Lord of the Lurkers

“Tell me, what brings you here?”

That was the first question he had ever asked me, my psychiatrist.

Strict, straight to the point, without needing me to introduce myself or even himself; immediately, he wanted to know my main concern. Then again, he had probably read my files before I entered his office. 

After all, I knew where I was going; I did my research before coming in. I picked him out of many, because he was a renowned psychiatrist, highly respected in his field.

It gave hope that he could help me, fix me. See me.

I do remember how anxious I had first felt in the presence of his piercing gaze, and how I also secretly analysed him when I had first sat in front of him.

From the first glance, my psychiatrist seemed like a well groomed man, who was not only stylish, but also very fit for his age. Everything about his appearance spoke about his meticulous self-care: starting from the clean shave, neatly slicked salt-and-pepper hair, the expensive glasses supported by his hawk-like nose, to the classy look that complimented his bronze skin.

However, the bright white coat reminded me of our differences: he was my doctor and I was his patient.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where to start,” I then laughed, rubbing my pressed together knees. I could have almost managed my nerves from choking me.

“One sentence is enough,” he replied softly with a pleasant smile, as if encouraging me to take a leap—to reveal myself.

“Well I…” I murmured, trying to control the tremble of my lips.

This experience, like any other in my life, was beyond my comfort level, especially when I’m not familiar with the surroundings.

The office itself was pristine, of course, it had to be, he’s a healthcare specialist—a doctor. His environment was carefully curated, aesthetically pleasing and relaxing to the eye, with the beige and neutral tones dominating all around. Nothing to distract me: the surroundings were meant to keep me focused entirely on him. There were exotic plants that flourished in the bright room. Every item was carefully structuralised in particular order, but incredibly neatly, meant only for him to navigate through. The armchair on which I sat was expensive; the cool leather soothed my body even through the layers of clothing. I soon realised that I felt as if I wasn’t sitting in an office, but somewhere cozier, as if with a friend.

All I needed was a cup of warm chamomile tea and I would instantly forget the circumstances of our meeting.

Yet, his sharp eyes urged me to speak further. “Let’s start off slowly. What is your main complaint?”

I felt extremely shy as my psychiatrist dissected me with those intense eyes; I didn’t want him to eat me alive as I tried stuttering a word out of my mouth. I looked away.

After all, I never got used to being watched, observed. 

“I’ve seen other psychiatrists for the same problem, but none of them managed to help me. I’m afraid that my condition’s getting worse. Maybe my case is… Too difficult… I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so sorry— I probably look like a patient from hell?..”

He tapped his pen lightly on the surface of the wooden desk, slowly sedating my senses. “I’m positive that we’ll work like a great team together. I’ll offer you the tools, and you’ll decide whether you’d use them. However, both of us will need to work our best to find a solution. All I need is your trust and honesty, and I’ll do my best to guide you with the information you provide me.”

Even his voice had that pinch of charm: it was soothing and profound in a way, making me put some faith in his words for an unknown reason.

Though I’ve heard the exact phrases coming from various psychiatrists and psychologists alike.

“Alright, as you mentioned, you’ve seen other specialists in my field. From your psychiatric history I can see that you were previously prescribed Zoloft, are you still on medication?” he continued.

“Yes, Doctor, I’m still taking them,” I stammered.

With the corner of my eye, I noticed a twitch of his lips when I referred to him by his title.

Maybe it was my imagination at that time, I don’t really know.

“I’ve noticed that you seem to have difficulty maintaining eye contact.”

I didn’t reply, only pulling a bottle of water out of my bag. That sip was so refreshing, but it still couldn’t quite calm my spasming nerve buds that were slowly squeezing my brain.

However, I was glad that my quietness didn’t irritate my psychiatrist so far. Some doctors didn’t even try to hide it, pointing at me and my problems, though they were fully aware of the reason why I came to their offices, or hospitals.

And he was so patient.

“I suspect that being here is hard for you,” he thought loudly.

I kept my eyes on his neatly fondled hands, slowly climbing upwards.

“It is.”

“Do you have a hard time talking to people?”

I nodded carefully.

“Do you have any friends, relatives, anyone to talk to?” he asked, narrowing his head a little as he placed his elbows on the desk. He was trying to catch my gaze.

“I… I don’t,” I mumbled.

He tapped the pen in rhythm like before. He didn’t write anything; he was entirely focused on me, speaking ever so slowly, to not scare me, “Gathering the information you’ve given me, and from reading your case, you’re suffering from social anxiety, correct?”

“I was told so at least, well, before. I mean— At my previous appointments,” I replied, peeking at his face for a mere moment as I stumbled on my own words.

He caught my eyes instantly. “Tell me, what do you do for a living?”

But I quickly turned them away again. “I’m a sculptor.”

“How do you express your feelings?”

“Through my sculptures, naturally.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, rolling the pen in between his fingers. “You flinched, what’s on your mind?”

I looked up at him again and was met with a warm smile comforting me. I couldn’t handle it, turning to a nearby window, catching the last beaming rays of sun before they hid in the dark clouds.

“I feel like so many things are wrong with me. I just can’t grasp the reason, but I don’t feel okay,” I managed to open up after sometime, rubbing out those tensed muscles of my thighs in the process. “I feel…”

“Then how do you feel?” he pressed me, but gently, almost reassuringly.

“Like I’m in a cage. I can’t move. I can only watch people live the life I aspire to experience, but I can’t move forward…” Words were stuck in my throat and I could no longer say anything else on the topic.

“How would you define that life you aspire to experience?” he asked carefully, tempting me to talk again, placing the pen beside his keyboard.

My head tilted from one side to the other. “I guess the one where I’m able to talk to others freely. Where I’d have friends, a… Lover. A family. Where I’d live a life without that… Nervousness. I just— I want to be free.”

“And now how would you describe your current life?”

“Stable, consistent, tame. Nothing that I could complain about really, but…” I stated, darting my eyes at his intertwined hands on the desk’s surface. “I have nobody. I want to live a fulfilling life, but I just don’t know how to.”

“Then we’ll try to solve your problem. One step at a time, you’ll see,” he cooed.

His words were so calming; my gaze lingered on him longer than anticipated.

His eyes captivated me, drew me in somehow, but also scared me. It looked like he genuinely believed his own words, but the darkness within them made me feel uneasy. Something about him felt unnatural. I really couldn’t tell what was on his mind; I couldn’t read his emotions through those eyes. Maybe because of the deep brown irises, the narrow pupils? I wasn’t sure, but I was curious to say the least.

He inclined his head to the side, grinning widely. “There you are, hello. You’re finally looking at me.”

I could only smile along; my psychiatrist was glad to finally achieve his goal of maintaining eye contact. His uplifted tone didn’t make me feel bad at all.

Still, he was so concentrated, so attentive. “Is there anything else concerning you?”

“Yes, there’s more to it,” I agreed.

“I’m listening.”

I couldn’t stop my leg from bouncing.

“Well, because of my condition, I experience severe panic attacks. Any social interaction triggers me and I just don’t know how to deal with it anymore… I take the pills, of course, but it doesn’t always help me. Even now— I’m trying my best, I-I really am.”

“Can you specify the situations that trigger you?”

I tried to think, but my mind was blank, and my chest tightened at the amount of concentration I accumulated for the task. Even thinking about it made me nervous.

I suddenly felt like I was about to have a heart attack, like I was about to die.

The walls were slowly clasping around me, his bland paintings all of the sudden were overfilled with eyes staring down at me like they were real, absorbing me. I started to panic while they swallowed me; I couldn’t control the terror that overtook me.

“And how do you imagine helping yourself?”

I supported my head with my palm, rubbing the tension in my forehead. “Well… I can’t…”

Only now I see it clearly: there wasn’t an ounce of concern for my well-being in my psychiatrist’s face. He watched me, I know that he noticed it, but my upcoming panic attack didn’t interest him. If I can recall the expression that I have in mind: my psychiatrist seemed to be intrigued by my suffering.

“Are you prepared to do anything to improve your wellbeing?”

He only watched me.

“Yes, yes of course—” I answered weakly, silently gasping for air. My body was trembling.

I tried to grab the bottle of water that I had placed in my bag again, but I couldn’t grasp it. I really thought that I’d die from the amount of adrenaline that suffocated me, the overwhelming emotions pouring out of me.

I had a hard time recognising my surroundings.

All I wanted was to hide and curl up in a ball. To do anything that could make me relax at least for a bit.

Luckily, I grasped the box of anxiety suppressants and pulled it out, but my fingers were shivering so badly that I couldn’t open it.

After some time, I saw my psychiatrist kneeling by my side with a cup of water in his hand. He took the box from my hand, popping out a pill.

I gulped it down immediately, hoping that it would ease my anxiety.

“Breathe deeply. Inhale and exhale.” His voice guided me while I sat with my eyes closed.

I remember how I followed his deep breathing, how our breaths intertwined at that very moment.

He smelled like coffee. Very strong coffee. His cologne too with hints of tobacco and wood.

“I see you,” he repeated. “I see you.”

I didn’t know what he meant back then.

But I was bound to him from that moment on, not even recognising that something so compassionate, helpful could become so destructive.

I don’t remember how long we waited, maybe for fifteen minutes or more, or less, but finally—the effect settled in and I could breathe properly. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by those intense dark browns staring at me.

He was my doctor and I was his patient.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked softly.

My jaw trembled uncontrollably; if I tried opening my mouth, my teeth probably would’ve shattered, so I decided better not to speak.

Before I could’ve comprehended what was happening, I felt his hand gently caressing mine. Without my consent, without my permission, without me knowing. Naturally, it should’ve disturbed me, but at that time his touch was soothing, soft, and comforting. It felt right. I wonder, was it because of his warmth, or the way his thumbs massaged the skin of the back of my hands, how they knowingly pressed down on my blood vessels, or how they pushed the tiny bones, my knuckles? Maybe it was his gaze also, though it made me shiver.

Something truly dark hid within them.

I felt both hot and cold, sweat dribbled down my forehead.

“We will find a way to help you. Trust me, we will, but I think this should be it for today, I don’t want to cause you more suffering than needed. Now rest, you’ve done enough, but we’ll have much work to do.”

If only I knew what I had gotten myself into, I would’ve left and never come back. But there was no way I could’ve known.

He was too charming, too caring and professional, wiping the sweat out of my view with a napkin.

“I can fix you.”

And there’s nothing I can do now, absolutely nothing, because I love him.

I just pray; pray and hope that if it was truly meant to be, then it had to happen.

Because that thought alone is the only thing keeping me sane.

Credits for the dividers:

1 - @/mieluno

You’ve only known Logan for a little over three months now.

When your neighbor Hurricane Wilson brought a handsome but tired-looking older man from “the greatest 137 minutes of cinematic bromance”, you were confused. You were at his birthday party. Clearly he went missing for longer than that.

Everybody was confused, really. Until Wade, in his signature verbosity, outlined the sequence of events. How in the third act, Deadpool and his “honey badger” Logan—the handsome but tired-looking older man—with the help of badass outcasts, took down a bald villainess who was this close to ripping the entire multiverse apart. He also mentioned an organization called the Time Variance Authority allowing Logan to make this timeline his new home to replace an “anchor being”…

In any case, it was extremely complicated and hard to wrap your head around. But you managed to get the gist. A skill you picked up working in corporate.

Some things in corporate made less sense than the concept of a metaphysical junkyard at the end of Time. 

How you got into this superheroic social circle is best described as a coincidence. A weird series of coincidences, rather.

You’d planned on moving to Manhattan to break away from life’s crushing monotony, despite your loved ones’ concerns. The city has seen more than extraterrestrial attacks, for god’s sake. And yet, New York City’s pulsing energy and vibrant lights make you feel alive and excited, a rare emotion, despite seemingly being a huge neon sign that says ‘INVADE HERE’ to aliens.

So when that desire for more tipped to an unbearable edge, you took that job offer and packed your bags. 

And now you live in the same building as Deadpool.

The two of you quickly got on talking terms after you shot him a dry remark at the laundromat, eyeing the pile of bloody clothes in his hamper.

“Use cold water and hydrogen peroxide,” you said then, not even sparing a second glance. He thought you had to be a little crazy to strike up a conversation with someone who could be a killer. And let’s be honest, he is a killer. 

He asked if you’re in the business—of being mercenary, he meant. You told him you were in the business of bleeding between your legs every month since you were thirteen. He laughed.

Wade doesn’t need a long time to figure out the kind of person you are.

“You’re a straight arrow,” he once told you, and he wasn’t referring to your sexuality. Doesn’t take an observant pair of eyes to understand that, despite your authenticity, you like to keep your distance in the beginning of things.

Which is why getting you to warm up to him was a delicate matter, one he treaded carefully. Instead of throwing you into a deep end of intimate dinners and movie nights with his friends, who can be a lot, his approach was a lot more discreet. As discreet as Wade Wilson can be, at least.

Borrowing your Tupperwares. Begging for sugar and baking soda. Asking questions about taxes or advice for his ‘career switch’. Things you gladly helped him out with, bless your heart.

Little by little, you grew closer to the merc. Consoled him when the Avengers rejected his application. Watched sad movies with him when he and Vanessa fell apart. You offered support in your own way: no grand speeches to try and get him to win her back, but quiet gestures to make sure he didn’t give up his own happiness, whether that involves romantic love or otherwise.

Then and only then, he slowly and joyfully inserted you into his larger social circle, like a rectal suppository. And before he knew it, it worked. Smooth as butter—also like a rectal suppository. A pleasurable feat he finds triumph in.

“My little people-pleaser,” he often calls you. An affectionate nickname within the group. You’d laugh wryly in response. He’s right, but the two of you knew that you never were just trying to be accommodating. You care deeper than you let on.

So yes, as of today, you are the most normal person in that precious universe-saving polaroid, now framed in Wade’s living room. Well, maybe you and Peter.

Although between the two of you, he has a red skin-tight superhero suit in his closet, and you don’t.

Then again, you gave a potential murderer advice on how to get rid of bloodstains, so are you really normal?

It’s only been three months since Logan first saw you, but it feels like a long time. Maybe because so much has happened in those three months, stretching it into something infinite.

A lifetime has passed since—because the life he’s living now is not at all the life he had before. 

Twelve weeks into this new universe, here are some of the things he’s done so far:

Accidentally discovered Weird Al’s coke stash twice—there were more than one. Got one too many whiffs of Wade’s damp socks and soiled boxers. Bought a second-hand phone from Dopinder. Found a contract-based job in a construction company that’s flexible enough for him to heed the TVA’s calls when needed.

Moved out of Wade’s place to move in with you.

He first saw you in the Void. You were once just a face in a photograph, one of the few people that made up Wade’s entire world. Your features weren’t rendered clearly thanks to the lighting, but even then Logan thought you looked sweet. Perhaps a little tired, as well, but that didn’t seem to dim your smile.

When he met you, though, it was different.

His perfect vision allowed him to take in every inch of you as you walked through the apartment door, carrying a Trader Joe’s bag filled with snacks as your tribute to movie night. The blurry image of the polaroid became clear, and there was a second where he had to collect himself. 

Pretty, he thought. Especially in that button-down shirt that revealed just the right amount of collarbone and a flattering pair of slacks. You just got out of the office. 

Real pretty. And young. Almost enough to make him scold himself for being attracted to you. The guilt didn’t lessen even when he learned you were well into your twenties.

For all your initial politeness when meeting someone new, he discovers that you have your own brand of charm. Not like Yukio’s pep, or Nega-something’s cool demeanor, or Vanessa’s allure. 

It’s your curiosity and kindness. Something he learns while watching you interact with others, and from interacting with you. There’s a reason why you were at Wade’s birthday party—that manchild may be nine-circles-of-Hell-unhinged, but he doesn’t misjudge character.

You’re an amazing listener, and as a result, a great conversation partner without being as wordy as Wade. Always quick to offer a helping hand, too. He’s seen you quietly slip into the kitchen to clean some dishes when you think no one’s looking. Offer drinks. Bring up details of your friends’ lives that make them go “oh, you remembered?”

When Laura came along, the two of you became fast friends. That was another signal to him.

A dangerous one that spells trouble for his beat-up heart.

One fateful day, you drop by Wade’s place—and his—and Al’s, but she was out for poker—with a box of Krispy Kremes, confessing your troubles while you all munched on donuts.

Both men were all ears. 

You don’t often go into detail when sharing your problems with others, so when you did, it felt like you were quietly telling them you needed help. You spoke in measured, calm sentences. Issues with your current landlord, which they knew from before, were no longer manageable. Coupled with the fact that your lease was ending soon, you admitted to thinking of moving out.

“Where?” he grunted almost instinctively in response, ahead of Wade who was undoubtedly going to protest about having to source his own baking soda.

“A building just a couple blocks away,” you answer, “there’s this corner unit, much better sunlight. Good neighborhood. The landlord seems really nice.”

They peered into your phone screen as you flicked through the photos. It looked great. Just the right amount of space with plenty of natural light, like you said. And then there was silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You bit your cheek.

“It’s… a little too expensive for me.” 

“Really? I know it’s much better than my love shack, but with Marvel scriptwriters constantly fucking over this city with world-ending threats, rent can’t be the Ritz!” Wade scoffed in disbelief.

“It’s a two-bedder,” you replied, shrugging. “I’ve negotiated, but with two bedrooms, there’s no way that unit’s going to cost the same as my current one.”

“You need help dealing with your shitty landlord instead?” Logan offered, eyebrows furrowed. He didn’t mean to sound overprotective, but thankfully you shook your head instead of pointing that out.

“Logan, I appreciate it, but it’s not worth it. Don’t want to get you in trouble.” You said with a sheepish smile, leaning down to pet Mary Puppins who greeted you with a rough lick on your leg. “I just need to get a roommate. It only makes sense.”

Wade’s eyes quickly glanced at Logan. The solution was standing right next to him.

As much as he’d hate not waking up to the sight of Logan’s crotch splayed on his couch, he’d love to gain some semblance of privacy back in his life. Or as much as he can get with Althea around, at least. Wouldn’t hurt. He could finally bring Vanessa over, play that George Michael record and woo her properly…

Okay, okay. Maybe he saw the way the two of you danced around each other one too many times. Clearly there was something going on, potent enough to propel someone on Tumblr to write a series with the two of them as the central characters. Friends to lovers, that kind of bullshit. 

He wanted to see where this fic goes.

And Logan, that motherfucker’s got a job now! Truly a cause for celebration in this economy. From what Wade knows, the salary is not bad at all. Perks of being a self-healing mutant who can risk a limb doing the more dangerous parts of construction.

“You know, peanut, your snores are getting a little too loud these days—”

That basically explains how Logan Howlett ended up as your roommate.

But that doesn’t really explain how you find yourself trapped underneath his solid body, in your room, on your bed.

Doesn’t explain your t-shirt in his fist as he yanks it low enough to latch his lips onto your exposed collarbone. Body between your legs forcing them to part to accommodate his frame. One big hand pinning your wrists together above your head, the other on the apex of your thighs, pushing your panties aside as a finger toys with you. Your hips buck.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispers, lips moving right next to your ear. A shiver racks your spine at the low timbre of his voice, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment at just how worked up you are, evidence of it effortlessly coating the rough pad of his finger.

Doesn’t explain why he takes off your top in one smooth movement, hand releasing your wrists in favor of cupping your jaw when he crashes his lips into yours like a desperate man.

And he is, though you sound just as desperate—if not more—when he slowly, easily plunges his middle finger into your wet cunt, your strangled moan against his mouth.

Doesn’t explain the glazed look in his darkened eyes when he pulls away, only a breath apart, just to stare at the face you’re making. Eyes as dark as his, a little hazy, a little surprised. But nothing about you is fighting this.

His blood sings.

“Be a good girl and let me take care of you,” he rasps before thrusting a second finger in, then curling them deep inside of you.

“A-ah—”

So how did you get here?

The answer isn’t nearly as complicated as Wade’s multiversal adventure. 

You just need to outline the sequence of events in your head.