#time to make excuses for men’s bad behaviour

[cowardlypenis]

so i completely changed my mind on curly mouthwashing! while obligatory disclaimer he's not as bad as jimmy he absolutely fucked up Big Time

mouthwashing the game is so interesting to me for how narratively dense it is and how many lenses through which it can be analysed... and i think curly's a really interesting example of a pretty nice dude who (seemingly uncharacteristically) is incapable of calling his friend out on shitty or abusive behaviour. i've not seen many characters like him before!!

before i was of the opinion that due to both the abusive company and ship conditions that facilitate highly abusive crew behaviour that realistically curly couldn't have done much to jimmy without risking him crashing the ship regardless - then i thought about it some more and realised that's a pretty backwards way to look at it! like, jimmy had the potential to crash the ship so curly can't criticise him at all in case he does? he crashes it anyway!

what really changed my mind was looking at the scene where daisuke gets stuck in the foam and the entire segment just prior to jimmy crashing the ship. in the utility room, curly is totally capable of telling swansea off for allowing the foam accident to nearly damage a cryo pod and is respected when he does so. so it's not as if curly as a person is such a people pleaser that he can't put his foot down around people he considers friends! and the "dead pixel" analogy doesn't apply here - curly doesn't just see the bigger picture that the pod Wasn't damaged, and makes sure to take responsibility and give swansea a warning.

then later 0 days prior to the crash, we see totally different behaviour from curly. something else that really changed my perspective was the line from anya saying "i told you." when curly asks who the father is, then curly immediately understanding. it demonstrates that despite curly being told about the assault, he seemed to have filed it away and dismissed it as something out of character for jimmy, similar to how friends of rapists excuse or dismiss their behaviour. curly also continues to insist that he'll just talk to jimmy and that he's known him a long time, which was likely the type of reaction that lead anya to lose faith in him and be proactive in hiding the gun in the first place. indeed, curly is exceptionally weak-willed when talking to jimmy, and effectively lets him lead the conversation to his own conclusions. initially i thought this discrepancy between curly's treatment of swansea and jimmy was odd, but i think it acts to emphasise that men considering others their friends Before their colleagues or employees will excuse or cover for very poor behaviour out of a sense of loyalty. this is probably also exacerbated by jimmy's status as co-pilot, essentially elevating him and curly to a status above the other crewmates and more equal to each other.

while curly does seem to be in somewhat of a panic in his conversation with jimmy, this really doesn't justify his outright agreement that a tragic accident leaving their reputations intact would be preferable to facing the music upon their return. another possible explanation for this behaviour is that with the foam situation, if a cryo pod Was damaged it would unambiguously be swansea's fault and a morally simple issue to handle as captain. however, anya's assault (and the pregnancy as undeniable proof) reflects badly on curly personally for both judging jimmy's character as safe to bring on board and failing to safeguard his crew and allowing an incident like this to happen. it provides an interesting look into how an otherwise well-regarded and kind person's behaviour will completely change as long as there are personal stakes for them. i see some posts talking about how curly and jimmy are opposites, and while i agree they are absolutely foils of each other, i do believe they share this character trait of ultimately being concerned for themselves first when the chips are down.

curly absolutely acted as jimmy's enabler throughout his time on the ship, not by actively enabling his abusive behaviour but rather through passively allowing it while fully aware he was the only crew member in a position to discipline him. curly's pride in his judgement of jimmy and sense of self-concern at the most critical moment overriding his responsibility to look after the crew were his two big mistakes that allowed jimmy to crash the ship. by no means was curly an irredeemable villain, but as captain, the person who brought jimmy onboard And jimmy's friend, he absolutely shares the responsibility for everyone's deaths and uncomfortably parallels "friends of rapists" in real life who excuse their friends' assaults but come across as nice guys otherwise. this ties into one of the game's larger themes of abuse and the ways in which it can be perpetuated and fester in non-ideal circumstances, which goes beyond the scope of this post.

[dearmyloveleys]

I think your thoughts are interesting because they quite echo Yan An’s thoughts on Li Lun as well! Yan An emphasises a few times that he doesn’t wish for audiences to misunderstand Li Lun but rather, see Li Lun as a person who is only fighting for a homeland and his own species (who has been tortured by humans). I think the Li Lun VS Zhu Yan is one that makes an intriguing moral focal argument, one that he Li Lun says (along the lines of this, can’t remember exactly, am writing this from the bed): Laws in terms of who? What? The laws of Heaven? The laws of men?

Who is right and who is wrong?

But as Wen Xiao acutely puts it: Both humans and demons have good and bad. Things like one’s nature are never ever one-sided.

I love Li Lun but I also can’t excuse him because he indeed killed others and went to extreme lengths to harm the team. His “villainy” came from nothing more than his inability to understand the views of the other side — which is sad because he has shown the ability to appreciate humanity (Well, I guess the human world can be interesting). But before he can fully do that, the whole dungeon plot happens and he never gets the chance to explore more with Zhu Yan. His vengeance overtakes him, settling only on one side of the argument. Even his reasoning for destroying the Baize Token is for demons to go into the human world freely — though ZYZ also acutely points out: Why are you not giving demons a choice to stay in the Wilderness? What if they want to stay? This again highlights Li Lun’s flaw of not being able to see nuance. (Then again, he never ventures out of the Wilderness on his own. Not defending him but giving him some moral merit here, he would literally have 0 reason to empathise with humans). Of course, as Zhu Yan, he cannot accept this.

Though I must also agree that Zhu Yan could have talked to Li Lun more. Throughout the illusion sequence in Ep19, even though there is anger and hatred in the way Li Lun speaks and treats Zhu Yan, there is some frustration in Li Lun as he doesn’t understand why Zhu Yan would choose the team over him. I guess Zhu Yan never really put the reason why clearly into words. Zhu Yan only chastises him: You still don’t understand. If I were Li Lun I would honestly be like, understand what? This is all I understand, please elaborate.

Interestingly, only when ZYC calls Li Lun out for every poor behaviour he has displayed, does Li Lun break out of his suspended one-sided anger and hate. I am not sure if there will be a similar effect if ZYZ roasts Li Lun the same way ZYC does; or if ZYZ will ever do that, because he is quite tender hearted towards people he knows (as we know), but I probably would have also appreciated if he tried to have an extended conversation with Li Lun beyond him telling Li Lun that he is wrong and he can make amends without talking about the road to that conclusion. I mean also, come on, Li Lun was also locked up for 8 years with no one but a vengeful puppet master and devious human to talk to. Was anyone expecting him to change his views? It is a tad bit unfair to Li Lun in terms of their relationship closure.

Anyway, for shits and giggles, I find it funny that Yan An also says that Zhu Yan can be “flirtatious” towards Li Lun, and HMH’s reaction is “Really??” Do what you will with that information.

Li Lun, a villain I feel for (Pt. 1/3)

Li Lun was the only character of FoF who stole my heart. From the very beginning it was obvious that Li Lun supposed to be a scapegoat of the narrative. The final plot twist was supposed to be a cherry on the top of the final battle, so GJM needed to bring LL there no matter what. LL's fate is in his very name: 离仑 (lí lún). The character 离 means “to be separated”, “to stay apart”; “to keep distance”; “to be alone”, “to break up”, “to become in opposition”; “to turn away” and also “to break into pairs”.  The character 仑 is used only in the name of the mountain Kunlun (昆仑), which is, as we know, a cradle of demons and a gate to the Great Wilderness. All of these meanings match Li Lun perfectly: he is deeply tied to his demonic homeland, yet is separated from the man who used to be his soulmate and opposites him now in loneliness.

Li Lun also was the only character whose story was shown to us not  as a strange flashback after the main events happened (as it was with any other story-within-a-story in this drama) but was fed to us with small portions (as it should actually have been worked out for each of side stories). It was, firstly, the main reason I was emotionally involved in Li Lun’s story – I genuinely tried to guess what happened between LL and the main hero in the past, it caught my attention. And secondly – reshuffling the pieces of LL’s backstory and spreading them across the narrative were the only ways to conjure the illusion that LL’s part of the plot works at all.

"Zhao Yuanzhou, do you still remember your old friend? Whom of your new friends should I kill first?"

When we see Li Lun for the first time in ep 3, he seems like a real villain of the story: he is in chains, looks insanely hot and hotly insane. We find out very quickly that he is absolutely obsessed with his former friend, the main hero, and wants to take revenge on him so badly as if the main hero killed the whole LL’s family and ate LL’s cutie puppy for breakfast. In the first part of the story he looks really intimidating: it is scary when your enemy could literary be anyone around you because Li Lun can possess any body. (And later we find out that there is absolutely no villain in this story, because LL is a Byronic hero and Big Bad in Mask is just a piece of furniture, because no one of the mains remembers of him and gives a single flying heck about him for the most of the story.)

But to look through their story soberly, let me recap it for you in the chronological order.

Once upon a time, something like 30 000+ years ago, two demons were born in Great Wilderness, a sophora tree spirit and a white ape spirit. They were equals in their powers, were friends for many millennias and finally became Great Demons. Hundreds of years ago they anonymously saved the Great Wilderness from destruction and swore to protect their homeland at any cost.

You all know what a hairpin means in Chinese dramas , don't you? 🌚

LL works his magic to make ZYZ happy. Although they had different mindsets, they genuinely care for each other: the main hero (ZYZ) tried to show his rigid wooden friend things he never even thought about, and LL, in return, tried to learn from ZYZ and to make him happy, too.

LL wanted to silent a kid with magic, but ZYZ taught him that no magic needed to chase someone's megrim away. The kid's as well as LL's. ZYZ loved humans and their world and LL was irritated by them and cautious about them, so ZYZ was teaching him how to treat humans right.

They exchanged gifts, a rattle drum and an umbrella. And it was so important for both LL and ZYZ that each turned mate’s gift into a spiritual weapon.

But they exchanged even more valuable gifts, too: ZYZ gifted LL his unique magic ability – Truth Eye, the ability to see the true essence of everything. Not having it anymore, he could rely now only on his heart to see LL’s heart, so giving it away was the brightest expression of his trust and love for LL. And LL gifted him a root of sophora  – a part of his true body, which was… pretty much the same expression of love and trust.

ZYZ gifts LL his Truth Eye. But one day, 8 years ago, when they both were on a date in the mortal world, they accidently found a dungeon where their fellow demons were kept captive and tortured by humans. Li Lun, who swore to protect his homeland and its habitants and was prejudiced against humans, went to berserk rage and killed not only those who tortured demons, but also everyone in a building where this dungeon was located.

He also set free all the demons in the dungeon, included Ao Ying, the demoness who can change her appearance and will serve him later.

Trying to stop LL from killing even more people, ZYZ accidently mortally wounded LL with the power of Everburning Wood he just got. It was unintentional but fatal anyway.

For his crimes LL was immediately caught and sealed in the place of his birth (a dark and lifeless cave). Although the seal could stop him from dying, it took his freedom away for eternity, which was very painful for a creature who cultivated really hard to get ability to move (he is a tree, after all). ZYZ was somewhat upset with it. OK, being upset because of your former friend’s loss of freedom is a good thing, but what happened between the sealing of LL and the current events of the drama?

So, you were friends for literally millenias, you were very close, maybe in BL way, so close, that each of you literally gave a part of his body to other. One of you flew into a rage (fairly speaking, he had a reason to be enraged) and killed people in the heat of passion. And you accidently killed him trying to stop him. Is he a criminal? Yes, obviously. Should you be surprised by your mate’s behavior and not think of it as of something typical for him? Yes, otherwise why were you still friends for so many thousands of years? Would you try to persuade him or to bring him back into his sanity? Yeah, I think. Would you feel guilt because of unintentional killing him off? Yes, of course. But ZYZ didn’t do and feel any of that.

OK, maybe he is too righteous and any unjustified deed put his relationship with a sinner to its and. Oh, no? He eagerly forgives a spy who works for Big Bad in Mask, he forgives a man who hurt him badly and intentionally sent him into diabolic rage which could lead to numerous victims. He even understands and is nice to other demons who kill people. (And, as I remember, in ep 1 ZYZ killed by himself one of demon hunter’s bureau warriors in order to intimidate ZYC. I watched it only once, so I’m not sure if I didn’t notice some trick there, but still). He only despises LL. Also, he didn’t give a flying heck about who tortured all these demons and why (spoiler: it was Big Bad in Mask, and everything would be much easier, if ZYZ cared about it). And later, he regrets that he unintentionally killed his friend and a family of his current boyfriend, but he never regretted he killed Li Lun.

In the beginning of the drama ZYZ obviously despises him and calls him "a scumbag who has to stay in shadows", although LL has to stay in shadows partly because of a mortal wound caused by ZYZ, and can't be counted as scumbag because all the wrongs he did were caused by desire to protect people of his own kind and not because he liked human sufferings or such evil stuff. LL obviously tries to speak to ZYZ and to find out what happened between them (and honestly, I still want to get this answer, too), and ZYZ, for reason unknown, has absolutely no desire to talk about their problems with LL.

It all feels strange. And not fair to LL.

[mrsbsmooth]

Making excuses for the LIs if they bring back a girl from Casa— an exercise:

I wrote 80,000 words to make Suresh’s actions make sense. I’m a professional when it comes to making excuses for mens bad behaviour. I can do this.

So without further ado, here’s what the LIs were thinking:

Jamal:

He’s never been serious with a girl before. That grand gesture was out of character for him, and then she just left the villa… and he was going to follow her out. Holy. Shit. He is panicking. He’s never had feelings like this before. He’s never felt this way about a girl before. He is freaking out.

He was going to follow her out on national tv. He was going to put himself out there like that, risk everything, potentially humiliate himself… and he is very, very frightened.

Cue Casa Amor. Meets Flo. She’s hot, she’s fun, and she’s absolutely not the kind of girl he wants to be with forever. He can go back to what’s normal- to the flings and short term options he’s used to, that he’s comfortable with. He’s in absolute denial about his feelings for MC, it’s way too much for him to deal with. He can’t be falling in love with a girl he’s known a few weeks.

It takes a few days at CA, but he’s starting to relax. Flo is easy. Flo is comfortable.

Until he gets back to the villa… and MC is there. Those feelings come rushing back.

There’s no easy way out of this one.

Ryan:

He’s always trusted the universe. Every major decision, every “vibe” he’s gotten from someone he’s met… the universe has always had his back. Damn, it led him to love island. It led him to MC.

When she leaves, he knows he has to trust the universe, but something doesn’t feel right. For the first time in his life… he wants to fight for it. He wants to leave with her, universe be damned. He’s never felt like this before, and he can’t take the risk that the universe won’t bring them back together. It would crush him. Ryan runs out the front door of the villa, telling her to wait, but he’s too late. She’s already gone. The universe wins again.

He arrives at CA, and the universe is telling him something. Flo. That’s been almost his motto his whole life. Go with the flow. Follow the music, go where life takes you. It’s a sign- it has to be.

It feels so wrong, but he chooses her anyway. There must be some reason for it- a plan or a pathway that he needs to follow. So he goes along with it.

But when he sees MC back in the villa… he makes up his mind. Universe be damned. He’s never letting her go again.

Lewie:

Lewie’s been set on her since day one. From the moment he met her, he kinda knew. There was something special about her, something he wasn’t going to find anywhere else. He was set.

But the thing about Lewie… he’s a little bit too… how would you put it? Nice. He’s always been a little bit too nice. A little too honest, a little too willing to step aside and not go after what he wants. He’s agreeable to a fault. Honest. Friendly. Loyal. He’s a team player, even if it means giving up his own shot at goal.

His grand gesture was the moment. He wanted to tell her how he felt. He’d found what he was looking for. He knew she wanted to be with him outside, she’d said so herself.

So why didn’t she ask him to leave with her?

He didn’t want to put pressure on her by just packing his bag. If she wanted him to, she would’ve asked. Wouldn’t she?

Casa arrives. Lewie’s still there. He’s sleeping on the daybeds. He’s loyal to her. The lads are telling him he’s an idiot. “She’s gone,” they said. “She didn’t ask you to leave with her, so may as well crack on.” It feels wrong. He knows what he wants. He still wants to follow her out, but with every passing day, it feels more and more stupid. Further and further away.

He’d blown it.

He’d had his shot with MC and he’d blown it. By not following her out, he’d made his choice. She’d never be interested now.

And along came Flo.

It felt wrong. It felt so awful and wrong, but she was a second chance. A chance to do things right. To try to form a connection with someone that would last. A chance to find someone he could bring home to his Nana. He didn’t feel the same way about Flo as he did about MC, but at this point did it even matter? He would never have a shot with MC again. She was gone. And even if he saw her again, she’d never want him.

… or would she?

Roberto:

He wasn’t planning on falling for her. He knew she was gorgeous, and he found her intriguing, but he never planned on having feelings this strong. Since the day he met her, he knew there was something special between them, and he wasn’t planning on letting her go.

But there was always the matter of distance.

Portugal is a long way from the UK. His job took him all over the world. He would never be the type of boyfriend who could be there when she woke up every morning, or be waiting for her to get home in the evenings. He would always be fighting with distance. And he knew it worried her. When she was dumped from the island, he was devastated, of course, but this gave him an opportunity.

What better way to show her that the distance would only ever be a blip on their radar?

Flo was only ever a strategic move. He knew that he had to make it through to the finale. He needed that £50k. Moving to the UK was expensive, and he’d need it. He was going to do it for MC, for the girl he loved, the one who didn’t care about his bad dancing or corny lines. The one who loved him exactly the way he was.

He was doing it for the money. He was doing it for her.

Ozzy:

He’d left it too late. He had one chance and he’d left it too late.

It would’ve been weird to follow her out, right? They weren’t even in a couple. One kiss and a few whispered conversations weren’t enough to figure out if you’ve found the one.

So why did he kind of want to do it anyway?

He was being crazy, he knew he was. There was no way he’d fallen for MC that fast, and from afar. He had to get his head back into the game. And the game was about to get complicated.

He knew she’d be watching at home. And he knew what her main concern would be. It would be the same thing she’d been worried about since the very first day.

Did he like Grace more than her?

There was only one way to show her.

Flo was great, but not at all his type. It was obvious they were just friends. And she was perfectly willing to go along with it.

He would bring Flo back to show MC that he was done with Grace. Even when MC wasn’t there, he was done. He’d sooner recouple with a girl he barely knew, bringing her back to the villa for her own shot at love. But he needed to make it clear.

Him and Grace were done.

Elliot:

Life is a game of strategy. Every decision, every choice, the result of a dice roll telling you how successful you’ll be.

And strategy was all he could do.

He liked MC. Really liked her. But when she got dumped, there wasn’t much he could do about it. He could’ve followed her out, but god, her original love interest was damn near chomping at the bit to do that. She looked so uncomfortable at the thought— he couldn’t put her in that position. She would feel obligated toward him forever, knowing he gave up his shot on Love Island to be with her after only a day? That was way too much pressure to put on a new relationship.

Even if it did feel like she might’ve been his endgame.

Casa Amor was a whirlwind, but he had a strategy as usual. He just had to bring a girl back. Last season had sent home anyone who was left single, and he now no longer had a partner in the villa. He couldn’t risk going home yet- the exposure from being on the show was too great. He needed this boost to his profile if he was going to get the money he needed to build a life for himself and MC— Err— for himself and the girl he’d end up with. So he had to switch.

But strategies don’t always pay off.

[venomnyx]

HOUSE IN NEBRASKA — Logan "Worst Wolverine" Howlett x Mutant!Reader AO3 version Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT — 15.4k SUMMARY — Reader gets roped into saving the timeline with ex-best friend Deadpool, coming face-to-face with a variant of Logan that uproots memories she'd long suppressed, only to find that this version of him lost her in his universe, too. TAGS/WARNINGS — she/her pronouns (minimal usage), female anatomy, flashbacks in italics, angst, enemies to lovers, alcoholism, smoking, arguments, canon typical violence, cursing/bad language, Deadpool breaks the fourth wall like twice, canon behaviour worst wolverine, religious trauma, honda odyssey scene self-insert, eventual smut, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, dirty nasty talk (logan has a filthy mouth), mentions of cocaine literally once. smut is marked after last divider if you want to skip plot but i'll kiss you if you don't!

You’re smoking a cigarette on your porch when the snowfall happens. It would be normal, you think, if it weren’t for the fact that it’s dead in the middle of July. A group of nanas, elbow-deep in the community garden soil, glance up to the sky and begin muttering prayers amongst themselves.

You’ve lived in this safe house for a while now, up in the mid-west of the Appalachian mountains, surrounded by thickets of pine and opposite a bubbling creek. You grew up somewhere near here and the locals welcomed you back with open arms and a plateful of hot food when the humans started the culling— when the X-men fell apart.

It has plenty of benefits. The smell of lavender, for one, and your cat, Kevin, loves chasing the pigeons, even if he’s not the most successful hunter. The locally sourced produce means you can avoid the poisoned food they’re distributing in supermarkets.

But, most importantly, the humans can’t find you out here. You’re lucky the gossip of your… genetics, so to speak, doesn’t leave Sunday morning church.

Things have been different, lately. The trees are shedding down to dust, people are disappearing at an exponential rate, and there was a time when you’d be on the front lines helping them. You’re on the edge of your seat waiting for the call — a learned habit — but it’s never coming. Charles is dead. Logan is dead. The X-men are dead.

The snow is warm when it lands on your skin. It feels like rot, and your solitude suddenly feels lonelier and more daunting than ever.

You reach to take a sip of your steaming coffee when you hear movement. A zipping strobe light crosses your vision and you flinch against the intrusion, but you’re not afraid. You’ve surely survived worse.

Stryker worse.

A comical and confused looking figure pops out from an orange portal, scratching the crown of his head over the red and black mask on his face. You sip your coffee as you observe him nonchalantly.

He notices you and approaches with a dainty point of his finger.

“Um, excuse me, ma’am.”

“Well, well well,” you suck on your cigarette with a frown. “Look what the cat dragged in. Got a new suit, Red?”

“What, aren’t you happy to see lil’ old me?”

“You’re on my property,” you say matter-of-factually. You had a shotgun stowed away inside for emergencies, but frankly, you never had to use it. You were enough of a weapon yourself. Consider it insurance, if the corn-syrup they’re poisoning ever finally makes it way to you.

You glance sidelong at the old ladies in their aprons, clutching one another with stern gazes in your direction. The deal was that you didn’t bring trouble their way — but it looks like trouble found you. You narrow your eyes and silently hope that this doesn’t turn messy, as it so usually does where he’s concerned.

He sighs heavily and continues approaching regardless. You analyse his stature and take notes of the weapons on his holsters and back. You reckon you could take him if it came down to it, but he didn’t seem threatening.

You and Wade used to be friends, but after isolating yourself from grief, you don’t necessarily consider yourselves to have a close relationship. More often than not he brought trouble; hence your defensive response.

“Listen, ants in your pants, I’ve done this about a hundred times,” he huffs and places a hand on his hip, waving the device around in his hand. You take another drag of your cigarette and perk your brows before rising to your feet.

“I’ve had my spleen shattered by the Hulk, about eighty stab wounds…”

He rambles on about his collection of injuries and you tilt your head with amusement. Must be another one of his famous mental breakdowns. This might be entertaining, at the very least.

“…You’ve even killed me a few times in different universes!” He claps his hands together. “And frankly, I was just going to let you die here. You’re not even canon, so you won’t be missed, but you appear to be of use to me. So I need you to come with me. Now. Please.”

What on Earth was he talking about? What on Earth was he ever talking about?

You bark a laugh. “I ain’t going anywhere with you, Red and Black.”

“Will it change your mind if I add a cherry on top?” He asks with a dry laugh before nodding enthusiastically. Manically. “You’re coming. Kevin’s life depends on it.”

“What are you talkin’ about? Are you threatenin’ my cat? That’s a new low, Wade.”

“Is it? Is it really? I am certain that I can go unfathomably lower.”

You roll your eyes, half-way through turning your back on him.

“You see this?” He holds out a gloved hand and catches some snowflakes. He rubs them between his fingers and they spark and fizzle before dusting away. “That’s not snow. That’s time death. Our universe is dying, womp womp. Stay here, sure! By all means, but—”

Your cat launches out of the door behind you, chirping and meowing to himself before promptly dashing through the portal and disappearing into the blurry void on the other side.

“Well. Looks like he made his choice.”

He sighs and lets you process. You take the final swig of your coffee and huff a breath.

“You literally have nothing left to lose. Trust me. I know. I’ve seen all kinds of you and, believe me when I say this, even though I love and cherish this version of you, this—” he points two fingers at you and gestures towards you judgmentally. “— isn’t the best look on you, honey.”

You want to dismiss him. You want to turn him away, to tell him to get lost. Grief swallowed your heroism whole, turning it into a barren wasteland of bitter indifference. You used to be bright, full of light, love, and hope.

Fucking hope. It’s the reason Logan left you to help Charles in the first place. You just wanted to settle down and disappear, to live a normal life. You lost an intrinsic part of your being when he died; you remember feeling it before you heard the news. Fucking hope.

Hope, hope, hope. Nana Rose chants on about it when she clasps your hands with her wrinkly ones, dragging you to church in spite of your atheism.

“And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts,” she chants, basket of flowers on her hip. “Romans 5:5. You’d do well to do your readin’, tulip.”

You didn’t and don’t ever usually believe a word she says, but you can feel her faith. It’s solid as steel, pouring out of her like blotting light through the gaps in the trees. Undying. And you’ll be damned if you let anything happen to her.

A flicker remains. You imagine what Charles would say to you now, how you’d hang onto his every word and he’d bring out the better of you. You truly do have nothing left to lose, except maybe your cat. Over your dead body.

“Come ooon,” he pokes his fingers together. “Fancy being a hero? One last time?”

You take the final drag before stubbing the cigarette out on your railing. “Alright, Red. I’ll bite.”

“Then suit up.”

Your friendship with Deadpool was a rocky one. There was a time you told him you’d be there for him through everything, and you technically owed him one for saving your life that one time even though your ego insists that, to this day, you could’ve taken the fight. That’s what heightened cellular control of your body is for, right? Accelerated healing? Empathetic abilities? Faster reactions, enhanced strength— you get the point.

Though you didn’t realise that returning the favour meant following him through space, time and alternate dimensions, you were a person who stayed true to their word, and you hated being indebted to someone.

So, here you were, waking up in the middle of a barren wasteland that was seconded as a cocktail soup of abandoned universal relics and heroes ripped from their worlds, accompanying your ex-best friend to restore your timeline.

But, one thing about paying someone back, it doesn’t technically count if they lie to you about the terms and conditions of the agreement. Only a few mere moments after you come to, dazed by the impact and the blaring wobbly heat of the sun, you rise to watch as Deadpool takes six blades of Wolverine to the chest.

You’re still a little dizzy when you stagger to your feet, head throbbing, as you’re trying to process if, yes, that’s exactly what you were witnessing.

“Let’s see you grow your fuckin’ head back!” Wolverine growls.

Deadpool holds his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait, wait! I can fix it! I can fix it!”

The man in yellow hesitates. “Fix what?”

“Whatever it is that you did, whatever made you so bad—” Wade pants, catching his breath. “Those pricks at the TVA, you heard ‘em. They have the power to end my universe, but they also have the power to change yours. We get back there, and we can fix your world! Together. I promise.”

You stumble from around a pile of debris, clutching your side as a rib pops back into place. Wolverine sniffs the air, face blanching as he snaps to look in your direction.

When you first make eye contact with him, it feels as though you’re resurfacing from water after being on the precipice of drowning. Your heart leaps into your throat, adrenaline boils your veins and your lungs burst with relief of breathing.

“Troubles always gonna find you, baby,” Logan murmurs, kissing his way up from the pulse in your throat as he rocks against you. “But so am I.”

You’ve never loved him more, you think, than when he fucks you slow like this. A snowstorm rages outside the cabin, howling full of glass and needles and rattling the window frames. His skin against yours burns a fire within you, warming you to the bone. He sweeps hair away from your face before capturing your mouth in his, swallowing the sounds of your pants, threading his fingers between yours.

You could stay here forever, you think.

Your fingers shake from the whiplash of the memory. You instinctively reach towards him but you catch yourself. This was the husk of him, not your Logan. The realisation feels akin to ripping open a haphazardly sewn wound right down to the fatty yellow flesh, raw and needling and sore.

He’s broader than you remember. Hair a little darker, wrinkles a little deeper. He smells of alcohol and cigars — that much is familiar. That’s him, flesh and adamantium bone, living, breathing. Alive. The physical shell of him prods alive parts of your inner circuitry that you weren’t aware had fallen asleep, like intrinsic nerves untangling within you.

You can sense that he knows you, too, based on his emotional response. His noise is extremely loud, spilling out of the cracks of whatever wall he thought he’d successfully built up. This version of Logan certainly had a lot of secrets.

“You,” he whisper-growls. It’s almost intangible, leaving him like a breath. He pulls his blades promptly from Deadpool’s chest and kicks him backwards.

You’re starting to understand that faith thing that Nana Rose was knocking on about when he strides towards you, large and tall. You certainly weren’t a believer by any means but you’re sure you’d be the picture of unbridled worship for the way you’d fall to your knees for him.

Your empathetic power lurches for him, seeking him out as you used to — like a flower to the sun — but it physically recoils from the aura that it touches. It was all your Logan but not in a familiar way. It’s tainted, dark, and it tastes like copper and screams.

All colour melts from his face and his body shuffles in a way that indicates discomfort; a dry swallow, tense shoulders and flicking eyes that refuse to meet your gaze. He omits feelings of guilt and shame that linger on the tendrils of your empathetic powers where you connect with him.

You try to zone Wade out, squinting as you attempt to navigate through his cobweb of emotions (seriously, this guy’s aura could do with a cleanup) but it’s like wading through black-tar syrup, feelings negated by years of alcohol-abuse and avoidance. Eventually, you feel something that makes your guts twist and your legs shake: a version of romantic attraction and recognition so carnal and raw that you begin to blush, a warmth that creeps its way up from your belly. A breath escapes you like a punch.

“Well. This feels awkward.” Wade glances between you both and places his hands on his hips. “Why do you both look like you’ve seen a ghost? Do I need to call Egon Splegler and tell him to bring his ghost sucky-sucky vacuum? Oh my god—” He slaps his hands to his face and gasps sharply. “Cross-Universal lovers?”

As inappropriately timed and tone-deaf his one-liners could be, you’d never been more appreciative of an icebreaker. You think you could’ve stood there for an hour, frozen in silence, staring at a reanimated corpse, basking in the noise of his emotional frequency like an addict finally getting another hit.

But then the noise stops, swallowed up like a heaving black hole had split and atomised the tension whole with its unforgiving jaws. He closes himself off from you. Connection severed. You reach out and feel a cold nothingness similar to how, on particularly rough nights, you’d try to reach out to him after his passing. You’d clung onto his plaid shirts until the smell and emotional residue wore off of them.

“You with the mouth? To fix things?”

You nod tightly. You don’t think you can find your voice in front of him.

“Let’s just keep moving. And stay out of my head,” Logan grumbles, crossing you with a cold shoulder and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he’s made enough distance, you turn to your old friend with a cold glare.

“Ooh, brr. Anybody else feel a chill?”

“Wade.”

He twists towards you comically slow.

“You. Motherfucker.” You begin approaching him. He backs up slowly and holds his hands up.

“I knew if I told you the plan you wouldn’t have gone along with it!”

“Are you insane? You think multiversally grave-robbing my fucking dead ex-boyfriend is going to save our timelines?!” You yell.

“Technically he’s not dead—”

You push him. “He should be! He- he was— he is!”

“Well, this one isn’t!” He pushes back. “And I’m not sorry for finding a loophole in the plan to fry — not just mine, mind you — but both of our timelines! Did you happen to forget that? No multi-dimensional depressed Logan? Alright then! No more Kevin!”

He’s talking about your cat. Anger flares.

“Don’t you dare bring Kevin into this.”

“You forced my hand!” He yells, mouth moving alien-like behind the mask on his face. “Besides, I’m not doing this for me—”

You blink your eyes closed. You might reach the end of your tether if he said her name one more time. You’ve been in his company for approximately an hour, and he’s already drilled a hole into your brain with his incessant yapping about the “love of his life”.

“Wade, you need to move on. She clearly has.”

“I will not move on from the only people I love in this fucked up dimension. This isn’t just for Vanessa.” He shoves a glossy photograph in your face. “This is for you and blind Al and even that shit-head teenager and her pinkie-pie girlfriend! They deserve their timeline!”

“I literally don’t care about any of those people!”

Even yourself?

“Well, I do! I have people I care about! Aren’t you supposed to be a hero? God, all of you X-men are so depressing. Is it the suits they make you wear? Is that it? Can’t breathe in that thing?” He continues poking at you. “Loosen up a little!”

You straighten your posture and the black leather of your suit crackles. You swat his hands away as he continues poking. “Alright! Cut it out!”

“Think of Nana Rose.” He draws a heart with two fingers. “Little old ladies like her deserve a chance, don’t they?”

And even though humans had done nothing but wage war on your kind for simply existing, you still felt obliged to help them. Besides, the thought of other mutants — kid mutants — dying when you hold the chance to save them in the palm of your hand? You were hardly managing as you were now. You’re not sure you’d be able to live with yourself if you kept going like this.

“Alright, alright!” You huff, heart pounding in your chest. You look over at where Wolverine kicks at rocks in the distance. “Fucking hell, Red. Holy fuck.”

You say it again, only this time you scream it into your hands.

“You should’ve warned me.”

“Are we good?”

“Are we go—” You scoff. You kick his ankle, feel the bones shatter and crunch beneath your foot. He lets out a short, high-pitched yelp. “You deserved that.”

“Motherfuckermotherfucker… oh you’re lucky I feel bad about lying to you or I would’ve twisted your milk bags off for that I swear to God.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, walking forward. “That doesn’t sound like an apology.”

He limps after you, floppy ankle dragging a line in the sandy dirt. “I’ll be dead before you ever get one of those out of me! And too bad I can’t fucking die!”

The difference between this Logan and your Logan is stark, minus the uncanny resemblance. Your Logan was soft and gentle, but this version is sharper and blade-edged, and your fingers bleed when you try to touch him.

Staring at him feels like throwing up a mirror and analysing yourself, a picture of what happens to a person when they make all of the wrong choices. You’re embarrassed, almost. This isn’t a version of you that you ever want him to know, but at least you can say you’re trying.

Him, on the other hand…

“Are we going to keep up the awkward silence?” You snip, awkwardly adjusting the restraints on your wrist.

You’ve been in Logan’s company for all of an hour, and yet accompanying one another through literal time purgatory didn’t seem to irk any feelings of obligation from his end. He’d been cold-shouldering and ignoring you the entire time, even though you kept catching him staring.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he spits, wriggling uncomfortably against a very unconscious Deadpool. “You got us into this mess.”

You frown, small. You can feel hatred pouring out from him, leaving a sickly bile taste in the back of your throat. You’ve lived through enough hate for being a mutant in your lifetime, enough that you’d become accustomed to tuning it out of your radio channel, so to speak, but something about it coming from the man you loved makes it a little harder to swallow.

You’re quiet when you next speak. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

He shoots you an indistinguishable look and grunts to himself. Such a Libra.

“So, what’s the story here?” Johnny asks with a sly grin. He turns to you with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. “You two know each other?”

You cringe. “Sort of. Last I remember, he wasn’t this much of a prick.”

“Oh, trouble in paradise, huh?” His grin grows. “That’s a shame. Not often we get girls like you in the void.”

“Seriously?” You say with a side-eye.

He shrugs, all blue-spandex biceps and charming smile. “No harm in trying.”

Your breath hitches as Cassandra approaches, wide eyes and tilted head aiming for you purposefully. Logan swiftly angles his body so that he’s standing in front of you and she halts as a delighted, implicating smile stretches across her face. Your chest constricts, tendrils of yearning coiling tighter. It appeared to be muscle memory: his instinctual, protective flinch. Just like your Logan used to, despite how capable he knew you were.

“Now, I’ve always wanted a Wolverine.” Her finger moves along the crowd. “Knew I’d get one eventually. But I never even dreamed of having you.”

Cassandra zips behind you and her slender fingers delve into the crevices and valleys of your brain, lips intimately close to your neck and ear. Wolverine snarls territoriality, but he’s unable to move. The urge to reach for him is overwhelming.

“Do you know that there are so few universes where you exist?” She whispers, caressing your deepest memories. “I even asked the TVA about you, in exchange for keeping the peace. I was disheartened when I found out one of you died. But you’re here! Now, I don’t believe in fate, but this almost feels like it was meant to be.”

You flinch when she uncovers a particularly fond memory, one you hadn’t been aware was so prominently in the forefront.

In the back of his truck, a cigar between his teeth, hands sliding under your shirt. In another world, he would’ve taken the time to do this properly, but living in a school didn’t exactly grant two consenting adults any privacy.

“Waited long enough for this.”

He kisses up from your bare foot to the sensitive skin of your inner knee, lips scorching against your skin.

“Logan…”

“Easy,” he murmurs, leaning away for a moment to remove his plaid overshirt, leaving himself in that white vest you could eat him alive in. “Still wanna take my time with you.”

You’re desperate, he can tell— can probably smell it, too, but you’re far too humiliated to ask him if he can.

Logan wasn’t your first by any means, but with the way you were near trembling for him truly felt like you’d be losing all of your innocence in the back seat. You’re shy and quiet, everything he isn’t. You’re infatuated with him — have been since he burst out of the lab in his grey hoodie — and have daydreamed about what it would be like to have him. You certainly didn’t let him know that right away, and with whatever shred of composure remained around his relentless flirting and teasing remarks, you tried to play hard to get.

Until you couldn’t. Because you weren’t. He had you, and with every fibre of your being, you wanted him to.

She pulls her hands from your brain with a shlick sound, rubbing her fingers together as if relishing in the produce of your memories. She grabs a rag from her pocket and smirks knowingly.

“You’re thinking of that at a time like this?” She laughs all witch-like. “Worry not; your secret’s safe with me, naughty girl.”

Wade lowers his voice and leans towards Logan. “She was thinking of me.”

“I can read between the lines, darling,” she potters on. “This isn’t about a sexual fantasy. Deep down, you just want to be wanted. To be loved.”

She steps back and extends her arms. “After all, you’ll never amount to anything in your world. It’s such a shame that your Logan left you so abruptly. Did he break your heart?” She giggles. “Why suppress your powers in his name? For a level-five mutant, you certainly don’t act like one. You can do that, here. Freely!”

Your worn thin tether creaks with exhaustion like a dilapidated bridge under pressure. There isn’t a singular fibre of your being that desires to be stuck here, but the small, angry teenage voice in your head would love nothing more than to just let go. You’d been containing your powers for as far as you can remember, and they'd always been as irresistible as the promise of Pandora's box.

But you know how that story ends.

You take a moment’s pause. “I have no interest in livin’ in a garbage dump.”

She tilts her head and neatly clasps her hands behind her back. “Do you forget where you come from? I think we both know who lives in a garbage dump.”

“You motherf—”

You’d just managed to escape Cassandra’s lair with Alioth’s foggy storm fangs nipping at your ankles when you ran across the abandoned diner.

You’re ravenous, wrist aching from how you dig at the freezer-burned ice cream. It’s your least favourite flavour but you’ve been running on fumes for the past day or so, so you’ll take what you can get, though you begin to lose your appetite when you remember Johnny, and how Cassandra had zipped the skin from him like popping a blood-filled water balloon.

Something is rumbling beneath your surface. A distinct, constant buzzing, like two atoms slowly building up radioactive energy. You’d asked for none of this, and would certainly give Wade a talking to when the time called for it, but, for now, you’re trying your hardest to make this as easy a process as possible.

Your male counterpart, however, was doing exactly what men generally do. He was making this fucking unbearable.

Logan sits across from you, brooding, fingers gripping the medicinal bottle as if it’s anywhere near appropriate to be drinking. He throws you a particularly lingering glare when he notices you staring, but refuses to maintain eye contact when you look back at him

You toss the tub and spoon across the table with a sharp clatter, your patience collapsing.

“What? Can’t even look at me?” You snap. His eyes look exhausted when they finally meet yours. Wade, being the characteristic little fucker he is, pulls a delighted, shit-stirring grin as he glances between the two of you as if watching a tennis match.

Logan gasps as he finishes taking a drink. “Not much to look at,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth.

The words twist like a fist in your gut. For a moment, you’re rendered too stunned to respond, like he’d tossed a flash-bang toward you. His casual cruelty digs deeper than you care to admit— but you’ve had far too much therapy, too much psychological training, to know he’s deflecting.

But you wouldn’t doubt for a second that there was a more beautiful version of you somewhere.

“What, you comparin’ me to someone?” You ask. You can tell you’ve struck a nerve by the way he goes for another sip. “That it?”

He grimaces.

“Do I make you feel sick? Am I making you feel sick?”

He stares at you hard, but silently. He takes a long swig of the rubbing alcohol and you cringe as his throat bobs. His silence and feigned indifference light a fire of indignation.

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s suffered. Who’s lost people.”

He laughs like what you’re saying is funny. “Yeah, right, bub, you have got no idea what loss is.”

“Oh, you are such a fucking cunt,” you spit, slamming your hands on the table as you rise to your feet. “You know what, Wade? You’re right. I can’t do this. So fuck you and fuck his timeline and fuck every timeline that had anything to do with it! I’m done.”

A wave of uncontrolled psionic energy born from your anger blasts from you upon your final words, slamming them back into their seats and sending the cutlery, nearby debris and weapons flying. The neighbouring windows smash, shattering explosively and sprinkling outside of the diner.

The simmering stops, replaced by a stifling emptiness.

“I wasn’t finished with that!” Wade cries, crouching down to scoop up what remains of the gelatinous spam.

You pause for a moment, glance at your hands, and then grab your jacket in an aggressive fit.

Wade whines your name, halfway through gagging down a forkful of cold spam off of the floor (one of which resonates with a particularly distinct crunch, but you don’t stay to find out whether or not he just truly ate glass), and he doesn’t attempt to get up and follow you as you storm off.

You take a heaving breath of hot desert air when you leave the diner. The sandy breeze tousles your hair, and with the prickly energy of an incoming nervous breakdown, your legs kick and you’re running.

“Stryker got you, too?” Logan asks, eyebrows flicking up.

You don’t look him in the eye when you nod. You cross your arms and slouch a little, caging your heart in. Stryker — the ex-militant with a fetish for experimenting on mutants — had held you captive for several years. He’d brainwashed you into using your empathetic abilities for nefarious purposes, like seducing other mutants, and sometimes important political and militant figures.

“You like me?” He questions, quieter this time.

“No… no, not like you,” you reply. “I don’t have the fancy bones. I heal fast, but I wouldn’t survive that kinda procedure.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. Feelings, mostly. Nightmares,” you explain. He nods understandingly. “I’m always on edge.”

“You always seem so calm,” he observes. “Nothing seems to phase you.”

“I have to be. It took a lot of pain and damage to get this level-headed,” you respond quickly. “If I don’t manage my emotions, all the emotions that I receive, touch— it all comes out. Explosively. It has to come out somehow. I could hurt people.”

“Funny. School therapist ‘n’ you���ve got the most issues,” he teases light-heartedly.

“You got no idea, lumberjack.”

You hated killing.

You’re on your knees, arms and hands and chest soaked crimson, sobbing. They’d come out of nowhere, the raiders, and they were hungry for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. All you know is that you felt their need, their desperation, their willingness to do anything to get it.

The flash of harrowing horror someone feels before they die isn’t a unique experience. It simply varies in strength — sometimes it’s a feather-like touch that careens over you, a shuddering realisation that they’re taking their last breath, and sometimes it’s like a crack of lightning. Bloodied hands gripping your biceps with fear in a final attempt to survive. They’d rather cling to you than die alone.

You hate killing. Especially this up close.

You don’t cry for them. You don’t even cry for yourself. It’s a small emotional space where they cry vicariously through you.

You were black-out when it happened, you tell yourself, and suddenly regress to the student you used to be, sobbing on your knees in front of Charles as he tries to teach you serenity and control after an outburst had caused you to kill a nest of birds. He’d done it for Magneto, he said— so he could certainly do it for you.

You should have meditated more.

The sound of a car gurgles somewhere behind you, but you haven’t the energy to look or use your powers to seek out who’s approaching and what their intent is. You’re exhausted enough that whatever they wish to do with you — turn you to processed dog kibble, send you back into the jaws of Cassandra’s lair, kill you — whatever. Just let it happen.

A slamming car door and then the crunching of boots on gravel.

“You’re easy to track.” A pause. “You look pathetic. You done throwing your tantrum?”

Logan. Of course, it’s him.

“Leave me alone, prick.”

“As much as I’d like to, you and the Mouth still have to hold up your end of the bargain,” he quips, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Now get up.”

You glare up at him and his arms unfurl as he notices your tear-streaked face. His expression drops, softens, before it quickly ticks back up into an incredulous, irritated look.

“Are you crying?” He asks with a scoff. He pauses before dragging his hand down his face and rubbing his scruffy jaw. “Jesus Christ. Get up. Get in the car.”

“I ain’t fuckin’ around, Logan. Piss. Off.”

He mumbles a string of incoherent curses and turns on his heel. You think, for a moment and a breath of relief, that he’s truly going to give up on you and leave. He could finish this without you. It’s easier this way.

Instead, a thick bicep wraps around your middle and you’re flung over his shoulder with a yelp.

“Quit your squirmin’.”

“Then put me down!” You yell, thrashing in his grasp. He promptly ignores you, unphased by the jabs you strike at his back. You quickly unsheath the small knife from your jacket sleeve, winding up your arm before you drive it into the muscly pocket by his kidneys.

“Ow! Cheap shot, you little fucker!”

Wade sighs and clutches his hands in front of his chest romantically. “Oh, the newlyweds.”

Logan dumps you into the front seat of the car carelessly, grumbling something as he slams the door shut and applies the child locks. Petty motherfucker.

You rub the sore spot on your tailbone where you landed on a seat buckle funny. You want to bite your tongue but you’re flared up.

“We should switch places. I’m a better driver than you are.”

Logan doesn’t bother looking at you as he starts up the ignition. “Just shut up.”

“You can go on ahead and smoke a cat turd in hell, then.”

“So fuckin’ immature. Grow up.”

“Mom and Dad can you please stop fighting!” Deadpool cries out from the backseats.

You just roll your eyes, resigning into your chair and folding your arms.

At some point along the ride, Wade falls asleep, snoring soundly to himself. You’re silent in the front, drumming a beat on your knees, awkwardly thinking of something to say. You have the impulsive need to fill the silence, even if you were trapped in a crappy car with a man who had made it vehemently clear that he irrevocably hated you.

“So, if they can fix your world, what’s the first thing you’ll do?”

Logan rips his eyes towards you. “What did you say?”

“I said when you get back, what’s the first thing—”

“No, no, no— before that.”

You hesitate, wondering if you’d landed yourself in a trap based on the sharpness of his tone and the way that anger crackles off of him like static lightning.

“If… they can fix your world?”

He slams his foot on the brake and you just about catch yourself before your nose goes flying into the dashboard. Wade is thrust out of the front window, smashing through and promptly falling unconscious underneath a tree, neck broken at an awkward angle.

Your eyes widen.

“What do you mean: if?”

“That’s what Wade said—”

“I don’t give a fuck who said what. He promised me he would fix things—”

“Well, I didn’t promise you shit!”

He laughs, low and devoid of humour. “You don’t have a clue if they can fix things, do you?”

Well, no. You’ve been operating on a hunch the entire time and had half come to accept that you might be stuck in the TVA void forever. Who knows how much time has passed elsewhere?

Regardless of the fact you truly had nothing to do with whatever came out of Wade’s mouth, you weren’t about to let Mr. Worst Wolverine shit all over him and his plan to save his friends.

“Is it really that far-fetched? We made an educated wish!”

Something dark flashes across his face. You can feel hate pulsing off of him in dizzying waves, doubling with each passing moment.

“You made… an educated fucking wish?”

“What’s your problem with me, huh? Got a stick up your ass?” You reach for the car door handle, but he snaps up your wrist, holding it high. “You better let go of me right now, old man—”

“Or what, huh? Gonna run away again?” He threatens.

“You geriatric, alcoholic motherfucker. I’ve done nothin’ but try and be civil with you and you treat me like I’m the one who ruined your life! I don’t know what version of me you knew but you need to stop actin’ like I ain’t worthy of being here because of what you did!”

“Listen, I’ll tell you what my problem is with you—” he leans closer, eyes roving over you with a disgusted look on his face. “I mean, you are a ridiculous, emotional, immature crybaby. I have never met a sadder, more attention-seeking, foul-mouthed little bitch in my entire life and that says a lot because I’ve been alive for more than two hundred fuckin’ years.”

“And I’ll tell you, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never amount to anything. You’ll never save the world. You couldn’t even save a relationship with me. I’d say you should’ve died alone but it’s one of God’s best jokes that in this universe you didn’t seem to fuckin’ die, except that ones on the rest of all of us!”

He breathes heavily when his rant finishes. You’re taken aback, jaw slack, eyes warm with the onset of tears born from shock.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, empath?”

You suck in a deep breath, blinking slowly as you flick the emotional switch off in your head.

“I’m going to hurt you now.”

He snorts. “Oh, are you?”

In a swift manoeuvre, you raise your slap him around the face. You knew better than to punch a metal skull, but you still wanted him to sting. His eyes slit, nostrils flaring in challenge.

“That all you got?”

“Not even close,” you snap back, knuckles whitening from the way you curl your fingers into your palm. “You want to play this game, Logan? Fine— but I’m not gonna sit here and keep on provin’ myself to you. I’ve had enough of your Christ-born-again superiority complex. Did you forget that you’re the worst Wolverine?”

“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I’m honest about who I am. Look at you— you’re a fuckin’ joke, pretending to be some hero in a suit made for a dead team,” he barks back, voice rising with each word. “I don’t need your bullshit “wishes”— you should know, I’ve buried people for less.”

“Yeah, because you’re so perfect, ain’t that right?” You yell, voice cracking from the power of your anger. “The almighty Wolverine— the unkillable bastard who can’t seem to hold onto anythin’ good in his life! You’ve had centuries to get your shit together, and look at you—” You look him up and down with disgust. “—still just a bitter, lonely, broken man, takin’ it out on everyone else and a goddamn bottle.”

His eyes narrow, muscles in his jaw twitching as he appears to fight and keep his temper in check, but there’s an obvious crack forming, the dam of his unbridled rage near overflowing.

“You think you know me, huh?” He murmurs, voice a deadly whisper, the calm before the storm. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about what I’ve been through. You’re nothing but a lost woman playing make-believe and hiding in the shadow of a fuckin’ merc. You’re pathetic.”

Something inside of you breaks. “I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re so goddamn desperate to feel anythin’ that you’ll lash out at everyone around you for some semblance of warmth. There’s a fine line between hate and love, after all! You think you’re so strong because you can heal, because you’ve lived forever? Yeah, right— you’re the weakest, most cowardly man I’ve met in a loong time.”

The blades between his knuckles shoot out with a shink! For a moment, you think that he’s going to attack you. Hell— you even hope that he will, just to diminish some of the unbearable, stifling tension. Instead, the blades retract with a deep breath, and he grabs you forcefully by the collar of your suit, yanking you so close that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

His voice is low and rough, each word dripping with venom. “Go on, keep psychoanalysing me. You wanna talk about cowardice? How about leaving people who need you, just because it’s easier to run? Better yet, how about the fact that you abandoned the X-men to hide away in the mountains, huh?”

Your eyes widen with recognition.

“Yeah… Wade’s got a big mouth. Told me everythin’. You’re no hero. Hell, you’re just a selfish, reckless hillbilly who failed at pretending to be human.”

Your heart palpitates in your chest, each word coiling and slicing like blades in your intestines, but you refuse to let him see how much it hurts. Instead, your lips curl into a cold, bitter smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“And you’re just a sad, angry old man who can’t handle the fact that he’s lost everythin’. Go ahead: keep pushing people away! Keep hidin’ behind that anger o’ yours! It’s got you this far, ain’t it?! I’ve treated kids with trauma worth double yours and they were nothin’ but kind and selfless. I won’t let you project your failures onto me. I’m done with this.”

“Yeah, why don’t you walk away!”

The argument reaches a fever pitch, tension sizzling in the air between you. You’re so close, glaring at each other with so much anger, so much resonating heat, that it feels like something’s going to break. And then, suddenly, it does.

Before either of you can think, you close the gap between you, lips crashing against his. It’s not gentle, it’s not soft— the kiss is rough, violent, a clash of lips and fury. His grip on your collar tightens, and for a moment, you’re both frozen, caught in the shock of what’s happening.

But then something more fiery in nature than anger ignites, and he kisses you back just as fiercely, and maybe a little more desperate— like he’s trying to pour out all of his pain and resentment, into this one moment. Your tongues slide against each other and his teeth catch against yours as he groans into your mouth. Your hands thread through his hair, yanking him closer as if trying to hold onto something real and tangible in the chaos of the kiss, reeling from the sudden spinning in your head. It’s angry, raw, filled with all the things you’re not capable of verbalising: grief, love, yearning, reconciliation.

The result of a painful reunion.

The world falls away and all that’s left is the taste of him, the feel of his lips against yours, rough and demanding. You hate him right now— hate him so much that you can’t help but want him. The sheer intensity of it all overwhelms you and makes your fingers shake against the nape of his neck, but you can’t pull away— not now, not when you’ve tasted the wine. You’re too far gone, caught up in the storm of his intoxication, fantasising about ripping that yellow and blue suit off of him and riding him until there’s nothing left for him to regenerate.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the bubble of the moment bursts with the sound of slow clapping coming from outside the car. You jerk back from Logan, breath coming in ragged gasps. Logan is equally as stunned, still tight-gripping your collar as if he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

You both see Wade sitting up, hands together, eyes wide as saucers as he takes in the scene.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Did I just wake up in a telenovela?” His voice is laced with amusement. “I mean, I know you two clearly had some unresolved sexual tension— but this? Oh, this is gold. Please don’t stop on my account, just let me get the camcorder first!”

You’re too stun-locked to respond, lips parting and closing as your brain scrambles to formulate a response as you’re still reeling from what just happened. Logan (for once) seems equally as lost for words, his typical scowl replaced with a look of confusion.

“Shut up, Mouth,” Logan barks, but there’s no real heat behind it. There can’t be, really, not when you’ve both been caught red-handed. He releases your collar at once.

Wade, however, is having none of it. “Oh, no, no, no! You don’t just get to brush this off like it’s nothing! That was a full-on makeout session! I only interrupted because I thought you were about to rip each other’s clothes off.” He sighs wistfully and crosses his legs. “Here I was thinking that you two hated each other— but I guess all that anger was just foreplay, huh?”

Your face burns with a mixture of shame and something else you’re not quite ready to admit. “Wade— cut it out.”

He grins, not deterred in the least. “Oh, but I’m loving this. All that pent-up aggression finally coming to fruition. It’s beautiful, truly.”

Logan shoots him a look that could melt iron, but Wade just simply shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Everyone being me.”

“Wade,” you warn through gritted teeth.

“Well, unless you want me to watch (which I am not opposed to, by the way) maybe next time the two of you should get a room,” he tilts his head. “Or, you know, a couples therapist.”

He then turns to address Logan directly.

“And I must’ve missed the AO3 tags because I did not peg you for the enemies-to-lovers type, Mister. Who knew all it took was a bit of hate-kissing to get the sparks flying? Don’t look so ashamed! I’m just jealous I didn’t get to you first.”

He stumbles towards the car and collapses into the back seat. “Next time you wanna bump uglies, just ask for some privacy! You can save me the broken neck!” He gets himself comfortable, man-spreading and laying his hands on both of your shoulders as you stare dead-forwards, unable to look at each other.

“Gosh, you’re both so tense.” He begins massaging. “Look— props to you both for not letting all that angst go to waste. This is a safe space, and there’s no shame in a little hormone-induced—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Logan interrupts, revving the car back to life and shoving his prodding hands away. “Just be quiet back there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll keep the commentary to myself. But just so you know— got that bad boy playing on repeat, right here.” He says, tapping the side of his head.

You bury your face in your hands. This was going to be a long car ride.

As the car starts moving again, you muster the bravery to risk a glance at Logan. His expression is hard to read but his energy thrums with uncertainty. The boiling hatred seems to have dialled down to a gentle simmer, mostly redirected towards himself rather than you. There’s something else— something that wasn’t there before. You rip your eyes away quickly, mind racing.

For somebody so in tune with emotions and the literal ability to manipulate them if you so desired, you were horrendous at navigating your own. You don’t know what this kiss meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

If there’s anyone you didn’t expect to come across in the void, it’s X-23— Laura. She’s taller, now, with hair down her back, but she’s still got that stern, mean look on her face that intimidated you the first time you met her.

The weak front door squeaks when you open it a crack. A girl, maybe in her small teen years, blinks up at you.

“Can I help you?” You ask, wiping your flour-dusty hands down on the front of your cooking apron.

“Are you—” she says your name.

You attempt to swing the door shut, but she jams it with her boot. You flick your eyes up, glance around for any signs of threats, and then lower your gaze to her. You wrap your cardigan around your mid-section.

“I don’t go by that name anymore. Who the Hell are you, kid, and what do you want?”

“I’m here about Logan,” she says, matter-of-factly.

Logan. A name followed by your own, both of which you hadn’t heard in years.

“He’s not here, kid. He died years ago.”

“I know,” she answers, unwavering. “I was there when it happened. Your name was the last thing he said.”

You’d let her in for a glass of sugary sweet tea that day, but once stories were exchanged you told her not to come back. She respected your wishes— she said she simply wanted to put a name to the face, to get closure, but you’d felt her desperation. Perhaps she was seeking out respite, or family, but you were in no position to be sharing your space with someone who could put another target on your back.

After introductions were made with the others who had been ripped from their timelines (Elektra, Blade and oh my god a Gambit variant with muscles so huge he could pop your head between his biceps) you excused yourself to sit outside. The buzzing emotional energy made your collar feel a little tight around the neck, your head a little fuzzy with noise, so you decided to reignite the small campfire a few yards away from the safe-house and rest there, instead.

You hadn’t realised you were being followed.

“It’s not safe here.”

“It’s not safe anywhere, Logan.”

He looks defeated, raising and clasping his hands behind his head.

“I gotta leave, baby.”

“If you leave, I ain’t lettin’ you back,” you whisper. “You don’t heal the same anymore, Logan, and you promised me—”

“I know what I promised,” he rebuts, but not angrily. You can already see on his face that he’s made his choice. He’s not coming to you to discuss it. “But I owe it to him. To Charles. He gave me everything.”

“So then what did I give you?” You ask. “Not a home, not my love, not everything?” You slam the tea towel down and turn away from him as the tears form. He’s quiet, perhaps processing everything, but you’re too impatient.

“If you’re just gon’ get up and leave, do it now. I won’t beg you to stay, Jimmy.”

“I love you.”

You don’t say it back.

You wake up with a start, damp clinging to your forehead. You immediately sense another presence and glance over to see Logan watching you with a steady gaze. His expression is soft and almost reverent at first, but his facade hardens with a quick tick of his jaw.

“You talk in your sleep.” The bottle in his hand sloshes as he takes a drink. “Nightmare?”

You sigh frustratedly when you realise it’s him. Of course, it’s him — his energy reeks of whiskey and self-loathing. You prop yourself on your elbows, massaging the sore spots on your temples where sleep fog forms.

“I can’t even get some rest without you botherin’ me? You’re leakin’ self-hatred everywhere.”

“Quit hogging the fire then.”

“Fuck you,” you murmur, but it’s without bite.

A moment passes before he fills the silence again. “What are you even doing out here, alone? Trying to get yourself killed? Pretty stupid.”

“Do you know how hard it is to sleep when nobody shuts up?”

His brows knit. “They’re all dead asleep.”

His hand runs up and down your back.

“Can’t settle?” He asks after you sigh.

“No.” You turn so you’re lying on your back, shoulder touching his, staring up at the ceiling. “Everyone is feeling so loud. It’s like a frequency I can’t turn off.”

He hums. “They’re grieving, I s’pose.”

“Even you and you always said you hated the guy.” You shuffle to lie on your side, facing him. You place a hand on his bare chest. “I can feel it, you know.”

“I didn’t hate Scott. Just found him… obnoxiously irritating.”

“Tough guy.” You giggle and stroke his cheek. “You’re turnin’ soft, old man.”

He pulls you flush against him and presses a kiss to your hairline. You lay in verbal silence for a while, soaking up his presence (god, you were so in love), but you’re interrupted when he abruptly sits up and grabs the white vest he discarded somewhere near the bed.

You lean on your elbows. “Where you goin’?”

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“What?”

“You can’t sleep here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“But Charles said—”

“Screw Charles. You comin’ or what?”

He hadn’t told you he loved you yet, but at that moment you felt it.

And so you do, clinging to his mid-section on his motorcycle, head stuffed into the helmet he affectionately forces you to wear. It’s a warm night in New York, soupy with heat, but the further you get away from the compound with him by your side the more you feel you can breathe.

“’Course, you don’t understand.”

You reach for the small pouch on your hip and retrieve a cigarette. You light it between your lips, taking a seat a few paces away from him, hands still shaking a little with the aftershocks of the night terror.

“Since when did you start smoking?”

You perk a brow. “I’ve always smoked.”

He seems to realise something and simply shakes his head before returning to the vice in his fist.

“Right.”

You stare at him for a long, passing moment, before pulling out your lighter again and offering it towards him. He perks a brow.

“I know you got a cigar in there somewhere,” you say. He pauses, sighs, and then retrieves a thick cigar from one of the pouches on his suit. You lean closer, flick the lighter, and cup your hand to protect it from the breeze, shamelessly glancing at the dancing glow that bathes his face amid the firelight. You feel the urge to kiss him again, and when his eyes flick up to yours, you think for the briefest second that he wants to kiss you, too.

Swallowing, you collapse your lighter and clear your throat. You sit quietly, smoking and drinking in a silence only negated by the distant sound of chittering bugs around you. Once you’re finished with your cigarette, you toss the butt into the fire.

“We’re infiltrating tomorrow morning.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Your lips tighten into a thin line. “We won’t make it without you.”

“Sure you will. I’m not him, you know,” Wolverine grumbles, slugging another shot of alcohol.

You scrutinise him from across the log. You wonder if he feels as pathetic as he looks.

“No— you got that right,” you answer. You pry the liquor from his hands but the grip he releases from the neck of the bottle must have been a mercy on his part because you knew he was extraordinarily stronger than you. “He was much braver than you.”

His eyes flicker from the flames to you as you take a long swig.

“Although probably just as stupid.”

A pause. Crackling and popping firewood fills the silence.

“But, he was a hero. And so are you.”

A beat before he spits a dry laugh, “what gave you that idea?”

You give him a once over and offer a half-smile. “That suit, for starters.”

He looks down at himself like he’d forgotten he was wearing it and wipes away a stray speck of blood from the bright material that you’re sure you might be responsible for.

“What, you like it?” He grunts.

You can’t help but smile. “Yellow suits you.”

“This is all I had left to remember you— them by,” he says, tone turning more sombre as he reminisces.

You decide it’s not the time to make another jab, so, instead, you play back and forth with the bottle for a while until the alcohol stops stinging your throat.

Something small shatters inside of you when you watch him muster the strength to look into your eyes, and his look a little glassy.

“Did you love him?”

Woof, that needed a healthy drink of courage to answer. When you hold his gaze, there’s a hollowness to his expression— an unasked question. Was there truly a version of him worth loving?

“Yeah.” You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth to cover the crack in your voice. “Yeah, I did.”

He’d insisted he hadn’t wanted you around yet he’d kissed you and now followed you to where you’d been sleeping. That had to count for something, so you extend your arm and gesture the bottle towards him— an olive branch in the form of shitty Jack Daniels. Your fingers touch when he accepts it and the brief glimmer of eye contact you share sends shivery energy zipping between you.

“I loved him,” you repeat, as if convincing yourself. A repeated balm to soothe the pain of letting him leave.

“He’s an idiot for leaving you.”

You bite back a sob-laugh, imagination caught somewhere between wondering who you’d rather beat up more: him, or yourself.

“Maybe I’m an idiot for not followin’ him.” You sniff deeply to push back the incoming sob-induced mess. “Not that he woulda let me.”

He hums resignedly.

Clearing your throat, you tuck your hands between your thighs. Swiftly moving on. “What was I— she like?”

He takes a long drink and sighs thickly when he comes up for air. He looks down at his hands when he talks as if choosing his words thoughtfully and carefully.

“Strong, smart. Stubborn. Far too fuckin’ stubborn.”

You force a smile over the flinch of pain in your chest. “Guess we got that in common.”

You reach up and twist the dog tag around your neck, feeling for the ring you’d slipped around the chain. You were never married legally but were in all the ways that mattered. Your heart aches for the brief moment of domesticity you shared with him. You expect him to be finished, but he once laughs, a smile cracking on his face.

“She loved kids— had a soft spot for the weird ones.” He squints and rubs at the flesh between his knuckles where the blades typically protrude. “Put me in my place. Stood up for what was right.”

His words strike a chord in your heart, playing the familiar tune of yearning and guilt and grief. A swelling sensation rises from your stomach and you’re not sure if you’re going to scream, cry or throw up.

“Were you—?”

“In love with her? What, like you can’t tell?” He interrupts, face hardening. Another drink. “It doesn’t matter. We argued one night and I refused to follow her back to the school, ‘bout the same time the humans went mutant hunting.”

Logan takes a moment to catch himself.

“When I came back, shit-faced from the bar, I realised I’d gotten my version of you murdered, along with the rest of them. Laid up like a fucking log pile. That’s what loving me got you.”

The gruesome imagery sours the liquor in your stomach. You push the nausea down with a hard swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wh—” He jolts back, face pinched. “I got you killed, and you’re fuckin’ sorry?”

“There’s a world where you didn’t make that choice. You know, I’m not proud of who I am, either,” you answer, softly. “After you left and I lost you… I got bitter, stopped pulling my punches.”

“You never liked hurting people.”

“I didn’t.” You take a deep breath, willing away the warmth that pools behind your eyes. You quickly regain composure with a short cough. “Whatever woman you’re comparing me to, I stopped being her a long time ago. Like you told me— I’m no hero.”

He grunts, looking like he regrets saying that now. Checkmate. You’re not what either of you expected or yearned for in one another, but maybe you’re exactly what you both need.

“You know, your accents thicker.”

He says it as if to draw a line of separation, but you take it as an invitation. Your head swims from the alcohol, and against what probably is your better judgement, you inch closer to him until your knees bump against each other.

“That’s what I get for hidin’ in the mountains. Got adopted by a scary old lady and her church friends. I reckon she rubbed off on me. You’d like her, I think,” you tell him fondly. There’s something wistful about it, imagining a life with him. You grieve a life you never had but somehow, in his company, the melancholy loosens its grip.

“Maybe we got lucky,” you add flatly.

He lifts the bottle with a dry laugh. “You have a very funny idea of what lucky means, bub.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure. Y’see, they didn’t get lucky. They died, ‘n’ we lost each other,” you explain, glancing up at the stars as if either version of you would ever be in heaven, as if it was as loving enough as a mother’s womb to stretch wide enough to allow space for mutants.

God probably hated you just as much as they did down here.

You lower your head onto his shoulder. “But, we’re still here. Maybe there was always space in my universe for you.”

“You’re drunk,” he observes flatly, but he doesn’t move.

“A little.” You get more comfortable against his tense bicep and close your eyes. “Humour me, why don’t you?”

He sighs, but it’s gentle. “Just for a while.”

“Good, because you’re not very good at keeping your feelings quiet. I know you like this.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

You sigh, eyes remaining closed. “We ain’t gonna talk about it, are we?” You ask, in reference to the kiss.

“Nope.”

A high-pitched whine resonates in your ears, vision blurring as if lying underneath a rippling river current. Paradox has just explained the stakes to you — to stop Cassandra, somebody would have to lay down on the wire and make the sacrifice play. This wasn’t a matter of regeneration anymore— it was being ripped apart from the seams, atomised.

It just so happens that your cat, Kevin, has been loving his little journey around the TVA. Cheater.

“You won’t survive it,” is what you say in response to Logan offering himself up for the job. What you really meant was: I don’t think I can survive losing you again.

“I know,” Logan answers. His eyes drip to where you palm at the slow-healing wound on your side, courtesy of the Lady Deadpool variant. You’re winded, running on fumes, and know you’re in no position to start throwing yourself out there as a suicide volunteer. You’d never make the journey, let alone succeed in your venture.

“That’s why it’s gotta be me,” Deadpool interrupts, peeling the mask from his face to address you both. “Neither of you asked for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to both of your faces — just to get you to help me, and you did.”

“You didn’t lie,” Logan replies, throwing you a glance. “You made an educated wish.”

He reaches into his pocket and slaps the bloodied Polaroid of Deadpool’s friends against Wade’s chest. The gesture is a final, silent acknowledgement of why any of you are here in the first place, and everything that’s led to this moment.

“I got nothin’ back in my world,” he explains, the sharp arrow of his words striking a sting straight through your heart. “Let me do this. For you.”

You could see that this meant more to him, that he would only deem himself worthy and die a peaceful death if he could do it knowing he saved at least one variant of you. This is more than just a mission. This is his only chance to redeem himself, and you know you’re in no position to start trying to convince him that you’d have him either way. Fuck redemption.

You’re parallel from one another, standing just outside of touching distance. It was a cruel existence— reaching out and never quite being able to hold on. It’s inevitable, the pull you feel. You’re dictated by his gravity but cursed by the narrative.

Your chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths as you attempt to process what’s happening, what he’s asking you to let him do. The pain in your side ebbs only from the comparative pain of watching another version of the man you love sacrifice himself for you.

His voice is a quiet whisper. “Give me this.”

But I love you. The words are there, hiding behind your clenched teeth, gnawing at the bars like a feral animal caged in the reminder that this isn’t — shouldn’t be — the man that you love.

Something shifts and as you’re running on the delirium of your battery running low, healing resources drained, you decide that you don’t actually care to make the distinction any more.

You’re in no condition to fight; you barely had the energy to argue with him, let alone stop him. But you can’t just let him go.

One wobbly step forward. You poke his chest, mustering whatever energy remains to express your feelings in the only true way you know how. “I…” you stammer, but you suddenly can’t find the words.

His hand reaches up and he splays yours flat against his chest. Faintly, buried deep behind the armoured layer of his suit, you feel the distinct thunk, thunk of his heart. He exhales deeply when your empathetic energy transmission reaches the other side. Your eyes connect, and even through the sharp whites of his mask, you can feel the psionic pulse resonating between you two— strong enough that the wound on your side begins to sew itself together.

“I know,” he whispers.

And you believe that he does.

He nods shortly, releases your hand, and turns on his heel. You collapse against the control centre, eyes needling through the camera footage, desperate to watch the final moments and know that his sacrifice was worth it.

It’s about the same time that Deadpool yanks his mask back on and barrels down the hallway after him.

“Wade!”

You glance back at the party as you creep towards the apartment door to leave. Your consciousness has only recently slipped back into place, having hovered somewhere above your body for the entire time you witnessed your friends atomically ripped apart, only for them to return mere moments later.

You think it might’ve been witnessing Wolverine sweaty and shirtless that was finally the last straw for you. You’re not sure you’ve recovered since.

You thought you were being sneaky about your departure, but a flat hand reaches from out of view, splays and then holds the door closed.

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Logan asks, voice slow and tentative.

“I ain’t runnin’ this time, I promise,” you answer. He rests his arm on the beam above him, making him appear even taller and maybe even more imposing. Your pulse quickens as you look up at him, trying to find the right words, ones that you hope won’t give you away. You nearly squeak. “I um— just—”

He arches a brow, a hint of a micro-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He shifts, getting closer by just a fraction. “Yeah?”

Trying to keep your distance is proving to be immensely hard when he’s gotten himself this deliciously close. His energy tastes of confidence, a stark contrast to the self-loathing only a mere few days prior. It’s magnetic. If you make eye contact now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to control yourself.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, like the static energy right before lightning strikes. His gaze is intense when you look at him, and with the way his eyes glance purposefully down at your parted lips—

Jesus. Pull yourself together.

You gently pull away from him and feel the spell of the moment dissolve. “I just… need time.”

Recognition flashes on his face, as well as a tick of disappointment, but he seems to understand.

A beat, then he taps the door before stepping aside. “Alright. Don’t be a stranger.”

Wade bursts around the corner, arms wide and voice booming. Vanessa hangs off of his arm, white teeth gleaming with mischievous joy.

“Whoa, hey there, lovebirds! What’s going on here— a secret rendezvous? Looking for somewhere to sneak off? Should I cue the romantic music or just give you two some privacy?”

You jump in surprise at his sudden entrance, flinching away from Logan as if you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Logan’s expression shifts from whatever tender moment was brewing, spell broken, to a mix of exasperation and resignation, jaw tightening.

“Wade,” he grumbles, voice sharp, but you can acknowledge there’s a level of begrudging affection beneath the steely surface. “Timing, as usual, is impeccable.”

“Um, actually, I was just leavin’,” you answer, tugging on your bag.

“WHAT!” Wade exclaims, face dropping. “We haven’t even gotten to our favourite part yet!”

You tick a brow. “Our favourite part?”

“The cocaine part,” he says, matter-of-factually.

“Wade, that was one time,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’m sorry. Thank you for inviting me. I just can’t miss my flight.”

Dogpool jumps at your ankles, whimpering and chewing on the hem of your jeans. You give her a gentle scratch on her head, deftly avoiding the lick of her impressive tongue. Wade scoops her up, holding her against his shoulder and kissing her affectionately on her wet nose.

“You, ah, need a ride?” Logan offers.

Your heart stutters at his chivalrous attempt. “Oh, um. That’s okay— I called a cab. So.”

That was a lie. You hadn’t— not yet. You just weren’t sure if you were going to make the right decisions if you were alone in his company for an hour. Probably wouldn’t make it to the airport without fighting or crying or making stupid choices.

He rubs his jaw. “Right.”

“I’ll… see you around?”

“I better!” Wade yells, using two fingers to gesture that he’s keeping his eye on you as Vanessa yanks him around the corner gleefully.

A magnetic tether — or red string, whatever you want to call it — seems to strain when you walk away from Logan. You feel the pull in your chest, a fluttering of electricity, but you swallow the urges and ignore the way they scratch like glass on the way down.

You call an Uber, squeezing your bag tightly for a source of comfort as you crowd yourself into the back seat. You spare one last glance at the apartment and think for a brief moment you see a silhouette of someone watching you from the balcony, but they slip away into the light before you can discern it.

You know, though. Of course, you know.

You expected relief when you arrived home, but, instead, the aching, gnawing black hole in your chest seems to grow exponentially. You go through the motions— feed your cat, tend to the garden, eat the food with no appetite, go to Church.

The fixture of Jesus pinned to the cross gives you pause for the first time. You wonder if he was a mutant.

You weren’t sure how much of this “time” thing you were going to need to heal or make a decision on where you and Logan stood after everything, but only after your second night, sleepless and alone, do you start to doubt that this will be an easy process. You communicate like you know what you’re doing, but you haven’t stopped shaking since he kissed you, like a newborn foal traversing ice.

You want to do things right. You’re not trying to replace any missing pieces or live up to any expectations he might have of you. The girl he knew seemed to be a softer, sweeter (less traumatised) version of you, and you worry that you’d be constantly comparing him to a ghost of himself.

The rain lulls you as it patters on the window by your bed, but sleep doesn’t take you.

You hear thunder, you think, and wonder if the chickens are frightened in their coops. However, the distant grumble continues to grow, reverberating through the floorboards of your rickety cabin. As it creeps closer you discern that it’s not a brewing storm— but the growling engine of a motorcycle.

Awash with a deep sense of knowing, you throw yourself out of bed and knot a silk robe around your middle. The sound of the engine dissipates, replaced only by the hammering rain and the rushing pulse in your ears when you tear your door open.

You see him— all leather jacket slick with rainwater and tight jeans, brows pinched against the onslaught of the weather as he dismounts his bike.

Logan.

When your eyes meet, there’s a palpable shift in the air, and the storm, angry as a howling spirit, mirrors the turbulent emotions within you. You don’t speak, you don’t think, you just act.

Barefoot, dressed in your slip of a robe, you race down the short path and meet him halfway.

“Logan? Logan?” You call out. “What are you doin’ here?!”

“Had to see you,” he calls out between strides, voice nonchalant as if what he’s said was obvious.

You’re closing the distance. “That’s a day’s ride, and the weather—”

Instead of letting you finish, he grasps your face, kissing you suddenly and with a reverence so sincere that your knees feel gelatinous and weak. His thumbs brush away the raindrops— tears? —that drip over your crystallised lashes. His touch is both grounding and electrifying; the warmth of him pressed against you is a stark contrast to the chilling downpour.

Your fingers curl against the front of his jacket, clinging with equal fervour as if it’s the only thing keeping you anchored from floating someplace else. The strength of his body crowds over you, arm sliding down to capture you by your waist as you lean into him, syrupy-decadent and entirely reliant on him to keep you upright.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding over yours tasting both bittersweet and intoxicating in equal measures, like cigar smoke and peppermint gum. There’s a distinct sharpness of liqour and you wonder if he had a shot (or bottle) of courage before coming here. You breathe deeply against his skin, smelling rainwater, musk and gunpowder; your senses are completely overwhelmed by him and you’re not sure that anything could pull you away.

The red string knots.

When you both eventually take pause, gasping for air as the rain continues to pelt, his eyes lock with yours. He radiates relief, desire, and a raw vulnerability that makes your heart ache.

“You’re freezin’,” he murmurs, peppering kisses against your lips, your cold nose, and pulling one of your hands to his face to peck along your palm. You feel dizzy in his embrace, drunk on his lips.

“You should come inside,” you whisper, “before the neighbours start askin’ questions.”

He quietly nods, kissing your fingers before following you inside and ducking away from the rain.

Once inside, he shakes the rain from his hair with a flick, eyes immediately roaming around the innards of your respectable (tiny) house, the size of him immediately proportionally shrinking the interior. He absorbs your surroundings, chivalrously pretending like he can’t see every curve of you in that wet material.

You lead him towards the heath, lighting a small fire to help dry you both off. You leave, pottering around to gather some towels for your hair, and arrive back to see he’s peeled off the top layer of his clothes, leaving him half-exposed, his back an impressive marvel of rippling muscle. He glances at you over his shoulder.

You’re lost for words, but can’t just stand there ogling him. “Um, I don’t think I have any spare clothes that’ll… fit…”

When he turns to face you, his rain-slick torso shines in the firelight, skin glistening on the taught muscles of his biceps as he accepts a towel from you. Your words lag, entirely distracted by the realisation of one thing when you glance down at his v-line and dark, coiling hair that creeps down into his jeans: you’re absolutely going to have sex with this man.

You might’ve decided that when you watched the way his jeans clung to him when he dismounted his motorcycle, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s alright,” he answers, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes roving shamelessly over the damp, silky robe that clings to your silhouette effortlessly. “Don’t need ‘em.”

Your mouth dries when he steps closer to you, head angled, lips centimetres apart.

“Logan…” you breathe, tone edging toward a warning.

He presses against you, tilting you back. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I’ll get back on that bike and I’ll leave.”

You creep further away, trying to catch your breath. “I—”

The words don’t manifest, simply because you don’t have it in you to lie— to deny yourself of this.

He cages you in against the wall, shrinking you underneath his frame, eyes narrowed and dark as they search for yours through lowered lashes. “Tell me you don’t feel somethin’, and I’ll walk away. You won’t see me again.”

His bare-chested proximity was overwhelming you. You’re acutely aware of every inch of his skin that touches yours, pebbled nipples hard against his warm flesh, stubbled jaw nuzzling against your neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You feel like a teenager again, anxious and hormonal, a ball of puppy fat and unrequited crushes. The space between your thighs positively aches with heat, throbbing like a second heartbeat.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that I feel something.”

He leans back, lips quirked with a flash of disappointment.

You blink up at him. “Let me show you instead.”

He ticks an eyebrow.

You use your empathetic influence to decrease his heartbeat, relaxing him down to the bone. He sighs, nosing against your shoulder, arms flexing as he holds himself up against you.

“Just with a little influence…” you stroke your way up from the slow pulse in his neck to his jaw, capturing him swiftly. You use your mutation to increase his heart rate this time, hiking it up to an excitable level. His cheeks begin to flush, pupils dilated, lips parted with the anticipation of your kiss. His eyes darken with something intrinsically primal and hungry.

“Does it excite you?” You ask, innocently.

He shakes his head all dog-like as if to regain control, canine showing as his lips curl into a wolfish grin.

“You’re not the only one with… tricks. I can do that, too— in other ways,” he says, tone low and suggestive. He lifts a hand, tracing a knuckle over your exposed collarbone, shifting the soft material of your robe just an inch. Your breath hitches.

“You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?”

You blush. You hadn’t known that.

You challenge his eye contact, feigning self-control and authority. The stare-down has your pulse spiking, arousal ricocheting down your spine and sitting low and syrupy in your belly.

“Your heart’s beating pretty fast, too.”

Oh, Hell. He’s got you melted like butter in a pan.

You rest your head against the wall, breath quickening. “If we do this, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Good,” he growls. “I don’t like to stop.”

The teasing back-and-forth game of teetering towards nearly touching finally gets the better of you. You’re weak, as malleable as soft dough, so you invite him against your mouth with a sigh-wine and a tug on the nape of his neck.

He positively devours you, a hand palming at your breast as you kiss desperately and feverishly. The shoulder of your robe slips and you’re half-exposed, the slip barely holding itself together by the loose knot on your waist. He pulls you impossibly closer, the skin of his chest flush against yours as he reaches and digs fingers into the globe of your ass, hips twitching together.

You fumble between your bodies, yanking on his belt buckle and zipper impatiently. He pulls backwards, a wet string of spit snapping between your lips as you separate, helping you with steadier fingers to remove his jeans. With equal passion, he swiftly tugs on the waist-tie of your robe and discards it somewhere on the floor.

When you’re both bare, nude silhouettes sharp and soft in the firelight, he stumbles you over to the plush rug in the centre of the room. He nods to the couch.

“Legs up.”

You obey without hesitation, taking your seat and spreading decadently for him. He kneels below you of you, hips between your ankles, and gazes at you like a hungry, stalking animal. You feel impossibly sexy and dangerous.

He peppers kisses along the bone of your ankle first, foot hiked up onto his shoulder, only breaking eye contact to flutter his eyes closed. He moves along the inner length of your leg, pausing keenly against the sensitive parts— the thin stretch behind your knee, the soft plush of your thigh. He lowers himself, scruff tickling between your legs, and then licks a molten stroke between your folds, parting you with his tongue and burying his face deeper.

You clench around his skull, mindfulness of your heightened mutant abilities long forgotten. You can’t crush metal between your thighs. Or can you?

He groans into you, varying suckling and kissing you on your clit with long strokes on the blade of his tongue to your hole, lapping up the nectar of your arousal, fingers digging bruisingly into your hips. The sting of his grip and the relentless lave of his tongue entice moans from you, fingers raking into his hair for some semblance of reality grounding in your pleasure-lapsed consciousness.

Jesus. With as filthy as his mouth was, you should’ve known he would be this good at eating pussy.

You come quick, orgasm pulsing on his lips. The burn of overstimulation seizes your muscles, writhing against his onslaught, but he shoves your hips down.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmurs possessively, leaning back to wipe his chin. “On all fours.”

You bite your lower lip, suppressing the humiliation of the intimacy (vulgarity) of it. You turn, belly still clenching with the aftershocks, arching with the anticipation, whining moments later when his mouth reconnects with you. His hands palm at your ass, spreading you wider, tongue slipping dangerously close to the tight ring of muscle.

He slides a finger knuckle-deep, miming fucking you in a rhythmic pulse. His other hand massages you, thumb sliding down until you jerk sensitively against his nudging intrusion.

You feel impossibly full and tingly, clenching around the burn of his thumb and the velvet of his finger, second orgasm surging and bubbling over with your face pressed against the couch cushion, lips agape. You’re slick, drip-dropping onto his cupping palm, every nerve in your body burning raw as his wrist works you through the pulses.

You turn over, relishing in the sight of his scruff glistening with the aftermath of your orgasm, his eyes dark with lust— a hellish man, seraphic on his knees for you. Your insides clench at the sight as he quite literally shatters and redefines what worship means to you.

“Tired already?” He hums, massaging your hips.

You perk a challenging brow. “That was just the warm-up, old man.”

“Alright,” he seethes, sucking on his lower lip as he lifts himself up to your level. “Show me what you got then, baby.”

When you kiss, his mouth slides against yours, drenched with the taste of yourself. His cock steels against your belly when you pull him close, tip pearl-smooth with precum when you reach down and grasp him with a hollowed fist. The feel of him, heavy and warm in your grip, fans to life the flames of your briefly quenched arousal, and you hungrily pull him down onto the couch beside you.

Moisture pools on your tongue as you rub him. You spit on your hand before stroking him from the base to tip, lathering him silky with your drool. You tuck your hair behind your ears, narrowing your cheeks as you slide your mouth up and down his length, fisting the inches that remain.

“Christ.” He twitches in your mouth as you gently massage the warm weight of his sac, lewd sounds emanating from where your lips and tongue meet him. “Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl,” he snarls, gripping your hair in a fist at the crown of your head. Your engine purrs with his encouragement, revving with newfound enthusiasm.

You always gave as good as you got, after all, and you’re certainly not one to back away from a challenge.

His head lolls onto the back of the couch, thighs tense beneath you, cock hot and hard on your tongue. He growls when he comes, pulsing strongly in your mouth as you lap up the produce of his orgasm, salty and molten down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Put those regenerative powers to good use, why don’t you?” You ask, working him through the over-sensitivity with your wrist. His eyes don’t once leave yours, even as they glaze over and flinch from the pleasure burn. There’s a sharp look of challenging determination on his face— a grit of his teeth, the furrow in his brow. He remains hard in your hands and you perk an impressed brow. Not bad for an old man.

There’s a sweet moment of vulnerability when you crawl over him, a brief sobering in the cloud of lust, a clarity of two not-quite strangers and their shared grief and yearning.

You’re not sure where this moment will take you, but the love of somebody scraping together the shards of a shattered heart for a brief time, even as it cuts their hands, holds you with a semblance of human connection so sincere that you’ll carry it with you for a lifetime.

His thighs spread to accommodate you. You hold your fingers against the thick chords in his neck for support as you fumble between your bodies, slotting him against the catch in your cunt before lowering yourself entirely.

You hiss against the intrusion and he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You laugh-moan, laying your palms against the coils of hair on his sweat-shimmering chest.

“I can take it.”

The fire, intended to help dry you off, creates a heated environment that beads sweat on his temple. The only brain cells that remain coherent bounce around on lust in your skull — so you lean forward, lick the salty droplet clean, and sigh-whine as you begin rocking against him.

You fall into sync quickly, a desperate rhythm of desperate bodies. The delicious ache of him inside you is a masochistic thrill, similar to the irresistible press on a day-old bruise. The squelching shlick between your bodies is an animalistic reminder of your flesh and blood as you chase the pleasure, bouncing with vigour.

“Christ— I can feel you…” his jaw clenches with resolve, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. “…dripping all over me. You wanted this bad, huh?”

“Wanted to ride you in that fuckin’ Honda,” you straighten your posture, leaning away from him to hold your breasts, panting words between bated breaths. “Thought it might shut you up.”

His hand snaps up and grabs you roughly by the chin. “Mm… mouthy, aren’t ya?”

You grin. “You got no idea, lumberjack.”

He pulls your face against him, meeting your mouth halfway in a sloppier, fever-driven kiss that shoots arousal to your core like a shot of his favourite whiskey. Something feral stirs within you: a primal, cellular-deep need to connect with him further. Your empathetic power roils off of you like steam on a hot spring, surging into and merging with him until there’s nothing but one feeling, a black hole of unquenchable desire.

You suddenly feel as though you are him: navel-deep, a throbbing muscle with an aching desire to dive further into the serpent-clutch of your cunt, gliding through tingly, honey-silk velvet, blades hanging onto a tether of self-control as they threaten to slide out of your knuckles in ecstasy.

Well. This was certainly new. Add “voodoo sex doll” to your list of mutations.

You gasp, ripping away from the kiss, your powers recoiling back into you at whip-lash speed, dizzying in its ferocity. His eyes meet yours with darkened curiosity.

“Did you—”

“I felt that,” he grunts, tongue darting out to roll over his lips. “It always like that for you? Feelin’ so fuckin’ full?”

You half-laugh blissfully. “Only the good times.”

“I’ll show you a good time, alright.”

He isn’t gentle when he manhandles you, forcing you into an arch as he repositions and aligns himself behind your thighs, one foot planted firmly on the floor, the other bent to accommodate the new angle. He reinserts himself inside of you with ease, hands palming your hips and ass.

You feel him nudging cervix-deep and you reach out, clawing at the couch to hold your jerking body steady against the relentless slap of his hips. There’s no need to tell him faster or harder when you feel the metal plate of his adamantium hips pressing against your ass, pounding and vulgar with the sound of sweat-damp skin-on-skin.

It’s involuntary, the way you pant and cry out, intoxicated by the relentless drag and pull of his cock. He says something to you but you either don’t hear him or have enough conscious space in your sex-drunk fog to process words and respond. He slides a hand down your spine and pulls on your hair until you’re upright, breath hot when it fans against your neck.

“Where’s that mouth gone?”

You lick the drool from your lip, throwing him a glance over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”

The half-lidded up-and-down look he gives you as satisfaction grows slowly on his lips turns your bones to jelly. “There she is,” he growls back, offering a sharp slap of encouragement on your ass as he drops you back onto your front. You involuntarily grip around him, puffy clit throbbing with the almost-but-not-quite-there anticipatory build. “You gonna come for me? Yeah? I can fuckin’ feel it.”

You slide a hand underneath yourself, reaching for the swollen nub with two fingers. You’re overwhelmed with kinetic energy akin to a fizzy champagne bottle— two more shakes until you’re ready to pop.

You hear a Snikt! behind you, accompanied by a throat-caught groan, and then the distinct ripping shred of blades impaling your couch. You finally come, hard, when you feel him throbbing inside of you, followed by the decadent syrupy flood of his orgasm filling you up. He ruts into you one, two three more final times, milking himself dry, before collapsing over your body in a sweaty heap, sparing you the weight of his metal bones with a forearm propped next to you.

Shared fluids drip to the couch when he eventually pulls out of you, blades retreating into his clenched fists. The fluffy innards of the chair spill out beside you, and, while you were in no financial position to afford another, the sight entices a humoured smile from you.

“Sorry,” he says with a wince, helping you sit up when your unreliable legs shake beneath you.

“That’s alright. It’ll make for an interestin’ story,” you retort, fanning yourself with a hand. You both let out a shared laugh, mostly from the relieved delirium of it all. After a beat, you lean into him, massaging a hand across his belly. “So. We really doin’ this?”

His face softens. “If you’ll have me.”

You cup his face and kiss his cheek. “I’d take any version of you I could get.”

divider credits: @/vysleix and @/cafekitsune tag list: @bearwithegg, @uhlunaro, @sseleniaa, @jxssimae, @autumnsymphony

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Anyway, while people are discoursing about men and not sharing Shubble points, here’s the actual advice I got from watching the stream bc I think that probably needs to be spread more. Shubble elaborates it much better but if you can’t watch it’s better than nothing.

Physical abuse is not just hitting or kicking, anyone causing physical pain intentionally to you without consent is physically abusive, regardless of how that manifests or if it seems silly.

Pressuring someone into using a safeword on something that’s not, like, a mutually agreed thing and is just something one partner wants is controlling and creepy.

Partners who push at the edge of your boundaries and avoid safewords are abusive.

A partner insisting you’re remembering things wrong and making you seem crazy is abusive (specifically, it’s gaslighting)

Grand romantic gestures from the beginning can very easily be a sign of abuse, as abusers use it to endear themselves to their victims.

Controlling behaviour and refusing to break up while also refusing to make changes is possessive and unhealthy at best.

Abusers will manipulate things to make it seem normal to those outside of their victims- by being kind and helpful even as they neglect their victim, by pressuring their victim to treat their abusive behaviour as a joke, ect. It’s often very hard for an outside observer to know if something is abusive, and making assumptions off of what you know in front of closed doors isn’t helpful.

It’s very hard to tell that you’re being abused, and you'll often still retain affection for your abuser for a long time- this is normal, and this isn’t your fault if you wanted to stay friends.

Even if an abuser is struggling with their own problems, taking it out on you is not acceptable. People can be bottling up their emotions and struggle with depression and past trauma and that gives them no excuse to hurt you.

If your partner relies entirely on you to take care of them, and support them financially, that’s financial abuse one way or another.

Abusers tend to hurt more than one person, and their actions escalate without outside influence (be it intervention if possible or something that keeps them away from victims if not.)

Listen to your gut, if you think a relationship is bad. Even if you’ve been through this before, sometimes you can’t realise in it, but you’ll feel it subconciously.

Also, Shubble is being supported by friends who helped her cope and went through different but similar things. She's specifically mentioned right now keeping the stories anonymised, but she might change her mind, if I interpreted the last bit correctly. She's doing alright, she's healing, and it sounds like she's being believed by her friends, at least most of them. I wish nothing but growth and healing for them, and wish them the best moving forward.

[kaivenom]

Hii :), how are you? Can i request a sfw headcanons for shanks, crocodile and mihawk with a so with a bad period and bad personality during it? (sorry for my english)

The One Piece men DILFs reader with their bad period cramps and an awful personality HCS

Characters: Mihawk, Crocodile and Shanks

A/N: i am good and i hope you are too.

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

He assumes you need space so he gives you that.

But the thing is that you want him to be on your side, you want him to baby you.

So, with your bad cramps and your bad mood, you managed to get Up and go to the kitchen, your anger being stronger than the pain.

"Stupid swordsman good for nothing, i am bleeding and feeling like dying and you are here reading a book." He got really surprised and even a little scared.

"I thought that because that are women things you would be too embarrased to share It and i am sure i would be interrupting your process." He tried to excuse himself.

"What, i am your woman, the least i want from you in this situation IS some type of lovely words, but i got nothing and i really need that."

"I see your point."

You were really frustated and your knees were starting to feel weak so you head back to bed.

Half hour later a knock on your door made you open your eyes a little. It was Mihawk with some drinks and something that looked like a hot bag.

He sat next to you and kissed your forehead carefully. He took cup of water and put some medicine on It.

"I am sorry my love, i thought you need space but know that i saw my mistake, i learned for the next times. I have medicine, sweats, drinks and this Hot thing" you looked at him curious. "I had to call Perona and she told me and that maybe a feet massage can give you a better mood"

You poked his nose, still a little angry from before and the kissed his cheek to lay on bed, ready for his treatment.

Which included kisses, massages, treats, words of reinforcement and guilt from his side.

Sr. Crocodile

He buys you everything you want, but due to the situation of the moment, you wouldnt be able to wish anything more that stop the pain.

He didn't catch It at first, he thought that with the most expensive pill and the special drinks from his rich doctor you would be good and end of subject.

But you were also in a bad mood cause you wanted him to care a little more.

When he asked some of his female co-workers to go and see how you were going, he overhead something.

"That crackhead hook guy, how can he think that only with pills i feel better?, i do but he is my partner, i want him to really care."

Then he asked the coworker about these things and came with a plan.

"Get Up woman."

"Another pill?"

"No, a new treatment."

He guided you to the bathroom to realize that a hot bubble bath was running, chocolate, candles.

"You heard."

"Of course i heard, you were yelling... And of course i care about you, nobody else stays Alive after telling those things about me."

You laughed and goth into the wáter, waiting for him to join.

Akagami Shanks

Even with the pain you wanted to be of worth for the crew, being a woman in an all men ship makes you have to gain your place.

So, you didn't told Shanks but the signs were there: small faints, weak knees, really bad face, yelling at everyone, mood changes...

"Really, Who was the idiota that put the rope here, i almost tripped, if i catch him i Will break his legs and then i Will..." And you started to cry.

That moment your behaviour was too extreme to the crew, so Shanks asked you and you coudlnt hide It more.

He obliged you to go to bed and you thought that you would be alone and in pain plus that the crew now sees you as weak, but Shanks followed you and got in bed by your side.

"You are the stupid one, i saw you almost faint a couple of times but i thought you were sick or tired but this... If this happens to you every month and you know when It happens why would you put that much weight on your shoulders?"

"Dont call me stupid, stupid, i dont want to be a burden to you guys." You really wanted to cry.

"You are not a burden, you are my woman and if you are bad cause of this then you Will rest and i prefer this than a weapon wound."

"I am still bleeding"you said while giving him a small kick.

He got Up and you thought that he was mad at you, but he just put his head out of the door and gave the boys some orders to give you things and space.

He asked you if you needed something more and just laid there in bed with you, even when you told him he was smelling like sweats too much.

[smokersbaby]

How OP's men would react to an unexpected hug from their s/o - pt. 2

part 1 (Katakuri, Zoro, Kid, Law)

Characters: Sanji, Smoker, Ace, Crocodile TW: fluff and me making fun of Sanji, sorry Reader: gender neutral Author's notes: since pt. 1 had a lot of success, I decided to continue with this series of headcanons! I'll do a part 3 so suggest to me in the comments who you'd like to see next! (p.s. Sanji's a pervert)

Sanji

Just a hug? Prepare yourself to receive much more than that.

If you hug him tight, he'll hug you tighter, it's like a competition to see who shows more love to the other.

Probably he'd try to give you some smooches, this guy is super glue when it comes to demonstrating love to his partner.

"Y/N-chwan let me love you!" he'd say with a cheesy voice, nosebleeding just by having you in his arms (he can't get accustomed to your closeness).

You'd have to escape from him if you don't want to be dragged into a long make-out session now.

Sanji would look for you as you hide, saying that he only wants more hugs (false, he wants to have seggsy time with you).

Smoker

He gets easily flustered if you hug him out of the blue when alone and it makes him almost panic if in front of other people.

Imagine wrapping your arms around his torso in front of his subordinates. He'll just try faintly to send you away, his cheeks red as tomatoes as he whispers "Not now babe, please".

As you let him go sighing, he'll come back to you as soon as possible, finding an excuse just to have five seconds alone with you.

He'll pick you up and embrace your body as if it was a feather, your arms and legs wrapped against the beefy man as he places his forehead against yours

Too bad his subordinates once caught you two lovebirds having a sweet moment and let out an "Aaaww". Smoker turned around and gave them a glacial, death stare. Their bodies were never found (just kidding, he's a sweetheart).

Ace

This guy is warm to hug (that's no secret, you could have imagined that) and since he's a sweet partner who loves to demonstrate his love physically, he is just obsessed with your hugs and your presence in general.

His hugs are tender and make you feel protected in his arms, he holds you as if you were the most precious thing in the world for him.

Normally, Ace loves hugging you while sitting on the couch, you on his lap and your legs wrapped around him as he rubs your back.

Even though this may be an allusive position for more than just a hug, he wouldn't go further if you don't ask for it. 

Just having his s/o in his arms it's enough for Ace, and comforting you after a stressful day it's one of the things he loves the most (p.s. don't try this with Sanji, he'll take it as an invitation to have seggsy time).

Crocodile

If Crocodile doesn't know it's you approaching him from behind he would turn into sand, your arms wrapping around nothing and leaving an annoyed look on your face.

"Sorry love, I thought it was someone trying to murder me" he'd excuse himself realizing it was his s/o.

He'd pat your head and give you a tight hug to put a smile back on your face since he saw how unimpressed you were from his cautious behaviour.

Next time you'll embrace him with wet hands to neutralize his devilfruit's powers so that he can't escape the hug.

If you manage to gain his complete trust, he'll even let you join him when he's having a shower or taking a bath, since he loses all his strength in both cases. He refuses to admit that but hugging you as he's so vulnerable gives him lots of comfort, he loves it.

[akutasoda]

HEYOO! ^×^

Can i request a Bsd men getting jealous when

s/o's male friend hugging, holding hands...etc with

s/o

(Feel free to ignore >×< ~♡)

I love your works so muchhhh!!! please you're my favorite writer T×T i love youuu♡♡♡♡

a jealous friendship

synopsis - they get jealous over your male friend

includes - atsushi, kunikida, chuuya, tecchou

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, slight angst?, jealousy, wc - 981

a/n: heyyo! thank you so much <3

atsushi nakajima ★↷

↪ atsushi wouldn't be as jealous, he'd be more insecure but he'd never voice his options out in the open unless you asked.

↪you always wanted to introduce him to your friends, he was just as important to you to as your friends and you wanted them to get along. but seeing as you'd known your friends for a long time, you guys were very close.

↪he was a bit shy at first as he did really want to make a good first impression for your friends but he very quickly did adjust to your group. he thought your friends were a lovely group but he became a bit unsure with a certain friend.

↪one of your male friends, who you'd know for a while, was surprisingly quite affectionate. when you met him you gave him a hug which atsushi could brush off as a friendly gesture but over time he became more and more conscious.

↪what really made him feel insecure was when he kept whispering to you and making you laugh. you could see how atsushi was feeling and you knew he was probably getting uncomfortable so you excused yourself and him earlier than you planned.

↪he felt bad for you leaving earlier but you assured him that you didn't mind. he didn't initially share his thoughts until later that day and you made sure to assure him he was the only one for you.

doppo kunikida ★↷

↪ kunikida is the type of person to get jealous and try his best to not let it show. he would always tell himself that he shouldn't be jealous and he should have faith that you loved him.

↪ you'd have to warn him in advance whenever you wanted him to meet your friends, preferably telling him exactly who was going to be there and when and how long you'd stay - then he would go.

↪ he'd want to make a good first impression, they were your friends and were obviously very important to you. and he'd try his best to interact with your friends.

↪he actually found himself having an enjoyable time up until one of your male friends became overly comfortable with you. he understood you two were close and he didn't want to sound rude but he really couldn't help but glare whenever you gave him a hug.

↪he hated how close he stood to you or sat next to you, he even went as low as hating how he made you laugh. you could see the frown etching it's way across your boyfriends face and you knew he was getting jealous, you guess your friend was being a bit too over affectionate.

↪you excused the two of you early and kunikida happily followed you away. he was very open in expressing his concerns once you had got him to, even if he tried convincing himself that he shouldn't be jealous. you only gave him a quick kiss as a way to make up.

chuuya nakahara ★↷

↪chuuya did have a short temper and that translated into how quickly he could get jealous. he wouldn't exactly hide how jealous he was to add too that.

↪he would happily join you to meet your friends at any point - he knew how close you guys were and he wanted to be on good terms with them. so whenever time permitted he would happily join you if you invited him to hang out with your friends.

↪ you'd never seen chuuya on his best behaviour until he met your friends, you could tell how serious he was on making a good impression. and while he didn't really talk much, he was polite and engaged in the conversation when prompted.

↪but you could also tell how jealous he was getting over one of your male friends. you had been talking to your friend and you'd notice how chuuya shifted slightly closer to you and slowly wrapped his arm around your waist - you could also feel the glare he was sending him.

↪you could only endure his jealousy so much and he could only stand your friend so much. and so you finished you conversation and signalled that you were leaving early and chuuya happily left aswell.

↪you knew how easily he got jealous and maybe you were a bit cruel when you teased him as you asked what really got him so bothered. he only huffed at you as he wrapped his arm tighter around your waist as you walked home.

tecchou suehiro ★↷

↪ tecchou never really got jealous, well he did but he wouldn't really care unless he got jealous about something to do with you. but he'd always have faith in you.

↪he would always take on board your ideas, including when you offered him to join you to meet your friends. he would happily agree as a part of him did want to meet your friends and he also wouldn't say no to hanging out with you off duty.

↪he really wanted to make a good impression. he didn't really talk much but you always responded to any questions and engaged in conversation when prompted. you couldn't really tell he was jealous initially.

↪your first clue was when he caught his hand sliding toward yours and taking it in his hand. your second clue was when he was glaring toward one of your male friends.

↪ tecchou didn't like how friendly he was being despite him being your friend. he didn't like how you hugged him or how often he made you laugh and so he couldn't help but be slightly jealous of how close you were.

↪you picked up on this eventually and excused the both of you and lead him away. you assured him that he had no need to be jealous and he was the only one for you.

[burst-of-iridescent]

I hate when people say(*writers*) when zuko is an emo bad boy. When zuko acts "emo" and "badboy" as they say it's him reacting to his trauma and abuse as a kid(most of time. Zuko is still badass. But badboy no). Is it an excuse? No. But when zuko is acting that way in canon, his obsession with honor, his yelling, his moodiness, his short temper. That is the product of having his empathy literally beaten/burned out of him by his father(and mocked and emotionally abused by Azula). The reason Zuko is doing this whole thing is because he wants to please his father. Become someone he's not. His struggle of who his father wants to be with who he is. It's because of the abuse of his father and his family. As the series goes on you get more and more flashes of the person Zuko was and the person he can become. By the end of the series it's such a great contrast and Zuko is much more happier because he's with the gaang. His family. He got out of that abusive situation he was in and finally became himself. A dorky, empathetic, caring, skilled swords men, a balanced person. Does he still have moments of anger? Yes. But over all Zuko becomes a fully balanced person.

gasp! but if we don't call zuko a bad boy, however will we make sure people don't get any ideas about shipping him with katara?

jokes aside, you're absolutely right and i roll my eyes so hard when people point to bad things zuko did, or his behaviour pre-redemption as indisputable proof of the kind of person he'd be post-redemption. like you said, a lot of zuko's actions and mannerisms before day of black sun is a direct result of the trauma he suffered, and though that doesn't excuse him - and neither does the show allow it to - discounting it entirely is to erase the abuse zuko endured and how that shaped him.

using the first half of book 3 as evidence of zuko being a supposed bad boy irks me in particular because a) the narrative makes it pretty clear that this is zuko as the worst version of himself, the opposite of everything he actually is and could be, and b) he is stuck in an abusive household at the mercy of his abusers, in an actively life-threatening situation.

zuko knows that he is in a situation where he has no real agency, freedom or control. he knows that aang is alive, that azula has turned him into a scapegoat and that his life will be forfeit if his father finds out the truth. that is an incredibly terrifying and stressful situation to be put in and it's worsened by the fact that he can't even admit it - not just because doing so would mean accepting that he gave up everything that actually mattered in the catacombs to gain nothing in return, but also because no one around him will allow him to do so.

his girlfriend can't understand his experiences or his turmoil and doesn't seem to particularly want to, brushing off his anxieties and encouraging him to stay the course. he is manipulated by his father and gaslighted by his sister, aware deep down that he is entirely under their control and that they have a vested interest in keeping him helpless, yet forced to pretend as though nothing is wrong. he is isolated from the one person who could help - his uncle - physically and emotionally, both because visiting iroh puts zuko in danger, and because zuko's choices have created a rift in their relationship.

all of this compounds the psychological stress zuko is experiencing, forcing him into a constant state of fight-or-flight, and this context is vital to understanding many of the decisions he makes and how he behaves in the first half of book 3.

(this is why i don't agree with the take that hiring combustion man is an ooc moment for zuko because even though i think the idea of combustion man himself is stupid - not to mention disrespectful to the hindu origins it's pulling from - it's a fundamentally desperate move, and zuko at this point is more desperate than he's ever been.)

that's why it's unlikely that zuko post-redemption would behave similarly since many of the factors that contributed to his anger, hostility and moodiness would no longer exist! judging zuko's future behaviour based on a time when he was constantly abused, gaslighted and threatened is just not an accurate or fair means of measurement, especially since we know what he's like at his best. the zuko we see with the gaang still has a bit of a short fuse, sure, but he's also sincere, honest, awkward, shy and far happier than he's ever been. because shocker, people tend not to act the same way in healthy, supportive environments as they do in abusive, traumatic ones. who would've thought?

people who make this argument also usually tend to compare zuko to aang, especially to glorify how aang remains cheerful and peaceful despite his trauma, and... no. just no. first of all, the show barely gives a fuck about developing aang's trauma the way it does zuko's so of course it seems to affect him less, and secondly, there's something to be said about how trauma responses like aang's are a lot more palatable and comfortable for audiences than responses like zuko's, or even katara's in the southern raiders.

anger or moodiness, or wanting to punish the people who hurt you, are not inherently wrong ways to react when you've been wronged and traumatized. praising aang for remaining cheerful and forgiving while calling zuko a bad boy for being angry and moody implies a sense of moral superiority that comes with reacting to trauma in the "right" way, which is both inaccurate and insensitive.

zuko will never be aang, and that's fine. he doesn't have to be. he ends the show reclaiming everything his abusers tried to take from him, having found himself and his destiny, in a place of healing that is all his own. that is an incredibly meaningful and powerful narrative, and the last thing zuko deserves is to have all of his complexity and development stripped just to be reduced to the tired trope of a "bad boy" when he was never one in the first place.

[treason-and-plot]

“Of course you can rely on me,” says Roy, her words causing the lump in his stomach to turn into a cold, heavy stone. “I’ll always be there for you. I love you, for Christ’s sake. You’re the most important person in my life. And I’m really sorry if I made you doubt that last night-”

“There was no ‘if’, Roy,” says Anya. “You absolutely gave me a lot of doubts. And they’re still there.”

Jesus, thinks Roy, why the fuck am I the bad guy? He takes another deep swig of his beer while he considers his position. But the rational part of his brain seems not to be working properly today. It’s been compromised by genuine fear that he could lose Anya if he doesn’t quickly get a handle on the situation. He also realises that he wasn’t lying when he told her she was the most important person in his life. And he understands for the first time what people mean when they say that they don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Baby, I’m sorry. No ifs. I’m sorry for making you feel that way. I’m a selfish, insensitive arsehole. And I’m going to do my best to try and explain why I was distant last night,” he says. “I’m not defending my behaviour, I’m just trying to provide you with some context, okay?”

“Okay,” she says quietly.

“Well, first off, I was angry and upset even before you told me about your Dad because Sonia had told me she wasn’t going to let us see the kids on Friday night,” he says. “So, yeah. There was that. And okay, I know now that it wasn’t that much of a huge deal compared to what Michael did, but it still really affected me.”

Anya says nothing, her eyes scanning his face as he talks.

“And I felt like I couldn’t share my feelings with you because you were so distraught, and I guess that kind of made me resentful and caused me to withdraw,” he continues, warming to his story. “It was childish of me, and pathetic, and I have no excuses for not putting your needs before mine. You’re right. I let you down. And I really hope that…that you can forgive me. And believe me when I say that I’ll do everything I can to try and make it up to you.”

“Thank you,” she says in the same quiet voice.

“Are we… good, then?” he says.

“Why did you question whether he was cheating?” she says.

“What?”

“You asked if going to a prostitute was cheating. Your exact words were: “Is it technically cheating, though?” Why did you say that? How could you say that? Are you saying that you think that it’s okay for married men to visit prostitutes, Roy? I’m just really confused. And concerned that we have different viewpoints about what constitutes cheating. I mean, do you honestly think it would be morally okay for you to visit a prostitute? I really need to know!”

[lazythinking]

incase no one else has said it…. YES YES YES on the d/s w art who likes degradation ‼️‼️

i will always ride for my submissive men 🫡

YES! We love subby men around here 🥹

Art is most definitely subby. He probably inches closer and closer to this realisation over the years. By the time he's a veteran of the game, he knows exactly that this is what he needs: to be degraded by you.

It's become such a core component of your relationship now that neither of you can imagine a life without it. Art can get neurotic; he gets scared, he gets anxious, he doesn't know most of the time how to get it out of his head and he is especially prone to bad decisions in this mindset. But after being with Tashi, he's not going to accept your words when all you do is coo and soothe him. He thinks he deserves to be put in his place, to be punished for his behaviour.

It's borderline therapeutic for him when you clutch his face and tell him how bad he's been, playing so awfully. He'lll try to apologise, say that it was only an off day. But you don't accept any excuses. You make him kneel, and he looks up at you with such wide-eyed anticipation, eagerly awaiting the sweet cruelty of his mistress, the press of your heavy heel against his skin.

For you, it's probably a way of regaining control. It’s tough when he’s this famous, and you get relegated to playing the role of the WAG, every other aspect of your life looked over in favour of this one thing. You love Art, don’t get it twisted—but it’s difficult when the media and paparazzi turn your marriage into a spectacle, a distortion of what it is. So this is your little secret, something only you and Art would ever know and the press could never find out. That your husband, the big famous tennis legend, cries and begs for you to be cruel to him. He loves the tenderness in your degradation, how you soothe him as you strike him with your words, reduce him to a sobbing mess with your sultry tone and incessant scolding. You press down against the dip in his chest that connects his pecs to his abs, firmly and slowly, the pressure exerted making him gasp; he knows that this is it: that he belongs under your boot.

And equally important is what happens when you wipe him clean and cradle him to slumber. Aftercare is not a bonus. It’s the second part of the package, and an essential part at that. Sometimes, Art cries harder when you hold him and tell him it’s okay than he does during your D/S scenes. It’s the same logic as his tennis training sessions, really. He just needs to be pushed to his limits, to be tested to new heights, and to be told how well he’s done afterwards, that he’s made it to the end. He sobs like a child in your arms when you let him lay on your chest, but you know that they’re only tears of joy and relief, because this is it for both of you. Art is everything to you: your dog, your slave, your servant, your husband, your lover, your soulmate, your other half. He has to be all these things, none of it is negotiable, and you’re so accepting of all of it that he can only weep in happiness that he has you. This is how he loves, and it is how you love, too.

[smol-feralgremlin]

Oh yeah. I used to be on that dangerous path in regards to radical feminism, and it was only when it starting touching on trans people in a way that felt Wrong that I made a drastic U-turn on the whole thing and had to retreat and figure out where I'd gone wrong.

I couldn't point to where I made that retreat, but I was on that path because of a lot of things in regards to my ex, which led me to a violent dislike of men. Which then leads to trans people, and that was a line that I reached and went "oh no"

It was only a couple years. But radical feminism led me down the path. I don't think I'm the only one. But because I know how that path goes, even if I don't remember what all led to it, I just know what started me on it.

Are TERFs even feminists anymore? (genuinely unsure why we still give them that credit)...

Unfortunately, yes, they're in line with a wave of feminism that has very seperatist and violent theory when it comes to men, and refusing to acknowledge that radical feminism leads people down this route is what got us into this problem in the first place.

[reallywitchycat]

I hate Sir Phillip Crane

So with season 3 of Bridgerton show released on Netflix I do see lots of disclosure about Eloise and her potential endgame. I see people shipping her with Theo, I see people shipping her with Cressida and I see people insisting she will end up with Sir Phillip Crane, because he is just best and he was already in season 1 and season 2. So let me just say, I would HATE if Eloise ends up with Sir Phillip because I hate Sir Phillip with passion.

First, let's start with fact that almost ALL men in Bridgerton books are toxic, misogynist and sometimes straight up abusive. But Sir Phillip Crane is worst of them all. He truly have no redeeming qualities. There are my reasons:

1.) He is horrible husband to Marina.

Yes, I am aware he did not marry her for love, but because his father forced him. BUT that is NOT excuse for his behaviour towards her! Phillip is dismissive of Marina's mental illness. And yes, in Regency period there was very little awareness of how to PROPERLY treat mental illnesses. Still, it frustrates me that he made Marina's mental illness all about himself. HE is one who have to take responsibility for his own children. (How horrible) HE is one who have to live in celibacy because his wife felt too sick to have sex. (I would rather not talk about marital rape that happened here, because it makes me sick). Not one word about how bad that situation was for Marina. Almost as he had no empathy for her.

2.) He is horrible father.

I don't want to go too hard on him here. He did have very abusive childhood. And this is ONE instance where his childhood trauma would work as sort of excuse. BUT! In book he IS biological father of twins. (And don't let anybody told you otherwise. If book Phillip is not meant to be biological father, book would be very clear about that. JQ always tell you such things very clearly). So basically. He was aware that he had no idea how to be good father and yet, with his free will, he decide to have children. And THEN complain about them ALL the time.

3.) He is horrible husband to Eloise.

ONLY reason he wants to have wife is to have someone who will take care of his children while he is playing in his greenhouse. Basically he is looking for babysitter who he can bang. He DIDN'T TELL Eloise about that! He DIDN'T TELL her about fact he has children!!! And once they got married, that is exactly how it works! ALL childcare land on Eloise of course. And Phillip gets almost angry when Eloise wanted to have an serious conversation instead of sex. Like he tells her he did not have sex in 8 years and so she is supposed to fell sorry for him and shut up ?! Worst thing is HE don't change at the end of the book! He gets to play with his plants in greenhouse and she gets … what ? sex ? … Like I don't understand WHAT they have in common.

In conclusion. Book Eloise deserves better. And show Eloise would never ever put up with him! To make show Phillip appealing love interest they would have to completely change his story and personality. At that point they could very easily go with someone completely different.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Hey this was the anon who said you made Ford a cutie patootie 🥺🥺

I really agree with the whole 'bill and Ford were never romantic' vibe. I do believe Ford cared for Bill in a way, but Bill in general is also the abusive partner that enjoys having you in his arms and the moment you try to leave will make your life a living hell.

I think that's honestly why I hate most asshole!Ford fics lately. Except for your of course! Society really sees abuses victims horribly and especially men. Theres a pretty big part of the Fandom that vilifies Ford in a hateful way. Like I know he's done horrible and yes he treated Stanley and Fiddleford bad. But I wouldn't be surprised if his father never brought up Stanley after he kicked out, and expected his wife and Ford to follow. He if he did it was only negative talk on how useless he was. Ford was a child at the time and as he grew up he probably missed Stanley but was too prideful to pick up the phone first. And then he met Bill.

Someone who praised him and told him he was in the right no matter what. Yes he was awful to Fiddleford. But that's what abusers do. They tear down everyone else who can help you until it's only the two of you against the entire world. And honestly, I'm sorry but Fiddleford needs to get some hate for just leaving Standford like that. Being a friend to someone in an abusive relationship is awful. But if you know that they don't have anyone else, you have to put boundaries, you don't just leave! But I also can't blame Fiddleford all the way.

Idk idk I'm sorry for rambling, but honestly I think that's why most of the fanfic writers who write about Ford really forget that he was so horrifically abused and when as he got older all he felt was shame and he was alone for 30 years with that feeling.

First of all, sorry it took me so long to answer this! My PC is fucked and I needed to sit my ass down and type out a proper answer for you because I have so many feelings on this, anon.

This is all below a cut because it's looooong.

tl;dr if you don't care: Bill put a noose around Ford's neck the moment they met and convinced him it was a scarf until Ford was hanging from the rafters, feet twitching, face blue.

TW: Abuse, suicide.

Anyway, the kitchen is open so let's cook!

Bill is an absolutely horrific being.

I fear that sometimes (oftentimes) he gets the fandom woobification treatment where he becomes entirely The Meme or somebody's silly widdle guy and when it happens so much, especially when certain groups of people are hellbent on saying 'this is canon!' dead seriously, it warps perceptions around him.

He effectively manipulates his audience just as he manipulated Dipper and Ford.

Bill is a demon. Not just any old demon, either: The Demon. THE guy. He's vicious and powerful and manipulative, and sure in TboB we get to see that he carries some significant trauma with him but it doesn't mean he is any less than what he is: Evil.

Some trauma influenced behaviours can be explained, but they can never be excused.

Bill is a push-pull, hot-cold, jerk around asshole who gets off on hurting people because he's so badly hurt himself that it makes him feel good to see others suffer even a fraction of what he experiences. There are two types of people who go through trauma: 1. It happened to me and I was nearly destroyed, I'll never see it happen to another person for so long as I live. OR 2. I suffered so why shouldn't they?

It's pretty clear which category Bill fits into, right? So, while he hurts because he's hurting, he has also just grown accustomed to enjoying the suffering of others. It's sustenance to him.

I remember watching GF for the first time and seeing Bipper, and it awoke something within me: That demon is torturing a child. A CHILD. I hadn't been allowed to watch horror movies much as a kid and seeing this line be crossed where something was literally throwing a 12 year old boy down the stairs, stabbing him with forks, threatening to kill him, was incredible to me. I was floored.

Partially because I think it's good to show kids suffering trauma; they're not immune and they're more often than not the main victims. It's a disservice to make adults comfortable by protecting the children in media imo. Even nowadays I'm pissed off when the child character escapes unscathed from the 'all knowing totally evil demonic force' in a movie because I still crave that rawness and cruelty I saw in Bipper when I was younger.

But I digress. It's also because here was a being so nasty that he'd play GTA 5 in a kid's body just for funsies and to get something that he wants. He'd bully and torture and tease and humiliate. That's rough, man. Real rough. Especially knowing the kid was watching it all happen, completely helpless.

Anyway; Bill memes are fun, but not at the cost of forgetting just what Bill actually is.

When it comes to Ford, Bill does the same thing we saw with Dipper, except Dipper has morals. Dipper has love and light and people to keep him grounded.

Ford had none of that. Ford was abused, just like Stan (though I could go on for hours about the differences), and grew up equating love to success and respect to fear. He was set up for social failure. He was put on a very different track to his peers almost immediately and he was isolated from everyone bar Stan from the moment he was born. Stan grounded Ford and kept him human.

Ford had no chance right from the start. The equation of being smart, knowing you're smart, and then having people Grima Wormtongue in your ear your whole childhood, when you're most malleable, that you're responsible for lifting your family out of poverty, you're the Good Son, you're meant for more, you're the one we love the most but only because you serve a purpose so you better not fail or we'll snatch everything away from you and you'll be just like your purposeless brother.... And you don't want to be like your loser brother who we hate, do you Fordsy?

He doesn't start lost in the sauce, but his head is held under until he has no choice but to breathe it in, and when someone is drowning it's hard to tell from the shore if they're having fun or if they're in trouble. Nobody noticed his distress and if they did, they didn't care. He was vulnerable right from the start.

And you're right about people hating male abuse victims. The stats are really skewed on the amount because there's such shame around coming out about it as a guy that we'll never really know just how prolific it is. The same as sexual assault stats for men. But what I can say is almost every male friend I've ever had has told me about a partner of theirs or an old relationship that is just plain old black and white abusive. Most of the time, they shrug it off or don't even know that's what they suffered, and if I have to watch the light change in another man's eyes when I gently tell him "hey, you know that what you're telling me is that he/she abused you, right?" then I'm going to scream. They're looked down on for coming out about it; considered weak and less manly for it. Humiliated for it.

Now imagine how it was when Ford was a boy in the 40's (or whenever he was born, there are no solid dates afaik). He'll have been raised to believe men are strong and that they don't cry, they don't let people push them around, mental illness isn't real you're just pathetic. It's everything I just mentioned but 1000x more intense. Nowadays, men are laughed at. Back then, you'd be ostracised and made the joke of the town until you killed yourself.

So poor old Ford, who is already on the back foot, ends up suffering for his genius and throwing himself into his work when it becomes apparent to him that he 'has no other uses' as a person. He isn't funny, he isn't handsome, he's a freak, he can't hold conversations (all his opinions and from others) etc etc. All he has is his research and his brain.

He loses himself in it. In his excitement (which is innocent and genuine by the way, I don't believe he had bad intentions), he drags his best friend along (and we'll get to Fidds in a minute, I have a lotta thoughts on him too) and ignores other people's distress because he's having fun and 'doing the right thing' in his opinion, he's driving innovation and he's always been told by other, more prestigious people that he's justified in his cause.

His father probably enforced at a young age that people that get in his way are just trying to hold him back (ie. Stan), so; If the hillbillies in this damn town don't have the IQ to understand me, then they're idiots. It couldn't possibly be that I might be encroaching on their lives or causing them problems and getting in their way whilst they try to work as labourers or whatever, it's because they're wrong and I'm right.

And of course, there were times when Ford didn't really actually do anything wrong and was met with animosity, but he didn't have the social skills to diffuse the situation and explain himself in layman terms, so it fed into this Ouroboros of try to be nice and social - fail - create friction - get lost in research - create friction - try to be social - fail etc.

So he's not getting socialisation from others, he's pushing Fiddleford as hard as he can and Fiddleford understandably has other interests to balance which makes him slowly seem less invested, and then, conveniently, up pops Bill.

Bill, who agrees with everything Ford says. Bill, who justifies all the thoughts and feelings Ford has ever had. Bill, who tells Ford everything he's ever wanted to hear from his father and his peers and his brother and his wildest dreams.

Bill, who knows how isolation and flattery works to weaken prey.

You have to admit: Bill's work was impressive. He spent a year, maybe even longer, committing to the bit over Ford. Giving him everything he wanted, feeding his ego, making it seem like all he was doing was helping him and encouraging him and propping him up.

Ford had had a weak form of that before from other people, but those people were parasites. Bill presented as the host and he offered Ford a crutch for the first time in his life. A friend, an equal, possibly someone of even higher standing.

And Ford, who has NO social skills, no street smarts, no emotional awareness, had no idea that nothing comes for free from somebody like Bill, so he jumped into the shallow pool from the 100 meter board with both feet down, eyes shut and hands off the wheel. Ford was desperate for someone to meet him on his level and the moment somebody did, he let himself be swept away by it.

Which, of course, was Bill's plan all along. Bill had probably always been around Ford when he'd first come to Gravity Falls. He'd been watching and waiting for the right time to strike, as ambush predators do, and the moment Ford had stumbled on a metaphorical crack in the path and exposed a weak spot, up pops Bill to hold his hand and tell him that the pavement was in the wrong the whole time and really, Ford shouldn't have to look where he's putting his feet, the whole world should just move for him instead.

From there, it would have been easy.

I think Ford likes to think he's complex and hard to read, and he probably is to people who don't recognise his type, but he's a fucking picture book to the people that do. That's why he works so hard to make himself seem cool and mysterious: because he's really obviously none of those things but simple smoke and mirrors go a long way to confuse people who don't care to look any deeper or are too naïve to do so. If people see the real him, they'd laugh at him (in his opinion).

So Bill, with all his flattery and gassing up, would have let Ford think the ball was in his court for a while, and Ford, emboldened by lies and a literal god-like being telling him he was right (plus everyone else from his past telling him the same thing), got bolder and more intense and lost himself without even really realising it was happening.

Ford, in his enthusiasm, pressed on Fidds even harder and was disappointed that the only man he cared about (other than his brother, because we know he still loved Stan dearly) wasn't able to match his stride. After all, I think Ford probably thought Fidds was the closest thing to an equal he'd ever had, and Bill used Fidds' hesitation to push Ford further away from him.

Once Ford was fully blinded, Bill began to cut off the blood to the other parts of Ford's lifeforce (and there weren't many to begin with) with delicate expertise that even the most prolific of abusers would die to achieve.

And don't forget that Bill also loves attention (he's a genuine egotistical maniac, whereas I don't think Ford is inherently egotistical, I think he's a product of his environment) and Ford gave him that unconditionally because Ford thought that blind worship equates to love, which is only possible through fear and forced, submissive respect. By cutting off Ford's other connections, Bill got all the attention to himself.

That's where the fun part started for Bill. Bill started to make him second guess himself. He tricked him under the guise of helping and then, without Fidds to ground him, Ford bought into all of it. He told Ford the townsfolk hated him because he was better than them, he told Ford he was too good for everyone else, his brother, etc. Bill effectively became Filbrick's voice in Ford's head. He needed to control Ford.

People think 'seduction' is inherently sexual or romantic, but it isn't. Seduction is manipulation in its purest form. Seduction is negative. It is used to pull people away from their path in order to convince them to give up or go against the part of themselves that knows better. It lowers one's guard. It gets under someone's skin and convinces them it belongs there. I've been a sex worker for 10 years; trust me when I tell you I have a PhD in both doing this and being victim to it. (I'm also an abuse survivor and my abusers trained me well in this which is hard to unlearn at times.)

Bill seduced Ford into thinking he was safe and in control right up until the last moment when Bill could strike. He put a noose around Ford's neck the moment they met and convinced him it was a scarf until Ford was hanging from the rafters, feet twitching, face blue.

Ford was never in love with him and Bill wasn't with Ford. You can't be in a situation like that. Ford respected Bill and to command the respect of someone like Ford? Well, you'd have to be pretty special, in Ford's opinion.

Bill only wanted to possess Ford, literally and figuratively. He wanted something to control and use and keep as a pet while he got what he wanted. Every king needs a jester.

There are signs that Bill also, deep down, might have wanted a friend and to be understood in the same way Ford did, but it was a small part of him that came second to his desire to hurt. Bill was also an outcast and he knew how vulnerable that makes a person; why else are all his henchmaniacs outcasts too? Because it's easy to persuade a person with no support into a perceived 'found family' than it is to do it to someone who is grounded by love. It becomes a game of in-group out-group.

Ford saying no to Bill would have taken great strength after all that time and as soon as Bill doesn't get what he wants, he destroys. It would have been an immediate punishment and that whiplash would have been vicious.

Ford, with no real friends, would have considered Bill his bestie, effectively.

Now, idk if you've ever been betrayed by someone you love as a best friend, but it is INFINITELY more painful than a regular breakup. Like, impossibly so. Especially when you don't have many to begin with and you're already damaged by abuse.

My love for my best friends runs deeper than any romantic partner I have ever had and will ever have. To be betrayed (and for me, it was seriously significant) was the worst feeling in the world and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I attempted suicide (conflated by other things but also because of this friend betraying me) and I will never get over their betrayal. I am wary of getting close to others now because of that and I don't think I'd ever be friends with someone so intimately again, beyond the best friend I have currently (shout out @/ghostbu, i love u).

So to experience a rug pull of astronomical proportion would have been devastating for Ford. We see Ford try to leave, try to say no again and again, literally begging, only to have his life threatened, his body violated, his work destroyed, his entire existence made into nothing. Which is a hard enough fall for someone with a big ego, but for someone who is also vulnerable and frankly, quite very emotional alongside being intelligent, would be gutting. Some people miss Ford's emotionality and reduce him to being The Smart Guy and I think that's a disservice.

So Ford was utterly ripped to shreds, both physically and emotionally, until he could only turn to the person he knew would still come running: Stan.

Stan adores his brother, so of course he came when Ford clicked his fingers. Ford, I think, also adores Stan, but is so manipulated by everybody else in his life that he convinces himself that his emotions do him a disservice and make him weak (as mentioned before about old attitudes), so he can't 'lower' himself to examine them. Bill doesn't help with that, either.

Stan came running and we all know what happened next.

Ford then spends 30 years NOT being the smartest guy in the room and realising he never really was the smartest guy in the room outside of academia. That kind of ego death is brutal and he would have gone through some incredible soul searching in that time period, which is why I think there are several versions of Ford that exist. Childhood/College!Ford, Research-era!Ford and Post portal!Ford. They all different men to me, personally.

So yeah, he's a deeply difficult character to understand imo and he's often a paradox because he doesn't know how to hold all these emotions in tandem; he's black and white, not grey.

Now, onto Fidds:

You gotta remember, Fidds had no idea what Bill was doing to his beloved friend.

Ford kept him a secret because in his view (a view manipulated by Bill), 'they'd never understand us. They'd separate us'. A common sentiment by people being abused. 'They' being really anybody with half a brain who saw how dangerous Bill was and cared about Ford.

Fidds was already absolutely terrified by the stuff he was seeing. My guy grew up on a pig farm in the country, he wasn't prepared for all this stuff to be real. Even Ford didn't know the supernatural was provably real before he came to Gravity Falls.

Now, I love cryptids but if I came across a dogman or bigfoot in real life, I'd fucking shit myself. They're scary! They'll kill you!

He also saw his best friend fucking lose his mind and that's really frightening too, especially with no one around to help.

Fidds had people that loved him back home (and I know he wasn't great to them, that's a different kettle etc) and relied on him. He had a life outside of his research; a son, a wife, a family and probably other friends. He had something to lose. If he died, it would have an effect.

Ford was cavalier because the only thing he thought he had to lose at that point was his work (not true, of course, but in head I think his life came second to his work).

Fiddleford was a victim of Ford's unintentional abuse. And Ford did abuse people, even if he was also being abused. The cycle of abuse is, unfortunately, very very real and it can't be justified just because someone who inflicts it was also a victim: Manson was abused, but no one excuses his crimes.

Explanation, not excuse, remember?

I think Ford was turned into a bad person temporarily and Fidds bore the brunt of that and went on to neglect his own family because he was also being isolated by Ford.

It's so fucking tragic and I could go on for hours about this (I already have, this took me two hours to write). They're really complex people and it does frustrate me when people pooh-pooh them as silly yaoi babies or as just plain bad people. It's never that simple.

And disclaimer: Everyone is entitled to their interpretations, obviously. They're not my characters and this is my own interpretation, so it isn't 'right', it's just how I see them as somebody who experienced similar things as Ford and Stan (minus the literal demonic element).

Whew sorry for rambling!

[thealogie]

I think people need to prepare themselves for MS and DT defending him. Especially MS, who have been friends with him for a long time and is therefore more likely to believe his excuses. It can be incredibly difficult to admit to yourself that someone you consider a friend is capable of committing sexual assault. Men like this often do not act the same way among their peers and can be very good at hiding or downplaying their behaviour.

Also, be prepared for this to be the end of their friendship. since it's a real possibility that one of them will support Gaiman and the other one not.

Expecting either one of them to publicly denounce Gaiman or drop out of Good Omens will only make you disappointed. And I think people should start accepting the idea that neither DT or MS are necessarily as good persons as they seem to be.

personally i never get attached to actors/public figures without being keenly aware of the fact that I don't know them and they might do/say something at any second that will make me drop them like a hot potato. I think stan culture of the type where you're not prepared for that is so unhealthy and i certainly think we should be prepared for two white rich guys to be disappointing in this regard.

At the same time, though, i don't find this type of speculation and "preparing yourself for the worst" to be that helpful. I'll admit I do not have high hopes but i also don't think we should see bad outcomes as inevitable. Do I think it's likely either of them will pleasantly surprise me here? If i'm honest, no, but it would be really fucking helpful to those women if one of them did say something (eventually...i understand neither of them will unless this is reported more widely) and it's ok to hope for it.

[songbvrd]

ok but i've been thinking more about eddie cheating arc and it actually makes so much sense (aside from just being fucking hilarious that he's cheating on his ex-nun gf he already avoids for two men with the doppelganger of his dead wife)

but here's the thing. eddie has objectively dated women who he has no reason not to like. they're women who are objectively good for him and for his son. ana was a teacher, who christopher loved, who genuinely seemed good with him, and yet, at the prospect of it becoming too real, he abandoned ship (there's other stuff with her, but the show didn't acknowledge that from eddie's perspective, so i'm not referring to it either). with marisol, despite the actress being just objectively bad, there's no reason for him not to want to be with her. she has been cool w his hot and cold behaviour, she's clearly good with chris, and she clearly likes him. and yet, eddie clearly doesn't want to be with her (as evidenced by him constantly asking her to babysit so he can hang out with tommy or buck or kim lmao, literally anyone else).

like, in universe, these are two women who are beautiful, patient and care about his child.

and yet, eddie can't let go of shannon. because eddie doesn't feel the way he's supposed to feel about these women and there's an easy excuse to explain it. he never got over his son's mother. the problem, of course, being that he wasn't actually happy with her either. they were just kids themselves when shannon got pregnant, and for the majority of their relationship, they were avoiding each other. they were constantly fighting/disagreeing and their last encounter before her death was literally her leaving him again (not shannon bashing, i like her, but it's hard to deny that they were dysfunctional as hell, and not actually happy together, despite the fact that they did actually seem to love each other).

but for eddie, if you're trying to avoid reality, what better way to do it than to hide behind 'the one who got away'. a woman who can never prove his hypothesis wrong because she's gone. whilstever he can explain it away as 'it's because of shannon', he never has to confront the possibility that there's another reason why he doesn't feel what he thinks he should feel for these women.

so then he sees shannon (kim). and shannon is his scapegoat. shannon is the reason he can't make it work. so in theory, seeing her again, in his mind, it should "fix" him, right? except, it can't. because he was never actually happy with shannon, and regardless, this isn't shannon. he says he wants to nest, and i do believe that's true, but he also can't go through with something he doesn't really feel, clearly, so he sabotages it. so he's going to throw himself into it, sabotaging his relationship with marisol at the same time.

and when he tries again with kim, and it still isn't working, eddie's going to break down, because there's another reality he has to address. shannon isn't the reason it isn't working. it was an easy excuse to hide behind, but it isn't about her. eddie breaks down, pushes everyone away, struggles to deal with what tthat means for him.

but the truth is, it isn't working because it isn't what he wants. it's what he THINKS he should want. now, obviously, buddie is what i'm getting at here, but this conversation isn't even necessarily about buck. it's about eddie as a whole, and what he's hiding from.

wham bam, thank you ma'am, gay eddie realisation arc season 8.