#writing fanfic is so fun

[murmoruno]

"I don't trust you, but I can use you"

PAIRINGS: Astarion x fem!Tav

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I had an idea/headcanon or whatever this is called for my own Tav and I want to try to write about it for a bit. Please note that this is my first time writing fanfic in English since It is not my native language. Bear with me if it sounds strange since I use a lot of Google Translate haha.

------------------------------ What if Tav is a true vampire?

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

In the shadowy realm of Faerûn, a most peculiar encounter unfolded. Tav, a true vampire, had embarked upon a path of redemption, now residing in solitude amidst the ancient woods. She is harboring no intentions of causing harm or extending a helping hand. All she sought was a peaceful existence in her eternal life.

Unfortunately, while revisiting her long-abandoned hometown of Baldur's Gate, she found herself ensnared by the sinister tendrils of the mindflayer's grasp.

On that day, destiny took a fateful turn as she crossed paths with Astarion. The vampire within her recognized his vampiric nature instantly. Despite this realization, she kept her silence, knowing the plight of being a spawn all too well, as she had once walked that same path. She empathized with his desire to conceal his secret, for she had harbored the same intentions.

Having spent centuries secluded in the woods, Tav had mastered the art of concealing her vampiric urges from others.

She marveled at her newfound abilities—to bask in the sun, to cleanse herself in the flowing waters, to enter another's abode unbidden. She realized she had never experienced such joy, and she believed Astarion would feel it too. Yet, she maintained her composure despite this revelation.

Astarion did question the crimson hue of her eyes, but she dismissed it as a family trait, shared by most of her kin.

On the night when Astarion attempted to sink his fangs into her and confessed his vampiric nature, Tav felt compelled to disclose her own past. She yearned for his trust as ardently as he yearned for hers.

A heavy silence hung between them, with Astarion's expression shifting from surprise to utter disgust. His facade, the mask he wore in front of all others, crumbled away. His anger and loathing were laid bare before her.

Desperately, she tried to convince him that she was not the vampire lord he believed her to be, or at least not the kind he dreaded. She pled for his trust, vowing never to harm him, never even to entertain the thought. She promised to shield him, just as she had always done. She uttered every word she could conjure in her quest to earn his trust, for as much as she knew she could continue this journey alone, she couldn't bear to lose him. She didn't want him to leave. She wanted him to remain safe. With her.

But regardless of her words and the earnestness with which she spoke, his perception of her remained unchanged. He uttered no words and silently departed from the camp, leaving her engulfed in the consuming embrace of guilt.

She believed he had left for good, and she blamed herself for it. A heavy weight of remorse twisted in her stomach, leaving her utterly helpless. This marked the first time she had experienced such profound anguish as if her cold, lifeless heart could rupture from her chest at any moment. The intensity of her emotions caught her off guard; she had never realized she could feel so deeply, or even feel at all. These overwhelming emotions frightened her, an unfamiliar sensation after so many years.

Throughout the night, she sat alone, gazing at the stars, yearning for a reality where whatever had just transpired had never come to pass.

The following morning, she spotted Astarion returning from the forest, his mask firmly in place, greeting others casually as if nothing had happened.

Their eyes met as he passed by her.

In a hushed tone, Astarion murmured, "Don't misunderstand, my dear. I don't trust you, not in the slightest. But I can certainly make use of you."

Shock flickered across Tav's face as she glanced back at him, noticing a sly grin. She had never fathomed he could muster such bravery to tell a true vampire that he could manipulate her.

Yet, the truth lay bare when she saw the tremor in his shoulders. In that moment, she realized that this spawn had already been consumed by fear, pushed to the brink of desperation, with nothing left to lose but his choice to trust her, to trust her assurances of non-harm and protection from whatever perils pursued him.

With a subtle nod, she replied, "If allowing you to use me earns your trust, then with honor, I shall allow it."

The words hung in the air, a punctuation to her inner musings. A glimmer of hope flickered in her eyes, a whisper of belief that perhaps this gesture could mend the divide between them. And in that moment, she dared to envision a future where trust might bloom anew.

[umblrspectrum]

i love learning cursive just to write text for exactly one character

[swordsandholly]

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

[soosoosoup]

Chord Striker Au by @thatbennybee

[sceletaflores]

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals. 

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?” 

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin. 

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling. 

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy. 

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry. 

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.” 

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr. 

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find. 

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you. 

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court. 

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face. The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile. 

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base. 

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him. Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick. His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.” You glace up to meet his gaze, 

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you. 

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp. Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panites, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack. He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall. The title digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you. 

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs. They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

���You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.” 

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit. You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out. You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm. His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly. You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art. 

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy. 

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear. 

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain. 

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs. He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[magic-owl]

I don’t believe in gatekeeping at all but if you flat out admit to me that you’ve consumed little to ZERO of the canon media and have gotten all of your information based off of reading fluffy fic with woobified characters, I will not be taking ANY of your fandom opinions or meta seriously

[me-writes-prompts]

:-"I sense some tension...and not the friends type." Friends to lovers prompts-:

(Y'alllll I could not help myself. I had to do more!!! Hehehe. Tag me if you guys write any of these :)

The 'just friends' kiss that they have to do as a dare but they both like it and can't stop thinking about it 👀

^^ "I mean, I kinda liked it, I guess..." but then they see their friend's smug face and cough, "I didn't mean it that way!" "Uh huh."

"You know...for someone who says they like me just as a friend, you sure do blush a lot in my presence. What's up with that?"

Going on DATES without realizing that they're doing couple-y things and someone casually commenting they're a cute couple (hehehe)

^^ "We are not a couple. I swear-" "Yeah, never. They're not even my type." "Yeah, same here." (sureeeee mhmm)

Hugs lasting a little longer than usual, and it gets all awkward because they are waiting for the other one to pull away, but neither of them wants to.

Always being extra affectionate with them(i.e. complimenting, playfully teasing, etc)

Communicating using only their eyes(AHHHH)

Pillow fights turning into tackling fights into blushing messes

^^ "It's not fair though! You never let me tickle you! :(" "You have to get close to me to do that." They say with a teasing lick of their lips and a grin. "I- shut up!"

Borrowing their clothes and never returning it just so you can be warm and cozy in them and feel like it's their arms wrapped around you>>>>>

Calling them the first thing when they have a bad day, because they know seeing the other will make it so much better

^^"Hard day?" They ask with a gentle smile when they come in. "Yeah." And that's all they need before they have a cuddle session with both of their favorite movie playing and them just snuggled up :'((((

"You look at them like they hung the stars." A silence. "They did so much then that, and I can't ever be grateful enough, even if I wished to." (angsttttyyy)

*Confessing* "I...I love you. I don't know if it's okay to fall in love with your best friend, but I love you. And it's fine, if you don't love me back, because loving you has been the easiest thing I've ever done, and I'd never stop loving you even if you didn't love me back." "You know what? It is okay to love your best friend, because that's what I've done as well. And I would've never know that you also love me, if you never said it. So let me say this, I love you too." (I am deceased, did i just wrote that?)

Cue the long, slow kiss and the tears that run down their cheeks while doing so. And they lived happily ever after!

[dapper-lil-arts]

Perks of writing a deranged multiverse fanfic, you can thrown nearly any kind of scene just for the sake of fun.

So I finally got to address the cuntiest MLP character, Nightmare Rarity AND make it about rarijack lol

[sugarcoatednightshade]

thinking about how Humans Are Space Orcs stories always talk about how indestructible humans are, our endurance, our ability to withstand common poisons, etc. and thats all well and good, its really fun to read, but it gets repetitive after a while because we aren't all like that.

And that got me thinking about why this trope is so common in the first place, and the conclusion I came to is actually kind of obvious if you think about it. Not everyone is allowed to go into space. This is true now, with the number of physical restrictions placed on astronauts (including height limits), but I imagine it's just as strict in some imaginary future where humans are first coming into contact with alien species. Because in that case there will definitely be military personnel alongside any possible diplomatic parties.

And I imagine that all interactions aliens have ever had up until this point have been with trained personnel. Even basic military troops conform to this standard, to some degree. So aliens meet us and they're shocked and horrified to discover that we have no obvious weaknesses, we're all either crazy smart or crazy strong (still always a little crazy, academia and war will do that to you), and not only that but we like, literally all the same height so there's no way to tell any of us apart.

And Humans Are Death Worlders stories spread throughout the galaxy. Years or decades or centuries of interspecies suspicion and hostilities preventing any alien from setting foot/claw/limb/appendage/etc. on Earth until slowly more beings are allowed to come through. And not just diplomats who keep to government buildings, but tourists. Exchange students. Temporary visitors granted permission to go wherever they please, so they go out in search of 'real terran culture' and what do they find?

Humans with innate heart defects that prevent them from drinking caffeine. Humans with chronic pain and chronic fatigue who lack the boundless endurance humans are supposedly famous for. Humans too tall or too short or too fat to be allowed into space. Humans who are so scared of the world they need to take pills just to function. Humans with IBS who can't stand spicy foods, capsaicin really is poison to them. Lactose intolerance and celiac disease, my god all the autoimmune disorders out there, humans who struggle to function because their own bodies fight them. Humans who bruise easily and take too long to heal. Humans who sustained one too many concussions and now struggle to talk and read and write. Humans who've had strokes. Humans who were born unable to talk or hear or speak, and humans who through some accident lost that ability later.

Aliens visit Earth, and do you know what they find? Humanity, in all its wholeness.

[qweenofurheart]

a couple of people told me the comic i made reminded them of A Meditation on Railroading by eggmacmuffin, so i had to draw a scene from it

[starry-bi-sky]

Unpleasant Revelations - DPxDC Ficlet Idea for the Stillborn Au

"Have you met my youngest, Damian, Mr. Masters?"

Its only from twenty years of long, hard experience and practice that Vlad doesn't increase the room temperature from 'borderline uncomfortably cool' to 'unbearably hot' the moment Bruce Wayne pulls his youngest and "only" biological son out in front of him.

He puts only in quotations because twelve year old Damian Wayne looks scarily, uncannily like one Daniel Brown. Jack and Maddie's foster son, second victim of their foolishness, and only other halfa in existence. Second only to him.

It's nauseating how similar they look. From the scowl and terrible glare on the young boy's face, to his brown skin -- which was only a few shades lighter than Daniel's, the shape of his nose, and even the strange winged edge of his eyebrow. Something that Vlad has long since come to find endearing on the child he considered a son of his own. The only difference was that Damian had dark, sharp green eyes.

Daniel's eyes were blue. The same glacier shade as his father's, who stood behind Damian with a proud, oafish smile on his visage.

It was infuriating how similar they look. Vlad might not have rapidly swung the room temperature from one extreme to the other, but he can't stop himself from letting the fury burning within his core from slipping out and raising the temperature up a few degrees.

Because it really only meant one thing.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were related.

Damian Wayne and Daniel Brown were brothers.

Standing in front of him, it was clear as day. He can already picture a phantom image of Daniel standing beside Damian, the same scowl written on his face, the same glare carved into his eyes. The only difference being the dark, exhausted circles beneath them that seemed to be permanently painted onto his skin. The only thing missing being the permanent loneliness and vigilance permeating his being like a scar.

This, if revealed, would be enough to ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation. Or, at the very least, darken it quite a bit. The great philanthropist Bruce Wayne with another secret blood child? One related to his youngest? One that had been put into foster care? Seemingly thrown away?

It would be a firestorm.

One that Vlad is not keen on starting.

It would ruin Bruce Wayne's reputation, yes. But it would hurt Daniel in the process -- the harassment he would face alone might just be enough to break that fragile child completely. That was just not something he could allow. Or, even worse, bring him into his biological father's care and custody -- something Vlad was even less willing to allow.

It's not out of kindness to Wayne that Vlad will keep mum about this.

His grip on his champagne flute tightens, just a bit. He's still aware enough of the world around him to not let it shatter in his hands. His plastered, pleasant smile tightens around the corners, and he forces his focus to slide from Damian to Wayne.

"The resemblance is uncanny, Mister Wayne." He says, slanting his smile to the side slyly. Although he's not talking about the resemblance between Wayne and his son. Rage simmers beneath his skin, burning coal and embers in the core of his chest, nestled between his lungs, as he meets the man's eyes.

Wayne swaggles his head proudly, his ditzy smile widening as he squeezes his son's shoulder affectionately. Bastard, Vlad wants to spit.

He breathes in through his nose, and exhales out through his mouth. The champagne in his hand cools, and stops its unusual bubbling.

The Damian boy scoffs under his breath, his mouth still coiled upward into a scowl. With the revelation of his blood relation to Daniel evident, Vlad's not sure if he should find it endearing or not.

He is not Daniel, so he decides that it's just simply irritating. He decides to ignore it.

"And you said he was your only biological son?" He asks, voice lilting and head tilting. He knows its a suspicious question at worst, insulting at best. But considering Wayne's past proclivities, he can hardly call it an unexpected question.

Damian puffs in great offense, face twisting angrily. It reminds him of Daniel when Vlad insisted that he was wrong about something or other, and for a moment his heart swells, fond.

But this is not his child, and so the feeling quickly crashes and burns, simmering back into rage. This was not Daniel -- this was his replacement. A replacement that Wayne was free to keep.

Wayne chuckles, idiotically, as if he'd said some funny joke. Vlad's other hand, the one gripping his cane -- something he's required ever since he was dispatched from the hospital all those lonely years ago -- tightens instead. He grinds his teeth -- him and Jack Fenton would get along like a house on fire, he hates it.

"I can understand why you'd ask that, Mister Masters," Wayne says, squeezing Damian's shoulder again, "but yes, Damian is my only biological son. Although that doesn't mean I don't love my other children any less."

Bastard.

For all his posturing and flouncing about caring for his city and his children, Vlad never would have thought the Prince of Gotham capable of abandoning one of them.

But, well.

They all have their dark secrets.

And what one man throws away, another man picks up. If Bruce Wayne didn't want the treasure child that was Daniel Brown, then Vlad Masters was more than happy to take him instead.

"I see."

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

As if I wasn't already exhausted enough this morning...

It's been brought to my attention that people are taking my fanfics, editing them, and sharing them around. I don't have the words to describe how not okay this is. If you don't like something about my fanfic, then I'm sorry to hear that, but there are a lot of other fics out there you can read instead.

I put time and effort and care into my writing, as does every writer. To take my work without permission and change it feels like someone just punched me in the gut. Frankly it makes me not want to share my work at all and to take down all the writing I do have up, because why should I share anything with people if all they're going to do is decide it's not good enough and they're going to do what they want with it and make it "better"?

And before anyone comes at me, this is not what a transformative work does. This is not the same as fanfiction. I'm fucking exhausted from working two eleven hour shifts over the weekend so my brain is not working so someone smarter and more articulate than I am can explain why. I'm tired.

This genuinely makes me want to take down all my works and not share anything new. It's very simple, kiddos: Don't like it? Don't read it. You will miss out on some fanfics that way, just like you'll miss out on some films, or books, or TV shows. I've missed out on really good fic, novels, films, etc, for the same reason. We all do. It's a part of life. Stuff will sometimes have things in it that you don't like. Skim those parts, fast-forward those scenes, grin and bear it, or just go and read/watch something else.

Normally I would make this post unrebloggable but I worry other writers in this fandom might experience the same thing and not realize it. So people are welcome to reblog this. Anyone who's an ass on it will be blocked, no second chances.

Just. Don't do this guys. Holy shit don't do this. What the actual fuck.

[2btheanswertothequestion]

Eddie's porn stash is a pretty conventional one. An 'if you've seen one stash you've seen them all' type. It basically only consists of skin mags, some of them kinky but most of them vanilla. Normal stuff.

The oddest thing in it is a two-year-old calendar. You know those sexy firefighter calendars? Usually a charity thing? A hit with the housewife crowd? Yeah. Except this calendar decided to branch out and include a bunch of sexy men from a bunch of sexy professions.

So, in this thing, joining the sexy firefighter is a sexy doctor, a sexy construction worker, a sexy police officer (whose month Eddie tore out and burned because fuck cops but don't ever fuck cops), a sexy librarian, and so on. They're all really good-looking, but none of them hold a candle to the paramedic.

It's weird. Paramedics aren't normally part of the traditionally sexy professions. It's messy and sometimes tragic, but lacks the high-paying glamour that doctors and nurses enjoy. Eddie's had his fair share of fantasies, and none of them involved fucking a paramedic.

Until two years ago.

The guy in the calendar simply is that hot.

There's not even anything risqué about his picture. None of the pictures go beyond "this dude is chiseled and shirtless", because veering even slightly past the softest softcore territory would scare off the little housewives or something.

(Eddie is actually pretty fucking sure it'd increase the sales, but hey, what does he know.)

The point is, there's nothing that obscene about the pic. Just a guy kneeling in the back of an ambulance, first aid equipment scattered between his powerful thighs, shirt open to reveal his sculpted torso…

Dark hair spanning across his pecs, over his abs, vanishing down his tight tight tight pants. Hips canting upward, bringing attention to the size of his bulge beneath the zipper. Broad shoulders, ripped arms and large hands, veins protruding across the back. A pretty yet masculine face, with a strong jaw and a straight nose, full lips, a smattering of moles going down his biteable neck. Voluminous, golden brown hair swooped away from his twinkling eyes.

He's got this look in them, this slant to his mouth. Like he knows he's the hottest guy in the calendar.

The one month everyone will go crazy for.

Eddie has become intimately familiar with that look. No joke, in two years it's made him crack his marbles more than anyone else has done in his quarter-century lifetime. When all else fails, November-paramedic has his back. It's basically his longest relationship to date, which sounds a lot sadder out loud (and it sounded fucking sad inside his head, too).

You might wonder why any of that is relevant now, as he sits on the curb outside of The Behemoth with blood trickling from his temple, his band giving their statements to one cop while another hauls away the snarling douchebag that clipped him. How does it play a part in this god-awful night out, you ask?

Well.

"Sir?"

Eddie startles, too caught up in the thudding inside his head, made worse by the buzzing crowd, to notice the man approaching him. He looks up, his gaze gliding past uniformed legs, muscular forearms, a curved neck and honeyed eyes appraising Eddie, and oh.

Oh God.

Eddie's breath sticks in his chest and his tongue becomes a cognate to sandpaper, because it's the paramedic.

It's the paramedic. From the calendar.

He's hallucinating. He has to be. He collapsed on the sidewalk, and now he's having one last weird sex dream before his brain finishes seeping out and he fucking dies.

November-paramedic crouches in front of him. Eddie continues to gape like he's getting ready to catch the peanuts no one is tossing at him.

"My name is Steve. I'm with the ambulance," November-paramedic says. "What's your name?"

Eddie makes a noise incomprehensible to most Earth cultures before his brain registers the meaning of the question and stutters out the answer.

"I- Uh- E-Eddie. It's, it's Eddie."

November-paramedic – Steve – smiles kindly. Heat prickles across Eddie's cheeks and neck. It's not the same as the cocky, sexy smile he's got in the calendar, but still. He's smiling. At Eddie!

"Hi, Eddie." He nods toward Eddie's temple. "That's an impressive cut you got there. May I take a look at it?"

"Yeah? Yeah. Um, g-go ahead."

As Steve sets down his bag and rummages through it, Eddie scours his face to confirm that it really is the guy from the calendar. To his chagrin, it is. There's no mistaking it. Those eyes, like liquid gold. That jawline, a weapon in its own right. Those moles, applied so skillfully it must've been by an artist's hand. That hair, coming straight out of a commercial for luxury shampoo. It's lying flatter than in the calendar, either lacking product or having sweated it out, but it's still glorious.

Steve, having finished washing his hands, tugs on a pair of disposable gloves. The plastic snaps against his wrist, sending a shiver through Eddie. It centers between his legs. Shit, if he pops a boner now…

"I'm going to ask you some questions, okay?" Steve says while pressing a square piece of gauze against the cut. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Eh, Thursday?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"The Behemoth."

Steve nods and, with a lopsided smile, asks, "And are you a patron or did you and your head injury just wander onto the scene?"

Eddie laughs. Loud, merry, and verging on too long. It wasn't even that funny. Steve seems pleased his joke was a success, though. Unless his smile is the uncomfortable kind that one wears when faced with the unhinged. Eddie isn't sure how much blood he's lost.

"No, I, like, my band…" he says, stammering like talking isn't what he does best. Jesus Christ, it's just a hot guy! Eddie has made a fool of himself in front of those plenty of times – no need to get flustered about it. He clears his throat. "We had a gig and, after, at the bar, some guys got into a fight. Got ugly, so we tried to leave, but… alas!" He makes a dramatic sweep of his arm, nearly clocking Steve. Steve expertly ducks away without lessening the pressure on the wound. Eddie soldiers on, not daring to pause lest he lose his steam. Hopefully his burning face is enough of an apology. "Fucker wasn't even aiming for me. He missed his intended target and struck me instead."

"Right. Did you lose consciousness after he hit you?"

"Nope."

"Good. Did you drink tonight?"

"Half a beer, at most."

"Do-"

"Eddie!"

Gareth's nasally voice cuts off Steve's question. The next second, he's materialized beside them with a slightly alarmed expression. "Dude, are you…!"

He trails off, eyes growing into dinner plates. There isn't that much blood, is there?

Steve looks Gareth up and down, a crease between his brows. "Is this your friend?"

"My drummer. Gareth."

Eddie half-expects Steve to demand Gareth leaves so he can do his job in peace, but nope. That kind, calm smile is back. He even gives him one of those little upward-nods 'cool guys' like to do.

"What's up, Gareth? I'm Steve; I'm with the ambulance. Just making sure Eddie won't keel over later tonight."

"Uh huh…" Gareth kneels opposite Steve. He's smiling too, but his is shit eating. Eddie frowns in confusion, because what does Gareth have to be happy about? He was freaking out right after Eddie got hit, but now he's staring at Steve like-

Oh.

He's staring at Steve.

No. Noooooooooo! Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh why, why has he kept his porn stash in a drawer without a lock all these years?! He can't recollect the reason Gareth opened that particular drawer on that particular day – all Eddie remembers is how Gareth, Jeff, and Marv snickered when he explained the inclusion of the calendar.

That was it, though. They moved on. Sure, there has been the occasional roasting after the fact, but it's not like he hasn't also mocked them for their weird shit. But that's not the point. The point is that Gareth is staring at Steve like he recognizes him.

Gareth's attention flicks toward Eddie. Eddie shakes his head as subtly yet pleadingly as he can. Gareth's grin gobbles down another turd. Eddie makes a valiant effort to explode Gareth's eyeballs with his mind.

"Say…" Gareth turns to Steve. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. Eddie, do you have a headache?"

"Yeah, man," Eddie says, voice trembling. "Hurts like hell."

"I could've sworn I've seen your face before," Gareth says. "Like, I'm 100% sure."

"Are you dizzy or nauseous?" Steve asks, ignoring Gareth.

"Um, a little dizzy but no nausea?"

"Hmm, okay. Blurred vision or uneven numbness?"

"No."

Steve nods, glancing at his watch. Then, to Eddie’s dismay, he looks at Gareth. "I've never been to this bar before."

"Nono, not here. Somewhere else…"

Steve's lips purse and his brows knit into the most adorable thinking-face Eddie has ever seen. His heart skips a beat, then skips two more as Steve's free hand gently cups Eddie's cheek. The skin catches fire where Steve's gloved fingertips touch it.

"Let me have a look at your pupils…" Steve says, guiding Eddie's face and, holy shit, leaning in close for a better look.

Eddie gulps, half his blood rushing up and the other half down; he squeezes his legs together to prevent the little guy from saying 'hello' to everyone present. His eyes rove over Steve's face. His lips are chapped and the skin on his nose is dry. The nose itself is somewhat crooked. Did he get into a fight between the calendar photoshoot and now, or did they make the nose straighter for the photo? Why would anyone think it necessary to edit a face like this one? Even with its imperfections mere inches away, it's still the handsomest Eddie has seen.

Steve hums. It's a perfectly preserved vinyl. It's a metal festival. It's Eddie's new favorite song.

"Same size but pretty dilated… Keep your eyes open, please." He shines a tiny flashlight into Eddie's eyes before nodding, satisfied. "All right, looks good."

He leans back out of Eddie's space, returning Eddie's ability to breathe, and removes the gauze. His smile tells Eddie that the bleeding has stopped. As great as it is that he won't hemorrhage to death, it also means their encounter is approaching its end.

"You might've seen me at the university campus?" Steve says, fiddling with some plasters; it takes Eddie's horny brain five full seconds to deduce he's talking to Gareth again.

"No-" Gareth freezes, mouth hanging open. His smugness has evaporated. "Actually, I might have? You're a student?"

Steve chuckles as he patches the last of Eddie's cut. "No, but my friends are. None of them own a car, so I end up driving them everywhere. Right, Eddie, I think you're good to recover at home. Unless you feel like you should head to the hospital?"

Great question! Does he? On the one hand: riding in the ambulance with Steve, ensuring a few additional minutes of his lustrous eyes and smooth voice.

On the other hand: hospital bills.

"… no."

"Okay. Do you have anyone who can keep an eye on you?"

Eddie shakes his head. "I live alone."

"Then maybe Gareth could hang around for the next 48 hours?"

"Sure can," Gareth says without hesitating. Eddie's heart swells with affection for him, despite his (failed! Hah!) plot to mortify Eddie to death.

Steve is already packing his medical bag.

"I want you to rest and avoid stressful situations," he tells Eddie. "No alcohol, no recreational drugs, no driving, and no working until you feel completely recovered. You may take tylenol, but not aspirin or ibuprofen. And if your symptoms worsen or you develop new ones – seek medical attention. Got it?"

The last part is sterner, reminding Eddie of every male authority figure he's strived to disobey during his teenage years. He has no such desire this time.

"Got it."

Steve raises his eyebrows as if to say 'have you really?', and Eddie has to wonder if it's he who seems contrariant and/or stupid enough to ignore the medic or if this is something Steve does with every patient. If it's the former, he mustn't seem that contrariant, because Steve's features soften into trust. He stands, brushing dust off his knees.

"Great. You boys take care now. Have a nice night."

"Yeah, you too, man," Eddie calls after him weakly as he retreats to the blinking ambulance. "Thanks…"

He keeps his gaze on the broad expanse of Steve's back, soaking in the rippling of his muscles as he walks and, oh would you look at that, his ass is as nice as the rest of him. Eddie's been wondering for two years now…

"Dude!"

Eddie jerks toward Gareth. Did he say that out loud? Did he drool? Is his boner showing? But no, Gareth isn't disgusted or disturbed – he's excited.

Shit.

He'll never hear the end of this.

"Don't!" he hisses.

Gareth just laughs, eyes twinkling.

"That was-"

"Don't!"

"I can't believe it!"

"Gareth-"

"You are so red right now!"

"For Jesus fucking Christ's fucking sake-"

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

Dedicated to @rougenancy for always listening to and encouraging my various thoughts, opinions, and ideas (they are constant).

Part 2

AO3

[darlingwriter]

💫🎀 with Ghost? Like he gets all tipsy and lovey. I honestly see this man as a lovesick puppy once you give him a lil bit of attention

Also if you’re keeping track of anons can I be 🧃anon?

a/n: okay first of all you're absolutely correct and you should say it. secondly, i've never had to track anons before and i'm actually so honoured! you can totally be 🧃 anon! 💗

fic: gn!reader x simon "ghost" riley tags: fluff warnings: none wordcount: under 1k

Strictly speaking, you and Simon really aren’t supposed to be sharing quarters. You’re definitely violating at least a dozen regulations by spending almost every night in his bed. Then again, not many people are willing to argue with a six-foot-three man in a skull mask, so strictly speaking has never really been an issue.

No, the only issue is that it’s almost ten and he’s not back from drinks with Soap and Gaz yet and you’re deeply regretting not going with him because, as it turns out, hanging out in this apartment all by yourself is, big surprise, actually pretty fucking boring.

It feels like a millennium passes by in the confines of the white walls before you at last hear a familiar knock at the door.

Setting down your book, you unfold yourself from the nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, already mourning the loss of warmth as you shuffle across a cold hardwood floor to let the lieutenant in, one quilt still wrapped loosely around your shoulders, trailing behind you as you reach for the latch.

Simon’s pulling you into a hug almost the second you open the door, burying a fabric-covered face against your hair.

“You’re late,” you mumble into his chest, in an unsuccessful attempt to sound scolding.

“I know, ‘m sorry, lovely, cab took fuckin’ forever.” He shoves the door shut behind him. Leans back against it. “Ended up standin’ in the rain for ‘bout an hour.” He strips off a damp jacket. Pulls off his mask, revealing stubble and scars and a smile. “Missed you th’ whole time.”

“Sappy bastard.”

“Mmph.” The scent of bourbon whiskey still lingers on his skin, warm and a little smokey. He wraps the blanket — which has been slowly slipping off over the course of the exchange — back around you. “You like it.” You scoff and roll your eyes, and he cups your face with his hands and grins. “You’re cute.”

“You’re drunk,” you protest through squished cheeks.

“M’right, though.” He chuckles. Pulls you close again. Sinks down onto the couch, and you’re pulled down with him, his thick arms wrapped around you protectively as he rests his chin atop your head.

“Simon.”

“Lovely.”

“Breathing.”

“Not important,” he murmurs.

You sigh in defeat. Melt into the embrace. “You’re warm.” The words are muffled against his neck. Simon hums in acknowledgement. Presses a soft kiss against your temple.

“You too, lovely.”

[a-leg-without-fear]

Because of You (pt.2)🩸🌧️

here's part 2, babes!!!! this one is BEEFY so i hope it's not too boring :)

Ship: Worst!Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 7.7k

Warnings: spoilers for Deadpool and Wolverine, cursing, mentions of violence, mentions of death, grief, alcohol abuse, Wade Wilson is in this, so is Remy LeBeau, suggestive language, mentions of main character death, mentions of child experimentation, ANGST, multiverse shenanigans, self-doubt, kissing

Series: Because of You

The room Logan had woken up in was strange, to say the least. He was clearly underground. Thin windows were dug high into stone walls with an enormous engraving of a woman decorating the ceiling. Shaded lamps lit up the areas not caught in the sunlight from the windows. Random junk, weapons, and blessed alcohol lay strewn about the room.

After he’d spotted the bottles of whiskey, nothing else mattered.

He had never needed a drink more in his life. Stumbling around with Wade, the idiot in red, was shortening his neverending lifespan. Logan was constantly under attack, constantly stressed out of his mind, and constantly annoyed by Wade’s endless chatter. It was like God had finally decided to plop him in hell where he belonged.

Logan stood under one of the windows. A small alcove carved into the rock, with a kitchenette sitting on the stone floor and decorated with various foods and cooking implements. One of his gloved hands leaned on the wall of the alcove while the other lifted the liquor bottle to his lips. Bitter, biting whiskey flowed into his mouth. Sweet relief.

It was nice and quiet. Wade was unconscious on the only bed in the room. Either knocked out or put to sleep, Logan didn’t care. He was just enjoying the silence that had been vacant from his life for the past two fucking days. It had been an unending stream of quips and jokes ever since that red fucker had barged into his life.

The bronze alcohol swirled in the Jim Beam bottle. Specks of dust and whatever else floated around in this cave sloshed around the bottom. Like always, Logan’s thoughts drifted to you. How you’d playfully scold him for drinking directly from the bottle. How you’d grab him a glass, grumbling the whole time about sanitation, then fill the cup with ice and pour his drink for him. 

Lead pooled in his stomach at the memory. Heavy, nearly crushing in its weight. Logan screwed his eyes shut at the sensation.

He would give anything to have you there with him.

That was why he’d committed to helping Wade in the first place. The red idiot had promised that the TVA would be able to bring you back. That they’d fix Logan’s timeline and make things right. That he’d have you in his arms again, your scent filling his sinuses and your warmth burrowing into his chest.

But, of course, Wade was fucking lying. He had no clue if the TVA could fix Logan’s mistakes. The “Merc with the Mouth” had made an empty promise just so Logan would help him.

Logan grit his teeth then knocked back another swig. Fucking “educated wish.” If Wade could actually die, Logan would’ve killed him for saying that.

“Thor!” Wade gasped from behind him. Logan rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, begging a god he didn’t believe in for patience to deal with this red idiot. He glanced over his shoulder at Wade.

Deadpool was, thankfully, still fully clothed. His red suit entirely covered his disgusting skin and even worse smile. The merc’s eyes, white from the mask he wore, darted around the room. Logan scoffed and shifted his gaze back to the stone wall in front of him.

“Where are we?” Wade asked. Logan shrugged.

“No clue. But I like it here,” he replied, raising the bottle to his lips to take another gulp.

A scuffle from the main entrance way of the room made both men snap their heads in the same direction. Wade scrambled out of the bed, drawing a katana, while Logan used the brief moment to down another swig. If he was gonna fight, he’d need all the alcohol in him he could get.

Katana and sais collided with a sharp clang, sparks flying, as Wade’s sword met two outstretched, three-pronged weapons. The red-suit wearing menace was thrown to the ground by the owner of the sais. A woman, wearing dark reds, with long brown hair and green eyes. She leveled a weapon at Wade’s face.

She stepped away as she stowed her sais in the holsters on her hips. Wade jumped to his feet, briefly dusting off his ass, as he watched the woman step away. Logan continued to chug whiskey like this was the last time he could. For all he knew, it was.

Another person stepped through the entryway. Darker skin, sunglasses, black combat armor, scowl framed by a white-patched beard. This man seemed dangerous. Like a caged animal, just waiting for an opportunity to strike. Logan straightened out to pay better attention to the growing amount of people in the room.

The last person to come through the door was another man. Lighter skin than the previous, with brown hair caged in a black neck piece that covered the sides of his head. The guy wore a brown coat and shining purple combat armor. Cards passed between his dexterous fingers.

Logan watched as the three newcomers settled into the space. The man in black fiddled with some blades hanging on the wall, the woman flipped a sai in her hand, and the man with the brown coat messed with his deck of cards. Logan couldn’t help but chuckle at the trio. Did they think they were something special? The way they walked in, one-by-one and each with their own gimmick, made a sardonic smile quirk at the edges of Logan’s lips.

“Okay,” Wade began, stowing his katana with a flourish, “Look at you… All. You must be the others. Perfect! So, just to refresh…” he said as he looked to the woman, “You are Wonder-” “Elektra,” the woman replied with a grimace.

“Elektra, yes. Who could forget. And you!” Wade continued while shifting his gaze to the man in black, “I was not expecting to see you here! I thought you’d be penetrated by six inches of cold-hard-steel by now.”

The man quirked an eyebrow at the merc from under his sunglasses, “The fuck are you talking about?”

A beat passed.

“Ya know, a ‘Blade,’ like your name? Forget it,” Wade answered. Logan chuckled under his breath, taking another swig.

“I don’t like you,” the man in black, Blade, said.

“Never did!” Wade returned. He pivoted to the man with the brown coat, “And who’s this… Succulent reminder of my own inadequacies? Look at you! You look like the superhero version of Hawkeye!”

The man with the coat smiled, flipping the cards, then said in a heavy accent, “My name is Remy LeBeau. Le Diable Blanc. But you can call me ‘The Gambit.’”

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen Sling Blade. Hit me again,” Wade responded, gesturing for Remy to continue. Remy smirked at him.

“They call me ‘The Gambit.’”

“Are you sure you didn’t just really, really want them to but it never quite worked out?” Wade asked. Remy ignored the question, shifting his attention to Logan taking another swig of whiskey. Logan cocked an eyebrow at him.

“C’est boude y ya. You know, we never had a Wolverine up in he’e. But I can tell you now, it’s just a common courtesy to ask before you drink up all o’ my liquor,” Remy said with an intense look about his brown eyes.

Logan scoffed, raising the bottle to his lips again, and sneered, “Then it’s a good thing I don’t give a fuck.”

A moment hung between them, filled with tension so thick it’d take Logan’s claws to cut it. Remy laughed quietly while shaking his head.

“Couyon zouave,” he murmured. In a flash, bright violet illuminated his eyes and the card clutched in his hand. He flicked the card at Logan. The Wolverine barely had time to react before the card collided with the whiskey bottle, making it explode in a spray of liquor and glass, leaving just the neck clutched in Logan’s hand.

“Fuck!” Logan cursed, blinking away droplets of whiskey that had splashed in his eyes. He glanced down at the broken bottle. His glare trailed from the broken glass, then to a rack of unopened whiskey bottles hanging on the alcove’s wall. He smirked as he tossed away the broken bottle, keeping his eyes connected with Remy’s, the glass shattering somewhere to his left.

“So embarrassing!” Wade hissed at Logan. The Wolverine ignored him, opting to grab a fresh bottle from the rack.

“Boo boo boo,” Logan sang mockingly. He twisted off the cap and took another long swig.

Logan tuned out the tense conversation between the new trio and Wade. Why should he care? Wade had lied about the TVA fixing Logan’s shit, so none of this mattered. He had already resigned himself to sitting in this cave, bottle of whiskey in his hands, living out the rest of his lonely days in the Void. It was what he deserved.

The liquor lightly burned his throat as he gulped down more whiskey. A dull fog was settling over the edges of his mind. With any luck, he’d be blacked out in an hour or two. The flashes of you that constantly plagued his mind would be subdued, his nightmares would be blissfully absent, and he’d finally be able to rest.

“Who-Who brought us here?” Wade asked loudly to the trio. Logan perked up, also curious about the answer. Last thing he remembered before waking up in the cave was passing out in the van.

“That would be me,” a voice said from a doorway across the cave from Logan. He shifted his gaze to the shadow approaching the room. Feminine, wearing a jean vest and fingerless gloves, with long dark hair and a green backpack slung over her shoulders. She looked between Logan and Wade, “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Shit… Logan, that’s her. That’s X23. She’s the one I told you about,” Wade said to Logan. The Wolverine traced the new girl’s features. Heavy brow bone, hazel eyes, pointed nose, permanent scowl across her lips. Huh.

One last set of footsteps came from the same doorway as X23. Quick, sharp clips of heavy boots along the concrete floors. The person that stepped up next to X23 stole the air from Logan’s lungs.

You.

There you were. Dressed in combat leathers and with a scar across your lip. Hair pulled back away from your face, knife with a blood-filled pommel tucked against your waist, intense eyes immediately meeting his. A small frown pulled at the edges of your lips.

Logan whispered your name under his lips. It was like the floor had been yanked out from under him. He was reeling. And not from the liquor, as he hadn’t had nearly enough to warrant the swirls of emotion clouding his brain.

How?

How were you here? You were dead. Logan saw you die. He was there with you, holding you, comforting you, until your breath rattled for the last time. His head was spinning.

“Oh. My. God! It’s her! Your girlfriend! Holy shit, I thought she would’ve died after the events of Logan 2017!” Wade squealed. The idiot skipped around the pool of water in the center of the room to grab one of your hands in both of his, “Can I just say what an honor it is to finally meet you. I tried earlier in the movie, but you and Lo-Lo were… Preoccupied, to say the least.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Let go of me,” you growled, snatching your hand from Wade’s. He held up his hands in surrender while he backed away slowly.

“Got it. Understood. Not a touchy person,” he said. He sheepishly returned to where he stood before you’d entered the room, “So… How’d you all get stuck in the void?”

Blade sighed, “There was a knock at the door, then the TVA shipped me here.”

“Me too,” Elektra added.

“Maybe I was born here, it’s hard to know fo’ sure,” Remy said, cards passing from one hand to the other.

“The TVA decided our universe was dying. And I never even got a chance to fight for it,” Blade continued gruffly.

Logan’s hyper-focused gaze shifted from you to X23, who was taking calculated steps around the pool toward him. Her hazel eyes trailed up and down his slouched form. He took another hefty drink. What the fuck is happening?

“People like us don’t go quietly. TVA knows that, so they took us out,” you explained, making Logan’s gaze snap back to you. You sounded exactly the same. Your inflection, your accent, the tone of your voice. Even the way you folded your arms over your chest as you spoke was the same.

Wade kissed his first finger then pointed at the group, “The answer is yes. I’m in.”

“In what?” Blade asked tersely. 

“A team! Me, you, you and me! All of us together! Let’s get the fuck out of this place,” Wade said. Logan scoffed.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s a fucking liar,” he exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at the merc.

“It was an educated wish!” Wade yelled back.

“Ha!” Logan laughed loudly without humor, diving back into the whiskey. 

“Look,” Wade began, taking a calming breath, “We’ve been inside Cassandra’s lair. The only way out of the Void is through her. She can get us home! She told us.”

Everyone in the room’s attention was fixed on Wade. Blade rose to his feet, Remy’s cards stilled in his hands, Elektra set her jaw as she analyzed Wade’s form, you and Laura took a few steps closer to the merc.

“You’ve been inside? And you made it out alive?” Blade asked incredulously.

“Bullshit! Nobody’s ever done that,” Elektra replied. Her hands fell on the handles of her sais.

“We did,” Wade said proudly.

“Everytime one o’ us has gone up against her… They die,” Remy said, walking further into the room, “The Punisher, the Quicksilver, the Daredevil.”

“Daredevil?” Wade asked, cutting Remy off, and placed a hand over his heart, “Which one? The one with the nice ass, or the one that kills people?”

“They don’t all kill people?” Elektra questioned. Wade looked back and forth between her and a spot on the wall.

“I mean… C’mon guys. Daredevil is the Number One Catholic in all of Marvel. His whole season three arc was a constant back and forth of if he’d actually go through with his first kill. Which, by the way, is rookie numbers if you ask me-”

“It was the Daredevil I know,” Elektra answered, ending Wade’s rambling about things no one in the room quite understood.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, then,” Wade said as he clasped his hands together in front of him.

“It’s fine,” Elektra replied with a shrug.

“Ok…” Wade murmured, looking down at his feet. A few moments of silence hung in the cave like mist on a cool morning.

“Even that sweet angel, Johnny Storm. He up an’ gone missing, what, two days ago?” Remy lamented quietly. Blade and Elektra met his mournful look with their own.

“Oh, that’s so sad. Whoever this ‘Johnny’ fella is, I’m sure he’s thriving,” Wade said in a soothing manner. Logan couldn’t help but chuckle in response. Oh yeah, thriving alright. Wade cleared his throat, “Look, there’s strength in numbers! Alright? Us, you guys, we can put Cassandra over our knee and force her to let us out of the Void!” he continued. Blade scoffed at the merc, sitting back down on a crate. Wade was floundering at the disinterest shown by the group, “I know what it means to feel self doubt.”

“I don’t feel that at all,” Elektra said.

“I’m good,” Blade added.

“Gnawing at your gut like a coked-up tapeworm?” Wade pressed, gesturing to his stomach in a wide circle.

“It’s like you’re holding up a mirror to my soul,” Remy said solemnly. Logan bit back another laugh.

Wade approached the trio, “You guys may not be able to save your universes… But you can avenge them! It’s what Johnny woulda wanted!”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“Wait. You knew Johnny?” Elektra asked. Tension spread throughout the room. Every eye fell to the idiot in red. Logan couldn’t help but laugh at the mess the merc had made for himself.

“Oh, yeah. Dickhead here talked him into a team-up and Johnny came down with a little case of the ‘deads,’” Logan explained, sneering at Wade. The merc snapped his head back at Logan.

“No, no. We don’t know that! It was just a flesh wound. He may have survived!” Wade said in an attempt at calming the situation. Logan laughed again, lifting the bottle to his lips.

“If he survived that, he is praying for death,” Logan returned. He took another big gulp of the quickly depleting whiskey.

“Thank you, Doctor Wolverine!” Wade groused at him.

“Spill it!” Blade demanded.

“What’d you do to Johnny, huh? Talk, or I’mma start dealin’,” Remy said, raising a card while his eyes glowed. Wade waved his hands in the air, desperation leaking into his voice.

“Okay, okay. Hey, hey, hey! Look, he ran his fatass mouth about Cassandra! Then she zip-zapped his skin, leaving his organs to splash crudely onto the ground while the soil greedily drank his blood! It was horrible! He was like a brother to me!” he said quickly, providing a very filtered version of what had actually happened, “Look, he died before he could make a difference. But… But, maybe you couldn’t save your worlds… But Jesus Christ, you can save mine!”

“I don’t give a shit about your world. But, if these two made it out of there alive, maybe, together, we can get back in and take her down,” Elektra said, turning to the rest of the group. Remy shook his head.

“Where I come from… We call that ‘suicide’, cher,” he retorted. Elektra sighed as she shifted from foot to foot.

“Maybe if we can block her psychic powers, we could get a leg up. I know it! Now, I know Magneto’s dead… But I’d venture a guess that his helmet is lying around here somewhere,” Wade said, a smile practically leaking through his mask.

“Cassandra melted that helmet,” you replied grimly.

“Fuck!” Wade cursed.

“After she killed him,” Blade added.

“FUCK!” Wade yelled, cradling his head in his hands.

“She don’t play,” Blade said while shaking his head.

“She knows that helmet was the only way to protect anyone from her powers. The only other helmet that strong is Juggernaut’s, but he works for Cassandra,” Elektra explained with an air of indifference.

“Juggernaut’s helmet! That’s it!” Wade said, enthusiasm leaking back into his voice.

“Yeah, we don’t be knowin’ that lid ain’t comin’ off without that dome gonna come off wit’ it,” Remy drawled in response. Wade shifted his attention to him.

“I’m sorry, beautiful, I want this to be gentle,” Wade started, pressing his hands together in a placating manner, “Who is your dialect coach? The Minions? I feel like we’re missing critical exposition here!”

Wade’s question hung in the air, silence following the quip. Logan smirked at the group. It was nice to see other people experience the torment he’s been through for the past two days. Entertaining, even. 

Elektra paced back and forth between Remy and Blade, lower lip caught in her teeth, “I’m sick of this shit. I’m sick of hiding. Let’s face it, our worlds forgot about us.”

“Or… Never learned about us,” Remy mumbled to himself.

“The heroes we were,” Elektra continued, disregarding what the Gambit said.

“The lives we saved,” Blade said as he rose from the crate.

“Or wanted… To save,” Remy said, again to himself.

Elektra met Blade’s eyes, hidden behind his glasses, as she said, “Maybe these two are our chance. To be remembered. The way we deserve.”

Logan could feel hope bubbling in the air. It made his stomach turn. There was no way in hell this would work. These guys were just a bunch of washed-up has-beens without a home. Just like him.

His eyes drifted back to you. You were staring intently at Wade, gloved hand resting on X23’s shoulder. You seemed to believe in what the idiot was saying. That there was hope. Logan grit his teeth.

“Yes…” Wade said with an audible grin as he looked between every person in the room.

“An ending,” Elektra whispered.

Blade smiled, “Legacy.”

“Yes! YES!” Wade exclaimed, clapping his hands, “Let this man cook! This is what I’m talkin’ about! Big slow-motion fights, sad music, everybody workin’ together. Who knows if you live or die? That sorta thing! Who’s ready?”

“I was born ready,” Blade replied, flipping a long knife in his hands to the sky.

“Yes! Gambit?” Wade asked as he pointed at Remy.

“I ain’t know my daddy, but I’m sure I shot outta his dick ready,” he answered. There was a pause.

“Jesus Christ, that is graphic,” Wade said.

“Yeah, he was layin’ them buttery nuts all up in my mama an’ I shot out there an’ I said ‘What’s up, doc?’” Remy continued. Logan grimaced at how graphic this guy was. Was there no class anymore?

Wade laughed, “I’m sure Johnny must’ve loved you! X23, what’s it gonna be?”

X23 glanced at Logan, then to you, then back to Wade, “The name’s Laura. And hell yeah, I’m ready.”

“What about you, mama?” Wade asked you.

“If she’s in, I’m in,” you responded, patting Laura on the shoulder. She looked up at you with a small smile.

“Let’s fucking go,” she said, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Let’s fucking go!” Wade repeated. The energy in the room was electric. Wide smiles, hopeful glances, muscles tensing under warm skin. Static built in the room like the air before a lightning strike.

“Show ‘em that the chicken ain’t cold,” Blade said with a grin.

“Yeah!” Wade replied.

“We’re doing this,” Elektra said decidedly. Logan shook his head.

“You’re all fucking dead,” he groused. Wade turned on his heel to look at the Wolverine.

“My God, read the room.” 

~~~~

“I’m not going out there, Laura!” you hissed at your daughter.

You and her were in the room you shared. The stone walls, ceiling, and floor kept your conversation private. A queen bed sat in the corner. Rumpled, black sheets lay atop the mattress. You and Laura shared the bed. Neither of you minded, it was something the two of you had grown accustomed to when on that fateful road trip nine years ago.

“I’ve loosened him up for you! He talked about the X-Men and what happened with them. Mama, please. You need to talk to him,” Laura argued.

She sat cross-legged on the bed while you paced back and forth in front of her. A smug smile tugged at the edges of her lips, gloss reflecting in the lamplight. You chewed on your bottom lip. 

“I doubt he even knows me. I probably don’t even exist in his universe. What if he thinks I’m creepy for talking to him? Or what if I’m a mass-murderer? Shit, what if I hurt someone he cared about-” Laura yelled your name, stopping both your pacing and your rambling in their tracks. You paused in front of her. She sighed, pushing herself off the bed and running her palms down your arms.

“Even if you’re no one in his universe, he still needs someone to talk to. Someone like him. Well, more like him. You know what I mean,” she said with a small smile. You shook your head at her.

“I don’t know how much more like him you could be, kid,” you breathed, resting a hand on her jaw. Every day you were blown away at how similar Laura was to Logan. From their smile, to their terrible jokes, to their temper, to the way their eyebrows crinkled in the corners. She was his daughter, through and through.

“I’m not a bazillion years old,” Laura snarked back. You rolled your eyes.

“You’re lucky I won’t make you do push-ups for saying that,” you replied with a fond grin.

“Go talk to him, mama. If not for your sake, or his, then for mine. Please?” Laura begged, giving you the wide eyes that she knew you could never turn down.

You sighed, “Fine. Five minutes. If I don’t come back, assume he’s killed me or something.”

“Or something?” Laura questioned, wiggling her eyebrows. You shoved her away with a groan. She laughed as she landed on the bed.

“Get some sleep, kid. Love ya,” you said as you made for the doorway. You scooped up your boots that sat next to Laura’s. 

“Love you too, mama. Gane la verga!” she called after you as you stepped out of the room. 

You sighed at your daughter’s antics. Thank God she was past the moody teenager phase. That was a nightmare. The constant anxiety, the mood swings, the self-doubt. Only exacerbated by her mutation. Luckily, you were surrounded by dozens of other mutants at the time. What wasn’t so lucky was that the majority of them were also going through that phase at the same time.

A shudder rolled through your spine at the memory. You’d give anything to see the rest of the kids again, they were your reason for being, but you thanked whatever god would listen that most of them were through puberty. Your mind wandered to your little sheep farm as you sat on a crate to pull on your boots.

Images of the flowing grasses swept through your mind. Light breezes sending waves through the fields, buzzing cicadas droning in the surrounding woods, the occasional bleat from a sheep, smells of whatever the kids were cooking wafting through the white-wood house. 

Logan would’ve loved living there.

It was peaceful. Serene. Secret. Not once in the eight years you’d lived there had the humans discovered your school. It had helped that there wasn't an influx of new students everyday, drawing the public eye to your property. Most of the kids were the ones that had been created by Transigen. Others were some you’d picked up along the way to the farmhouse. A family made of broken pieces.

But there was always that one, Logan-shaped, missing piece. You would feel it when you’d wake up to the spot next to you cold and empty, or when you’d talk with a kid about your past and would instinctively look to Logan for his input. Only, he was never there. 

His death had left a void in your heart. You’d tried your best to fill it by surrounding yourself with love and compassion. Listening to the laughter of your kids, smelling the flowers Bobby grew in the garden, eating the food Amanda and Leah would prepare with care. The love for your kids could only go so far.

Seeing Logan, or this variant of him, had hit you like a punch to the gut. He had his eyes, his hair, his smile lines. He even had his beard trimmed in the same way. But he was young. Remarkably younger than when your Logan had passed. Only a few grays dotted along the variant’s dark beard, fewer wrinkles cracked in the corners of his eyes, and he still had that undeniable energy about him that initially drove you wild. Like a predator trapped in a room full of prey.

“Lost in thought, cher?” Remy asked as he stepped up next to you, snapping you out of your swirling mind. You smiled up at him.

“Just a little, bon ami,” you replied. You’d made it a point to learn French when you’d been thrown into the Void. If only to be able to understand the Gambit better when he went on one of his rambles.

Remy pulled a crate up in front of you and sat on the top. A single card, the ace of diamonds, flipped in his left hand, “Whatchu thinkin’ about?”

“Laura’s convinced me to talk with the big, bad, Wolverine outside,” you joked in an attempt to mask your anxiety. You tugged on the laces of your boots.

“Ah, le couyon zouave. That man’s gonna drink me outta house an’ home,” Remy mused. You chuckled at him calling Logan “silly goose.” Remy adjusted in his seat, throwing the back of his coat over the crate, “You gonna talk to him? ‘Bout what?”

You sighed and shrugged your shoulders, “No fucking clue. Maybe to make sure I’m not a serial killer in his universe.”

“Ha! I’d like to see that, cher. You’d be a killer serial-killer,” he replied with a wide grin. It was hard not to smile back. Remy just had a way of lighting up a room. If not by his charm, then by his explosive cards.

“I wonder what my serial-killer name would be,” you joked as you finished tying your shoes. Remy chuckled in response.

“Hmm, if I gotta be Le Diable Blanc, maybe you could be La Démon Rouge,” he wondered aloud. You shook your head at the word choice.

“Matt already had the whole ‘red devil’ thing going on. Wouldn’t wanna step on any crime-fighting toes,” you responded, pushing yourself to your feet. Remy stood from his seat as well. His eyes passed between both of yours.

“It ain’t just wonderin’ ‘bout your other self, is it, cher?” he asked. This guy could read you like an open book. You ground your back teeth.

“No… I guess not,” you muttered as you folded your arms across your chest. What did you expect from the looming conversation? Comfort in your grief? A drinking buddy? Or would Logan completely blow you off? 

“How ‘bout you take two bottles and loosen him up, yeah?” Remy offered with a grin. You eyed him suspiciously. Prying liquor from the Gambit was like pulling teeth from an angry leopard. He laughed at your incredulous expression, “To learn about your serial-killerness.”

You smiled at the man you considered to be a friend after half a year of knowing each other. Remy was the easiest to grow close with. Charm flowed from him like sunlight through an open window. Out of the people you’d chosen to ally yourself with, Remy was the one you could stomach spending time with.

“I appreciate it, bon ami. I really do,” you thanked with a wide smile. He clapped a hand on your upper back.

“Of course, you pauvre bȇte. Lord knows you ain’t had much action in a while, huh?” he quipped, making you cough as you choked on some spit. He patted your back as he said, “I swear, if that fils de putain don’t gobble you up, I may jus’ do it myself.”

“Thank you,” you wheezed between coughs. What else were you supposed to say to something like that? Remy’s lack of a filter always had you doubled over. Whether in shock or from laughing, it was a toss-up.

“Now, go talk up that rougarou, huh? Give yourself an unforgettable night before your untimely demise,” Remy said with finality, giving your shoulder a little push past him. You stumbled a bit before you managed to catch yourself.

Ignoring the growing heat across your face and neck, you thanked Remy again and grabbed two bottles of whiskey from the rack. The amber liquid sloshed inside the unopened bottles. You approached the stone doorway that opened into the great outdoors. Smoke particles drifted in on the gentle breeze. After another smell, you figured that there must be a campfire not far from the entrance.

Steeling your nerves, you stepped out of the cave. Grass and moss clung to the outside of the cave like tight clothing. Your boots squished in the rain-soaked mud. Deep footprints from Laura and Logan dug into the dirt. The trail led away from the cave, to the left, and to a crackling light about a quarter mile away.

You could just barely make out a figure sitting on a log by the campfire. Elbows leaning on his knees, yellow suit hugging his body, brown hair glowing like a sunset in the firelight. Logan.

The trilling of bugs filled your ears as you approached. Loud drones, often followed by quieter ones, echoed from the tree branches and around your anxiety-ridden form. You usually found solace in the sounds of nature. Enjoying the smells that followed rain, appreciating the sounds of different birds and bugs, gazing lovingly at flowers and different types of trees.

All the constant droning did was increase your cortisol levels. 

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you reached the log ring. Four large logs sat in a square around a burning campfire. Smoke curled from the fire and into the night air. Long shadows chased each other the further they danced away from the light.

“I said I ain’t lookin’ for company,” Logan growled under his breath. You froze in place. This is a mistake. This is a mistake. This is a mistake.

“Need a refill?” you squeaked despite the raging thoughts inside your head.

Logan spun on the log he was perched on. His hazel eyes, practically emerald in the firelight, were wide as they connected with yours. Confusion etched its way across his furrowed brow.

“What’re you doin’ out here?” he asked. The empty bottle clutched in his hands reflected the light like fireflies trapped in the glass. You swallowed a knot the size of a baseball.

“Thought you could use a drinking buddy. Seeings as we’re gonna die tomorrow,” you explained, raising the bottles so he could see them better. He stared at you for a few moments. It was nearly impossible to read his expression. And, unfortunately, you were out of practice.

Logan huffed, a mask of indifference settling over his face once more, as he turned back to the fire, “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied quickly. His eyes traced over your face warily. You squared your shoulders as you met his glare, “I could use a drink with someone my age.”

Logan laughed at that, the sound fast and harsh. His head hung low as he shook it back and forth. A hopeful grin pulled at the edges of your lips.

“Grab some log,” he sighed after a few moments. You did your best to hide the wave of enthusiasm that threatened to break your cool demeanor. The bark of the log dug into your palm, leaving indents in the flesh, as you sat to Logan’s left. 

Warmth washed over your front from the crackling fire. Comforting, like a heated blanket during a blizzard. You held out a bottle to him, the liquid sending bent light across his scowling face.

Nothing happened for a few moments. Logan continued to glare at the offered bottle as it filled the space between the two of you. Apprehension started gnawing at your gut.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you quipped in an attempt to lighten the mood. Logan smirked, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

His gloved hand wrapped around the base of the bottle, taking the whiskey from your outstretched hand. Thick fingers worked the lid open and chucked it into the crackling fire. A log split down near the embers.

“So, what’s your story?” Logan asked after a beat, raising the bottle to his lips. The question caught you by surprise. You worked on your response as you opened your bottle.

“Laura and I ended up here about a year ago. Or, you know, the equivalent,” you began. Bitter liquor filled your mouth as you took a sip. The whiskey flowed down your throat in a sharp-edged stream. You grimaced at the taste, “Jesus, that’s strong.”

“Not a fan of hard liquor?” Logan asked, almost teasingly. You cleared your throat to ease the sting.

“It’s not that. Just haven’t had a drink in… Shit, nine years?” you explained as the whiskey settled in your stomach. Logan hummed in response.

“How come?” he pressed. You cocked an eyebrow at him. He didn’t care to elaborate on why he was asking so many questions, opting to take another long swig instead. You blew a puff of air out through pursed lips.

“In my world, you… Uh, well, you died. Didn’t want to drink without you,” you said, your gaze fixed on the bottle’s opening, “We were on the run from this company called Transigen. They had samples of a shit ton of the X-Men’s DNA, and used the samples to make their own mutants. Grew the kids in a lab. Not even bothering to give them names,” you bit out gruffly. Recounting Laura’s past always left a bad taste in your mouth. You downed another swig, wincing slightly, then said, “A nurse got Laura out of there, along with a bunch of other kids. They all got separated, though. Laura and the nurse ended up contacting Logan for help. Logan, or uh, I guess you, was a limo-driver at the time. The nurse wanted us to take Laura to this location in North Dakota.”

“And I said yes?” Logan asked suspiciously, “Doesn’t sound like me.”

You laughed lightly, “I was the one to convince you. I mean, she was your daughter. Couldn’t just turn her down, right?”

“I dunno,” he muttered under his breath. You didn’t get a chance to press further before he was taking another sip. You chewed on your bottom lip.

“Charles was the main advocate for helping Laura. Him and I managed to wear Logan down enough for that grump to help. So, the four of us piled in the limo in El Paso and made for North Dakota. The trip was… It wasn’t smooth. We lost Charles along the way,” you said, grief beginning to bubble up your throat. You blinked away the tears pricking behind your eyelids, “Transigen had made an exact clone of Logan that they used to hunt us down. That clone killed Charles.”

The loss of your mentor, your longest friend, still washed over you like churning waves in a storm. Charles Xavier was the first person to show you an ounce of kindness. He was the one to house you, to help you figure out your mutation, to introduce you to the X-Men. To the Wolverine.

“I’m sorry,” Logan mumbled. His eyes were still fixed on his bottle, “Losing Chuck was hard. Real hard. I know how it feels.”

“Thanks,” you breathed in response. 

Logan gave you a curt nod as he drank from his bottle. You spun the neck of your bottle between your fingers.

“After Logan’s clone attacked and Charles died, Logan was pretty messed up. See, his adamantium skeleton had been slowly poisoning his blood ever since it was put in him. Leeching metal into his veins and robbing him of his healing mutation. Even I couldn’t patch him up, and that’s my specialty,” you explained with a brief, humorless laugh, “We still managed to make it to North Dakota. Laura took over driving for a bit while I worked on stitching Logan up. Seeing her, only eleven, driving better than he did made me glad he was unconscious.”

That last remark made Logan throw you an irritated glare. You chuckled in response, his reaction so fucking similar to how your Logan would react. Eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunched, scowl pulling on his lips. 

“I’m kidding,” you said in an attempt to ease the annoyed Wolverine.

“Uh-huh,” he huffed. You could just barely see an upward tick on the edge of his scowl.

“God, where was I… We made it to North Dakota. Logan was on the mend after I’d managed to stitch up several stab wounds. Laura brought us to this ranger station looking out over the border between Canada and North Dakota. A shit ton of the kids from Transigen were there. Holed up, hiding from those assholes who wanted them back. The kids told us they were planning to cross the border to escape Transigen. I wanted to help them, to make sure the crossing went well, but Logan was still too injured.”

Bile started to burn at the back of your throat. Watching the color drain from his face, your partner for thirty years, was one of the worst experiences of your long life. Feeling utterly helpless as the energy faded from the once immortal Wolverine.

“The next morning, the kids tried to cross into Canada. But Transigen had found them. They were chasing those poor kids through the woods, hunting them down and either killing or restraining them. Logan and I just barely made it there to prevent any other kids from getting hurt. He would slice up the Transigen cronies while I’d escort the kids away. Quite the asshole-fighting team,” you recounted with a frown. Now comes the hard part, “The clone was released into the woods after us. It managed to grab a hold of Logan before I could do anything. It… It killed him. Stabbed a fucking tree through his chest. And I didn’t even get a chance to stop it.”

Hot trails of tears started leaking down your heated cheeks. Shaky breaths rattled inside your lungs. You wiped away the moisture gathering under your eyes. God, it was hard to talk about what’d happened.

A large hand rested on your shoulder. The palm warm, strong, gloved. You looked up through wet eyelashes. 

Logan looked at you with an understanding you couldn’t quite place. Like the same kind of grief that had you in a chokehold had its claws in him, too. Like he knew exactly what you were going through. You sniffed back a sob. 

“I can guess the rest, doll,” he said softly. His fingers squeezed gently at your shoulder. Your breath caught behind your lips.

Doll.

That’s what your Logan had called you.

“Did-Did I exist in your universe, Logan?” you asked, desperate to shift the conversation away from your grief. Logan inhaled sharply, eyes darting away from yours.

“Uh… Yeah. You did. You, uh, died too,” he responded quietly. The hand not on your shoulder, still gripping the whiskey, lifted the bottle to his lips, “I held you as you died.”

A heavy silence settled over the two of you. Lead-lined heartache tugged at your chest and made it hard to breathe. Logan downed another swig.

You lifted a slightly trembling hand up to the one on your shoulder. Your fingers traced gently over the blue material, the fabric rough under your calluses, then you laced your digits with his. Logan froze where he sat.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, afraid to break the calm quiet around the two of you. A charged moment passed.

“Yeah,” Logan replied huskily. His fingers adjusted to hold your hand tighter against his palm. Your heart started to kick up behind your ribs.

The two of you sat like that for a few minutes. Quiet, the night air only disturbed by the droning bugs or the crackling fire, Logan’s fingers laced with yours. It felt… Good. Right. Like some of the weight that had piled on these past nine years was growing a little lighter.

“Laura was out here earlier,” Logan said, interrupting the silence. You looked at him from the corner of your eye. He sighed as he took another drink, “Tried to convince me to help out tomorrow. That I’m actually worth a damn.”

The harsh words caught you off guard. Where is this coming from?

“You are worth a damn, Logan. In every universe,” you replied. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. He shook his head, frown deepening across his lips.

“No. No, you don’t understand. After you died, I…” he muttered then sighed, hanging his head low. You gave him a few quiet moments to collect his thoughts. It seemed the weight of the universe was piled on his broad shoulders, “After I lost you, I started drinking. Every second I was awake, I was drinking. I didn’t want to think, or remember, or feel. I just wanted to be numb.”

He exhaled a shaky breath. His hazel eyes screwed shut as memories seemed to flash in his mind. You rubbed soothing circles into the back of his gloved hand.

“Everyone in that fucking mansion died because of me. Because I was too fucking drunk to help when the humans came. I…” Logan trailed off. He avoided your gaze as he took another long gulp of liquor. He swallowed noisily, then said, “I ain’t worth shit, doll.”

You took a few moments to absorb his words. The self-pity, the agony, the remorse. You bit your lip as you tried to construct what you’d say. Talking with an upset Logan was difficult, to say the least. One word out of place and he’d shut down.

“Have you ever helped someone, Logan?” you asked, shifting your gaze from the dancing flames to his hunched form. He cocked an eyebrow at you. You bit your lip, then continued, “I mean, really helped someone. Like, you risked your own safety to help out someone you didn’t even know. Whether it be helping an old lady crossing the street, getting a little kid’s cat out of a tree, or even saving someone’s life. Have you helped anyone out like that?”

Logan was quiet for a few moments. He swirled the amber liquor, the bottle now half-full. He cleared his throat, “I have.”

“And how did you feel afterwards?” you pressed.

“I dunno. Good, I guess,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. You shifted on the log so you were facing him.

“Then you are worth something. Even if it was something as small as holding open the door for someone, you improved that person’s life. You made a positive impact. You could have shaped the course of that person’s whole existence with that one, simple action. And, if I know you like I think I do, you’ve done way more than just holding open the door for someone. You’re worth far more than you know, Lo.”

It seemed your spiel had left Logan speechless. He stared at you, wide-eyed, as your words settled into the night air around you. The silence between you stretched on for so long, you were beginning to think you might have said the wrong thing.

“What did you just call me?” he breathed. The hand holding yours tightened its grip. Anxiety started to leak into your mind.

“Uh… Lo?” you answered apprehensively. Did he not like the nickname?

Without warning, the hand holding yours shifted to cradling your jaw. He tugged you towards him, liquor bottle forgotten on the forest floor, as Logan crashed his lips into yours.

SMUT NEXT CHAPTER!!!! I REPEAT, SMUT NEXT CHAPTER!!!!

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[ikeasharksss]

hey im curious

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