who never once hesitates to use the Harrington CharmTM on Eddie, flirting for all he’s worth. (He would, of course, stop if Eddie seemed to genuinely hate it, but Eddie always grits his teeth and seems to flirt back.)

Because Eddie…Eddie, the guy who has had more gay rumors about him than anyone, just assumes Steve is straight and making fun of him. Eddie, who doesn’t understand how the kids can be friends with that jerk. Eddie, who decides to try to beat Steve at his own game by flirting back and hoping to call Steve’s bluff.

Steve, who falls harder every day and is just happy Eddie will let him flirt without getting mad at him.

Eddie, mad as hell but like hell is he, an actual gay man, going to lose to Harrington’s Gay Chicken game.

Eddie, who sometimes slips and forgets that it isn’t real.

Steve, telling himself that of course Eddie could never like someone like him, even as his heart flutters every time Eddie sends him that dimpled grin.

Robin, who knows exactly what’s going on but thinks this is far too funny to stop.

Robin, who shares some popcorn with Erica as they watch the two idiots fight-flirt and placing bets with Nancy and Max on who is going to break first.

Eleven, who wins the bet when Eddie accidentally falls into the pool and Steve immediately dives in after him and inadvertently confesses while worriedly checking Eddie for injuries leading to a kiss probably best left in private.

Eleven, who wipes her bleeding nose with a smirk because sometimes you have to make your own accidents when enough money to buy an entire row of waffles is on the line.

~

Hostage Hotties: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump

[2-dsimp]

Hear me out... Yan priest with a non believer reader....like just imagine....Yan priest"you don't believe in heaven huh...then I'll take you to heaven...then continued to 💥 her....

Cw: 🔞NSFW MDNI🔞 Fem reader! Throatpie, coercion, corruption, dubcon, religious aspects, creampie, cum shower, slight humiliation, degradation, praise, overstimulation, Zebad turning you into a true believer

—————/—————/—————-/————/———

Zebad sighs in contentment as he watches you collapse onto the altar, his wet slick and cum covered shaft slipping out of your overused cunt with a wet pop. He takes a moment to admire your body, feeling his own softening member hardening with avengeance as he sees the marks and bruises he so graciously bestowed upon your skin. Before he quickly flips you over, ripping off your top with a gentle smile.

"Mmm, my lost Dove~ did this prayer session help to enlighten you by chance?"

The Priest hums with a twisted expression on his face confronting the non believer gasping for breath within his holy sanctum. Right before the lords eyes of the marble statue which stood tall above them and judged with a solemn stare.

He reached out a hand to firmly grasp onto your hair, his rock hard cock hovering near your lips. While he smacks his meat against your face, before nudging the tip of his leaking fat tip against your lips smearing it with your collective love juices from prior rounds.

"Oh how precious you are my dear, your pretty head looks as if it’s all empty inside. Allow me to fill it with something meaningful"

The Priest coos lovingly before he shoves his penis into your mouth, forcing it down your throat. He can feel your gag reflex kicking in, but he doesn't care. This was meant to teach you a lesson on how not to turn your back on the gracious blessings. That the lord could bestow to you if you’d just let your heart open fully to the wonders of the teachings he gives…

In all honesty Zebad was bullshitting about his preaching for a god he didn’t even have half a mind to remember the name of. He couldn’t care less about said god nor did he fathom entertaining the prestige beliefs of his pious church brethren. Why would he spend time trying to convert you into worshiping the lord when he could make you revere him as your sole savior.

"That's it, Love suck just like how we’ve practiced. Being such a good girl for me"

He purrs continuing to thrust into your mouth, his balls rubbing against your face as he uses you for his own pleasure. Grinning with satisfaction as he feels your fingers wrap around his thick length, your mouth still wrapped around it like a newborn. The corrupt holy official could feel his cock twitching with impatience, eager for your attention. He starts to buck his shaft inside your salivating mouth, relishing in the moist heat of your tongue sliding back and forth on his foreskin.

Yes, he’d make you utterly reliant on him for the rest of your days. Spend his sweet time training you, molding you into his perfect believer who’d only get on their knees and revere him as both your lover and guiding light to damnation. He alone would encompass the entirety of your mind, body, and soul.

"You’re gonna learn to accept me as your lover and savior and become an obedient bitch for me yes?"

Zebad coaxes with an sugarcoated timbre whilst he continues to rock his pelvis against your face, his body wracked with pleasure as he feels himself getting close to cumming again. He can ascertain how much your esophagus was tightening around his dick, making his balls twitch from the sensation. Of how he knows that you're so eager to please him.

"Oh what a delectable sheep you are, my darling~ so docile and compliant for me."

The Priest pants as he finally drives his shaft to the hilt, smacking his balls up against your drooling face. He lingers there for a moment, enjoying the tightness of your throat around him as you gag. He can feel his cum building up inside of him, and he knows that he's getting close to the edge.*

"Fuck, Dove, go on and take it! Take your lord and saviors cum like the good believer I know you are."

He starts to flood your taste buds with the peculiar taste of his gummy sperm, making you gag even more. The amount is too much for you to handle, so he spills the rest of his cum all over your tits and face in white beady rivulets. He grins with satisfaction as he watches his cum dripping down your body.

"Mmm, you look so beautiful covered in my cum perhaps I should make you walk around in it all day. And make it test of your faith towards me wouldn’t you say?”

Zebad goads, his voice low and seductive. Paired along with a devilish smile that was present on his face full of infatuation and obsession for his poor little sheep that wandered helplessly into his clutches.

[wombywoo]

do you have any ghostsoap favorite fics, perhaps?

boy do I....

I should preface this by saying that I'm pretty...particular with what types of fics I enjoy reading (I only like certain character interpretations/tropes/writing styles, etc) so bear with me...

These are all mostly canon-compliant, non-AUs, ones that I regard highly~

Seasons--by StinglessWasp: This is pretty much my go-to fic rec for anyone into CoD and ghostsoap in general. It showcases everything I love about these characters, in a setting that feels as authentic to the games as possible, while also exploring the depth and sincerity hidden under the surface. So well-written and paced--the dialogue and military references all contribute to that 'feels like a mission out of the game' experience. Plus, I just love this interpretation of our boys--the humor, the inner struggles, the intimacy--Wasp 100% *gets* these characters and it's a joy to read <3

Except You, You Can Stay--by Iravaid: While this one isn't *technically* ghostsoap until the last chapter, in my opinion, it's required reading for anyone who gives a shit about Simon Riley. This is *the* character study--an intimate dissection of Ghost's past that seems so realistic and grounded, you forget how ludicrous those comics really are. Ira takes such care in treating these heavy topics with delicacy and effectiveness. Each chapter has you going 'oh wow, this is even better than the last', but as a whole--it's a stunning, fleshed-out glimpse into Simon as the character he was always meant to be. And the final chapter which eases you into his relationship with Johnny is so authentic and sweet, it just makes perfect sense that they should be together, and that this poor poor man deserves some goddamn love <3

bleeding in the house of god--by revolvermonkcelot: This is a really great 'missing scene' fic, a perfect opportunity to explore the in-between moments that the game so carelessly chooses to gloss over. I can't praise Monk's writing enough--it's slick and crisp and very tasty; the imagery just jumps off the page and you can practically feel the sweat. Plus, the dialogue exchanges between our two boys are so well-timed and in-character--love all the slang and British references~ This whole fic reads like an addition to their mission flirting, and I'm all for it! You can truly tell this author has such deep understanding and experience with this franchise (winkwinkwink, this is a joke) Read it--it's good!

The Dead are all Living--by Kabbal: This fic blew me away when I first read it. It's such a unique take on the retirement trope, I just adore this interpretation of Simon as an aging recluse while he builds his home. I tend to lean towards more subtle, grounded characterizations of Mr Riley, and this really fits the bill. All of these glimpses and fragments into his post-military life contribute to an overarching love story; the scenes with Johnny are so poignant, it's like you're pining alongside them both. I love how not-perfect they are; flawed and difficult and real. There are some moments and lines that just....struck something in me so deeply. I'm sure I'll still be thinking about it for a long long time <3

Portrait of Taction--by a_platypus: Another Simon-centric fic that I absolutely love. The character voice in this is off the charts, I can hear him so vividly in all of his inner dialogue and stunted attempts at conversation. Simon is so endearingly dense in this fic, you're just waiting for him to finally get his act together, but the clumsy, oblivious steps he takes in his relationship with Soap are truly a treat to read. I love this version of Johnny too--confident and considerate, but still hopelessly crushing on his superior. It's comedic, well-written, and the paragraphs describing Soap's journal give some of the best insights into his character I've seen <3

come on, haunt me--by flyby2: This was a really good long fic that I took my time savoring. What could have been a typical 'on leave' fic instead took time to develop a unique spin on the backstories as well as throwing our boys into some wholesome encounters. Both Soap and Ghost felt very true to character, and I appreciate the exploration of PTSD and the subsequent struggles that come along with...all that. There was a really nice balance in having their romance spread across the chapters, and I can promise a very sweet, happy conclusion <3

in the mess of it all--by flowersferns: A lovely one-shot that exhibits some of my favorite aspects of these two characters. I'm a sucker for 'one of them is hurt, the other is freaking out, they are both idiots in love, etc'. There are some really great dialogue and character moments in this, plus the overall prose hits hard. Love this take on their romance--the mutual trust, the familiarity of their bond. And just the general theme of impermanence--the inevitability of what this relationship means for them--two soldiers, willing and ready to sacrifice their lives at a moment's notice, still clinging to each other because...god...that's all they have---big fan of this :'D <3

Lapsus--by Lisbetadair: Another really great one-shot and 'missing scene' fic. The authenticity in the writing is spot-on--it's like you can feel Soap's pain right off the bat. I love how smoothly the banter flows between the two, and the attention to detail and references all help lend to that 'hardened military man' exterior. Ghost smelling like flowers because of a face wipe is such a delightful addition, plus the scene where Soap is, ah, donald-ducking it in just a t-shirt with his jewels out is such a funny mental image, I still think of it fondly from time to time. It's funny, it's surprisingly cute, it's very in-character. Stick around for some awkward but adorable cuddles <3

I'm sure I have more to recommend, but these are the ones I can personally endorse for now~

[muchosbesitos]

YOU CAN’T RUN BUT YOU CAN (S)CREAM

innocent trip to a cabin in the woods with your friends. what could go wrong?

pairing: slashers! geto suguru & gojo satoru x fem reader

contents: horror au (non canon compliant), tongue piercing geto, dubcon (?), use of knives, blood play, unprotected p in v, spanking, nipple play, anal play (fingering and ass eating), fingering, oral (f & m receiving), face fucking, cum eating, and pet names (sweet cheeks, pretty, etc.)

author’s note: happy october :p

word count: 6.5k

This truly was something out of a cliché horror movie.

Missing poster after missing poster of people who stirred the nation in the past thirty years hung on every tree bark that the group van passed by, crows circled around the questionable looking cabin that you'd rented for the week (at a decent price, so you supposed you couldn't complain much), and rumors of two slashers followed you since you'd stepped foot into town. Gas clerks giving you puzzled looks when you mentioned your destination, wishing you the best of luck.

You were almost sure that you'd heard one of them whispering a quiet prayer after the five of you left the store, clutching a rosary in between their fingers.

The camp counselor that looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here, somehow seeming to have a stable connection despite the fact you couldn't get any more than one bar. "So, these are the bathrooms. Wouldn't recommend using them since they haven't been cleaned in like the past decade," they didn't even bother to look from their phone, smacking loudly on a piece of gum. This tour was really making you wish you hadn't cheaped out on the cabin.

"And finally, here we have the beds. They probably have fleas on there so just watch out," the camp counselor finally looked up from their phone to face you all. "And what about the rumors that are floating around about the two killers?" One of your friends asked behind you, forming a distance between themselves and the unsteady looking beds. "Probably just rumors. Dunno, don't really stick around after I collect my check."

And you already knew that they didn't exactly care about being reassuring, your suspicions only confirmed by the next words that came out of their mouth, "But just in case, you guys should probably get your affairs in order when you get a stable connection though."

The five of you were left alone to your own devices—having a compass (that you weren't even completely sure still worked properly) and a map hung up on a bulletin board outside the cabin, the edges fraying and the paper seeming like it was just one rain drop from falling apart. "Maybe we should go exploring in case that there is a killer roaming around. Get to know our surroundings," you suggested, hoping that it'd ease the already tense mood.

"And what if the killer's roaming around right now just waiting for the perfect opportunity?" One of your friend's boyfriends, one whose name you didn't really particularly to memorize, was the first one to respond. Like you were the one being stupid in this situation. You decided to bite back your tongue, looking over at the rest of your friends, "Anyone else want to go?"

You ended up going on your little exploration of the woods alone.

What you assumed was supposed to be a pond, only the hole remaining after the water all but evaporated, remained outside of the house. The stench of dead fish welcomed you when you took a couple steps closer to it, a few traces of dried blood on the sides. Probably just animal blood. Or at least, all you could do was hope that it was just animal blood. You continued walking through the rocky trail that the map indicated, spotting a couple of the landmarks highlighted.

While you walked, you couldn't help but feel as if something was lurking behind you. As if something was keeping eyes on every movement that you were making. But every time that you turned around, the most that you'd see would be a squirrel running through a patch of grass. "Hello?" You called out, your voice echoing through the leaves. Disappearing into nothing. And despite receiving no response, that uneasy feeling inside you refused to simmer.

You followed the map for a while—nothing that was really worth writing home about. Maybe the rumors had just been to attract more attention? Because it truly did look like just a basic campground.

A public bathroom that you could practically see the green fumes coming out of, dead flies scattered across the floor from the stench. A well that met the same fate as the pond, a small pool of water at the bottom. The only thing that seemed to be of aid if the rumors did turn out to be true was the camp counselor's cabin, the building in slightly better shape than the other one. A landline phone hung off the wall, though upon further inspection, it really only served as decoration.

A good enough hiding spot if needed, though.

You decided to go back to the cabin before the sun went down, since you were vastly unprepared when you'd made the decision to come out here. Your mosquito bitten legs being the stellar witnesses to that. A fire crackled in between of three logs set up, marshmallows and chocolate set on the side while some of your friends went out to gather a couple sticks. "Hey, I'm really sorry about the way that Logan acted earlier, he's just being a dick." So that was his name.

"You don't have to apologize, don't worry," you shrugged her off, getting the graham crackers that you'd packed in your bag beforehand. The man in question brought out a cooler of beer, and if you had to guess, he probably put more effort into packing that than his actual clothes. Bottle after bottle of vodka, tequila, and cheap beer stuck out from the sides once he'd set it down. And you hadn't seen him change out of the sweat stained shirt he had on just yet.

That effectively marked the end of that conversation, the rest getting distracted with getting a drink off the cooler. "You don't wanna get one?" You heard from behind you, their voice already starting to sound the slightest bit slurred. In less of a span than five minutes. "No thanks," you assured, sticking with just the s'more you had at the end of a stick. Last thing you needed to be was uncoordinated if you needed to run. Just in case.

They didn't seem to mind it too much either, shrugging it off and muttering, "More for us, then." Conversation flowed easily between the group, ghost stories being shared just for the sake of it with loud laughter bustling from drunken antics. "Apparently they're supposed to take virgins as a sacrifice or something," Logan blurted out, slapping a hand over his knee as if it were the funniest thing he could've said.

"No way, man. I heard that they're the ghosts of these two kids that drowned in the river down the path." Conversation and drinks kept flowing much after the sun went down, with only crickets chirping around. Begrudgingly, the group managed to make inside after a while and got out a couple sleeping bags to place on the floor. Last thing any of you all needed was to have to endure this trip out with fleas.

Loud scraping on the side of the wood woke you up from your slumber, wind whistling almost furiously. Almost as if a knife were being dragged across the surface. Your friends were already sitting up when you got up from your spot, their bodies seeming too tense for it to just be an innocent prank. "Maybe it's just the wind," you tried to rationalize this just to being paranoid, but even you couldn't lie about the two shadows that appeared on the side of the window.

"If the wind wanted to kill us," one of your friends muttered from underneath the comfort of her pink heart covered blanket.

"Since you went on that little trip earlier, tell us where to go," The same man that had treated you like you were stupid before now sounded like he was on the verge of peeing his pants, his voice raising up to almost a squeak. The group's movements were slow, the alcohol having taken a toll on them pretty quickly. "We're supposed to run this w—" and before you even had the chance to finish, the four of them took off running.

And every rule that had been memorized during horror movie nights was completely discarded in a moment of panic, the group splitting up almost immediately. You took off running where you could see the faint outline of a path, your footsteps pounding into the ground with every rushed step that you made. You were running off pure adrenaline, the burning sensation in your chest after running for what seemed to be an eternity almost didn't seem too bad. Just keep running.

Every breath that you took almost seemed to be too loud, your chest heaving with every sharp intake you took. Clasping a hand over your mouth, you took the opportunity to gauge your surroundings. You could barely see past a couple feet, most of the trees just blending together in the far distance. You figured that maybe you'd be in the clear for a couple more minutes before you had to find another spot. Get the ache in your legs to go down enough for you to keep running.

Or at least that's what you originally figured.

Until you heard the crunching of leaves echoing all too close, the whistling of a familiar tune you just couldn't put your finger on (not while you were too busy trying not to die, anyways). "Don't even bother running now, it's just gonna make our job harder," the voice came from somewhere way too close, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling up. He almost sounded like you were the one inconveniencing them by thinking about running.

Your heart pounded beneath your chest with every bated breath you took, your own traitorous lungs betraying you with every noise they had you make. Every step that you took almost seemed to be too slow, every ache in your muscles holding you back. "You can't get that far, y'know," a separate voice echoed through the depth of the woods, only confirming the rumors that it was two killers. "Just trip over thin air already," the other whined, the sound of the knife scraping on the ground following.

You willed yourself to keep running—even if you weren't too completely sure where you'd go if you did manage to escape. The nearest town that you'd seen on the way down here was close to two hours ago, you were bound to be dead meat by the time you got there. You shook off those thoughts, trying to keep yourself from making too much noise while you ran. And you'd almost succeeded until you bumped into something firm. You almost didn't bring yourself to look up, not wanting to face the possibility that it wasn't a tree.

"Please be a wall or something," you muttered to yourself, your eyes flicking open to see what exactly you'd bumped into.

You were met with a masked figure in front of you, a cheap hockey mask with dried blood clinging onto the sides. "Not a wall, sorry to disappoint. Just got yourself all sweaty after I told you not to run, sweets," he clicked his tongue, shaking his head in faux disappointment. Teasing you even further.

Another masked figure came into your line of vision, each one carrying a knife with blood dripping down to taint the forest leaves below. And every muscle in your body was begging you to move—to continue to keep moving, but you couldn't bring yourself to get unstuck from the position you were. The lankier one of the two approached your left, hooking your chin up with his knife. "Don't get mad at her too much. She was better fun than the guy who just fainted."

No ghosts or virgin sacrifices so far it seemed, at the very least.

"Much prettier too," you weren't even aware when tears started to roll down your cheeks, only becoming aware of them when the other guy approached your right. Using a gloved finger to swipe underneath your eyes, barely pushing the mask up to reveal his mouth. A silver tongue piercing illuminated by the pale moonlight flickered out when he went to lick it away, shamelessly tasting your salty tears. Seemingly reveling in how scared shitless you were.

"Those friends of yours gave away your location pretty quickly. Something something, kill you instead of kill them. You might have to consider who you get as friends, sweet cheeks," the knife was pressed deeper into the column of your throat as he spoke, the motion almost seeming way too gentle for a man threatening your life. That was until you felt a sting a couple seconds later, drops of blood dripping onto the collar of your shirt.

The man on your left pulled his mask up in a similar fashion as the other one, barely exposing his lips before he leaned in against your neck. You didn't even get a chance to react before his tongue darted out, licking a stripe up your throat and cleaning up the blood in return. "We can be your new friends, sweetheart. You're not half bad after all," he licked the remaining blood off his lips, toying with you all the much more than the other one.

"Not really looking for new friends," you uttered, the sting from the cut almost combining with some sort of sick pleasure? Maybe the adrenaline was starting to get to your head, because there was no way that you almost started to enjoy it. These men were still trying to kill you. The words reverberated through your head like a mantra, willing for them to stick long enough that you'd get away. Kick them, run away, do something. Anything.

And you could've sworn all the blood in your body went cold, your eyes widening to the size of saucers when you felt the cold edge of a knife digging into the side of your arm. "That's if she manages to escape," the other drawled, pressing the knife just hard enough for it to leave an indent. "I doubt it though, Satoru. She's run all out of adrenaline."

"Please," you weren't even sure what you were begging for at this point, if you were asking them to take it easy on you or if you were asking for them to let you go. Probably the latter if you were in a better condition. "Shh shh, me and Suguru are gonna take care of you. Just let us play for a while first," Satoru whispered, running a finger through the cut that he'd made. Wiping away the excess blood dripping down, sticking his finger in his mouth.

And it was almost sinful how pretty the man looked despite the circumstance, a light flush on his cheeks when he pulled the mask up just to expose his face. His shirt pulled up enough to show sweat covered abs, a white happy trail leading down to his pants. "Don't tell me you liked me better with the mask on," he almost seemed to pout as he spoke, cupping your cheeks between his hand. And from here, you could practically feel just how long they were.

Before you let your mind wander into more shameless places, you frantically shook your head. "No, no, you look fine, I swear," you let out a nervous laugh, trying to avoid having your voice shake too much. "You don't gotta lie to him, pretty girl," his partner, Suguru, brought your attention back over to him, taking off his mask as well. And the predicament you found yourself in suddenly seemed all that much unfair.

A little voice in the back of your head kept reminding you that the two of them were psychopaths who were just running after you with a knife a couple moments ago, but it was quickly pushed over by just how attractive the two of them were. The white haired man's partner was just as handsome as he was, long black hair cascading past his shoulders. The two of them contrasting each other almost to perfection.

You were broken out of your stupor when Satoru (if that was even his name) grabbed your chin, letting out a laugh as he analyzed your expression. "Nah, she's not lying. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she was turned on," he noted with a laugh, his fingers moving down to the front buttons of your shorts. "You don't mind if I test his theory, do you?" Geto didn't wait for a response before unbuttoning your shorts in a haste, dipping his fingers into your cunt.

And the traitorous squelch your cunt gave out when he dipped his fingers inside you spoke more than you could. Suguru brought his finger to his lips, wrapping them around them as he seemed to savor the taste of you. "Don't hog her, asshole," Satoru muttered next to you, walking over to where Suguru was standing. The white haired man tangled one hand around the other's hair, coaxing him to part his lips. The two of them exchanged a needy kiss in front of you without second thought.

Which would've been the perfect opportunity for you to run. If you weren't frozen to your spot as the two of them intertwined tongues, their kiss almost seeming more spit and teeth than an actual kiss. A string of saliva connected the two of them when they pulled away, a pink flush to each of their cheeks. A little more prominent on Satoru, though. "Taste so sweet," Satoru murmured, facing you with his hands on your hips. The knife seeking to have been discarded.

Suguru moved to stand behind you, leaving you sandwiched between the two men. "You want us to take care of you?" Suguru questioned, moving to the side of your neck. Licking up the column of your throat in a similar fashion that Satoru had done, nibbling down on your pulse point. Leaving you marked in more ways than just the cut from before. You nodded, your back almost arching into his touch. A light shudder ran down your spine when you felt Satoru's hands on your breasts, circling your nipples.

Except you weren't shivering out of fear this time around, but rather out of sheer arousal. Your perked up nipples and the wet patch on your panties only serving to prove that further. "Come on, I wanna hear you say it," Satoru flicked both your nipples between his pointer and thumb, his touch making you arch further into Suguru. "Please. Need you to take care of me," you breathed out, your body almost falling lax underneath their touch.

"Need, huh?" Satoru had a cocky grin on his face, pulling your shirt up and over your arms. "Yes, need," you reiterated, your hand immediately going to his fluffy white hair when he leaned in to press open mouthed kisses to your collarbones. You could feel Suguru's cock straining in his pants behind you, the tip of it rubbing against the back of your shorts with every movement of his hips. "Even said please and everything," Suguru sounded just as breathless as you, if not even more.

Satoru's tongue swirled across your left nipple, his fingers rolling the other one in sync. All the while he kept looking up at you, cerulean eyes almost seeming to glisten under the moon as he did. Your eyes closed in bliss, your hand pushing Satoru's head even further into your breasts. Needing everything that he was able to give. Euphoria quickly took place in exchange for the fear that coursed your body earlier.

Suguru's hand trailed down your stomach down to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down just enough for your panties to be exposed. A light breeze hit your cunt when he swiftly pushed them aside with two fingers, dipping one inside of you. Your slick coating his fingertip, glistening under the light when he pulled it away from you. Your breathing grew heavier, your chest heaving for completely different reasons. All the aches in your body had almost seemed to go away.

Though you were pretty sure they'd come back by the two of them were finished with you, if the feeling of Suguru's cock behind you was anything to go by. Satoru pulled away, leaving your breasts with teeth indents and your nipples covered in his spit. "So pretty," Satoru noted before slipping your shorts down, letting them fall down to the dirty floor below. You made no move to move when they pooled around your ankles, Satoru already moving to take your panties off.

"Let me taste her first," Satoru spoke up before Suguru could, licking his lips as if he were about to taste a delicacy. Suguru didn't make any noise of protest, simply shifting to take Satoru's earlier position. The white haired man placed his hands on your thighs, forcing you into a half bent position before spreading your legs apart. "Oh fuck," a low curse escaped your throat, Satoru's tongue wasting no time in licking your folds.

You pushed your hips to meet his tongue, Satoru's tongue darting inside of you. His mouth making out with your dripping cunt like it was something that he was made to do. You weren't even sure which of the two you was being louder, moans escaping the two of you. Suguru placed his hand on your chin, pulling your attention back to him. His cock stood in front of you, your eyes almost widening at the size. It wasn't too big, but the girth.

"Not the scariest thing you've seen tonight," Suguru snorted from above, the tip of his cock rubbing against your lips. Precum coating your bitten lips like a lip gloss. You opened your mouth, taking the tip inside your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the sensitive skin, licking down to his frenulum. "Fuck, Satoru," you words came out muffled, his tongue flicking at your sensitive clit. His tongue swirling around the nerves with no particular pattern.

You let spit dribble down Suguru's cock to make this all the much easier to you, looking up to see him already staring at you. He placed his hands on your cheeks, catching you off guard when he thrusted in your mouth. "Don't bite it off," he warned, his thrusts starting off slow to get adjusted to it. To get you adjusted to simply being a hole for him to fuck. Your cheeks hollowed out in an attempt to fit more of him inside with ease, each thrust having his cock further down your throat.

A thick finger circled around the tight rim of your asshole, the gloves from earlier quickly discarded of. "Sucking me in so good," Satoru let out a groan behind you, slowly pushing a finger inside of your ass. Whether the tears prickling in your waterline were from how Suguru was using you as his fleshlight or from the sudden stretch, you weren't completely sure. "S-So tight, fuck," and the man behind you almost sounded entranced, starting to pump his finger into your asshole.

"That's it, there you go, good," murmured praises behind you completely contrasted the harsh thrusts that the man in front of you was giving, his cock nearly touching the back of your throat. His heavy balls slapping against your chin when he pushed it to the hilt. "Taking us so well, this what you wanted?" Suguru questioned, looking down at you. And you just nodded, not completely sure if he did want an answer. And that only made him laugh.

"So sweet, so good," And just from a couple minutes of having his nose deep into your cunt, Satoru already sounded drunk off your pussy. The rhythm of the fingers inside your ass fell out of sync, your hole being stretched out more than you planned for this trip to this cabin (which admittedly, had been not at all). Satoru switched the two, his tongue flicking inside your puckered hole while two fingers pushed inside of your cunt with ease.

Satoru's fingers curled to hit your g-spot every time he pushed them inside, his long fingers reaching spots only your toy back home had done. His tongue flicked around the rim of your ass before he spat a thick glob of spit inside of you, vibrations shooting up your spine with every moan that he let out. Which turned into a chain reaction of sorts—the sensation of those vibrations having you moaning against Suguru's cock.

Suguru's thrusts got faster, the tip of his cock pushing against the back of your throat. Almost hitting your uvula with ease. And in comparison to his sharp thrusts, he reached down with one hand to wipe your tears away. Sucking them away like he did earlier, the gesture almost too tender for the way he was making you take his cock. "Taking us both so well, practically made for it," he cooed, your tongue running down the underside of his cock.

With one final flick of his tongue, Satoru pulled away from your ass. You didn't even have to look behind you to know he was cleaning your slick off his fingers before he delved back in, his nose prodding against your cunt when his mouth latched onto your clit. Rolling his tongue along the hood, his fingers spreading your walls open with ease. Especially when he added one more, the slight sting in between your legs slowly started to become pleasurable.

You rocked yourself back to meet Satoru's tongue, your nails almost digging into Suguru's thighs to maintain your position. And if you didn't know any better, you'd almost say that Suguru was enjoying the small sting—his thrusts starting to get sloppier. "Don't stop, don't stop," muffled whines escaped from your lips, vibrations shooting up the other's cock in the process. Your hand went down to Suguru's balls, rubbing the sensitive skin with your fingertips.

And that was enough to send him over the edge—a loud groan escaping from his lips. "Gonna make me cum," he uttered as a warning, pulling his cock out of your mouth before he had a chance to. Changes were he didn't want to blow his load just yet. Suguru let you maintain yourself up by holding onto him, your hands starting to shake as you got closer to your orgasm. "There you go, take it princess."

"Mhm, yeah, almost there," you moaned out as a response, your eyes rolling back the more desperate that Satoru's flicks got. Like he needed you to cum for his sake more than yours. "Yeah? Satoru's gonna take care of you, just gotta let go," his fingers stroked your cheek with such a tenderness, almost like the fact he didn't want to kill you a mere moments earlier didn't exist. A fact that you yourself had forgotten, the only thing running through your head being how much you needed to cum.

Every flick of Satoru's tongue had you dripping onto his mouth, your walls clenching around nothing. Every sweet word that Suguru whispered to you making you get all the much closer. "Right there, right there, please," your voice came out hoarse, your hands balling into fists against Suguru's thighs. "Ah ah, fuc-" You were only able to get fragments out, unsure of what you were even trying to say. And even then, the two of them seemed to have an understanding.

All decorum that Satoru seemed to show earlier quickly flew out the window—too enamored with the taste of your cunt. He spat into it with a fervor, savoring the taste of you like one would their favorite candy. "Gonna cum," you managed to get out before your jaw fell slack. "There you go, that's it, take it," Even if the sweetness Suguru was giving you might've been fake, that combined with Satoru's fervent fingers and tongue had you reaching your orgasm with ease.

Soundless moans came out of you, your pussy doing most of the noise for you anyways. You came in a manner of a couple seconds, your release dripping onto Satoru's expectant tongue. And it was almost like he hadn't realized it just yet, continuing to push his tongue inside of you with a needy fervor. "Shit, too sensitive," you let out a whine and that pushed him out of his stupor, his hands letting go of your thighs. Albeit reluctantly.

You looked over at Satoru through a dazed expression, your slick glistening around his mouth like a trophy. He only licked his mouth clean, wiping the rest off with the back of his hand. The two of them switched positions, Satoru's cock standing erect in front of you. It was slightly longer than Suguru's, albeit not as thick, but just as pretty if you had to say. His angry mushroom tip leaked drops of precum, practically twitching in anticipation.

You swirled your tongue around the tip, looking up at Satoru as you did so. Watching him already start to unravel from just the simplest bits of stimulation. All the while, Suguru dragged the tip of his cock along your folds, coating it with a mixture of your slick and Satoru's saliva. A muffled moan escaped from your lips when Suguru stretched you open, none of the prep that Satoru had done earlier proving to be effective.

"Fuck, tight, so tight," Suguru let out labored breaths, pushing his cock deeper inside of you. Up until the point where his balls were hitting your ass. His hands gripped your hips, your own gripping onto Satoru's to maintain whatever semblance of balance you had left. The man above you was quickly turning into a mess, as much as he tried to hide it. "Take it, just like that, f-fuckkk," loud groans escaped from his throat, his head thrown back.

Your tongue ran across the veins running on the sides of his cock, your hand pumping his shaft at an unsteady rhythm. You took Satoru's cock in your mouth, bobbing your head to what you could reach. Your hand making up for what you couldn't, the two almost working in tandem. Spit dribbled from the corners of your mouth, some of it mixing with the drops of precum. With every push of Suguru's hips, you were only pushed deeper into Satoru's cock.

Satoru placed a hand on your cheek, keeping you in place as you slowly began to bob your head to take him even further. Not that you managed to take much of him in, the man too big for you to take all his cock in your mouth. Your hand wrapped around what you couldn't reach, jerking him at the same time the tip reached the back of your throat. "S-So good, taking me so well," and his voice came out in almost a desperate whine, none of the teasing from earlier showing.

If you had to guess, he was probably needier than you were in the moment. Your tongue ran alongside the underside of his cock, licking along his frenulum and swirling around his dripping tip. His hips moved to meet the movement of your hand, his thrusts slower than Suguru had done earlier. Satoru didn't complain when your nails dug further into his thigh, almost seeming to enjoy it. The two of them had a thing for pain, from what you could tell.

"Just a masochist, hm?" You quipped, taking advantage of the fact that he was much too stimulated to give you a teasing remark in response. A moan escaped from your lips when you felt a sharp sting to your ass, the flesh jiggling from the smack that Suguru delivered. "Be nice, you're not exactly in a position to be making little quips," he warned, though his voice didn't hold much bite to it. His thrusts got deeper, your walls stretching to fit his girth.

"Y-Yeah, be nice," Satoru tried to add onto Suguru's words, but all he managed to do was let out another whine. If the other didn't sound intimidating, Satoru just sounded downright pathetic. Your hand went down to his balls, holding his sac in your palm, grasping it gently. Satoru's mouth immediately opened, his eyes closing in pure bliss with needy whines slipping out like water.

Suguru was much quieter than Satoru, though a low moan escaped through his lips on occasion. When he figured no one was listening. His thrusts were almost punishing, the tip of his cock hitting your g-spot every time that he thrusted into you. "Oh fuck!" A loud needy moan escaped from your lips—the very same thing you were making fun of Satoru of, when you felt his fingers go down to your clit. Rubbing against the nerve with just enough force for it to be pleasurable, rather than just overstimulating.

Your walls clenched around Suguru's cock, practically milking him for everything that he had to give. "Ah! Ah! Don't stop, Suguru! S-So good," you whined out, vibrations shooting up Satoru's spine in the process. "D-Don't. Tell. Me How. To. Fuck. You," each word was punctuated with a thrust of his hips, "Fucking brat." And despite his words, you couldn't help the way your slick coated his shaft with every movement of your hips.

You felt it dripping down your thighs, the ground beneath you a mixture of fluids and blood. "Don't forget about me," Satoru let out a whine, your head bobbing to take his shaft deeper than you'd taken him before. "You make it hard to forget when you're so needy," your muttered words turned into a moan, at another smack to your other cheek in return. "S-Said be nice to him," Suguru tried to sound imposing, but the way his voice cracked gave him away almost immediately.

"You're just as much of a masochist as he is, letting two psycho killers fuck you like this," he added, the loud slapping of skin against skin only proving his point. You spat against Satoru's shaft, your chin and mouth covered in a mixture of both of their precum and your spit. Your hand continued to roll his balls the way one would marbles, your thumb running across the sensitive skin. "'M sensitive there, not too much," Satoru moaned out, but the way his hips jerked to meet the movement of your tongue betrayed him.

The two of you were more similar than you would've originally thought, really.

Satoru was the first one out of the three of you to cum, his chest heaving and his abs tensing up when he felt himself getting closer. "I'm close, so so close," and you guessed that his words were supposed to serve as a warning, but you made no move to take your mouth off him. "Fuckk, take it. Just like that," he cooed, his mouth open in an o-shape. Watery spurts of cum shot onto your mouth in a manner of seconds, the taste of him pretty neutral. Better than battery acid cum, you supposed.

Your walls clenched around Suguru's cock, leaving him with little space to move. Your grip was like a vice, milking him the closer you got to your own orgasm. Your nails dug into Satoru's thighs in front of you, crescent indents marking his pale thighs almost instantly. "So tight, you gonna cum?" Suguru maintained the same rhythm to his ability, his fingers rubbing at your clit in the same manner as before. "Y-Yeah, please lemme cum, please, please," your moans came out more and more incoherent.

"Not sayin' no, take it when you're ready," and with one final thrust of hips, your orgasm pooled out of you to form a creamy ring around the base of his shaft. You eased the grip that you had on Satoru's thighs, looking up to see him still coming down from his own orgasm. Suguru's thrusts only got sloppier the closer that he got to his own, his balls slapping against your ass in his fervor to cum. And if he had any intention to pull out, the way your cunt clenched around him would've made that all the more impossible.

"Shit, shit, gonna cum," Suguru, who seemed to have more composure than his partner, groaned out as he reached his own orgasm. Spurts of cum shot inside of your cunt, your walls clenching rhythmically against his shaft. Even if you couldn't see him from where you were standing—you didn't need to just to know that his load was much bigger than Satoru's. His orgasm lasted much longer, leaving the man behind you spent. A couple seconds passed by before he pulled his softening shaft out of your cunt.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," your moans echoed across the forest, your hands resting against the cabin walls next to you. The two of them didn't seem fazed by the fact they were licking Suguru's cum off your cunt, if anything, you'd say that Satoru seemed to enjoy it a bit too much. "So good," he moaned against your cunt, his tongue flicking against Suguru's when he pushed inside of you. You turned your head to look over at the two of them, the two of them exchanging the combined taste of you and Suguru in a needy kiss.

"Goddamn greedy," you heard Suguru mutter from his side when he'd pulled away, the silver piercing that you'd felt earlier flicking against your clit. Once the two of them had deemed that you were cleaned up enough, they stood up from where they crouched behind you. Satoru dangling your shorts in his hand, taking advantage of your slowed movements to dangle them even higher just when you were about to reach them.

"Come on, we'll give you a five minute head start. If you can stand properly, that is," Satoru spoke up once he'd pulled his pants up, zipping them back up. And as much as you wanted to take advantage of it, you could hardly move a limb without it shaking like a leaf. "Look at her. Think we'll have be nicer than that, maybe ten minutes," Suguru let out a laugh as he zipped himself up as well, wrapping an hand around your arm to help you stand up properly.

It was only then when the sound of a bell echoed throughout the space, bright lights shining above the three of you. Bringing you back to the fact that this was just another cliché horror movie. "Alright, cut. Let's take fifteen before we start on the next scene," you could barely make out the shape of the director as he spoke through the megaphone, the lights above blinding everything that wasn't in close proximity.

What you'd mistaken as the taste of iron had been the stench of corn syrup and ketchup filling your senses, Suguru and Satoru completely covered in fake blood. The two of them waited until no one was facing the stage, Satoru hooking his fingers around your belt loops from behind. "Those moans of yours didn't sound too realistic. Good thing we're very willing to help," Suguru whispered in your ear, your slick coated panties hanging in between his fingers.

"We'll even keep the masks on this time if you're into that."

All you could hope for was that the rest of your cast members would think you were screaming and not creaming. Again.

[medusas-graveyard]

Law abiding citizen....?

Okay I finally have a non-adoptee Batfam & Danny dynamic in mind that I actually liek :∆

Basically ultimate enemy compliant but the timeline wasn't changed so everyone he knows is still dead and Danny decides to actually take his monarch duties seriously and occasionally live in the realms because of it. I'm not talking about him doing a 180° on his personality btw but instead Danny who is still laid back, casual, fun, and likes to joke taking care of the realm one at a time; slowly. Bit by bit building up his knowledge to not only protect the realm, but also the humans.

By 20 he moves to Gotham with (unironically) allowance from CW (that probably came from his current net worth) and all is great. He can freely do his job in his home and isn't constantly bothered by the observants so he's basically slacking off and then on cue; rogue attacks.

And he's suuuuuper chill about them too. Like at some point they all collectively blacklisted him from whatever bullshit they're gonna conjure up because of his out going personality. And he's the same with cops. He's basically the same with everyone.

But he's a neutralist.

He won't and will snitch one side to the other, uncaring of either side going after him. If he's amused then, meh.

Enter: joker. He does not like joker. At fucking all. The only person in Gotham he's actively aggressive with.

Cue: Him almost killing joker.

He doesn't remember what happened, exactly. Something about a joker terrorist attack and how he was oh so fortunate to be chosen as the main hostage. The dogshit attempt of a speech the clown let out to.... presumed audience (?) Behind the camera and the sound of a crowbar dragging the concrete (?) Floor. Something about a bird, before getting hit by said crowbar, and the fact that despite all this he has to pretend like a citizen.

And then, more rambling about batman's Robin.

....

The chair just had an oh so convenient blade behind it.

He's pretty sure the clown is dead, based on the carnage he made with his own two hands. Yet he couldn't stop beating and hitting him even as the sound and picture of the Joker ever change to more and more disgusting. Only after someone tackle him to the ground does he stop.

He blinks and look at the vigilante(s) holding him down and contorts his face to his default face, full of smiles even as the Joker's blood splattered on to his cheeks.

[missaengg]

Servicing Lord Sukuna

Day 31 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here Featuring: Jujutsu Kaisen | Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, pwp, Lord Sukuna, servant reader, Sukuna has two cocks, p in v sex, anal sex Prompts: Non-human characters/traits A/N: Part 2 to Massaging Lord Sukuna found here! ao3 link here.

“I won’t be done with you until morning.” 

You freeze, Lord Sukuna’s hand still gripped around your arm, the feeling of his breath still hot on your ear. His eyes bore into you, pinning you in place with their sheer intensity, and he grins dangerously. You swallow thickly. His expression is reminiscent of a predator who’s cornered its prey, and there’s no mistaking the ravenous hunger darkening his gaze. He is the hungry predator, and you are his helpless prey.

You’ve heard Lord Sukuna eats humans as all Curses did, but surely the King of Curses wouldn’t eat his own servants? Would he?

It isn’t fair. You’ve pleased your Lord. He’s praised your efforts, but he’s staring at you as if he wants to devour you whole, and while some of the servants under his rule have disappeared without a trace, it can’t possibly be because he’s eaten them… Can it?

“M–m–my lord?!” you sputter.

“Tell me, little one. You’ve never been with a man before, have you?”

What does having been with a man matter when it comes to how you’ll taste? Unless…

“No– No, my Lord.” You throw your shaking body to the ground because maybe… maybe if you remain compliant, he’ll spare your life.

Sukuna hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your head up to look at him. You can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes, and before you can stop them, they’re spilling down your cheeks.

“Plea— Please don’t eat me, my Lord,” you plead. “I’ll do– do better– I’ll work twi– twice as hard– I’ll–”

You’re babbling, begging him to reconsider because you know you can be an asset to your Lord if he’ll just give you a second chance, if he’ll just allow you to prove your worth.

“Hm?” Sukuna frowns and then breaks into raucous laughter as if he’s amused by your frantic prostrating. “Oh, I plan to devour you, brat. But not in the way you think.”

You gape at your Lord. You don’t understand what he’s saying. Is there more than one way to devour a human being?

“Your clothes have gotten quite soiled, little one. So unfitting for your King,” he purrs, his voice low and silky.

Lord Sukuna traces the outline of where your yukata parts, his long, sharp nails lightly scratching the skin underneath – his nails are so deadly, it would be more appropriate to call them claws. You should feel frightened by how they’re one whim away from gouging your delicate human flesh, but instead you shiver, the sparks flying in their wake confounding, yet thrilling. 

“Be a good girl and strip,” he commands.

Oh, he doesn’t mean devour as in food, but devour as in…

Your cheeks burn, the meaning of his words finally dawning on you. You’re relieved you won’t be losing your life, but also embarrassed because how naive and silly Lord Sukuna must think you are… 

“Forgive me, my Lord.” You scramble to remove your clothing, peeling off your drenched yukata as well as your underclothes and kneel before him as bare as the day you were born.

“Good girl.” Lord Sukuna gestures for you to join him. “Come here.”

You crawl to where Lord Sukuna lounges upon his futon following his beckoning hand until you’re seated on his lap. Something firm is nestled beneath you, and you realize with a start that it’s Lord Sukuna’s erection, still solid despite bringing him to climax just moments ago.

“Do you still wish to please your Lord?” he coos into your ear.

“Yes, my Lord,” you whisper.

“Good.”

His arm snakes around your waist, pressing you close into his impressive chest, and before you can process what’s happening, his searing lips are brutally crushing yours with a demanding ferocity. You gasp in surprise, and as your lips part, his tongue darts in, entwining harshly with your tongue, almost as if he’s trying to swallow you whole.

There’s nothing gentle about his kiss. You always assumed your first kiss would be tender, yet passionate like in the stories, but his bruising lips feel even better than any kiss you’ve previously imagined. 

He holds you so tightly you can barely breathe, what little air you can suck in being stolen by his greedy inhales, and you burn in his embrace. His body is scorching, and you find yourself lost in his blistering heat, ravaged by the flickering flames.

His hand squeezes your breast, his fingers pinching your pert nipple, and you jolt, sparks tingling from where he’s pinching and prodding your heaving chest. You barely notice his lips leaving yours and moving down your neck so consumed by the delicious ministrations of his hands, you’re shocked when he bites down without warning. 

You yelp. It stings where his teeth have viciously sunk in, but you find yourself relishing the pain, growing even more feverish from the radiating pain. Lord Sukuna soothes the mark with his tongue only to bite down again, leaving yet another blemish on the canvas of your skin.

He repeats himself, biting and soothing, locking you in a cycle of pain and pleasure. While you’ve never been one to associate one with the other, the combination has you losing your mind, and you pathetically whimper, putty in his roaming hands.

Lord Sukuna chuckles, the throaty vibrations sultry and smooth rumbling through his broad chest and rippling through your flushed body. “You like being marked by your Lord?”

“Y–yes,” you whisper, clinging to his shoulders.

You’ve lost count of how many times your Lord has sunk his teeth into your flesh, the swirl of affliction and bliss melding together until you can’t decipher one from the other.

Something swells beneath you, the hard tip of which pokes between your cheeks, and an involuntary gasp leaves your lips because it can only be one thing. Lord Sukuna’s… member is already so big, it can’t possibly get any bigger! You can’t imagine how he’d fit as it is!

“M–my Lord?”

Lord Sukuna pauses from biting your shoulder, noting the questioning fear wavering in your eyes. He smirks diabolically, clearly entertained. “Did you not know I had a second cock?”

His second…? You gasp again, your mouth hanging open and your eyes wide. What does he mean two? You barely know what to do with the one!

Lord Sukuna shifts, hauling you off his lap until the tips of both his monstrous cocks are positioned by both of your entrances. “Such a good brat, so wet for your Lord.” He’s sneering at you, delighting in your innocent distress.

You look straight into his devilish eyes, taking a deep breath to steel yourself. He’s so massive you’re certain he’ll break you in two when he enters, but you know you have to try. You have to try for your Lord.

“I will do whatever it takes to please you, my Lord,” you say in a shaky whisper.

Lord Sukuna hums in satisfaction, and both his appendages are pushing into you before you can blink. You almost faint, tears welling in your eyes. A strangled cry rips from your throat.

While your cunt sucks him in, your ass struggles to reject him, the muscles clenching securely together around the head. Lord Sukuna hisses, but he savagely drives in, bullying his thick second cock through the puckered opening until both of his cocks are nestled deep in your abdomen.

You cry – fat, heavy tears rolling down your spluttering cheeks and splashing on your Lord’s torso. You feel as though you’re being ripped apart, stretched to your absolute limits. You’re fluttering around both of his shafts, and you hear your Lord groan, his grip on your hips digging in until his nails have drawn blood.

“Tight… so fucking tight…”

You barely register the ragged agony of his hoarse grunts. You struggle to adjust to the sensation of feeling stuffed, the feeling of your organs rearranging themselves to fit both his cocks. The pain subsides, and it’s replaced by a thrumming ecstasy humming through your veins. Lord Sukuna has yet to move, but you’re already moaning, lightly rocking your hips back and forth on his lap.

“Be still, brat,” Lord Sukuna snarls.

You can’t stop. You can feel his shafts pressing together between your thin walls, and the friction of them sliding together, sliding against you is unbearable. You need to feel more.

You rock harder. Electricity buzzes through your bothered body, and you’re swept up in the irresistible lust of exhilarating ecstasy. The other ladies have always made being with a man sound so sinfully pleasant, but this… You let out a long, drawn-out groan. This is just heavenly.

“Lord Sukuna…” you lewdly moan. “Please…”

You’re barely moving on his lap, and you’re aching for more…

Lord Sukuna growls as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, the heady pain intermingling with the juddering electric tingles careening through your center. He re-positions his hands so he’s grasping your ass, and then he thrusts sharply bouncing you up and down on his lap.

He slams into you fiercely, and you see stars, overwhelmed by the white-hot heat sizzling up and down your spine, desperately mewling your Lord’s name.

“Lord Sukuna… Ngh… my Lord,” you cry out.

His hips are bucking into you at an inhuman speed, and you’re keening, practically frothing at the mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips.

You’ve never felt rapture like this before in your life.

“Fuck,” Lord Sukuna rasps, each word tumbling out of his mouth laced with a bite. “Such a good… fucking… brat.”

All the sensations… the sound of Lord Sukuna’s guttural grunts, the feel of his blistering body, the woody scent of his musk, the heat of his cocks… builds into an all-consuming, overpowering pressure.

Lord Sukuna’s teeth sink into you again, and as if a pin has poked a bursting balloon, you explode. You’re blinded by a vicious white light, violent tremors shuddering through your taut body.

One of your hands curls in his hair, yanking the strands wound in between your fingers, and your back arches, your breasts pressing into his firm chest, your closed eyes rising to the ceiling.

“Sukuna… Sukuna… Sukuna,” you passionately scream your Lord’s name so overcome you forget to add his title to his name, a crime punishable by death, but neither you nor your Lord realize the indecency of how you’re calling out his name.

Your screams throw Lord Sukuna into a frenzy, rutting into you even faster than his frightening pace before. 

“Goddamn… brat…”

You’re clamping down on him uncontrollably, and then you feel it… You feel his body tense under yours, and you feel spurt after spurt of his cum flooding into you, spraying your insides white and coating you with his seed. Relentless waves of his release fill every crevice and ridge, and with nowhere else to go, it spills out the sides, puddling beneath you in a torrential, sticky mess.

You slump forward, supporting yourself against his built shoulders, weakly shaking from the violence of your euphoric climax. You don’t have to see yourself to know your eyes are glazed over, your mind a muddled daze. 

Lord Sukuna gently lifts you from his lap and lays your worn out form on his futon in a manner uncharacteristic of his usual gruff demeanor. Your cloudy eyes droop half-closed. Your limp limbs quiver. You almost don’t notice him covering you with a light blanket or calling for Uraume because you’re far from lucid, so drained and spent you're barely clinging to the last shred of consciousness.

You don’t hear Uraume enter. You don’t move when Uraume lifts you in their arms. 

You’re quickly fading.

You close your eyes, surrendering to your exhaustion, but before the cloying tendrils of sleep can steal you away, Lord Sukuna’s command floats into your foggy mind. Your last thought before you drift away completely.

“Get her cleaned up and settled in the adjoining room. I think I’m going to enjoy this one.”

[brabblesblog]

A reason to beat again

A small, non-canon compliant drabble.

What if vampire hearts beat again when they fall in love?

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

He first notices it in the underdark.

A soft fluttering in his breast, as he sits by the campfire. He’d been looking at you, but that was nothing new. Lately, that was all he’d been doing during quiet moments in your journey.

In that moment he’d been watching you laugh as Gale regaled you with yet another tale of his days in the academy. He gasps, a hand quietly coming up to his chest. Was he being poisoned? Cursed?

He immediately seeks the refuge of his tent, closing the flap as he goes inside. The feeling was odd, and it went as fast as it had come.

Days pass. And the fluttering happens with increasing frequency.

He hides whenever it happens. Sometimes, it’ll be in the heat of battle. He’d be watching you and see you almost get hit - and there it is, that fluttering in his breast where his heart used to beat.

Used to.

Right?

He shakes his head. It’s impossible. Vampires are undead. He is undead. He has been for two centuries.

But he feels it anyway. When you’re close. When he drinks from you. When you laugh. When your hand touches him.

He ignores that feeling as best as he could, just like how he tries to ignore that growing affection for you.

He caves in, eventually. He tells you of his feelings, of what he was initially trying to do. He expects you to be hurt, to lash out.

But you hug him.

Pressed against your body, he feels that flutter again. For a second, he assumes he’s feeling your heart. But no. There are two beats there. Not one.

You’re too focused on the hug to notice the change. His eyes widen at the realization of what has happened. What has been happening all this time. Slowly, he lets the feeling in. Lets you in.

It’s not a flutter anymore. It’s a beat. Slow, and very much unlike a living heart, but it still does beat.

Not long after, when you have developed a habit of sleeping over in his tent, you finally notice it.

You’re lying on his chest as he reads a book. Your eyes are half-closed, resting, when you finally hear a slow, constant thudding. You’re so used to hearing your own heart race when you’re with him, so missing a sound so subtle made sense.

“What was-“ you begin to say, trying to get up and ask him what on earth that was. You know for a fact when you slept together at the clearing that he had no heartbeat. You tap his chest questioningly.

He puts his book away, and looks down at you. He smiles. His hand finds your hair, stroking it lazily.

“I was wondering when you’d notice.”

You frown, trying to think of an explanation. “You’ve started feeding on my blood. Mine and our enemies’. Thinking creatures,” you say, more to yourself than anything. You’re enjoying this, teasing out the puzzle of his heart.

He laughs, a soft bark of sound in the silence of the evening.

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling. Your blood - or that of goblins and gnomes - isn’t that miraculous,” he drawls. “This.. doesn’t usually happen.”

Then again, vampires usually don’t fall in love, either.

“Then what?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, challenging him. “Because I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there before.”

He thinks it through for a moment, then lets his guard down. His eyes widen and he cups your cheek. It’s not often that he does this, but lately you’ve been seeing it more often in your quiet moments together.

“I think.. it just found a reason to beat again,” he murmurs. He looks away immediately, embarrassed at the raw vulnerability of the moment.

You know not to lean too much into this moment. Instead you offer him a retreat into the safety of banter.

“I’m actually stunned. I didn’t even think you had a heart, Astarion,” you say, a grin forming on your lips.

He takes your offer gratefully, slipping back into it without missing a beat.

“Darling,” he scoffs, playing up the offended expression on his face, “I’m hurt. Here I am, treating you so nicely, and you think I’m heartless?”

His hands move to pin you down and tickle you, and the conversation dies and becomes cursing and screaming, as you try to fight him off.

And deep inside his chest, his heart soars.

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird

[konigbabe]

PERISH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn!reader Word count: 1.6k Tags/warnings: no y/n; manga spoilers (post Shibuya timeline); canon-compliant; angst; death; emotional breakdown; hurt/no comfort; loss; grief Summary: For the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks. Happy start of JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

November 2018 8 minutes until Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

"Don’t worry, I’ll make it on time. I’m right behind the corner."

"We can wait," Yuji’s voice carries through the car, the static of the Bluetooth speaker occasionally cracking.

It feels like years have passed since you last saw him. Sealed away in the prison realm, Gojo’s state remains a mystery. There’s no telling how being locked in a place where time and space don’t exist can affect even the strongest minds.

That’s what worries you. What if he’ll break? What if he goes crazy on all of you? What if he explodes; wipes you all out with his technique? An endless sea of ‘what if’ swirls inside your mind as you take another turn, the mountains on your left with an ocean view on your right.

"Don’t," you reassure the youngster, "don’t wait any longer."

"You should be here, though," Megumi jumps into the conversation, "You’re closest to that idiot. He’ll want to see you."

His words draw a smile on your lips. It’s finally happening. The sleepless nights are coming to an end with the arrival of your lover.

"Then I’ll just opt for a dramatic entrance while you keep him busy," you respond before tightening your hands on the wheel. A familiar feeling washes over you; sudden knowledge of a new presence. Heart picking up, your eyes search the road for the source while the car’s speed slowly drops.

32 seconds; that’s how long it takes you to locate the source. A curse spirit manifestation stands in the middle of the road, blocking you. Its small hunched build stands a mere meter above the ground; four arms decorated by translucent fins hanging by its body, the prehnite skin glistening in the last rays of today’s sun, giving off a wet, moist appearance.

"Boys," you announce, stopping Yuji’s and Megumi’s bickering while still keeping up the cheerful, light voice in an attempt to not raise suspicions about your current predicament, "don’t wait any longer. Unseal Satoru and stop worrying ‘bout me. It’ll be fine."

Bringing the car to a slow halt, Yuji’s tone shifts into a more attentive one as your name seeps through the speaker before you hang up after one more reassurance.

As you step out of the vehicle, the curse's malevolence engulfs the air, almost tangible in its intensity. It clings to the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, penetrating your senses with a pungent sulfuric odor that threatens to overwhelm you.

Your hand slips inside your jacket to retrieve a carefully preserved seal, reserved for such precarious situations; just like this one.

"I’m sorry," with every footfall, the curse seems to shrink in size, yet its malicious nature grows stronger, the smell of sulfur almost suffocating, "but I’m in a hurry right now and you," pointing the parchment paper towards the spirit, "are in my way."

Swift and precise, your movements carry an aura of practiced precision. With little effort, you firmly press the seal upon the spirit's head, causing it to stumble momentarily before dissipating into thin air, vanquished by the power contained within the sigil.

Yet, the energy lingers.

Stronger than before. Stronger than a second ago. Its absent defense, non-existent attempt to fight or flee…it all makes sense now —

A powerful grip; a strong hand adorned with talons as keen as the finest blades dig into your shoulder as an inhuman force pushes you to the side.

As you're thrust aside, your vision catches a subtle glimmer of chrysolite, a hue that seeps into your perception; its scales are sturdy, each edge honed to a dangerous sharpness. Driven by instinct and the will to protect yourself, you reach out, your hand making contact with the curse spirit’s scaly hide.

The jagged edges of its scales cut into the delicate flesh of your fingers, leaving trails of crimson in their wake.

— it was a decoy.

Your body collides with the unforgiving side of the mountain, back meeting the rough and unyielding surface. A symphony of pain resonates within your bones, their structural integrity compromised as multiple cracks reverberate through your form.

Gasping for breath, your body instinctively seeks solace, but find none amidst the terrain. The curse doesn’t wait either. Swiftly moving forward, it lunges at you. Unforgiving. With a clear intent to strike. To kill.

During Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

There is no pain. The moment the curse’s hand breaches the barrier of your chest, you expect it. Expect some kind of visceral reaction. But there’s none — a gentle pinch, akin to a fleeting touch when the sharp claws first pierce through the protective layers of your breastplate. A slight discomfort upon the feeling of having a foreign object that’s found its place within the confines of your ribs. The barrier of your rib cage offers minimal resistance, yielding to the relentless advance that seeks to reach the very core of your being. The heart.

It all feels confusing.

"Kenjaku sends his regards," it whispers, the words slurred by the razor-sharp fangs that protrude from its mouth.

October 31, 2018 — 8:09 PM

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

Satoru saunters around the corner of the table, his presence punctuated by the audible slurping of juice from a small cartoon container. All while your palms rest on top of the said furniture, fingernails tapping at the surface.

The news has spread fast through the jujutsu community, faster than wildfire. Whispers of an unknown curtain cast around Shibuya an hour ago, trapping all non-sorcerers, innocent civilians, inside its insidious grasp with only one demand: Bring Satoru Gojo.

"Don’t say it like that, Satoru," you turn to face the man whose casual and dismissive demeanor only adds fuel to the worries setting inside your bones.

"They’re a bunch of curses," his hand finds its place on your hip bone while placing the empty container away, "Some special grades, yeah, but they’re weak compared to me. I’ll deal with them, save some people in the meantime, and bam," he snaps his fingers loudly, "We can go home. Get that sunset date you’ve been babbling about. Life is good," he finishes with a kiss on the crown of your head.

Life is good.

You watch the sun dip below the horizon behind the curse spirit’s back, indulging the sinister being in a halo glow.

Yeah. In the end, life was good.

2 hours and 48 minutes after Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

For a moment, he stands still. Unable to look down; frozen in time. The weight of it all seems to bear down upon his shoulders – now that Sukuna’s taken over Megumi’s body, Nanami’s and Yaga’s death, Suguru’s body being used as a vessel, the slow crumbling fall of the Jujutsu world – and now you; being gone.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer of the current time. Yet even his immense power proves futile as the people he loves keep dying on him…because of him.

A burden that threatens to crush him beneath its insurmountable gravity.

The air around him hangs heavy with sorrow, as if the very essence of grief has manifested itself in the atmosphere. A storm of emotions swirls within him; a combination of disbelief, anguish and a gnawing ache that gnashes at the core of his being.

He clenches his fists, fingers trembling with a mixture of sorrow and determination. In that agonizing moment, he finds the strength to finally lower his gaze, to confront the devastating truth that lies at his feet.

Everyone holds their breaths, the weight of his misery echoing in the silence as his eyes meet the lifeless visage of the one he holds dearest.

Of you.

Hand reaching out, his fingers graze the once-soft flesh of your hand; now cold and stiff. It serves as a confirmation of reality. There’s no getting you back, no way Shoko can nurture you back to health with her technique.

You’re gone.

And in that harrowing instant, the façade crumbles. The walls he built to contain his pain come crashing down, and Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks.

Crumbling down on his knees, the vulnerability that spills forth from his broken form is raw and unrestrained. Only a handful of those closest to him stand behind to witness the symphony of torment that pierces the silence. Tears stream down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words, moments you two could’ve spent together.

One hand covering his mouth to silence the guttural sounds, the other reaches out to you, tenderly cradling your lifeless head upon his lap. He clings to the fragile hope that if he could provide just enough warmth and love, you might return to him.

Yuji looks around the room, at the people who silently observe their friend fall apart. Taking a step towards the hunched man, a soft grasp stops him mid step; Kiyotaka shakes his head, pushing his glasses back in place as Shoko looks down. For the first time, she’s unable to figure out her classmate, her childhood friend, the man whose side she’s always stayed by.

"Gojo," Yuji doesn’t allow Kiyotaka to stop him. Believing in what’s right, he stands behind his teacher’s back.

Hand laying on the tense muscle of his shoulder, he doesn’t attempt to comfort Satoru with any words — no words in this universe would bring you back anyway. Instead, his hand just rests there. Unmoving. Gentle.

"Who did it," his words cause Shoko to look back up as Satoru, stone-faced and stoic, speaks in a firm, devoid voice. Imagines of unspeakable horror flashes in his mind as he stands up, towering over the wide-eyed Yuji.

"Tell me now," his eyes search Kiyotaka’s, voice filled with undeniable authority, "I’ll kill them, kill them all."

[seoulmatez]

— 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 ౨ৎ

boothill x f!reader. 2k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ injuries ﾉ pet names ( darlin', sweetheart, doll :3 ) ﾉ mentions of food

so i wrote about horse riding but. . . know very little about horse riding! i did my best to research but there may be some details i got wrong so apologies in advance!

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“that’s it, pretty girl, nice and easy.”

the horse beneath you sighs and you do the same, relaxation and contentment in the breath you let go of. it’s been a while since you’ve gone riding, a few years at least, but being sat on a saddle with reins in your hands feels as natural as it used to when you’d ride nearly every day of the summer. you’re lucky that your favorite mare—clover—is still healthy enough to take out.

you gently squeeze your legs into clover’s sides in a silent signal for her to move from a trot to a canter. the sequence of her hoof beats effortlessly switches from the two-beat gait to one of three beats and her pace quickens. the wind against your face is stronger now but you welcome the sensation, a small smile making its way to your face.

as a kid, riding was fun and exciting more than anything else but as you’ve grown into an adult, the activity has become something more cathartic—a release of sorts. your stress slips away when you’re on the saddle, lost in the summery breeze. you don’t allow a second for the thoughts that constantly nag at you to linger. all of your focus is granted to clover and the field ahead, to how you feel here and now and how you wish you could feel like this all the time.

unfortunately for you, nothing lasts forever.

you hear the dog before you see her, barking discernible in the distance. clover must, too, her ears pointing back to listen more closely to the sound approaching from behind. as the barking grows louder, the horse’s neck tenses, and it only takes a second more for her to decide that the noise is worth investigating. you’re in alert mode now, too—no, it’s probably closer to panic mode. it’s been a while since you’ve had to worry about the horse getting spooked and even then you had your grandpa or parents to rely on to make sure nothing got out of hand.

you don’t have time to even think about what the right thing to do in this situation is before clover spots the dog bounding towards the both of you.

“clove—!” you try to calm her down, to let her know that the dog isn’t a threat that she should be scared of, but it’s far too late. before you can comprehend what’s happening, clover is rearing. the motion combined with your loose hold on the reins is enough to send you flying off the horse’s saddle. a scream is ripped from your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut at being in the air, destined to fall.

you hit the ground with an audible thud.

pain courses through your body—your back, your shoulders, your head. everything hurts and hot tears spring to the corners of your eyes but they pool there, refusing to stream down your cheeks. despite all the pain, the growing soreness, you find your mind wandering. where did clover run off to? what was the dog doing out here alone? she rarely leaves the house by herself. someone is yelling, they’re calling your name. is it boothill?

“shit, little lady,” he shakily breathes, “you okay?”

relief washes over you and for a short second, you think that you’ve never been happier to hear the farmhand’s voice. it’s tinged with concern, a characteristic you have yet to see him display—especially for you. it doesn’t stop in his voice either, you can feel it in how he takes a hold of your shoulders, his grip firm but not tight enough to cause you any unnecessary pain.

you take the risk of finally opening your eyes and instead of being met with the sun’s blinding rays, boothill’s face crowds your vision. his eyebrows are pulled together and for once, there’s no smirk or grin playing at his lips. upon seeing that you’re conscious, the tension in boothill’s forehead lessens. “there she is.”

his voice is soft, like if he speaks too loud he’ll break you. though it’s unlike him to be so mindful, you appreciate what you imagine is the temporary change. he opens his mouth to continue but before he can get another word out, the border collie, missy, nudges between the two of you as if she senses something is wrong. boothill shoos her away before turning his attention back to you. “you okay? what happened?”

you think back on the moments that led to this—you laid out on your back in the grass. “missy… i think she scared clover. she threw me off.”

that’s right, you have no idea where she went after being so startled or if she’s okay, at that.

“where is clover?” you dart up into a sitting position, palms against the grass. it’s a bad idea and you face the consequences of it immediately, head throbbing and the dull pain throughout your limbs becoming all the more noticeable. you suck in a sharp breath in response to the discomfort but realize that the pain you’re in doesn’t top your concern for the horse. “is she still around here? i need to go find her.”

“woah, woah, woah, hold your horses.” boothill frowns. he stands up and holds both of his hands out to help you do the same. for once, you don’t think about the underlying meaning of having your hands touch his, you just grab a hold and let him pull you up. you turn your head in every direction you can in search of clover, readying to pick any of them to start walking in. though, you can’t, not with the way boothill is holding your hands hostage. his gray eyes bore into yours. “you aren’t going anywhere but to the hospital.”

“what? no.” you shake your head and try to pull away but boothill doesn’t budge. the longer he holds onto you, the more aware you become of his touch—how warm his hands are and how, even though they’re rough and calloused, his palms are more comforting than you care to admit. “i don’t need a hospital. i’m fine.”

“listen darlin’, people who have just been thrown off horses ain’t known for their good judgment.” he squeezes your hands but then seems to think better of it, loosening his grip but continuing to hold them. he gets his message across though, with the hand squeeze and the almost desperate look in his eyes. you’ve never seen him so uneasy, heard him speak so seriously. his new demeanor has your feet glued to their spot on the ground and your gaze glued to his. “you’re going to the hospital.”

you’re rarely one to jump at the opportunity to agree with boothill but maybe he’s right. you’re running on adrenaline right now and your mind isn’t in the best place—you’re worried about the wrong things. and if the topic is important enough to have boothill practically pleading with you, you should take it just as seriously as he is.

“fine, i’ll go, but you need to find clover before we do.” that came off a little more demanding than you meant it to. you add, “please.”

he clicks his tongue and groans before telling you, “alright, i’ll find your damn horse.”

● ● ●

boothill is a man of his word and tracks down clover, putting her back in the stable before whisking you away to the hospital. the ride there feels like a visit to the doctor itself with the way the farmhand practically interrogates you about your symptoms. he’s concerned but can’t help but laugh when you tell him that he’s exacerbating any head trauma you may have sustained by making you think so hard.

despite your initial resistance to boothill’s insistence on going to the hospital, you’re thankful for his urging. turns out he was right to be worried—you got a concussion.

your helmet helped soften the blow but the physician who explained your diagnosis still recommended a few days off work to rest and recover. it’s not the best news to receive but considering things could have been much worse, you’re grateful to walk away with a relatively minor injury.

and if your doctor had any anxiety about you ignoring his advice, it was misplaced. because boothill has personally made it his responsibility to be sure you get better.

as soon as the two of you arrived back at the house, he steered you into the living room, sat you on the couch, and disappeared into the kitchen with a demand for you to stay put. you’re tempted to argue but your head hurts too much so you cross your arms instead, closing your eyes and resting your head on the couch cushion.

it doesn’t take long for him to return and his hands are full when he does—a glass of water in one, an orange precariously rolling on a plate in the other, and a bottle of pain medication tucked under one of his arms. he sets the drink and pills on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch beside you, the dip in the cushion enough to make you open your eyes.

upon grabbing your attention, boothill jerks his head in that direction. “take a couple of those.”

you sit up and unscrew the bottle, shaking out two of the pills and popping them in your mouth before taking a few sips of the water he grabbed for you. a beat of silence passes before you speak up. “you know, i could have done all this myself.”

“i’m sure you could have,” he tells you with a grin, hands busy peeling the skin from the orange. it’s still all in one piece. impressive, you think, but you aren’t surprised. it seems like boothill is good at everything he does. “just thought you might enjoy having me at your beck and call.”

you frown. what does he think you are? some princess who needs a servant? “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothin’, darlin’.” he slides the plate of peeled orange slices across the coffee table so you can eat them when you’re ready. he wipes his hands on his jeans before standing up and stuffing them in his pockets.

the farmhand is on his way to the door when he says, “i’m off, but holler for me if you need anything, sweetheart.” 

you never thought you’d see the day you would stop boothill from leaving.

“wait, before you go…” he stops and turns around, eyebrows slightly raised in silent question, urging you to go on. you had more courage to say what was on your mind when he wasn’t looking at you. though, you know it’s only right to let him know that you appreciate all he’s done for you today. so, you turn your gaze to the floor and let it spill out. “thank you for finding clover. and for taking me to the hospital. and for this.” you gesture to the fruit.

there’s a flash of sincerity that passes over his features before that annoying smile makes its way back to his lips. “so you can say thank you.”

you don’t know what kind of response you were expecting, but you should have seen this coming. it’s like he’s hardwired to tease you, even when you’re being genuine. “you can leave now, boothill.”

“yeah, yeah, i’ll get out of your hair.” in contradiction to his words, he stays put. and you can’t find it in you to be upset that he does because the humor has left his face, replaced by earnestness. “but you’re welcome, doll. it was really no trouble.”

he finally takes his leave and when you hear the door close, you let out a frustrated groan and lay your head back on the cushion. that nasty fall must have done more damage than you thought. why else would your heart be working overtime over a simple change of expression?

you shake your head to get rid of the unwelcome thoughts—thoughts of how generous and caring he actually might be—before you think better of the motion. it hurts your head and makes you wonder how long it’ll take before the pain pills kick in. they’ll probably work better if you have something on your stomach.

your eyes fall to the plate boothill left for you.

orange slices should do.

thank u for giving this a read! reblogs and comments are appreciated -`♡´-