#now it seems a little pointless

[babycactus]

thinking about how prank calling was a huge part of my teen years

[avirael]

How to hold a grudge (on behalf of someone else)

“Oh! Hello Rael!”

The audacity of this man!, was all Rael thought as they opened the door to their house and found Thancred standing on the other side. They felt horribly tempted to just slam the door right back shut into his stupidly grinning face.

Certainly they could say that it had just been one of these intrusive Lalafell who tried to sell their useless and overpriced goods to gullible people (like A’viloh) or one of their neighbours asking to borrow sugar again. Anyone who was not Thancred Waters.

What did he even want here? Had all of the women in Revenant’s Toll finally realised how much of a fraud he was and fled town? Or maybe they had chased him away with brooms and pitchforks. Yes, the later was absolutely Rael’s preferred explanation for his unwelcome presence here.

They still glowered at the man, trying really hard not to greet him with an insult, when A’vi returned from the kitchen. “Who’s there?”, he asked gloomily on his way back to the couch. Just as Thancred appeared in his field of view, the Hyur raised an arm and waved lightly. “Hello to you too, A’viloh.”

“Oh!”, the Miqo’te exclaimed surprised and almost dropped the bowl of ice cream he held in his hands. And there was that expression again, Rael noted in frustration. The same one he had made the last time they had visited the Rising Stones. It was a strange mix of feelings and Rael thought it difficult to find a fitting word for it. He looked like he had mistaken some dangerous animal for a harmless pet and was now horrified by the bloodshed it caused but still couldn’t stop himself from liking that creature anyway despite its nature. Maybe the comparison was unnecessarily gruesome but Rael just hoped that A’viloh was at least clever enough not to get himself torn to pieces by the metaphorical sharp teeth.

***

It wasn’t all that difficult to understand how the Viera got this rather extreme opinion about Thancred Waters. He had always had a certain reputation around Vesper Bay and Ul’dah, Rael had quickly learned as they had asked around about the Scions before choosing to work with them. On top of that the man hadn’t exactly left a good first impression when they had met in person for the first time. Maybe he had honestly just been curious about meeting a Viera for the first time but Rael had already heard a few pretty stupid pick-up lines during their journey and this man had seemed right in line with that. A raised eyebrow and disgusted look on their face at least had quickly disheartened him to try any further.

But then there was A’viloh! Kind, yet so self-sabotaging A’viloh! Rael had long stopped wondering what it was that he found interesting about Thancred and instead decided to just blame it on a severe case of mental confusion. They had warned him about Thancred back when A'viloh had told them about the invitation but it really wasn’t their place to tell A’vi what to do or, in this case, not to do. So at first the Viera had simply intended for him to either be clever (which seemed unlikely) or learn that lesson on his own and the hard way if necessary. But this had been many months ago and in the meantime a lot had happened. By now the idea that the poor Miqo’te could get his feelings hurt by that vile man was giving Rael a headache.

Sure, Rael occasionally liked to tease him about the way he acted around Thancred and at first all of his infatuation had almost seemed to Rael like a good sign, but that assessment had changed shortly after. Finally Rael had managed to convince A’viloh that it would be a good idea to return to the Rising Stones and speak to Thancred about how the Miqo’te felt responsible for what had happened to him (and only about that, mind you!) but in the meantime Thancred had seemingly recovered very well and immediately reverted back to his old ways. Just worse. Both, concerning the quantity of alcohol and women.

In a surprisingly short span of time Thancred had managed to be seen with more women than Rael could count on their fingers, some of them just shamelessly flirting with but enough of them in more or less obvious situations. And that were just the ones he had no qualms to be seen with, Rael assumed. It was unnecessary to mention that A’viloh’s resolution to speak to him had died down abruptly.

Rael had observed this tragedy for as long and as peacefully as they could tolerate. They hadn’t wanted to interfere in something that actually wasn’t any of their business, so they had hoped that A’vi would soon get angry enough to stop moping. But they should have known that anger wasn’t exactly one of A’vi’s standard solutions for his problem and so of course it only seemed to get worse over time. Rael on the other hand had quickly developed a habit of getting angry on his behalf, to their own frustration.

One day Rael was speaking with Papalymo and Y'shtola about a book they were studying, when they noticed A'viloh gloomily staring down the counter of F‘lhaminn’s bar. After a moment F‘lhaminn, like the good barkeep she was, put a glass of liquor in front of him, raised an eyebrow and expected him to talk.

“What’s up with you?” she asked but A’viloh just grimaced and nodded to the glass in front of him. “That’s not a good idea. Alcohol and me don’t seem to go so well together.”

F‘lhlaminn had chuckled and made a peculiar face. “Oh, just like Thancred I guess…”, she said leaving it up to his interpretation if she meant alcohol and Thancred or him and Thancred, while she eyed him for a reaction.

A desperate sigh was all she got for an answer, but that was more than enough.

“Ha! So I rightfully thought this was about him. You know, I saw you eyeing him and Higiri…”

Avi snapped to attention, ears going up, face turning red. “What?! That ain’t true! Why would I??”

“If you say so…”, F’lhaminn chuckled again and returned her attention to the glass she was cleaning.

Seemingly unaware of the fact that he was proving her right, A’vi turned his head the other way and kept on sadly watching Thancred flirt with one of the doman girls from afar.

At that point Rael had decided to do something and stepped closer. “If you don't stop looking like this, I will go over there and I will punch him in his stupid face.”, they annouced sitting down beside A'vi.

Startled the Miqo’te turned around. “What?”

“It’s excuse me!”, Rael corrected and then repeated their words. “I said I am going to punch him in the face if you don’t!”

A’viloh was either truly unaware about his lovesick staring or had decided to play very very dumb. “Who?”

“Please! Don’t pretend to be more stupid than you actually are. Thancred of course!”, the Viera grumbled.

A’viloh still pretended to be oblivious. “Why should you do that??”

“You know why!”, sternly Rael glowered at him and finally the Miqo’te gave up this charade. “Alright! Fine! But how is he supposed to know that it bothers me?”, he retorted and Rael seriously wondered if he was this oblivious about how he was behaving.

“By the Twelve, A’vi!”, they exclaimed, a saying they had quickly picked up along with another few curses. “He can’t have that much brain damage to not notice that! Everybody in this building must by now have noticed that you are in love with him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if everybody in this whole town knows!”

A’viloh wanted to object at first but quickly gave up.. “I am not-... No… Please! Don’t tell me it is really that obvious?”

Rael rolled their eyes and slightly shook their head. “No, don’t worry! You just longingly stare at him every chance you get and sigh sadly every time he talks to someone. I guess your secret is safe!”

“That’s not funny…”, he muttered quietly with drooping ears. Rael just shrugged. It was only the truth.

Then A’vi added: “The idea that someone like Rowena knows something like that is kinda scary…”

“Careful! She’ll find a way to make money out of that. Blackmail or something…”, Rael couldn’t help but tease. At least the Miqo’te spent the rest of the day brooding over something that wasn’t Thancred Waters.

But then a few days later Rael had reached the point where they had enough.

One late afternoon they had found A’vi picking at his food while once again staring across the room, where Thancred sat at the bar with one arm around the shoulders of an annoyingly giggling Miqo’te girl. It was painful to watch, both Thancred and his conquest being so obliviously obnoxious as well as A’viloh’s reaction to it, but apart from this it was mostly infuriating. Rael wasn’t even sure who they wanted to yell at the most. So after wordlessly watching for a minute or another they lost their temper and growled at A’viloh.

“Are you mad!? You can’t seriously tell me that this -“, they hissed, silently enough not to catch any attention, gesturing towards the bar. “THIS is what you want? To be stupid! And replaceable! And forgotten before morning!?”

Slightly shocked A’viloh had stared at them for a moment, like he just realised it was the truth, before he wordlessly shook his head and sighed. It wasn’t fair that Rael had lashed out at him, they knew that, but seemingly he needed someone to tell him how ridiculous all of this was. Nonetheless he still looked sad of course, so this time it had been Rael, who had decided to take A’viloh and flee as far away as possible, seeking refuge in their house near Limsa again.

Of course this wouldn’t solve anything and they couldn’t avoid that bastard forever, but there was nothing else Rael could do about it. (Unless you counted maiming or murder a reasonable approach of course.) They simply hoped that A’viloh would soon come to his senses and realise how stupid it was to care about someone as ruthless as Thancred Waters.

***

And now this impossible man had the nerve to show up at their door! Obliviously grinning at that! They really wanted to strangle him. “What are you doing here, Thancred?”, they asked with a way too sweet tone and a strained smile, that somehow looked threatening.

“Ah! Very good question!”, he answered and laughed obliviously. “The two of you haven’t shown me your house yet! So I thought I‘d visit and see for myself!”

The carefully put together smile on Rael’s face faded as quickly as it had appeared. There was no way they would be able to remain friendly towards him even one second longer. “Well, now that you‘ve seen it, why don’t you go and—”

A’viloh, who until then was silently observing the contents of his ice cream bowl in concentration, at once snapped to attention. Alarmed he stared at the Viera while loudly proclaiming. “That’s so nice of you! Why don’t you come in first and we‘ll get you something to drink?”

He left it to Thancred to let himself in and instead grabbed Rael‘s arm to pull them into the kitchen.

“You can’t say something like this, Rael!”, he argued quietly.

“I can’t say what?”, they raised their eyebrows and didn’t bother very much to speak quietly. What bothered them though, was that A‘viloh still was so disgustingly friendly to him. Rael had thought he had understood by now, that on this man all kindness was wasted. “That, for all I care about, he can go and fuck himself?”

“Rael!”, A’viloh hissed and nervously eyed the door.

“Why?”, they simply retorted angrily, while picking up the bowl A’vi had put down on the counter and putting a light ice spell on it. They would rather have put that spell elsewhere.

“Because it‘s rude!”, the Miqo’te exclaimed. „Also, I don‘t think that would be very accurate to say considering… you know…”

“Please!”, Rael interrupted. “It’s very appalling how much thought you seem to have spared to that topic!”

A’viloh gasped. “What?! You started this! I didn’t!”

So much for gratitude!, Rael thought as they opened their mouth to retort something maybe a little bit too snarky. But just in that moment Thancred’s voice echoed from the living rooms. “You two have such a wonderful house. I already thought the garden was beautiful but in here? What a pretty place!”, he said as he pranced into the kitchen and confidently leaned onto the counter like he owned the whole place. To Thancred’s luck and Rael’s disappointment the knife block was out of the Viera‘s reach.

“Thank you…”, A‘viloh answered while still keeping an eye on Rael. The Hyur looked at them innocently smiling as if he didn’t notice at all in what a dangerous situation he had put himself. Nonchalantly he looked around and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “But don’t you think something is missing?”

“Missing??”, Rael echoed and wondered if they should break his nose and see if some of his own blood on the kitchen tiles would suit his taste more. But no! That would just give A‘viloh an opportunity to get unnecessarily worried about him again…

“What do you mean, missing?”, A‘vi asked confused and let his gaze wander through the room as well.

Thancred shrugged. “I don’t know, just a feeling… Are you already completely done with the house or is there anything left you wanted to do?”

“We are more or less done.”, replied the Miqo’te and then added. “Well, Rael still wanted a proper work desk but we didn’t have time for that yet. And maybe something to sit down in the garden or an orchestrion but that would be too much work I‘m afraid…”

Thancred nodded. “Mh, that’s a shame! I think some music would make this place even more cozy…”

(If by cozy he meant the untidy chaos A’viloh had turned their house into these last few days…)

“Right?”, the Miqo’te agreed excitedly. It was disgusting.

Rael had enough of this nonsense. They knew that it would get ugly if they had to hear only a single more word of this conversation. But just as they were about to leave with an inappropriate remark, telling themselves not to care about Thancred being a horrible person and A’viloh being an idiot, all of their linkpearls started to chime at once.

Surprised they stared at each other and then answered the call more or less simultaneously. Minfilia was on the other end of the connection asking if they all could come to the Rising Stones. Then she shortly explained that there had been new information and that all of them were to meet as soon as possible to plan their next move.

Her tone had been serious and all of them knew that this could only either mean one threat or another. While Rael went to the living room table to pick up their grimoire from beneath a heap of papers, Thancred excused himself saying that he would check a few of his own sources before meeting them later.

Rael threw a few things into a bag and went upstairs to change clothes. When they returned some minutes later A’viloh was wandering through the living room with a puzzled expression on his face, ice cream bowl in one hand (of course he wouldn’t let that go to waste!) and lifting the sofa cushions one by one with the other.

Rael sighed. “What are you doing??”

“Please tell me you’ve seen any of my weapons somewhere…”

[isfjmel-phleg]

Good news: They fixed my hot water!

[superfluouskeys]

godddddd wasting time and energy on things that don't fucking matter has got to be THE worst feeling

[unhinged-nymph]

.

[eoinmcgonigal]

Btw if you enjoyed reading anything I've written, I'm *always* happy to get comments. No expiry date on this.

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 8:46

“Do you have dimples?”

Bakugou doesn’t understand it himself, but you always find your way back to his house after your first visit—asking these out-of-the-blue questions that seem to have no end to them. It’s like a curse has befallen him, one that follows him wherever he goes.

For a moment, his eyes snap in your direction, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side, though his intense glare never once wavers. He didn’t know what the hell you were getting at, and he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to even want to know why you were asking about something so random.

Honestly, he should be used to it by now. But the thing is, he isn’t, because sooner or later you’ll be popping out of nowhere with another of your pointless questions.

“Hah?”

“I asked, do you have dimples?” you repeated.

His eye twitches at the repeated question, and as much as he’d like to give you a snappy remark to get you to stop, he can’t seem to come up with one. So, for the time being, he decides to humor you (and hope for the best that you drop it and move onto another topic).

“Why the hell are you asking?”

“Because Kaminari and I made a bet whether you have dimples or not. I went with yes, you do have them—even if it’s a singular dimple, but Kaminari says otherwise,” you explained, tapping your finger softly against the coffee table.

He scoffs at the childish reason. “And what makes you think I do have one?”

“A hunch,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “I also have just one.” You smiled, showing off your obvious singular dimple on your right cheek.

Bakugou glances at your dimple for a brief moment, eyes scanning over your face and the way that the dimple seemed to perfectly dip into the soft skin of your cheek. He almost found himself entranced for a moment, but his gaze returned to your eyes as he huffed out in mock disinterest.

He was about to dismiss your hunch—maybe just flat-out refuse to even show you—or come up with a lie. But Bakugou Katsuki wasn’t a liar.

“What happens if you win the bet?”

“I get 3000 yen,” you answered.

That’s a lot, he thought.

“I can pay you 3000 yen to shut the fuck up and stop with the useless questions.”

“There’s no fun in that!”

He scoffs again as he leans back against the sofa, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your stupidity. He eyed you for a moment, his head tilting to the side as he sighed. “And what happens if you lose the bet?”

“He gets 3000 yen.”

Bakugou almost wanted to laugh at the fact that you were putting so much faith and money on a simple guess, but he managed to hold back on the amused expression and forced himself to remain calm and unbothered.

He leaned back a bit more, relaxing against the plush seats, letting out a mocking “tch” before he said, “What if I don’t show you if I have a damn dimple or not?”

“Please? Oh my god, Bakugou. Don’t do this to me now! Kaminari’s going to do a ‘victory dance’ when he finds out he won by default,” you half-whined.

He was about to give you his final choice when suddenly you started whining at him. Bakugou rose an eyebrow at you, lips quirking to a frown. As idiotic as it is to him, it looks like it was quite a serious matter to you.

“Tch. Whatever.”

You threw your hands to your face, groaning. “Pretty please, with a cherry on top? Spare me some sympathy—and be a team player for once!”

He found himself fighting a scowl at the way you acted. It was somewhat different this time around, and it was making him feel weird. Damn it. You’re a goddamn nuisance.

“Alright, fine. Just—” He motioned with his hand for you to come closer, an almost annoyed expression on his face. “If you tell anyone else about this other than Dunce Face, I’ll make sure you don’t ever see the next sunrise.”

“That doesn’t sound heroic at all—but yes, of course!” you cheered. “Just a little smile, and I shall confirm the goods.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, already regretting giving into your stupid request but at the same time knowing that he would never let Kaminari win against you in all circumstances possible.

He let out a huff and hesitantly let the sides of his own lips quirk up into a half-assed attempt at a smile, but from the way it was so rigid, it looked more like a painful grimace.

You gave him a confused, somewhat flat look in return. “Dude, you look like you’re about to shit yourself—mmph! ” You didn’t get to finish what you were saying as Bakugou’s palms immediately squished your cheeks together to shut you up.

“Oh shut it, dipshit,” Bakugou grumbled, his grip on your cheeks tightening ever so slightly as he forced you to pout your lips. “You were asking for a smile. I give one, and you wanna give me smart ass remarks about it?”

“I didn’ even gwet toh shee anythin’! That’s how bwad ith was,” you muffled out through pouty lips.

“Are you gonna keep yapping and bitching about what you asked for, or are you gonna accept my goddamn smile?”

“Fine, fine!” you yielded, pushung his hands away from your face. “Do it one more time, and I’ll actually check this time.”

He narrowed his eyes, almost as if he were wondering if you were going to actually do as you said or go against it and keep making smart-ass comments. But as you yielded, he let out a sigh and decided he’d rather just get this done and over with. 

Less hassle for him.

He repeated his ‘smile’ from before, which looked more like a forced sneer, and he waited for your verdict. This was his last straw; he was going to murder you (not).

You had to hold back your laughter but failed to do so. “I really can’t— Bakugou, please! ” you mused, hitting his shoulder playfully. “Your ‘smile’ reminds me of that time Kirishima had to hold the biggest shit before the bell rings.”

That caught Bakugou off guard. He remembered the memory of Kirishima’s panicked expression and the weird waddle he’d walked around in as he desperately tried to find a bathroom made Bakugou snort under his breath.

“Oh my god, you’re laughing!” you gawked. “And have a dimple! Just a singular one, like mine! We’re matching.”

There it was. A singular dimple on his left cheek.

Bakugou tried to regain his lost composure and let out a scoff in an attempt to mask the slight tint of pink that reached the tip of his ears. He forced his hand onto your face, shoving you (lightly, if he may add) away from him to prevent you from getting another look at his dimple.

“It’s not a worldwide discovery, dumbass. I can fucking laugh if I want to, and it’s just a fucking indent on the cheek.”

“Still cute,” you shrugged, pulling up your phone to text Kaminari. “I need to let Kami know that I won the bet, then we celebrate with bubble tea— my treat!”

“Hey wait— You—“

He tried to protest against your sudden celebration, wanting to tell you that he wasn’t going to let you treat him for anything. This whole damn thing started because of a stupid bet, and he doesn’t really find joy in gaining something from it, but as you pulled out your phone and began to text Kaminari, he sighed and leaned back again with his arms crossed tight against his chest.

“Whatever. You’re fucking annoying.”

“Kay,” you answered. “Also, your actual smile is pretty charming, if you ask me. It’s different from the usual sneer you have on your face. That’s just my opinion, though.”

Bakugou’s face grew a bit warm at your unexpected compliment, but he quickly tried to hide it and turned his head to avert his gaze away from you. His mouth opened to reply with a snappy remark or something like that, but he found himself hesitating.

He eventually scoffed and muttered a low, “Tch. Stop spouting nonsense.”

“Bakugou Katsuki has a singular dimple,” you sing-songed aloud, though you knew that no one would hear since his parents weren’t even home.

Bakugou felt his eyes twitch at your teasing, resisting the urge to tell you off and even going as far as to just punch your shoulder lightly. “Shut the fuck up, dipshit.”

He later found out that there was no bet, and you had just made up the whole scenario to confirm your curiosity. That Bakugou Katsuki does have a dimple, a singular one at that.

Could you imagine how furious he was?

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[chuluoyi]

fear

- gojo satoru x reader

his best friend’s defection is still a hard topic for him to swallow, and it leads into an unexpected argument that spurs you to leave, only to unlock a new fear in him when you get into an unfortunate accident afterwards.

genre/warnings: angst, gojo being mean, one scene with a worried nanami *wink*, injured reader, hurt/comfort, fluff in the end

notes: *sigh* my coping mechanism is still gojo’s past arc, which is why this piece takes place on that timeline. just a little context: reader is in the same class with nanami & haibara and was in the same mission that took haibara's life. this is probably the longest oneshot i've written so far sooo… enjoy! :)

general masterlist

A year and a half had passed since Suguru embarked on his path as a curse user. In that one year and a half, Satoru had finished his last year at Jujutsu High, and now was in the halls of his alma mater, speaking to the newly appointed headmaster who was none other than his teacher.

"You're applying to become a teacher?" Yaga asked again with a frown. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. Granted, he was his most troublesome pupil. "Why, Satoru?"

"If I said it's because I want to train young sorcerers to be strong, would you believe me?"

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes. 

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

Hey, that sounds like something I can do!

[5ummit]

New Mature Content Warning Overlay (And How to Get Rid of It)

More fun community label "features"! Unlike the new mandatory label for #NSFW, this one is a bigger deal to me because it affects my entire blog and it can't be avoided by just using a different tag.

Apparently on custom blog layouts, if you happen to post or reblog even a SINGLE post that's been flagged with the mature content community label, a full-page warning overlay will appear blurring out your entire blog that must be manually clicked through every single time the page is refreshed. At first I thought this was just a bug due to my older layout but I've come to realize it's not. It's a feature (as confirmed by this recent changes post) that affects all custom themes. The formatting will vary based on your own theme but here's what it looks like on my blog:

I don't know about you but I find this is stupid and annoying. If it could be dismissed once and never seen again that might be one thing, but that's not the case. The vast majority of my blog is not "mature" enough to warrant such an aggressive and invasive warning. I also think pop-ups are obnoxious in general and I'll be damned if tumblr's going to force me to have one on MY blog.

After some desperate googling for a known workaround and being unable to find even a single mention of it, I decided to take on the challenge myself. I'm not a theme coder, so apologies if there's a better way to do this, but luckily it only took me like 10 minutes to figure out a simple fix, which I'm now sharing with anyone else who may want it:

.community-label-cover__wrapper {display: none}

Just copypaste that somewhere in your CSS and goodbye pop-up!

If you're not sure how to access your theme code, check out this help article. You can also add the code via the Advanced Options menu, which is actually even better (if you can get it to work, it depends on how your theme was coded), because it will then automatically be reapplied to a lot of themes without having to remember to manually add it every time if you change your theme in the future.

Obviously this will only remove it from your own blog for anyone who may visit it. If you never want to see this warning again on other people's blogs you can also add this custom filter to your ad block:

tumblr.com##.community-label-cover__wrapper

Unfortunately I do not have an easy tutorial on hand for this one as the method will depend on your specific ad block app or extension.

Some additional notes:

After adding the theme code and saving the changes, give it a minute to update as it sometimes takes a little while for the page to refresh.

The warning overlay only seems to appear if a "mature" post is on the FIRST page of your blog, which is still annoying and makes the whole thing even more pointless and stupid because what if someone visits any other page of your blog, and oh no, happens to see "mature" content they weren't warned about?!

The warning also appears on direct links to "mature" posts.

This hack has NOTHING to do with entire blogs that have been flagged as NSFW. It only works for non-flagged blogs with custom themes that happen to have individual "mature" posts.

[ozzgin]

Little Red Riding Hood except they’re consenting adults and the big bad (were)wolf wants to bang red instead of eating her alive. Sorry if you already did something like that, I’m just curious if you think my concept is interesting.

This has reminded me of the time I played Wytchwood and foamed at the mouth when I stumbled upon the bad Wolf who courts maidens at the tavern, only to eat them back at his house. I didn't use Tumblr at the time, so I suffered in silence. Perhaps now is finally my time to pass on this brainrot. Content: female (adult) reader, witch reader, violence!, The Wolf from Wytchwood

The Wolf is a notorious regular at the Village Tavern. He's a brash criminal with an appetite for maidens, yet no one dares to oppose his vicious attacks. The village hunter carries his silver bullets with trembling hands: he knows better than to anger the beast. He'd be torn to shreds before he could even pull the trigger.

The Wolf is a drooling mess when he sees you enter the tavern. A new face, how unexpected. Might you be a traveler? Not for long. He grins to himself, tongue rolling out as if to have a taste of your scent. His ears perk up, and he approaches you with a slight sway of the hips, almost like a predatory stance.

The Wolf is taken aback by your brazen indifference. People normally squirm and shiver under his gaze. Will you keep your smile when he's pulling your innards apart, one by one, savoring their taste? You observe him with calculated eyes. This must be the famed killer of the village. You extend your hand, and let him guide you to his home in the deep, dark woods.

The Wolf stumbles in his steps. He rubs his eyes, snout furrowed in disbelief. Were you not in his grip just a second ago? "You're a witch", he finally concludes with a snarl. You chuckle. You may not match his brute strength, but you can easily escape his primitive hunt using your tricks and spells. It'll be a pointless chase, truly. His murderous rampage ends here.

The Wolf approaches you again with newfound resolve. "You cannot eat me", you state factually. Oh, but he no longer holds such a desire. To think this little red riding hood would end up being such a tease! No, no, he has other plans now. His eyes glimmer with a peculiar kind of appetite, a different kind of lust. You raise your eyebrows, intrigued. There certainly is something endearing about a powerful monster begging to have you. The defiant stare has now softened into a pleading, ardent look, his claws tugging at your robe.

It seems that there are more ways in which a maiden can be eaten.

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x afab!reader. 18+, minors dni. angst; smut (p in v unprotected sex; handjob - logan receiving; oral - reader & logan receiving). canonically bisexual reader. mentions of pregnancy attempts. dp+w movie spoilers.

synopsis: in the Void, after leaving the other dead in your own timelines, you and Logan are reunited.

words: 8.5k.

notes: this was inspired by not your man by @studioghibelli and the worst logan by @coweye! please go and read both these fics and show their authors some love, they are both incredibly talented writers who deserve it! dividers by @saradika-graphics 💕

The past couple of days have been a lot. 

To be honest, anything that isn’t sitting at a bar drinking the place dry is a lot to Logan nowadays. He’s used to low lights, rumbling conversation around him, the fuzzier end of consciousness. Even now he aches for a drink, knowing he’ll have to wake up sober next to the asshole in red he spent the night putting down in that fucking minivan. 

He hopes, at least, he has been met with all the surprises that this place can afford him. 

Ah. But that’d be too fucking easy, right?

That Cajun bastard’s liquor sits comfortably in the cradle of his palm and he chases away lucidity one swig at a time. Tries to block out the half-baked plan Wade is concocting with the other poor bastards who have been stuck here, even if it’s all probably pointless. He only chimes in to laugh at their hope. 

Then Elektra turns, withering pity in her eyes, and seems to properly assess him for the first time. 

“They’re gonna be so disappointed when they see you.”

“Who?” he snorts, past the point of caring that he’d disappoint anyone. It’s then that Elektra hits him like a fucking freight train with just one word spilling from her lips: your name. 

Logan feels a flood of memories come back to him. Ones he’s spent too long trying to drink away. The early morning when you’d hide under the blankets together, your hand cradling his face and letting the whole world consist of just the two of you. The stolen kisses in quiet corridors so the students at the mansion wouldn’t catch you and start silly little rumours. 

Him holding your lifeless body in his arms surrounded by the rubble of what used to be your bedroom, your powers unable to save you. 

He doesn’t have anything to say, merely spitting vitriol to anyone who tries to speak to him, even that damn kid who still prefers the other dead Logan to him. Why wouldn’t she? He’s a fucking mess, worth less than nothing, and that Logan was a hero. 

He retreats in the evening to lick his wounds or, hopefully, drown them. People keep trying to fucking talk to him and he does not want it. Yet they’re fucking relentless, like the Void is perfect at creating gut punch after gut punch for him. Laura walks away into the darkness after successfully making him feel like shit - not that it’s difficult these days - and when he hears more footsteps he assumes it’s Wade coming to harass him about tomorrow. 

“Oh, will you fuck off - ?” he snarls, but the sight of you there, half lit by a dying fire with orange dancing on your skin, oh, it just kills any venom he can muster dead in his throat. 

Logan is looking at a ghost and he has never been less prepared for anything in his long, long life. 

Your mouth has fallen open into a soft “o” as you look at him, brows knitted together as you take in every imperfect aspect of his being. 

“Lo?” you whisper. Your voice hasn’t changed. 

“Logan,” he replies, gruff, unsure if he’s confirming or correcting. But fuck does it sound good to hear his name out of your mouth again, even if it’s just a syllable. 

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and take a seat on one of the logs which has been pulled up as a makeshift bench. He tries not to watch the way the fire lights up your eyes. There’s an agonisingly long pause before you finally attempt conversation.  

“Long time no see, huh?” you ask with a weak grin. Fuck. It’s like a dagger. Your humour was always something which endeared you to him. Unlike Wade you never took it too far, cultivating your sincerity with your silliness in order to grow yourself into peoples’ hearts. 

His heart especially, and now it aches. 

He grunts, because he can’t bring himself to actually say anything. Can barely look at you. You keep talking, either not noticing or barrelling on regardless. 

“You know, when the gang said that you were here… I didn’t believe it. Thought there was no way a fucking Wolverine would fall into this place.”

“Let me guess,” he sneers, taking another long drag of bourbon, “I’m not what you expected.”

You laugh, an easy little thing, and part of him hates you for it. For reminding him of how it sounds. 

“I mean, you’re not. But not because of what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” It comes out as a snap, lip curling back over his teeth in disgust. You do not look bothered in the least, just crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. 

“Because I know you, Logan. Knew my Logan too. Bet you’re spiralling, making yourself out to be some kinda disappointment. Well you’re not. You could never be.”

He desperately wants to argue but he simply doesn’t have the gumption. Besides, it’s nice to hear someone say something kind about him after all these years. 

“So,” you say after another one of those painful pauses, “considering every time you look my way you wince, you have a me in your timeline?”

He laughs without any humour in it, stares into the flames for so long they start to hurt his eyes. 

“Yeah. I did.”

“Ahh. ‘Did’. I died, then?”

You say it so flippantly, he can’t fucking stand it. 

“Mmm.”

“Makes sense. Don’t think I’d leave you in any timeline, so the only way I could see us ending would be if I wasn’t there any more.” You sigh, stretching your legs out to warm them. “Can I ask how it happened? Call it morbid curiosity.”

He absolutely does not want to talk about this. But, also… it’s you. Maybe not the you that was his, exactly, but it is you. Perhaps you deserve to know. He tries to stay dispassionate, as if he is a doctor quietly recounting the facts of death to a family member. 

“Mansion was attacked. Everyone died, including you. I wasn’t there. We’d had a fight, I went out drinking. When I got back you were gone.” He flexes his fist around the neck of the bottle, trying to avoid shattering it, but desperately needing to hold onto something. 

“Oh.” The fire crackles loudly. “What did we fight about?”

This will kill him. He will die in this Void. 

“You wanted to do another round of IVF. I didn’t want to be disappointed again.”

The words settle like a cloud of choking ash over the two of you. He takes a long drink. What a fucking failure he is, couldn’t even knock you up properly. 

“Fuck, Logan. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Does it help if I tell you I probably wasn’t that mad? I’ve never been really angry with you, you know. My Logan… we used to bicker a lot, we both had short fuses, but it never meant anything in the long run.”

He doesn’t know if it does help or not. Is it better to know that you died hating him, making it easier? Or that you were snuffed out while loving him the whole time?

“Your turn,” he says, because he can’t bear to continue this particular line of conversation, but for some reason he wants to keep talking to you. Your voice is a comfort he thought he’d long since lost. 

“You wanna see a picture?” you ask, a grin pulling at the sides of your mouth. No, he doesn’t, but when you reach into your jacket to grab the photograph, he finds himself holding his hand out to take it. You slowly float it over, telekinesis absolutely unnecessary - but you always did use it to make the little things easier. 

It’s old. Frayed and disintegrating at the edges, a thing which has been held and looked at over and over again. Faded slightly despite the fact that you clearly try to take good care of it. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening. You chuckle. 

“I know.”

Because, despite the lack of facial hair and addition of a decent rack, the woman with her arm around you in the photo is him. 

The Logan in the picture is about as butch as they come, decked out in a Wolverine’s trademark flannel and leather. One of her arms is wrapped around you to keep you close against her, the other playfully flipping the camera off with a middle claw, and she’s laughing with a joy he hasn’t seen on his own face for years. You’re pressing a kiss into her cheek and hanging onto one of her thick biceps. The two of you exude happiness. 

“She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She could be a mean cunt sometimes, smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, but fuck we were the centres of each other’s world.” You let out a long sigh and hold your hand out - Logan goes to give you the photo but instead you gesture for the bourbon. He passes it and you and you drink deeply, gratefully. “I’d been in a string of bad relationships. Guys who took me for granted, women who were toxic but I didn’t realise until I was in too deep. Then she came along and well… she was a fucking angel in plaid.” 

Logan’s thumb absentmindedly strokes the photo. He’s pretty sure there’s a near-identical one back in his timeline. 

“Our mansion was attacked too. She died getting the kids out.”

Fuck. Fuck. No, he can’t do this. He can’t face the way he should have died. He really is the fucking worst Wolverine. He snatches the bottle back from you, you give no resistance, and he polishes it off. The photo flutters to the ground. 

“I think it’s time you fucked off,” he growls out. You roll your eyes, fucking roll your eyes at him, something his version of you did on pretty much a daily basis, and the knife in his heart twists further. 

“Well, Logan, I’m not gonna do that. Because this conversation is the most whole I’ve felt in a long time, and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way.”

He doesn’t. He does. He wants you to disappear forever. He wants to hold you close and kiss you, beg you never to leave again. He hates you. He loves you so, so much. 

He’s such a ruined man that it is laughable. 

“So what, I come along and just replace your little girlfriend? First Wolverine that you manage to get your hands on; is that what you’re hoping for?”

You bark out a laugh. It echoes around the trees. There are tears in your eyes when he turns to look. 

“Girlfriend? Logan, you were my fucking wife!” 

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that the laughter engulfs you, peals of giggles that double you over. You hold your head in your hands and it soon turns to bitter sobs. He wants to reach out and hold you, apologise for ever making you sad. He tries to get any lingering drops from the bourbon instead. 

“We got married at the mansion. Charles officiated. The kids made us cards. We didn’t get a honeymoon because we didn’t have the fucking time. We had five years. Five really happy years and you know what? We wanted a baby too. We were getting a donor lined up! And then when the attack happened you were the one getting all the kids out I begged you to come with us but you were too fucking good, you had to stay behind and make sure nobody followed us. And it cost you your fucking life. They ripped you apart Logan. I know because all I found of you was your head and your wedding ring. I didn’t even get time to mourn because I had a dozen children to fucking take care of! And I did because I knew that’s what you’d want me to do. It’s what you died for. So I lived in the fucking woods with all of them for years, and they were my family, and I made sure they were as safe and happy as I could make them. And you know what happened then? When they were all grown? A fucking TVA agent appears out of nowhere and tells me, ‘oops! Sorry! Your Logan wasn’t supposed to die, it was meant to be you!’ So they fucking throw me in this hellhole to rot away into nothing and I’m sorry, Logan, I’m sorry that when I heard you were here I got my fucking hopes up that you might be happy to see me, because if there was one person who understood all of the shit I’m going through then it might be you.” You throw your head back up to stare him dead in the eyes. “And it’s pathetic because you know what? Even after all this? I’m still not angry with you. I’m still happy you’re here. Because seeing you makes me feel better, despite everything.”

It’s a long-ass rant, and your words hang in the air after you’re done. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He opens his mouth to apologise but the words just won’t come out. Because, yeah, if he really dissects himself and looks at the parts laid bare, he’s glad you’re here too. 

He reaches down to rescue the photo before an ember lands on it, gingerly extending into you. When you take it back his fingers brush yours. He wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves. 

“Who was the donor?” he asks eventually. That does a lot to alleviate the mood, and you smile through tear-streaked cheeks. 

“You might not like the answer.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t tell me it was Scott.”

“The two of you got on okay! Butted heads a lot but he was always a good friend to us. Plus it was cheaper than going through an agency.”

He growls to himself and it makes you laugh, but properly this time. Things have started to soften and it’s… nice. To be like this with you again. You pause for a moment, stuck on whether to ask a question; hesitate over whether it’s a good idea, then barrel on regardless. 

“Can I ask a weird question?”

“You’re dangerously close to sounding like Wade,” he replies. You groan at that idea. 

“Ugh. Fucking Deadpools, man. We get one come along every now and then and trash the place before fucking off again. Apparently there’s like, a tribe of them out there somewhere.” You give a full-body shudder. “Imagine. No, it’s nothing like that, I guess. Can you… can you take off your glove? Left one.”

He has a horrible feeling about this but when you ask so nicely, that air of vulnerability around you, well it just seeps into his fractures and breaks him open. It takes a moment but he does, flexing his bare hand in the cool air. 

You reach around your neck and pull at a thin chain he’d barely noticed. The ring at the end slides up from where it’s been resting on your sternum under your shirt, glinting as you remove it. 

“Give me your hand.”

This is a bad idea. 

He does anyway. 

You slip the ring on his fourth finger, softly twisting it to fit over his knuckle as you go. It is the perfect size. 

“Will you look at that,” you mumble, not releasing your grip on him. “She… you always told me your hands were kinda big because of the claws. Like I cared. One of my favourite parts about you.”

Your fingers trace along his, finding the spaces between them and gently slotting your hands together. Logan isn’t sure if he’s the one who closes the grasp or if it’s you, but a beat passes and suddenly you’re holding hands. 

He’s not done this with you for so fucking long. An age of aching which is relieved at the feeling of your palm up against his. 

“So now what?” he eventually has to ask. You smile. 

“Well, I mean, your Deadpool is probably gonna get us all killed tomorrow…”

“Ugh. Don’t call him ‘my Deadpool’.”

“… so I’d quite like to just spend tonight holding your hand, if that’s okay. Seems like a pretty nice final night to me.”

When you hit him with those soft eyes, what other fucking choice does he have?

You don’t speak much for the rest of the night. Eventually the fire dies out. Laura comes to seek you out the next morning, and is surprised to find you lying side by side with this other Logan, the most deeply asleep she’s ever seen you, fingers laced together so tightly with his it looks like it might hurt. 

He comes to the fight, of course; dredging up what little courage he has left in him in order to prove he’s not totally pathetic. You catch his eye and smile so wide that he feels likes he’s done at least one good fucking thing in his life. He hears the sound of you ripping into people with an enthusiasm he hasn’t witnessed for years. The last glimpse of you he gets before he jumps through the portal is you using your telekinesis to tear a man’s head off and he does not want to examine himself too closely when it sends a jolt of arousal down his spine. 

They leave you all there to face the end, but everyone knew that’s what you were all getting into. There has been a net gain and loss of nil. He never had you again. Not really. Not for anything longer than a night, and maybe that will be enough. 

Yes. That’s enough. It has to be. 

When he tells Wade he’ll go into that room, when he volunteers to die, he does it with the knowledge he’ll be doing something good, finally. Something you’d be proud of him for doing. And with you waiting for him on the other end of oblivion it really doesn’t seem too bad a fate. 

But then Wade does what he always does and fucks up his perfectly meticulous plan, and they both make it through, so he has to keep going. 

When Wade asks the TVA agent to help the group of you they left behind, Logan is sure to add on that people should get the opportunity to go back to their timelines - surely it’s what you’d want (this oddly selfless request has Wade raising an eyebrow which he ignores). After all, why wouldn’t you want to go back? It’s where you belong. Where you’ll be happiest. Putting things nice and neatly back into their place after this whole fucked-up venture. 

He doesn’t have you, but he’s still alive and wants to be, and that’s something. A lot more than he’s had for a long time now to be honest. 

His life becomes this strange little thing that’s wrapped up with Wade’s. He sleeps on his pull-out sofa until he has somewhere proper to put down his roots. Tries to lay off the booze as much as he can even if each day is a fucking struggle. Makes steps towards finding a proper place for himself; even gets a job on the door at the bar across the street. It’s okay. One step at a time. He can put himself back together like that. 

Imagine his surprise, then, when a week later there’s a knock at the door. 

He assumes it’s Al who’s forgotten her keys, or is too drunk to fish them out of her purse after bingo, so opens it without really thinking. 

The second time you’ve nearly stopped his heart in seven days. 

“Hey,” you say. 

“Oh,” is what he can manage. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. Your go-to. 

“Yeah. Sorry. I uh, followed you back, I suppose. The TVA were gonna send me home but I asked where you were and when the answer was ‘here’, well… didn’t make sense for me to be any place else.”

He blinks at you. After a beat of silence he can tell you hate, no doubt wondering if your choice was the wrong one, he lifts his hand to cup your face. You stiffen for a second and then nestle into his palm. 

“You’re real,” he states. You press your hand to his. 

“I am.”

He pulls you into his chest and you are more than willing to come. He feels the way you bury yourself into him, nose first, remembering what he smells like. Your arms wrap around him so tight it’s like you’re scared he will disappear when it should be the other way round: if anyone is dreaming it’s him. You bothered coming here for him. You uprooted your whole life for it. 

He could hold you forever but the neighbours are nosy and the apartment is a mess. He presses his mouth close to your ear. 

“Wanna get a coffee?”

You pull back to meet his gaze. 

“I’d love that.” Your eyes drop and you pull a face. “Oh, uhh, you might wanna get changed first, though.”

He looks down and realises what shirt he’s wearing before letting out a groan, which gets you chuckling. 

“Wilson’s letting me borrow his shirts until my first paycheck comes in. Just to slum around the apartment.”

“Oh, so you’re not ‘employee of the month at the dick sucking factory’?” You ask, reading the slogan on his tee.

“No. Looks like Wilson won out over me.”

The fact he’s made a joke hangs in the air for a moment and you burst into laughter, real actual laughter, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever heard.

He grabs the only plain shirt Wade has left out, slices off the sleeves just because, and grabs twenty dollars from his roommate’s wallet. Soon enough you’re sitting in the little café near his building. The sky is grey and overcast, just threatening to rain but not quite bothering, and the two of you are tucked away in a corner table while Taylor Swift plays over the sound system. 

Logan does not like that he knows it’s Taylor Swift. This is what living with Wade has done to him. 

You watch him with affectionate eyes across the table, making sure nobody is paying close attention before using your telekinesis to stir the little metal spoon around in your latte. You nod at his mug. 

“You take coffee the same way as she did. Boring and black.”

Logan’s nostrils flare a little in a laugh. 

“Yeah, and you take yours the same way too. So fucking dense with syrup that it’s not coffee at all.”

“Oh you were always such a coffee snob! ‘Babe you gotta try it plain first so you can appreciate the aroma’,” you say, putting on a gruff affectation as a parody of his voice. 

“You do need to try it plain f—”

He’s interrupted when a sugar lump floats into the air from the pot in the middle of the table and launches itself at him, bouncing off of his pectoral. He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Real mature, bub.”

“Grouch.”

“Contrarian.”

“I’m not a—” you pause, realising there’s no way to win against that accusation, and grin at him instead. 

“Where are you staying?” he asks after a long drink. It’s not booze. He kinda wishes it was booze. But also, he knows it’s best not to go down that path again, for everyone’s sake.

“The mansion. Turns out I died in this timeline too, so you and I are two for two here” - there’s a hint of a smile at your own macabre observation - “but they were using my room for storage so they just let me have it back.” You grimace a little. “It’s been weird. It’s my space but it’s not, y’know?”

“I get that.”

He probably gets it better than anybody. Nice to have someone to share this strange, singular feeling with. 

“You should come around. Laura’s there too, I know she’d be glad to see you too.”

“She settling in okay?”

“Yeah. It’ll take a while, but everyone has been really understanding and kind. I think she’ll thrive here.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

You give him a smile that lets him know you believe it. Your eyes cast over him, taking in this new, slightly more settled Logan, falling still when you see what’s pressed against his fourth knuckle. 

“You’re still wearing the ring.”

“Oh,” he replies, surprised. Flexes his fingers as he looks at it. It’s been so comfortable there, so utterly unobtrusive and right, he hasn’t even noticed. “You want it back?”

A beat passes as you consider the question. Coffee is sipped. Another sugar added and stirred, perhaps just for show. 

“I don’t know,” you settle on. “I kinda like seeing you wear it but… if you were gonna have my ring, I’d want it to be one that was meant for you.”

He lets that idea settle between the two of you. Suddenly, slowly, you’re reaching forward, laying your smaller hand over his thick, rough one. 

“Logan. I want to be with you. In every way you’ll have me, all of it. I don’t know if it was fate or god or plain luck that threw us back together but I’m certain I don’t wanna waste this opportunity. I’d love you in every lifetime, in every timeline. I can’t be without you ever again, I think it would just kill me - and if I know you, you feel the same.”

He doesn’t even bother arguing because he does. When you turned up on his doorstep a scant couple of hours ago a part of his soul had been healed; your existence like kintsugi to piece him back together. A man made of adamantium and gold. 

“I’d like that,” he manages. 

“Yeah?” Your eyes glimmer with a hope which he’s not been privy to for a long time now. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, okay then,” you say with a smile, and drink your coffee. 

The two of you do not take it slow. How does one take it slow when your soulmate comes back into your life? You are not exactly the same person he once knew, but you understand each other in every way which matters. Your souls fit together like puzzle pieces. The two of you are whole again. 

Then again, perhaps he doesn’t need the version of you he used to have. Maybe, now, he needs this you - rougher around the edges, a little older and more wary, a fit which is better for him. Someone who can put up with his bullshit as Al once bluntly put it. 

You barely spend a night apart. You stay over with him on Wade’s pullout (inciting an input of, “something the two of you had better do, we can’t afford a kid on my income—!” before Logan had hurled a water bottle at him) meeting up with him after his shift is done in the small hours, getting something to eat at one of the greasy spoons which remain open. He devours full plates of fatty food; you stick to slices of pie which you feed him bites of from your fork. When you get back to the apartment you cuddle up on the uncomfortable mattress which folds from the sofa and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

He sleeps pretty well nowadays. 

The two of you only realise you haven’t kissed yet when you do it for the first time. You’re making a coffee run, tugging on his jacket because you like the smell of cigar smoke and it’s thicker than yours. A little act of intimacy which has become commonplace. 

“Same as usual?” 

“Mm-hm.”

“Boring,” you make an exaggeration of a sigh, before leaning over the back of the sofa to press your lips to his. He automatically leans into it, tilting his head up so that he can meet you; it’s a chaste little thing, a peck between two people who will only be parted for a moment, but you pull back in surprise when you realise what’s just happened. 

“Oh!” you say with delight, eyes sparkling.

Your hand slips around his neck to cradle him, fingers playing with the hair at his nape. You gently pull him back for another. Longer this time. Lips slip together, moving carefully in something a little deeper. When you break for a moment it’s Logan who pulls you back. This third kiss is on the brink of hungry. He slides his tongue to swipe against your mouth and you let out a happy little hum at the intrusion. 

His arm curls around your back. With a little tug he pulls you over the back of the sofa and into his lap, making you yelp with glee. His mouth returns to yours, crushing, greedy for any little noises you’re able to make. You relax into it and are happy to take whatever he gives you. 

Wade finds you making out on the couch like a pair of teenagers, coffee forgotten. He does not let Logan live it down for a week. 

The apartment is fine, but not a long term solution. Wade and Al are constant presences that stops the two of you being fully at ease together. Logan knows that invitation to go to the mansion is always there, but it’s a while before he takes it - he really isn’t sure what he’ll feel, being back at a place he last saw burned to the ground because of his pigheadedness. Might just break him all over again. 

But ah, when you nock your fingers in the spaces between his, he can face anything. 

One night, exhausted and full of diner food, he agrees to go back to yours - the two of you have had a late night coffee meaning you’re still a tiny bit buzzed, a little too much to fall asleep on the pullout. Instead you get a taxi to yours, near enough, tipping the driver well when he drops you in the middle of a random street and choosing to walk the last minutes hand-in-hand.

The mansion is quiet. Everyone is mostly asleep. And Logan does feel strange being back here, but it isn’t a bad strange. Just another aspect of this new life he has to compartmentalise. 

You drag him through low-lit halls, confident in the steps which will lead you back to your room; he recalls a similar journey from his own timeline in the night you first hooked up, smuggling him to your bed down the corridors all wandering hands and breathless kisses and giddy giggles; but there’s no part about you that wants to hide this. 

You’d show your Logan off to the world. 

You’ve tried to make the room your own, he can tell. It’s pretty big and spacious. Good view. Has an ensuite which he plans on monopolising. He shucks off his clothes and sleeps in just his boxers, arms holding you to him so he can feel every part of your body against his. His chest hair bristles between your shoulder blades and you hum contentedly. 

He agrees to come to breakfast the next morning and, to their credit, people are good at not staring. The members of the team he recognises from his past keep their distance unless he seeks to close it. Hank gives him a smile. 

“Good to see you, Logan.”

“Mmm,” he manages. Laura comes down to grab something to eat and lights up when she sees him. She gives him a hug which skews on the side of awkward but he’s grateful to receive it, and he can see how pleased you are watching this development. 

He comes around more and more often. 

Less time spent at the apartment with Wade - who constantly complains about the fact and Logan cannot tell if he’s sincere or not - more living in the pocket of you. He helps you sort out the furniture in the room so that there’s more space; you’re moving a chest of drawers to another corner together when a photo falls out from behind them. Trapped against the wall for years. Long forgotten. 

“Oh,” you say, lifting it up and bringing it to your hand with a wave. Your face twists into something strange and bittersweet, a mask Logan isn’t quite sure how to comprehend, but he quickly understands why when he joins you. 

It’s a picture of the two of you. 

Not exactly the two of you, of course; the ones of you who lived in this timeline. Logan is posing on the back of his Harley, you’re propped up on the seat next to him with your head thrown back in laughter. The two of you look… young. This must have been taken when you first started going out. 

Your thumb caresses the photo in a movement he’s familiar with. 

“Huh. Looks like we were together here, too. Who’da thunk it,” you mutter.

He slips an arm around you then because he’s feeling oddly sentimental. It’s reassuring. No matter what timeline it is, there’s a you who loves him and a him who loves you. A simple and irrefutable truth, like the fact that the sun rises every day or the moon moves the tides. 

“Apparently Magneto got me in the late noughties. Feels like a bit of a pathetic way to go, but diverging timelines, I guess.”

Logan knows that in this timeline, he stuck around for a while after. Poor bastard, he thinks. Having to live those years without you. That’s a misery he understands all too fucking well. 

But not any more. 

You leave the photo on your dresser, loathe to throw it away, and continue moving furniture to make room for the TV you just bought. Logan hates sharing the one in the living room, especially when the hockey’s on.

Eventually Logan is spending so much time with you he’s barely living at Wade’s any more. You’ve suggested they’d be happy to have him back in the mansion for a “teaching job” like you have, though he knows there’s never much teaching involved, more helping kids learn to defend themselves without too much collateral damage. Still it’s a fair chunk of change better than his current miserable doorman’s salary and it means he’d be living at more sociable hours.

Plus he’d get to move in with you, an idea you’re both secretly happy about. 

So he hands in his notice at the bar and packs the scant few belongings he has at Wilson’s into a cardboard box from Bad Dragon, which is strangely the only one Wade could find him (“god Peanut that’s so weird, oh well!”). Looks around the apartment he’s called home for some time, feels not entirely pleased to be leaving it. 

“And remember sweetie, if it all goes incredibly wrong and you realise the place you’ve belonged the whole time is on my undoubtedly piss-soaked pull out sofa bed, Al and I will be happy to have you back with minimal taunting.”

Logan fixes him with a look. 

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” The word is odd coming from his mouth but not insincere. Wade goes to say something that’s no doubt stupid and inappropriate, however he softens at the last moment. 

“Any time. Go get ‘em, tiger, I’m rooting for you.”

You’ve moved your stuff so he can have a side of the closet, and drawers in the dresser, and he resumes his life with you. 

It takes only a couple of days for him to settle and realise how much he prefers this. Living with you properly. How, really, he couldn’t stand to be apart from you. How he wants to be there for every second, hear every laugh which drips from you, comfort you whenever something threatens to ruin your happiness. 

He falls asleep with you wrapped in his arms every night. Wakes up with you there. Pretty fucking perfect if you ask him. 

There’s nothing special about the morning when you first make love except for the fact it’s the morning when you first make love. It’s a border the two of you haven’t quite crossed yet. Almost as if you’re both afraid to make the commitment, like it may break you apart; there’s perhaps an underlying fear that you’re being unfaithful to your partners from your own timelines. That being together like that dishonours their memory. 

It’s a salve, then, that the longer you’ve been together the more you realise that you don’t love each other as a stand-in for the ones who died, but entirely on each other’s own merits. He doesn’t look at you and see the body he held in the manor. He sees someone who he’d protect, give his life to, become a dog for because he’s utterly in love with this you, the one who was so happy to find him in the Void, the one who patched him back together when he was at his most broken. 

There’s nothing to second guess in this relationship. It is the most solid foundation he’s ever had, and from the way you look at him every morning as if he’s hung the stars, you feel the same. 

That morning he’s holding you particularly tight. It’s a Sunday, the quietest day at the mansion, and the two of you are in bed later than you’d usually be. You’re both awake because you’re pressing more and more into each other’s bodies, nestling together like nesting dolls. His arm slung around your waist, hips against the swell of your ass. 

You shift slightly and he feels his cock harden in interest. Why wouldn’t it? Most beautiful person in the whole world right here in his bed. He might be old but he’s not a fool. 

He’s aware your hips are moving again, pressing yourself into him harder. He lets out a quiet, gruff laugh. 

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Mmm, maybe I am, Howlett. What are you gonna do about it?”

You squeak with laughter as he surges upwards, pinning your hands to the mattress either side of your head so that he can look down at you. Such a pretty picture beneath him. Hair all fanned out, eyes sleepy and sexy, ready to take in the syrupy-slow pace of the morning. 

His lips press into yours softly but firm. You hum into the kiss, slipping your wrists from his grasp so that you can wrap your arms around his broad neck and tug him closer. Your legs slowly match pace, looping at his waist. His cock is free to press against your clothed core now and he doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity; he grinds down, never letting it distract from the kiss for a second, even smiling into it when he can feel the blunt head of his dick catch your clit. You gasp. 

“Logan…”

Oh yes, that’s it. That’s the voice. He could listen to you say his name a million times and it would still be the sweetest sound in the whole fucking universe. 

He kisses you again and again, getting more fierce now. Tongues slide together and you moan into his mouth. Teeth clack with the force of it. He wants every sense to be drowned in you. Your smell, your taste, your touch. You’re holding him so tightly it’s like you’re worried you’ll just float away from the bliss of it all.

He’d never let that happen. He’ll keep you right here in this bed, forever, if you’d let him. 

With a display of telekinesis he’s not expecting, Logan finds himself on his back. You stare down at him with wide, hungry eyes, and he’s never been more turned on in his entire life. 

“Can I suck your cock?” you ask breathlessly, and he finds himself huffing out a laugh because fuck, as if you’d ever have to ask. You take his meaning and giggle before you start to make your way down the plain of his chest. A kiss dropped on the top of his pectoral, followed by you moving that sweet mouth around one of his nipples to play with it. Logan huffs and arches into your touch like a schoolgirl. You use your teeth to continue the trail, tracing around his abs - which have become less pronounced ever since he started eating right, and you’ve often expressed your pleasure at this fact - mouthing at where his muscles shape his Apollo’s belt. 

Your hand goes to palm his cock through his boxers and he has to make a concentrated effort not to come. It’s been a while since he was touched properly like this, and though he used to be able to go all night when he was a younger man, he truly doesn’t know if he has it in him today.

You seem delighted by this development though. Holding his gaze you slowly drag his waistband down to his thighs, watching in delight as his cock bobs up, half-hard. You take him in hand and pump him lazily, languidly, enjoying every stroke which makes him firmer. You prop yourself up on your free arm, elbow on the mattress and palm cradling your jaw, eyes on him like he’s the show of the century.  

“Handsome, handsome, handsome man,” you sigh, dreamily. 

“Old man,” he chuckles. 

“Not mutually exclusive.”

He has to concede that with the way you’re looking at him like you might eat him alive.  

When he feels your mouth around his cock his brain almost short-circuits. It’s warm and wet and willing, your tongue gliding along the thick vein you find there before caressing his head. Logan grunts, fisting the blankets, and a familiar snik has you looking up. You grin around his shaft when you see his claws have popped out from the intensity of his gripping hands. 

Pleased, you continue with your work. You bob up and down as the fire builds in his belly, a low heat which is soon bubbling over when he feels you press the tip of your tongue into his slit, humming with pleasure as the taste of his pre floods you. Logan is aware he’s beginning to tighten in a way which suggests that if you don’t stop now things will be over entirely too soon.

Claws retracting, his hand comes to grab your hair. His cock is enveloped in the sweet velvet of your throat, in fact he can feel himself brush against your uvula, and when you look up at him like that he almost gives up completely. He powers through though, carefully guiding you up and off. You wipe your spit-soaked mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Oh… was it not…?” you don’t voice the word ‘good’ but it hangs there anyway. Logan rumbles with a laugh.

“Fuck, it was the best thing I’ve felt in years. Wanna fuck you properly, though. Come up here and sit on my face, baby. Need to taste you.”

Your eyes go wide. Like he’s come up with the idea of the century.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay.”

There is nothing elegant about the way you pull yourself up the length of his body, but it is filled with a primal need which is far more sexy. You pause at his abdomen in order to rub your soaked cunt across his abs a couple of times. Fucking the muscles there. You throw your head back in gratification and continue up along his chest before a strong thigh is planted either side of his face.

Looking up at you from his back is his favourite view. Logan wastes no time in clamping an arm around either one of your legs and pulling you cunt-first onto his tongue, you gasp and writhe in delight.

“Oh fuck, Logan!” you hiss. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the voice he wants to hear. All strung out with sex and pleasure because of him. He fucking buries himself in you. Kisses your pussy sloppily, changing his attention from between your clit and your folds, no rhythm to his need. When your fingers scratch his scalp in your need to grab a fistful of hair he thinks he might be in heaven. His hips buck into the air, imagining the action of taking you before he’s even properly started. You start to fuck yourself on his face. Hips grinding down onto his beard, groaning at the stubble there which prickles and pleases.

“I’m gonna--”

“Fuckin’ do it,” he mumbles from between your legs. You cum in his hot, wanting mouth; all the furniture in the room rattles as you let out a little involuntary telekinetic jolt.

You are not done. This was the appetiser. Eyes still ravenous you peel your pussy off of his face, sweeping down to kiss him so you can taste yourself there. Moaning in delight at the musk.

“Wanna ride you…”

“Anything,” he breathes because, yeah. He will do anything you ask, anything you want. He’s a loyal hound at your heel. 

When you take his cock it’s with less teasing this time, more intent. Spreading your legs wide you line him up with your entrance and slowly sink down. He wants to grab. Your flesh, the blankets, anything. Sensing his desperation you hold out your hands when he’s far enough inside you and he meets them in midair, pressing his fingers between yours, knuckles white from the effort.

Hips nestle against his. You begin to move.

“Logan…” 

Your name leaves his lips in a similar whisper, dragged out through his throat from his very heart. You look down at him, eyes clear and wide and lucid despite the heady pleasure.

“Logan. I love you. I love you.”

Yes, you love this him. Not as a stand in for the Logan you lost, not as some sort of idol on a pedestal, but because you’ve fallen for him just like he’s fallen for you. He is worth loving. He is. He is worthy of you. It is a realisation which hits him with the force of a bomb. He grips you tighter.

“I love you too,” he confesses. He feels his pulse sync with yours from where he’s sheathed inside you, grips your hands tighter because he knows you can take it; you hold him back just as hard. Your hips rock in a wild rhythm as he brings his own up to meet them. It’s hard to know who’s fucking who, it’s wild and desperate and raw, but you keep chanting those words as a manta.

Logan. I love you. Logan. I love you.

He only lets go of one of your hands when he can feel he’s about to finish, dropping it to your clit in order to press rough circles there. You come messily over his cock and he spills inside you, pumping you full of him. Marking you as his.

You collapse into his arms, sweaty and spent. He holds you with arms like iron. Cock still inside, softening now, but he doesn’t want to to break the contact.

You pull back after a moment of breathing together, propping your elbow on his chest.

“Hey.”

He smiles back, a real smile, something he’s not been truly able to produce for years.

“Hey.”

“I meant it, you know. I love you,” you trace a pattern on his collarbone, silly and intimate. 

“I know. So did I.”

“Mmm, okay, good.” You kiss him and hum into it. “We should get up.”

“Probably.”

“But let’s not.”

“Sounds fuckin’ good to me.”

You laugh, and oh you are the sunlight. 

The summer heat is cloying but Wade has set up some parasols on the top of his building to hide under, he did not specify where he got them but a few local restaurants seemed to be without on the journey back to the apartment. The group of you are definitely not meant to be up here, but with the weather so hot, nobody cares enough to cause a fuss. 

It’s a small gathering. Logan stands at the grill because it’s where he’s most comfortable, supervising the chaos. That awful mutt of Wade’s is looking up at him with expectant eyes and, when he’s sure nobody is watching, he throws her a hamburger which she goes crazy for. 

And it’s… nice. He didn’t even complain when Wade put on the 1989 album. A few of his old roommate’s friends, a couple of them now mutual - Piotr is a pretty relaxed guy to be in the mansion with, and the two teens who Wade somehow befriended get along with Laura. You’re talking with Peter who for some reason is always at these gatherings but he’s probably the least offensive person here. 

He says something which makes you laugh, and you look over to Logan as you both settle. You gesture at the bottle of soda in your hand, an invitation; he nods. 

You stand, rummage in the cooler, and close the gap. He eyes the glass bottle of Dr Pepper with disapproval; you give him a playful shove. 

“C’mon, be good. You just got your one month chip. Keep it up, we’re proud of you.”

He grumbles his acceptance and takes it. It is pretty refreshing to be fair. He settled the hand he’s not using on the grill around your waist, pulling you so that you settle nice and snug against his flank. You grin up at him, pleased with the show of affection.

“Hey handsome,” you chuckle. 

“Hey gorgeous.”

“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been, you know that?”

Day by day he’s letting himself believe it. That he’s the kind of man who could make someone as amazing as you happy, as over-the-moon with joy as you make him. 

Before he can answer Yukio appears by the grill, pointing a Polaroid camera in your faces. 

“Smile!” she says, and the two of you do, because she’s a nice kid and you don’t wanna let her down. She snaps a photo and watches it quickly develop, shaking it loudly in the air before admiring her work. 

“Awww, cute! I hope me and Ellie are like you guys when we’re your age. Here ya go!”

She passes over the photo before skipping away to find her next victim. Logan has to try and hide a laugh at the indignant splutters that are escaping you. 

“Our age…?!” you mutter, but soften when you look down at the picture. It’s nice. The two of you make a good-looking pair that’s for damn sure, he can almost understand Wade’s insistence of “letting him watch one night”. But most importantly, the two of you look… happy. With each other. With this slice of life. 

“This is a great one,” you declare. 

“Yeah,” he says, but he’s looking at you. 

When you get home tonight, late by the time you pull up to the mansion, you’ll toe off your shoes as you walk in through the door like you always do, but this time you’ll pause to put this photo in front of the one you found behind the chest of drawers, and Logan will feel content that he never has to be without you again. 

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk

[himbosandhardwear]

It's a stupid fucking scheme, and he never would've gone along with it if he was sober, but she really didn't give him much time to contemplate it, she just shoved him into the pantry and yelled for Eddie to come into the kitchen.

Now he's got his head pressed against the slats while Rob asks Eddie if he thinks Steve is cute. Like they're in the fifth grade.

“Uhh,” Eddie drawls, clearly confused and put on the spot.

“C'mon,” she coaxes, “you can tell me, gay to lesbian solidarity.”

That's terrible, using that to weasel the information out of him.

“I mean…sure, I guess he's alright,” Eddie admits. “He's not really my type though.”

Oh.

Well…that's…fine.

“Seriously?” Rob asks like she doesn't believe him. “You don't think he's hot?”

“I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers, but, yeah, seriously. Not my thing. He's too…I don't know, high maintenance or something. I like my guys a little more, like, dingy.”

Steve nods to himself in understanding. He should've seen that coming but he hadn't. It's sobering.

Robin isn't finished arguing her case, the beautiful idiot. “Steve's dingy!” She yells, making Eddie laugh. “He is! He's plenty dingy! And he has other fine qualities! Like, uh, loyalty! And being helpful!”

“Are you trying to set me up with your painfully straight best friend or a golden retriever?”

“Steve's not-”

“Okay!” Steve shouts, bursting out of the pantry, yes he understands the irony, with both hands waving. “This was fun but let's wrap it up.”

Eddie stares at him, wide-eyed, but it quickly melts into anger. “What the fuck, Buckley? What kind of weird, pointless ambush is this?”

“It wasn't pointless, you fucking troglodyte. If you were paying attention-”

“Rob.” Steve didn't mean for his voice to do that but it has the intended effect. She clamps her mouth shut and pouts. “Sorry,” he says to both of them. To Eddie, “Seriously, it was a stupid idea. We're both drunk and being stupid, just forget this happened.”

Unfortunately, it doesn't look as though Eddie is going to forget any time soon. In fact, it's more like he's studying them both for clues, the wheels turning despite the whiskey and weed gumming them up.

Steve's about to turn tail and run when the lightbulb goes off. Eddie doesn't look like he believes the conclusion he's come to but he's figured it out nonetheless. “Wait. No. Seriously? No way.”

His eyeballs are aching. He pushes against them, causing starbursts behind the eyelids. “Can we please not do this?” He begs.

Eddie sputters. “If this is me finding out you're queer, Steve Harrington, then yes, we most certainly are!” He looks at Robin but she's stonewalling him in solidarity.

The fact that neither of them has said anything to the contrary is damning enough. Steve might as well have ‘bisexual’ tattooed across his forehead.

“Holy shit.” Eddie snatches Robin by the wrist, she tries to wrestle her way out but he's jangling her about like a rag doll. “Holy shit! You were trying to set us up! Holy shit!”

“Let go, asshole! You ruined it, remember?”

He does let her go, so he can stare at Steve in horror. “No! Fuck! Steve, I was bullshitting! I was lying my ass off, I swear!” He tries to round the corner of the island but Steve moves to keep it between them, unsure of this sudden development. Eddie stops when it's clear Steve isn't reciprocating.

They stare at each other until Robin breaks the awkward silence. “Prove it.”

Eddie shakes off the cobwebs. “Huh? I mean, how? I wasn't exactly doodling Mr Edward Harrington into my journals.”

She crosses her arms. “Then I guess we're done here.”

Steve doesn't point out that she's not actually in charge of this situation because it seems to motivate Eddie into action. He gives them the ‘one moment’ finger and then dashes outside.

“You believe him?” She mumbles.

“I don't know. At this point I'd probably settle for him looking to turn me into a bedpost notch.”

“Have some self-respect.”

“Nah.”

Eddie comes back, dragging Jeff by the arm.

“Tell him!” He shouts, finger pointed at Steve.

“Tell him what?”

“The thing that shall not be spoken.”

Jeff raises one eyebrow. “How am I supposed to-”

“Oh my god, just tell him.”

“No.”

Eddie blanches. “No? What do you mean, no?”

“You made me swear.”

“So?! I'm unswearing you! This is important! I need you to unfuck this situation, pronto! You can give him all the gory details, I don't give a fuck, just tell him!”

A gleam sparkles in Jeff's eye. “Every gory detail?”

Now Eddie, correctly wary, hesitates, glancing at Steve nervously. “Well, maybe not all-”

Jeff interrupts Eddie, turning fully toward Steve with, “Eddie is bananas in love with you. Probably has been since school, but it's gotten so much worse since this spring. I'd say seventy five percent of the songs he's written are about you. He's also got a fully fleshed out fantasy life involving you, including, but not limited to, five adopted Vietnamese kids, two cats and a dog.” He turns back to Eddie. “Can I go back outside now? Those hotdogs aren't going to eat themselves.”

Eddie, eyes closed, waves him away.

Before he's fully out of the kitchen, he turns and says, “Oh, also he has a VHS copy of one of your swim meets. Bought it off of some AV kid for sixty bucks.”

Steve's stomach, already roiling with excited nerves, erupts in butterflies.

Eddie does not notice this, head buried under crossed arms on the island.

“I think we've swung too far in the other direction,” Rob points out, oblivious to Steve's excitement. When she finally does notice, it's met with rolled eyes. “Of course you're into that. Absolute freaks, the both of you. You know what? Good. Take each other off the market. My job here is done.”

She hops off the stool and leaves them alone.

Eddie cautiously pokes his head up, sees Steve smiling at him and jolts up straight like a prairie dog. “You believe me?”

He wants to toy with him for a minute, a touch of revenge for the dismissal he made earlier. “What swim meet was it?” He asks, like a test.

Without missing a beat, Eddie answers, “March of ‘85. You beat some kid from West Jefferson by four seconds.”

Steve preens. Eddie isn't bullshitting, he really did beat that kid from West Jeff. Only someone who gave a shit to pay attention would know that off hand. The whiskey makes another appearance in his bloodstream, giving him the courage to lean over the counter, into Eddie's space.

“So…you like me?”

Eddie has this incredibly endearing habit of hiding behind his hair when he’s nervous, it takes Steve out at the knees every time he sees it. “I'm gonna be really pissed off if this is some convoluted prank but…yeah, man, I fucking like you. Romantically. In case that was in question.”

“Mmm,” Steve agrees. “What are our kids' names?”

Eddie closes his eyes against Steve's smug stare. “I hate Jeff so much.”

“I don't. I'll thank him at our wedding. Maybe we name one of the kids after him.”

When Eddie peeks at him, one eyed, Steve does his best to convey his amusement and fondness both.

His body goes lax, finally, at seeing Steve take all it seriously. “Okay, so I like the idea of all of them keeping their Vietnamese names, except one who we name James.”

“After Hetfield?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Some time later, after making out in the pantry for a while, Steve vetoes James, but only because he doesn't want the poor kid to grow up with a complex.

“We’ll call the dog Jimmy.”

“Cool.”

[these-lovely-monsters]

The Alien's Experiment

[NSFW | 18+]

Characters: m!alien x f!reader

Content: oral (f!receiver), sex experiment

⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ● ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋅ ⋆

Imagine you meet an alien who’s never seen a human before. He’s insatiably curious about this foreign creature and wants to explore every inch of your body. He slices off your clothes with a few quick flicks of his razor sharp tail before you have a chance to protest.

You forget what you were going to say though when he reaches out and grabs one of your breasts. He gently squeezes and cups it, testing out the weight and feel of it in his palm. Then he pinches a nipple between two long fingers, rolling it around experimentally. When you gasp and let out a moan, he cocks his head to the side, intrigued by your reaction. He lifts his other hand and does the same to the other nipple, nodding thoughtfully when you moan again.

Then he trails his fingers down your stomach, stopping at your belly button to inspect this strange, seemingly pointless hole. You squirm away, giggling when he does it because it tickles. He tries to do it again but you push his hand away. So he huffs and moves down to your slick pussy, dragging those long fingers through your wetness. You jolt at the sensation as he brushes your clit in the process. 

Drawing his fingers up to his mouth, he flicks out his long tapered tongue to taste you on them. Humming thoughtfully at the flavor, he dives between your legs and licks between your thighs, trying to lap up more of your juices. You groan loudly and throw your head back in pleasure as he swirls his tongue all around your vulva, occasionally dipping inside your vagina. He likes the sounds you make and wants you to make more.

You reach down between you to circle your clit with your own fingers, showing him just where you like to be touched. When you start bucking your hips, seeking more, he flings your hand aside and replaces it with his own. Rubbing slow circles just like you did, he lifts his head so he can watch you as he does it again and again, cataloging your every gasp and whimper.

When he sees more wetness dripping out of you, he pushes his tongue all the way inside you until it reaches your cervix and you arch your back, crying out in ecstasy at the sudden fullness. He pauses, pulling his tongue out so he can look to see if maybe he caused you pain. But you whine pathetically and grab the back of his head, shoving him back between your legs, needing more of him. He seems to understand and resumes tongue fucking you while picking up his pace on your clit.

Before you know it, you’re fully riding his face as the most intense orgasm slams into you and cum gushes out of you, splashing onto his jaw and chest. Once the aftershocks finally subside, you slump in his hold, absolutely boneless. When you finally come back to yourself, you find him watching you intently with an excited gleam in his eyes. You're his little experiment now and he definitely plans to do more tests on you.

[yoursjaeyun]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬.

𝐩airing. bf!jay x fmr

𝐠enre. angst, fluff, suggestive ( tiniest bit ) | post-sex-argument kinda thing

𝐰arnings. not that many tbh… nicknames, lots of kissing, jay being clingy, lmk if i need to add more.

𝐰c. 1k+

𝐚/𝐧. yes i wrote another argument with jay drabble leave me alone pls . :)

you lie on your side, staring at the wall, the last remainders of anger still simmering in your chest. the sheets are tangled around your legs, sticky with sweat and other remnants of the night. you can feel jay's presence behind you, his warm body felt in sharp contrast to the lingering cold tension on your skin.

the argument keeps replaying in your mind like a stuck record. the raised voices and harsh words now seem pointless. your heart is knotted with frustration, and even though there's been a spark between you, your anger hasn't fully faded.

you hear jay shift behind you, the bed creaking under his weight. a moment later, his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. his breath is warm against the nape of your neck, but instead of comforting you, it only fuels your frustration. how can he be so calm? so casual? after everything that was said.

“still mad?” his voice is soft.

you bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. the last thing you want is for him to think that he can just brush everything under the rug with a few well-placed kisses and whispered apologies.

but jay has always had a knack for finding the cracks in your armor. his lips find the curve of your shoulder, trailing lazy kisses up your neck. you shiver despite yourself, your body betraying the anger still coiled in your chest.

“y/n,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a velvet caress that sends a shiver down your spine. “come on, baby, talk to me.”

you let out a sigh, your irritation slipping through in the sound. “i don’t want to talk to you right now.”

his lips pause in their journey up your neck, and you feel him pull back slightly. there’s a moment of silence, and you can practically feel the gears turning in his mind as he tries to figure out how to approach this. jay is many things—charming, witty, endlessly patient—but right now, you don’t want any of those things. you want him to understand how much he hurt you.

“i messed up. i shouldn’t have said those things. i’m sorry.” he says finally, his voice losing some of its playful edge.

you close your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. you’re still so angry, but there’s a part of you that hates feeling this way, hates the distance that’s grown between you two because of a stupid argument.

“you always do this,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “you say things you don’t mean, and then you act like everything’s fine. its not.”

there’s a pause, and for a moment, you think he might just drop it, let the silence stretch out between you like a chasm neither of you are brave enough to cross. but then he sighs, and you feel his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer.

“y/n, i’m sorry. i was stupid, and i said things i didn’t mean. i don’t want to lose you over something so dumb.” you could tell he regretted it now, especially by the tone of his voice.

you want to stay mad, to hold on to the anger a little longer, but it’s hard when he’s being like this—when he’s holding you like he never wants to let go.

but instead of responding, you push his arms away and slip out of bed, the cool air hitting your bare skin as you stand. without a word, you grab the discarded shirt from the floor and pull it over your head, barely covering yourself as you make your way toward the bathroom. you can feel jay's eyes on you, but you don’t turn around. you’re still too angry, too raw.

you hear him sigh behind you, a soft sound filled with frustration and regret. a moment later, his footsteps follow you, and before you even think to close the bathroom door, his arms are around your waist again, pulling you back against him. his lips find your neck, pressing soft, apologetic kisses to your skin.

“y/n, please,” he whispers, his voice laced with guilt. “this is the last thing i’d ever want to happen between us—” “you made it happen. this is your mess.” you cut him off.

you take your hands off of the edge of the sink, looking up at him from the mirror, trying to focus on anything but the feel of his lips against your skin, the warmth of his body pressed against yours. but it’s impossible to ignore the way your heart beats just a little faster when he’s this close.

“you can’t keep hurting me and then expect everything to be okay because you apologized,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “it’s not that simple.”

“i know it’s not. but i love you, and i’ll do whatever it takes to make this right. just... don’t push me away.” he says, and there’s a tremor in his voice that makes your heart clench.

his words hang in the air, heavy with sincerity, and for a moment, you feel your anger slip away, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. you don’t want to fight anymore. you just want to be held, to feel like everything will be okay.

you stay silent, allowing jay to cling to you as you both begin to clean yourselves up. his hands are gentle as he helps, and the quiet between you is soothing, a way to ease the tension without words.

jay doesn’t push you for conversation, his presence a steady comfort as he quietly assists. he’s patient. the room slowly returns to its normal state, and the silence between you starts to feel less oppressive, more like a shared space where both of you can catch your breath.

finally, as you finish up and the room is back in order, jay breaks the silence. “do you want some tea before bed?” he asks softly, a hint of hope in his voice. “it can help you sleep better.”

you nod, the gesture small but meaningful. “yeah, that would be nice.”

jay’s face brightens with relief, and he moves to prepare the tea. you watch from the edge of the kitchen, the familiarity of his actions a comforting reminder of the normalcy you both seek. he works efficiently, filling the kettle, selecting your favorite tea, and letting the water come to a boil.

when the tea is ready, he brings a steaming cup to you. you take the cup from him, the warmth of the ceramic soothing against your cold fingers. jay settles beside you, his gaze attentive as you sip the tea slowly, savoring the calm it brings.

the room is quiet, the only sounds being the gentle clinking of the cup and the soft hum of jay’s breathing. he watches you with an unreadable expression as you finish your tea.

as you place the empty cup down, you finally turn to him, your eyes meeting his with a gentle smile. he waits, his gaze steady, and you can see the vulnerability in his eyes.

leaning in, you press a gentle kiss to his lips, the touch tender—and jay’s arms instantly wrap around you, pulling you close as he returns the kiss, a sigh of relief escaping him.

the kiss deepens, his lips moving in unison against yours as his hands slide up under your shirt, his touch firm but gentle. your arms wrapping around his neck as you both lose yourselves in the kiss.

you break the kiss, both of you breathless and flushed, and a soft giggle escapes your lips. jay’s eyes sparkle with such affection, and he pulls you into a warm embrace, holding you close as you snuggle against him.

“you’re cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs, his voice light and teasing.

“shut up,” you laugh, your voice muffled against his chest as you hug him tighter.

jay chuckles, his hands stroking your back in a soothing rhythm, until there was a little silence again, as if he was trying to find the right words to say. “i’m sorry, y/n. i really am.”

you look up at his lips again and only nodded, caressing his cheek with your thumb. “its okay, but if it happens again. there will be consequences.” you raise your eyebrows

“yeah? what kind of consequences?” he teases and you roll your eyes as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “you’ll see,” you chuckle.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

YOURSJAEYUN est. 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[reidmania]

Hey😁 you said request were open and i was wondering you could write a spencer reid fic where him and the reader get into a petty argument or something and he says something a little mean and has to grovel to the reader because she’s upset? I love your work by the way and you can add or take away whatever you want👍😊

not so funny | spencer reid

summary; after a rough day, Spencer accidentally takes his frustration out on you leading to a lot of guilt and grovelling.

warnings; spencer is mean, fem reader, he calls reader a bitch but he makes up for it, arguments, hurt x comfort, crying, it ends up being pretty cute.

an; ITS MY BIRTHDAY GUYS!!!!

“Come on spencer” You almost groaned as your voice itched with irritation, your hands flew up before dropping by your side. You were stood in the kitchen, trying to make dinner but the pasta on the stove and vegetables half cut on the counter were long forgotten.

Spencer spluttered, “You aren’t listening to me!” He groaned, bringing his hands up to his face dragging them down over his eyes as he turned his body away from you to the side. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes — this entire argument was pointless.

It started all because Spencer had come home after a bad day and was slightly snappy with you, just briefly and when you made a joke about it — he didn’t seem to take it as a joke.

“It was a joke — God” You sigh, turning back to the vegetables you were dicing before he walked in the door after work, but honestly with the annoyance bubbling in your chest you doubted you should be responsible for a knife right now.

His eyes widened, “But it’s not funny! You were just being a bitch” He mutters out, shaking his head before the realisation of his words fell on him the same time they fell on you.

Your entire face fell. Never had Spencer called you anything like that — he had commented repeatedly how much it pissed him off when peoples partners called them names like that. He had never been anything other than gentle with you.

He said your name as his eyes fell on your face. Before he could even open his mouth to apologise you were pushing past him to walk away. His hands reached out to grab ahold of your wrist as he repeated your name but you only flung his arm away from yours and you continued walking to the bedroom.

Spencer stood with his head in his hands as he knew better than to follow you right now. All the anger he had felt from the day that had built up slipped away when he saw the look on your face. — Hurt. He hurt you all because he had a crappy day.

He heard the bedroom door slam shut causing his shoulders to flinch slightly. He wanted nothing more than to follow you and spend the rest of the night apologising to you, he didn’t think there was anything he could do to express how sorry he was.

But he knew better than that. He knew it would just annoy you more if he walked in there right now and that was the last thing he wanted.

Instead he spent the next hour in the kitchen finishing the dinner you had started making — He knew wouldn’t taste nearly half as good as it would if you made it, his cooking skills no where near as good but he found himself doing it anyways.

He relished in the slight distraction but it only did so much as his mind continued travelling to you and the words that had left his mouth. He didn’t mean them. You weren’t a bitch. You were nothing of the sorts and the fact that he had even let that slip sent guilt coursing through his veins.

The day had been nothing but shit. To say the least. Everything was going wrong and Spencer couldn’t shake the annoyance. It didn’t help that right before leaving he had gotten into an argument with Morgan about something on a past case.

He didn’t mean to take his bad day out on you, he never did.

He finished the dinner, but the appetite he once had disappeared as it replaced the spot in his stomach with nothing but guilt. His feet trailed towards the door of your shared bedroom.

Every step was filled with dread as his mind traveled to every possibility. His heart shattered into a thousand little pieces as he heard your soft hiccup through the door.

“Honey?” He brought his hand up to knock on the door gently with his knuckles. His tone was the softest he had used his day — completely the opposite to what it had been the last time he spoke to you.

You didn’t reply but you went quiet. Probably trying to hide the fact you were crying. That made him feel worse — he deserved to feel worse. He knew that.

“Dinner is ready.. Are you hungry” He asked, not pushing his way through the door he was talking to you through. There was a pause on the other side of the door.

You, were curled up on the middle of your bed. Spencer’s hoodie was tugged up over your knees as they pulled to your chest. Your face was blotchy and scarred by the soft tears that stained your cheeks.

You hadn’t been able to shake Spencer’s words no matter how much you tried. You knew he was angry and had a bad day but you couldn’t help but be beyond mad — unfortunately when you are mad it ended in tears.

You wiped the tears from your face as if that would have any effect on the sound of your voice. “No.” You replied, trying to put on the most secure voice you could muster up but it wavered none the less and stayed quiet.

Your heart pounded as you closed in on yourself. “Can I come in?” He asked.

You wanted to say no, push him away and tell him to go fuck yourself, but you couldn’t bring yourself to, a small part of you aching for his comfort no matter how mad you were, you wanted to hear him apologise, even if you failed to believe it.

“Okay.” Your voice was small.

The door was being pushed open gently a moment after and you avoided meeting Spencer’s gaze, keeping your gaze fixated on the plush of the crisp white sheets that covered the bed.

If you did look at him, you would’ve seen his heart break all in his features at the sight of your tear stained face. His feet pattered towards you as he sat down on the edge of the bed, a respectable distance away from you, not wanting to push any boundaries.

“Im sorry” He said quietly, it sounded genuine and it burnt a way into your chest. You never brought your eyes to meet his as your mind failed to comprehend a response. You didn’t have a whole lot to say.

So instead, you just nod.

He frowns. “I am really - Im so sorry.” He said, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, eyes trailing over your face, uncomfortable silence washing over the room as he tried to figure out what to say next. “I had a shit day — which isn’t an excuse. I should’ve never called you that. I shouldn’t have taken my bad day out on you” He muttered.

You nodded curtly. “Okay.” Was all you said in response. There wasn’t a lot you could muster up as despite his apology his words burnt into the back of your mind, leaving a engravememt on your brain.

He frowned deepened. He knew he didn’t deserve your forgiveness and he didn’t expect it. He hurt you and he apologised hated that.

“I love you.” He said softly. Even if you didn’t believe his apology he wanted you to at least believe that he loved you.

You just nodded feeling a lump in your throat as your chest grew impossibly tight. You kept your arms wrapped tightly around your knees, holding them close to your chest almost as if to try and numb the burning sensation that made its way through to your ribcage.

You didn’t answer.

“I’ll leave you a plate in the microwave okay?” He muttered after a moment of silence. The silence dawned heavy and cold. You didn’t bother replying as he stood up.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment before a soft sigh left his lips. “Im really sorry” He apologised again.

You didn’t see him again that night, you assumed he slept on the couch which made you feel slightly bad but you were so.. hurt.

The argument was stupid. He knew that, he knew it was a joke and any other time it wouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest, he hated how the one time it did he took it out on you.

The next day you didn’t see Spencer when you woke up, you assumed he went to work which made a puddle of relief fill your stomach as you realised you were able to self indulge in your feelings while he was away.

You missed him.

The door opened at 7:34, a lot later than when Spencer usually arrived home and for a while you were genuinely considering maybe he wasn’t going to come home.

You turned to face him as he stepped into the kitchen where you were, the same positioning the two of you had been in when the argument first arose.

“Hi.” He said softly, placing his car keys on the counter. You looked over him and guilt fell as you he looked a mess.

He pulled his arm from behind his back, handing you a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. He chewed at his lip nervously as you didn’t say anything but took the flowers from his hand, looking over them.

Your favourites.

“I know flowers aren’t an apology, thats not why I got them” He said quietly, you remembered a conversation you had with him about hating how guys got their girlfriends flowers as an apology — and he agreed, going on to say that guys should be getting flowers constantly.

You perked up slightly as you furrowed your brows in confusion — if not an apology why now.

“The last ones I got you are browning.” He said, reading your look of confusion. Your lips pursed as you looked over at the vase you always kept the flowers Spencer got you in. They were in fact browning.

He dragged his hand through his hair as he placed a grocery bag on the table, before looking back at you. “You aren’t a bitch, you weren’t acting like a bitch, if anything I was.” He said, taking a few things out of the bag.

Your favourite snacks, your favourite drinks and a small velvet box.

Your heart tightened slightly.

He took a step towards you and you stayed in place, pulling your eyes away from the items on the table. “Im really sorry I ever said that. It was stupid and disgusting of me” He hesitantly brought his hand up to your face.

You tensed slightly but didn’t flinch away, allowing him to push strands of hair behind your ear. “You are gorgeous, inside and out. There isn’t a bitchy bone in your body and Im sorry.” He said gently.

“I am so mad at you” You said, the first proper thing you have said to him in days. He knows it shouldn’t but just hearing you talk made his pulse relax slightly — and then speed up all over again.

“Good.” He said gently, “Thats- Its a good thing. You should be mad.” He said softly, “Id never want it to be a situation where you allowed that.. where it happened often enough for you not to be mad. Be mad, mad is good. Don’t be silent” He said as his thumb brushed gently over your cheek.

You hummed. You knew deep down silent treatment was the worst for Spencer, but honestly last night you had nothing to say. “You can yell at me, scream — hit me if you want” His tone was so gentle. You just scoffed, “Im not going to hit you” You said.

He smiled, “I know.”

“You have a lot of making up to do you know.” You pushed out, trying to ignore the way your face instinctively leant into the warmth of his hand, relishing in the soft roughness of his hands.

He nodded, “I’ll do anything, sweet heart.” He said and his tone held nothing but genuine emotion.

“Okay.” You nodded.

“Okay?” He asked.

“Okay.. Spence I just said that” You huffed out. A smile lit his lips, he leant down to place a gentle kiss to the top of your head, you tried to hide the smile on your face.

“Okay.” He repeated making you groan but you were smiling nonetheless.

Spencer spent every second apologising for the next two weeks, buying you everything he saw that he thought you would like and going above and beyond until you physically and verbally said that you forgave him.

[followmybadreligion]

Thinking about bf!art who’s so obsessed with you that it borders unhealthy…

You’re the first thing on his mind in the morning; what do you want for breakfast, is that position you’re sleeping in comfortable, are you going to kiss him good morning or just say the words— all questions he sifts through. He doesn’t even have time to wipe the sleep out of his eyes before you consume his thoughts.

Most of the time, he sits on his side of the bed and gazes at your serene figure glowing softly in the early morning light. He hates to disturb you, knowing how upset you usually are when he does, but seeing you like that never fails to awaken an almost desperate need for you within him. He’ll fight it off for as long as possible, but as you release a deep sigh and shift your head his way, showcasing that pretty fucking face, he just can’t help it. So, in the blink of an eye, he’s pressed his body against you, one arm underneath your torso and the other on top of it, caging you in his warmth. He’ll lay there like that with you, matching your rhymic breathing like it were the beat to his favorite song, until you wake for the day, ready and willing to give him all your love.

And boy is he demanding of your love.

Art's like a battery of sorts when it comes to affection. When you've given him enough, charged him with your kisses, affirmations, or whatever else you were willing to give, he's at his best and brightest, going through the world with a big, lopsided grin and tingles in his chest. This is where he likes to be--- full of your love. However, if he feels as if he hasn't gotten his fair share, and starts feeling a little neglected or ignored, be prepared for a completely different boyfriend.

He'll show his discontent in small ways at first-- way more touching, little whines and grumbles when you're focused on something else, pointless reminiscing just to get you to talk-- all ways of him trying to scratch his itch for your attention. But if all that fails, and you're still not giving him what he wants, he gets more and more demanding. You were working on an important work project? Guess who just shut your computer! You were in the middle of a phone call? Guess who has the overwhelming urge to kiss you now! You were on the way to meet up with a friend? Guess who's not letting you out of the house (at least without a fight)? He just can't help it. When it comes to you and your love, he needs all of it and then some.

But, he's also incredibly aware of how smothering he can be sometimes. It's one of the things he's most insecure about in your relationship, actually.

To him, his want for you never runs dry. He could sit in an empty room, with nothing but you to entertain him, and he'd feel as if he'd just sailed the seven seas. So why don't you feel the same? Why do you constantly seem to push for space? Why don't you want all the love he has for you?

He'll rarely ever bring that insecurity up, though. To him, it's pointless-- you can't make yourself want more of what you already have. Instead, he'll just try to find new ways to present it to you.

Naturally, he likes to show his love through his money and his time.

In the beginning, you had to get used to his on-a-whim, thousand-dollar restaurant dates or his random weekend vacations for the two of you. You had to learn how to accept the designer clothes he bought you, or the big bouquets of roses he sent to your house and your job. You had to learn to lean into having a man who was willing to drop any plans he had the second you called him.

And it was a lot.

Sometimes too much, and Art started to pick up on that.

So he adjusted.

Instead of buying you lavish gifts and taking you fancy places all the time, he started to cut back to maybe once or twice a month (still insane but he's trying). He planned smaller, quieter dates for the two of you, like cooking dinner or baking together, or trying new desert shops around the city, and can you tell this boy really likes to feed you? He began to focus his efforts on being more helpful to you, as well. Need him to pick up some dry cleaning? Done. Sick of washing dishes? He's got it covered. Forgot to order groceries for the week? He's already made a list. Any and everything he could do to make life stress-free for you, he'd do.

And then don't even get me started on the sex.

Art is absolutely drunk on you. Your body, your scent, your voice-- all of it.

Before you two were together, Art was ashamed of the way he lusted after you. It made him feel perverted and dirty sometimes, the way he’d be practically drooling at the slightest glimpse of your shape. He was always the first to view your Instagram stories, (because he had your page notifications on) and at first he told himself that he was just eager to see your cute little selfies or your adorable little fit checks. The amount of cleavage you displayed was just a plus! But soon after, he found himself fiendish over the detail pictures you’d post, showcasing your tight-fitting shirts, or the necklaces that dangled just above your tits, or the low-waisted jeans that curved artfully around your ass. The way you presented yourself was just so enticing to him. A little at a time, just a glimpse per picture. Enough to let his imagination run wild, but not enough to fulfill his fantasies.

So you can imagine that from the time Art got his first fill of you and then on, he was in heaven. You were better than every fantasy, dream, thought- everything he’d ever dreamt up. The second you pulled off his shirt and told him to lay back, that you’d give him what he needed, he was a lovesick puppy under your care, and he loved that. He swore with every command you gave or moan you drew from him, he was falling deeper into you.

However, this also ignited a new passion in him. He had to be the best, just as he felt you were. Had to be good for you, or else what was his purpose?

So, he spent hours and hours studying the porn you watched, trying so desperately to mimic the strokes and moans of the men you got off to. He studied the positions you liked and even did a little research on his own to know which ones would feel the best for you. He wanted to make you throw your head back in bliss, moan uncontrollably, and glow from how good you felt, time and time again, and he was determined to do what it took to make that happen. He'd do it all and then some, and all he needed to hear was you saying his name.

Oh, and speaking of saying his name, that's one of his biggest turn-ons. He likes to say there's a certain tone you use, intentionally or not, that mimics the sultriness of a siren, and he can't stop himself from getting hard every time he hears it. Maybe it's the tone itself, or the fact that you're calling him in the first place, but he can't help the way his mind gets all fuzzy from it, only focusing on your voice and the way your lips move to say the syllable.

There’s nobody else on the planet that has ever, or will ever make Art feel the way you do. You make his body feel ways it never has, make his heart light up with feelings he didn’t know existed. In such a short span of time, you’ve become his everything, and that’s why he’s determined to keep you as his for as long as he can.

As long as he can. As long as you let him. Because he’ll be only yours for forever and ever.

Your sweet, lovesick bf!art.

part 2

A/N: this was just a massive brain dump for art since he’s been on my mind since i watched the movie LOL. want him SO BADDDDD