#( vibrating at a speed that can shatter glass

[hawkeyeslaughter]

“ yes i would love to trust you buddy , but you are clearly keeping secrets from me . “

too soon to tell , todd snider x mash

[daily-vitamin-vbs]

((EEEEE LORE DROP IN ABOUT AN A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT ALL DAYYYYYY

[sailforvalinor]

It just hit me that Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd has a lot of parallels to Antigone, the biggest difference being that he freaking climbs out of his grave and puts the ghosts to rest

[bunni-bun]

peeking into the tags during lunch to spoil myself cuz i'm so excited to get home but also hhtlwkwjdkfkekknntm holy shit???? ohhhh i’m so fucking excited, i can't wait 😆

[unboundprompts]

can you do a prompt where you are describing how the car accident happened in persent. like; he speed up his car, breaking the rules and then suddenly the car hit something, no, someone.

Describing a Car Accident

-> tw for a sensitive/traumatic subject

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

His foot was heavy on the pedal, the car humming beneath his fingers on the wheel. Wheels spun on the rough road, the car all but vibrating as he reached speeds of 70, 80 miles per hour.

She listened to the roar of the engine, loving the sound of the purr as she stepped on the gas. She'd do anything to listen to that noise.

The speed limit was a mere suggestion, and they felt unstoppable in that moment.

The windshield shattered. That was the first thing he noticed. Cracks like a spiderweb and finally glass flying everywhere. He scrambled to hit the breaks, wheels burning on the road.

The noise was the worst part. The screeching of the tires, the scream that poured from her lips. The thud of the body. The silence that followed.

They hit someone. There was someone in the road. There was blood, so much blood. They couldn't breathe. Oh God, what did they do?

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[kwangnyangie]

SHAKING CRYING THROWING UP, RUNNING INTO TRAFFIC, JUMPING OFF A BUILDING, VIBRATING AT THE SPEED THAT CAN SHATTER GLASS, CRYING BLOODY TEARS, CURLING UP INTO A BALL RN, TWIRLING MY HAIR AND SCREAMING INTO MY PILLOW RN

[ostensiblywhump]

Practiced Prey

Whumpuary day 13: close call | sleep | choking

Word count: 1,080

Content warnings: none

———(0)———

Rock presses him back, keeps him in place, when Archaios flails awake with a gasp that nearly shrieks. He knows humans bury their dead, entomb them; the harsh confines of the space he’d carefully maneuvered himself into, once comforting, now makes every nightmare and the dim memory they’re based from reel through his head.

(Limp and savaged bodies left to the elements; what if his corpse is left in this coffin sized just for him—?)

He catches that thought, puts it back in the dark corner it belongs to. Makes his exhale come out measured, if shuddery. If his senses are right about the thing that woke him up—and he’s had centuries to hone them—then panicking is death, and he needs to move, now.

First things first. He grimaces at himself, the expanse of his body fit snug into the cave. Well, cavern, more like. His true form is large. And freeing though it is, to finally unseal it and spend hours reacquainting himself with it, it isn’t at all stealthy to be the very thing someone is hunting for. Better to be a dime-a-dozen human.

He moves his right paw to rest on the seals scarred into his opposite foreleg, trickles the barest flicker of magic into it, and braces.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Archaios wheezes on the ground, braced on palms and knees instead of laid down on his haunches. Every inch of him is alight, but he doesn’t have time to recover slowly from being forcibly rearranged into a human shape.

Left hand going up this time, trembling fingers instead of steady claws, and it’s a different kind of agony, having one’s magic being crushed down and shoved into a form that’s far too tiny, but it’s an agony all the same. It’s also worth it. He has no idea what got someone on his tail this time, but having his magic unsealed is just asking to leave a trail of it, letting someone track him down no matter how far or fast he runs.

He crawls at a snail’s pace to the pile of clothing he left behind when he unsealed himself, aftershocks vibrating through him and making him fumble his grip as he pulls on his shirt. A tearing sound makes him hiss—he only has so many clothes!—but there’s nothing to be done for it. Not when he’s not moving fast enough. He’ll take accidentally-ripped clothes over being killed.

Standing is … an experience. He sways, nearly eats stone when his senses scream at him and he collides his face with the wall. His confined magic already affects how much space he feels like he has to inflate his lungs—now, with impending doom encroaching, unwilling to be ignored, it catches at something and makes him hack, silvery wisps wanting to travel up with his hitching breaths and flee. He is every inch a scrabbling thing, desperate to escape.

“Calm—” he says, as he recovers a regular rhythm of air. Inhale, exhale. Like a normal person. Like a human. Not some terrified creature. He’s spending precious seconds keeping himself from screaming, instead of running like he needs to. Forfend, but he’s supposed to be old hat at this by now.

He goes upright again, steadier this time. His first step forward is more of a shuffle, but he speeds up as he goes, no matter if the freezing rock prickles at his pain-sensitive skin as he speed-walks with bare feet. A swipe that’s more of a jerking motion, and his wards carved into the entrance of the cave shatter with a sound like breaking glass, the wind gouging an unrecoverable strip out of the runes.

This location is a bust, now that someone’s found it. Shame, really—he’s paranoid about having dens big enough for his true form, so he only has so many. He can’t hide all the signs that he was here, but he can make it harder to tell how recently he abandoned this place.

His toes brush snow, and he breaks into a run, only wobbling a little—over the surface, not through. Better for not leaving footprints, and he doesn’t have to masquerade as completely magic-less just yet. Hmm, would it be better to use the wind to propel him, while he’s at it?

No, probably not. Walking on top of snow is undetectable, but wind isn’t. He’s fast enough with just his feet.

He gets … fairly far. He can still see the cave entrance, a distant gray smear against white, when his ears pick up on something large and way too fast for its size. At the same time, his magic sense sends a frantic shiver down his spine, and he needs to find a hidey-hole now.

The cave he was in is part of a large mountain range, steep enough that it’s a mosaic of dark rock and blinding white. This is good, because his clothes are dark and he’s pale in human form, so he’ll blend in. He just needs some place where it’ll be hard to see him and be unbothered by animals looking for a meal.

He’s in luck—well, he’s been lucky to be alive for the past centuries, so thank goodness that’s going strong for him. On a severe slope, trees have stubbornly dug in, snow-covered and prickly. Even better, a couple steps into the scraggly treeline, he spies two trees that are particularly close. One was tough enough to thrive; the other, not so much, branches bare or with brown needles, snapped at the base of its trunk and long since fallen. It’s formed a little v, bracketed at one side by its still-living companion. Partially obscured by needle-full branches and snow, it’s the best he’s going to get.

No sooner than he’s hidden himself in the little hollow and gone absolutely still (just because he’s human-shaped doesn’t mean he has to breathe and fidget like a human), a furious bellow rips through the air, echoing off the snow. Snowflakes drift from branches, disturbed from rest by the shockwave of it.

Swirling silver scratches at the confines of his ribs, whispers to run, reaches up and claws up his throat—he breaks his stillness to clasp a hand over his mouth, teeth gritting and lips pressing tight together against the choking cough trying to break his silence.

He rides out the seize of his lungs and the rage of his hunter. He waits.

[pisoprano]

If I had to pick an Age of the Myst series that was my favorite, I think it’d have to be Amateria. There might be some bias in that it was the first Age I remember solving myself instead of getting help from a family member who’d already solved it, but truly there is something so special about the the puzzle environment here.

(Spoilers ahead)

Amateria is based around three puzzles that each feature an ice sphere being guided along various tracks through the puzzle's architecture.

One of the puzzles allows the player to interact directly with the track the ice sphere travels along. Here, you follow the sphere through intersecting loops and vibrating walls of air (which are very disorienting to stand inside, as it makes the screen shake) that can be turned off during a phase of the sequence dictated by the player. In order to test the puzzle, however, the player must access a panel that propels you upwards to a place where you are able to watch your programming unfold in a more third-person view all at once. If you do it right, each of the five vibrating rings will turn off one by one in the proper sequence. If not, the test sphere hits the vibrating wall and shatters, meaning you have to go back down to try again (fortunately, there seems to be an infinite number of ice spheres you can create until you get it right).

The lever puzzle is a bit different in that you don't get to interact with the track directly this time. Instead, you either get to look at the lever from the side (where you can pull switches to move the wheel that acts as the lever’s fulcrum) or you go to the secluded alcoves where the counterweight spheres are located (so you can adjust and/or evaluate the counterweight wood, metal, and glass sections of their respective spheres and get them to balance). The clues to understanding the puzzle are found back on the hub age, though if you’re inclined to guessing and checking to solve this puzzle, you can do it (though you will end up crashing a LOT of ice spheres off the lever trying).

The third puzzle is almost completely abstracted, being a series of interconnected rings spinning over the sea where you can’t reach. Some of these rings have a solid bottom, while others are completely hollow (meaning that any spheres that get sent there crash straight into the water), and you have to discover a path that bounces the sphere to only places it can be held (and, just to make your life more difficult, one of the spots for pegs have had another peg stuffed in the hole, making the spot unusable).

After each of the three puzzles are solved, the player is given a passcode. Entering each passcode into a series of displays at the starting location allows them access to the inside of the main pagoda, where they’ll find several interlocking tracks and the rising platform leads to the most abstracted puzzle yet: a series of wooden circles with lines carved into the design that you have to make match up with a few colored icons around the edge.

Once this puzzle’s pieces are all place, control is taken away from the player as something lowers above you. You press a button (you have no idea what it does, but you’ve gotten this far by trying things and seeing what happens) and the puzzle interface pulls out of reach. You hear the familiar sound of a sphere being created, but this time it occurs as an ice sphere comes into existence around you. You hang there hovering in the air just long enough for it to sink in that you are about to take the place of all those spheres you’ve thrown away solving puzzles.

Then you drop and get sent on that ride.

You travel the intersecting loops and you don’t hit any of the vibrating barriers, despite how you slow and speed up as you go up and down the track. You start to relax a little as you go through a tunnel, only to turn and see the wood-glass counterweight go into motion and you realize that that lever needs to move into place exactly and before you can even react, you straight at the end of the lever, it just barely getting into place when you slide into its curved groove. You then get sent out to sea and experience being bounced from ring to ring, hoping very hard that you programmed the puzzle correctly, because you can’t see which of the rings have bottoms and which are hollow and would lead you to your certain doom. But you survive and you keep going and you move towards a series of gaps that you barely recognize, where—1, 2, 3—a platform for each puzzle you solved rises out of the sea just in time to carry you across to a place where the ice sphere finally comes to rest, now shattering around you. You made it through alive.

This Age does an amazing job of leading you towards abstraction, always giving you the view of the whole puzzle from a third-person observer to the point that it almost feels like you’re not in a physical place anymore, that the puzzles are disconnected and arbitrar, and that the ice spheres that shatter during your trial and error are just there for player feedback. If you want a sense of place, you’ll see it in the glowing crystals and stone pillars and wooden architecture—not the puzzles themselves.

And all of that changes the second that you become the sphere on the interconnected track that this whole world has been built around.

[originemesis]

@bored2deathiswear xxx

And of course the bastard is adept at lip-reading even when the lips in question are latched to a pair between the legs. Because why wouldn't he be? Probably had penned entire novels down there at this point from how much he likely fingered his own sad clown of a cunt. Anything to make the most microscopic acts of defiance dwarfed even in comparison to the simplicity of a raised middle finger hard on the first man.

And as the sharp burn of hellfire fills the webbing of cracks sustained along the shattering side of his cheek with a molten gold saturation that bit much like a hornet's sting, he mouths a classic 'fuck' next against the slippery heat. It graduates into a livelier 'ow- fuck!' with the other's persistence in grinding a heel around the dislocated droop of the ensnared exorcist's shoulder. Trapped talons, from the arm still stuck painfully beneath him and threaded backwards at its own agonizing angle through the window, twitch and dig in to the outer frame, carving impatient grooves into the wood. If the restraints detect the scratching post like damage, they don't flare up to let him know. Possibly because their owner is much too preoccupied riding his face to focus on property damage that doesn't correlate to the relentless plunge of yellowed taste buds.

There's a brief moment before the restless jerk of horns that he swivels his gaze upwards at the near whisper of his name- if only because the tight assed tone he's been subjected to all of this unintended stay in solitary confinement seems to have done nothing but evaporate, leaving a quivering hint of... exactly what, he can't be sure (and who can with the literal fucking devil-), only that it seems to be something worth whittling away at for yet another chance at his captor's throat.

He forces inches in with as much dexterity as one can lacking arms and hellfire burnt wrists for any leverage, but there's not much to make of the task other than curl the studded section of tongue upwards against a spongy target as the other hiked up over his shoulder pulls him in deeper by the horns, and then out some with the needy roll of hips. Rolls that obscure his vision in more than just the physical sense with the heat from the exchange fogging up his mask and smearing pungent streaks of need around the glass with each forward fixation.

Once horns are free of the demanding pace, he simply pumps in place at the depth he's left, no real way of assisting the task only to keep the object the other's determined to fuck himself more stupid with out enough for him to do so. The talons have scratched enough at the window frame by now to have loosened its hold on his scalded arm, and as the bastard claws his collar, he twists it until its free and still slightly smoking, the restraints no where to be found during their master's temporary climb to just short of the actual glory from where he'd been flung down.

It isn't noticeable that he's wrested it free until it comes to rest on the inner portion of the other's thigh once the twitch of inner muscles spasm around a pained groan that vibrates up through his tongue as waves of contractions swallows at the intrusion. Well that was time sparingly fast...is he for fucking real? Not that he's complaining.

A moment braced against the other's leg later, he's unwinding the shock of yellow muscle from the messy waves within, a wet pop once its out. It doesn't drift far from the source as he drags its length back up through the sticky crevice of flushed folds, an exhausted grunt and the sudden squeeze of a thigh signaling the dissolving of the restraints with far less energy than the last time he'd had been afforded the arm movement to smother and choke. A weary "hey-" with the same tone the other had taken with his name follows, along with the saucers of his eyes swiveling up to pass unspoken judgement for the speed of the exchange...if it could even be called that. Though he had picked up on something that might be of some use to him yet...so maybe it was just that. His talons are surprisingly tame, resting against a leg under the looming gaze of a breathless captor.

"Can you...like get me out of this already? Hurts like a bitch-"

[the-no-name-system]

I am quite interested in your project and excited to read it when regressuary starts

Aaaand 1 and 12 for the questions

You have no idea how excited I am to share with you guys. I’m vibrating at a speed that would shatter glass, and the only reason I’m not wishing February would come sooner is because I just need to finish the second half of chapters!

How did they find out about age regression?

Silver found out online, for sure. That boy is the type to fall down internet rabbit holes, and when he saw a recommended video about adults dressing up as children and coloring, his interest was piqued. He fell down that rabbit hole and discovered what he was doing was regression.

12. Do they have any specific nicknames for when they regress?

Yes he does! But they don’t show up until quite late in the fic, hehe. >:3c Silver calls Meganium “Megi” when he’s small or he’s being openly affectionate with her. Lance can get Silver into littlespace simply by calling him “Silvie,” but Silver’s nickname for (his) Lance? Well, let’s just say it’s a well-used nickname that I love, and it takes a lot to weasel it out of Silver. The title banner will definitely feature it, so you don’t have long to wait, and you can probably guess, but. 🤷‍♂️ Personally I think it’s going to be all the sweeter when Silver finally lets it slip.

[unusual-raccoon]

okay then i will spam you <3 <3 just thinking about what you said about jace gaslighting lucerys when he starts suspecting jace is his stalker! with the ask i sent you about social media and them, i just feel like Jace would have a private random account that he uses just to follow lucerys and send him the most deranged messages ever. like, he picks lucerys from school one day and sees him flirting with that arryn boy from his bio class. that night, the random anon sends lucerys a lengthy message describing very explicitly and with detail all the ways he could kill the arryn boy and how lucerys was wearing the sweater he sent as a gift so that means lucerys is his and he should know better. lucerys cannot block him because the anon has already told him that he will post all lucerys' private pictures if he tries (jace would never share such pictures anywhere, with anyone, because he doesn't want to cause his baby so much distress and he doesn't want to share lucerys either, but lucerys doesn't know this ofc ;) ).

Oh. OH. Unhinged stalker Jace 🫣. God, he’d be so deranged. Like sending the most long-winded, possessive rants about Luke being his fucking property. And then ten he’d switch apps and text Luke that he forgot his lunch at home💖.

I cannot even imagine how stressed Luke would be though, poor thing. Bet you the only thing keeping him from having a whole breakdown is being able to spend time with Jace 👀.

Also sorry if the social media angle wasn’t what you hoped, I was trying to keep it generic! But yeah, stalker!Jace would have an account to (lovingly) harass Luke. Also, yeah those nudes are fucking hard earned (and ofc they’re of his bby he’d rather die than let anyone else see them)

Maybe the minute Luke starts to connect the dots his stalker sends him a photo of Jace, like sleeping or just something candid. However it’s proof that his stalker has access to the people (the person™️) that he cares about more than anything.

Cue Luke being extra paranoid and SO attached. He’d bust right through their adjoining bathroom and ask Jace is he can spend the night. Threatening someone he cares about brings out another side of Luke (I’m looking at you Aemond 😌).

The gifts might eventually become more sexual - like yes the previous gifts were possessive and suggestive, and yes he’s sent compromising, reputation-shattering images of himself, but sex toys are another ball game for him.

Remote. control. vibrator 🫣 - it’s really his pièce de résistance, at least Jace happens to think so.

Luke would rather eat glass than put that thing anywhere near him, but his stalker sends a message and another photo of Jace. So, Luke agrees to do what his stalker wants.

Jace edging himself all day while Luke is at school and playing with the vibrator’s setting via an app on his phone. Cranking up the speed and slowing it down in long intervals. Dragging the dial to the max for brief 3 second pulses and Luke is utterly sobbing in the bathroom, resigned to failing his bio test because there’s NO way he can go back to class

He’d take his sleeping meds after scrubbing himself raw in the shower, crawling into bed with Jace, and knocking out - rinse and repeat.

[thelemonsnek]

There are a lot of fun questions that come about from a tma-verse. How faithful are we talking. Are they full blown Avatars? Do they have to feed their patron? If so how would they go about it? I do believe a subway system would be pretty rich in targets as they have commuters that come day in and day out.

[vibrating at a speed that shatters glass] I am SO glad you asked

It is very faithful to tma canon, because instead of being eebied to Hisui, Ingo instead ends up in tma London! So the first part of the au is quite literally in tma. There's a whole running gag that Jon used to be into pokemon, and he gives Ingo and Emmet a copy of Pokemon White to play and they mark it with the Spiral and Buried respectively, and eventually it just gets marked by so many different avatars that that's what starts the apocalypse instead of the statement Elias gives Jon. Ingo and Emmet do get back to the pokemon universe before that happens though so it's fineeeeee

(They also bring the entities to the pokemon universe in coming home)

Are they full blown avatars?

Yes they are!! Ingo became an avatar when he became the Distortion, and Emmet became an avatar to escape Ingo's subway :)

For context on that, when Ingo and Emmet first reunited, it. Didn't go well! Because Michael had latched onto Ingo as a perfect victim (he was literally questioning the entire foundation of his reality, how could Michael resist?) and used Ingo's vague memories to torment him with the idea of the man in white

So Ingo doesn't think Emmet is real, and they end up fighting, and in that fight it comes up that Ingo has been eating people bc. He's the Distortion, that's what the Distortion does. And Emmet is like WHAT THE FUCK. THATS NOT OKAY. And anyways things continue and Ingo is convinced of Emmet's realness and is like oohhhh. He was important to the person Ingo. He could make me be that person again (bc the Distortion is a what, not a who, but just like Helen, he wants that anyways)

So he says to Emmet, "I have missed you so much. We can catch up, on the subway" and there, impossibly on the wall, is a sliding door leading to a subway car

Ingo is Emmet's brother. He will always trust him. He walks through the door, and finds himself in an impossible, endless subway

By now their argument has caught up with Ingo, and he's like. Ah. Emmet, the thing that anchored me to myself for the first time, said I shouldn't eat people. So I won't. And he goes on a hunger strike

Problem is, because of him doing that, Emmet can't get out. There is no out

But, a pressure at the back of his head whispers, there is a way down. And he Becomes, and begins to understand why Ingo took those people. He understands, because he has his own subway now

Do they have to feed their patron?

Also yes :) and yes, the subway is a verrrry convenient way to feed, especially since their domains are both subways as well! Very verrrry easy to be in a rush to get to your destination and take the wrong door :)

It's a bit of a perfectly awful situation really! They're both each other's anchors, which is great because they're good anchors to their sense of selves. The problem is, they kind of have this massive echo chamber going on, where as long as the other agrees and says that the act was justified, anything goes. And of course, with feeding, it keeps the other person healthy and alive. Why wouldn't they want their brother, their anchor, to stay safe? So their morals degrade rather rapidly!!

As far are their domains go, they're both differently flavored subways that have some degree of overlap (meaning it's possible to start in one, and end up in the other). Ingo's an endless maze that should not be possible. Trains that just never stop, stairwells that go on forever only to lead to nowhere, windows that show cities that don't exist

Emmet's is much more centered around the claustrophobia of the subways. Passageways that are a little too small, ceilings that are surely too cracked to hold, the weight of the world bearing down above you, held off only by the flimsy, crumbling cement. The trains are tight, dirty. There's never enough light to properly see anything

This video reminds me a lot of Ingo's subway :)

And this post is both of them tbh, in my tags I explain how it's Emmet, Ingo I think is self explanatory

[oceaniddoesstuff]

*vibrating at a speed that can shatter glass*

@maryland-officially MARYLAND COME LOOK NOW ITS AN EMERGENCY.

He is very talented 😺

[kresnikcest]

*vibrates at a speed that can shatter glass* I can’t wait to get weirdly gen about Graces

[windshieldreplacementnearme]

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[sunsburns]

four or five moments (ii.)

pairing: wade wilson/deadpool x fem!assassin!reader

summary: you're literally just trying to do your job, and it's going great so far, you've killed trask, all you have left is to stop that truck from leaving new york. few problems: deadpool can't stay dead, you're having a moral dilemma and why is that car getting closer? oh shit-!

—or: deadpool literally hits you with a car

word count: 4k+

warnings: fem reader, wade being nasty, flirting, sex jokes, canon violence, there isn't too much plot, blood, strange conversations about morality, wade being annoying, he also breaks the fourth wall a few times, i did not pre-read this pls bare with spelling mistakes

notes: i was peer pressured to write this. it literally strays off from the og plot so bad you get whiplash!!

part one

All you really need is four or five moments.

Four or five moments to prove that you're better than them, that you wouldn't stoop as low, to prove that an eye for an eye will only leave two people blind. No blood will bring mercy. No. But it might get you some peace of mind knowing that they can't hurt you anymore, knowing that there's one less asshole on the earth that's trying to hurt you and the people you care about. It is heartless, you're well aware, but you are not trained to have much of a heart, much less to care.

You remind yourself of that fact as lights blur into neon streaks and speeding vehicles race by. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline sharpening your senses, and the stab wound on your leg becomes a distant throb.

You leap onto a motorcycle conveniently left unattended by a fleeing warehouse worker, hot-wiring it with practiced ease. The engine roars to life, and you peel out onto the road, weaving through traffic. The bike vibrates beneath you, a sleek, powerful beast responding to your every command.

Behind you, Deadpool is a persistent shadow. You catch glimpses of his red suit and mask as he commandeers a car, recklessly swerving through lanes to catch up to you. His determination is infuriating, but you can't afford to be distracted. You grit your teeth, focusing on the chase.

Your earpiece crackles to life, and a familiar voice comes through. "I've got eyes on your tracker," your handler says. "They're heading towards the docks. Be careful; we don't know if it's a set-up."

"Understood," you reply, voice steady despite the chaos.

As you near the docks, the industrial landscape looms ahead, a labyrinth of shipping containers and cranes casting long shadows in the dim light. The truck is just ahead, its taillights glowing like beacons.

You accelerate closer, and with one hand, you grab an energy gun, in a quick movement, you shoot at the truck doors, immediately regaining your grip on the handle afterwards. The doors fly open, revealing giant metal scraps and wooden crates.

You nearly curse, swerving out of the way when a pipe tumbles out from the back of the truck, crashing onto the road. The clang of metal on asphalt echoes in your ears. You slow down by the truck's blind spot, knowing you'd have to stop it, especially now that the cargo was confirmed to be in it.

You stay ready with your gun, pulling it from the holster on your thigh. You wait a beat, then another, and as the truck starts to pick up speed, you make your move and roll up to the driver's window, shooting through the glass. The bullet flies through the driver's head, causing him to slump forward, pressing on the horn. The blaring sound drowns out your second shot, which takes down the man in the passenger seat before he can shoot you.

The truck starts to slow, veering erratically before it crashes into a building with a deafening crunch of metal and shattering glass. The impact takes down a few light posts and parked cars, sending debris flying. Broken electrical wires dance and crackle around the wreck, their sparks reflected in the spray of a burst fire hydrant.

"Great job," your handler's voice crackles through your comms. "Dispose of the truck. No witnesses—"

The connection cuts off as you are violently hit from the side by a black car. The force of the impact sends you flying off your bike, tumbling across the rough asphalt. Your suit and helmet take most of the fall, tearing and cracking under the friction. Your visor shatters, the protective plastic lining breaking at the base.

You feel the sting and burn of broken skin on your arms and legs, grime and dirt mixing with the blood seeping from your cuts. Your vision is blurred, and a high-pitched ringing fills your ears. Every breath you take is shallow and painful, your ribs protesting with each inhale. Biting the inside of your cheek, you push yourself to pull off your broken helmet, tossing it aside. You blink hard, trying to focus your vision and spot a figure approaching.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, you recognize the distinctive red and black suit. Deadpool. He strides towards you with casual confidence, katana in hand, his eyes hidden behind the mask but undoubtedly filled with a mix of amusement and determination. The streetlights cast eerie shadows on his suit, highlighting the dried blood and grime.

"Please, don't be mad, honeybuns." Deadpool's irritating voice is the first thing you can hear when the ringing stops. He's standing before you, gloved hands out for you to take.

You don't move, heaving, "What the fuck, Wade?"

"Oh, are we on a first-name basis now? I think I like it." Wade Wilson hums, and when you still don't take his hands, he kneels before you. The smell of sweat and gunpowder wafts off him, mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "I know this all seems a little confusing—"

"You hit me with a fucking car, you dick!" you belt out, eyes wide with rage. The pain and exhaustion make your voice hoarse, every word a struggle.

"Well, yes. But it's only fair—"

"Fuck you."

"Listen to me." He says a little desperately, and you're glaring at him through your tears. Wade doesn't let it get to him, instead, he calls out your name, barely above a whisper as he looks at you. "You are getting innocent people killed." He tells you. "Look around. This might not be a cul-de-sac, but there are civilians, and they're hurt. We need to leave. You need to call it."

You glance over his shoulder, tired eyes scanning the area. He was right. Dock workers are running around, shouting and helping people out of the old building the truck had crashed into. It's late at night, but not late enough for the place to be deserted; people are still at work, still trying to get by.

You wince as you watch a pregnant woman being led out of a crashed car by her husband, a gash on her head. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber fills the air, mixing with the acrid scent of smoke from the crashed truck.

"Killing shitty people is one thing," Deadpool tells you, and you hate the way his voice is almost earnest. His tone is different, more serious, a stark contrast to his usual unserious demeanour. "But I'm familiar with your no-witnesses rule. This would just be mass murder if I let you keep going. Not exactly my piece of cake. Just..."

He stops, letting his head hang for a moment as if he were too repulsed to say it. You can see his shoulders slump slightly, a rare show of genuine emotion. "Oh god, I can't believe I'm about to say this," he grumbles, "Four or five moments. That's all it takes. Just stop and think. It's all it takes to be a hero."

You grit your teeth, hating that Wade Wilson is your voice of reason. The biggest asshole in New York, and here he is lecturing you on morality.

Hairs are falling out of your braid and sticking to your forehead, yet you don't care. Sweat mixes with blood, creating a sticky mess on your skin. You can only glare at him. "You're the last fucking person who should be telling me how to be a hero."

Wade sighs, loud and obnoxious, his mask wrinkling around his eyes as he scrunches up his face. "I'm sorry I hit you with a car. You kinda deserved it after killing Trask. He was my last chance at becoming pretty again. Now I have to stalk another crazy scientist." He taps his chin thoughtfully, "I always figured I'd end up chasing a mad scientist again, but not under these circumstances."

It's when you can no longer hold yourself up with your arms that Wade takes in the gravity of your injuries. He winces, watching you crumble to the ground before him. "Oh, wow, that's a lot of blood," he notes, his voice suddenly devoid of humour. The sight of your blood pooling on the asphalt seems to pull him back to reality. "Should I take you to a hospital? How many fingers am I holding up?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer.

"Three? No. Two? Yikes. It's worse than I thought." Wade stands, and the worry in his voice is poorly masked by his usual sarcasm. "Here we go. Up, up!" When he moves to pick you up, you start turning away, your body protesting every movement.

"Wade, wait—" you rasp, trying to stop him from touching you. Your voice is weak, barely above a whisper.

But it's too late. When he reaches for you, your body phases, a faint white glow surrounding you as his hands and arms fall through your body as if you're a ghost. He recoils, jumping back while a squeamish sound escapes his lips. He stares at you, then his hands, then back at you on the ground as you try to sit up again, confusion and amazement written all over his masked face.

"Oh. My. Motherfucking. Fuckballs." Wade gasped, eyes wide behind his mask. "Did my hand just go through you or is all that cocaine finally kicking in?"

You ignore him, holding onto your side as it throbs with pain. Every movement sends sharp, agonizing waves through your body. "Fuck."

"No way, you're a fucking mutant?" His tone is a mix of awe and excitement, like a kid discovering a new toy.

It's not like you kept it a secret. You used your abilities whenever you needed to, and sure, it was useful at times, especially in your line of work when you needed to get through locked doors and hidden rooms or just for the element of surprise. But it's draining. Leaves you winded after only a matter of seconds. You've always had a hard time controlling it when you're slightly delusional though. You must've hit your head really hard. Maybe that's why you haven't shot Deadpool, yet.

"Shut up, Wade."

"Hey, no need to be ashamed of it." He reassures you while trying to pick you up again. This time, he is more cautious, his movements slower and more deliberate. When he succeeds, you can tell he's grinning like a child underneath the mask.

He carries you back to the same fuckass car he hit you with, holding you with one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. There's a faint skip to his step as if you're not on the verge of losing consciousness. While kicking open the back door, Wade continues his chatter, and you really wish he'd killed you on impact.

"Being a mutant is great! Plus, it's not the early two thousands anymore, or whatever timeline Stewart was in. Man, they sure did hate mutants in that trilogy."

He sets you down in the back seat gently, his hands surprisingly delicate. "You know, I always knew you were different. You hit me harder than regular people. I just figured you really hated me."

"I do." you mutter.

"Oh, my little sweet buns, I'm sure you do." To your annoyance, he pokes your nose playfully. "But you can't hate me too much right now, I'm literally your knight in shining armor. See, I can be nice, especially to my fellow mercs. You'd bleed to death if I left you there."

"Only because you hit me with a fucking car," you snap, the pain and frustration boiling over.

"Good to know you're still harboring great anger towards that. Means you're still conscious. Keep being mean to me, baby, that's how I'll know you're okay." He pauses before shutting the door, looking at you lying on the backseat, bleeding and all the glory that comes from it. "And it also turns me on a little bit. God, I can't believe your suit is torn and not one bit of extra cleavage is exposed. What will it take for a guy to get some rated R nudity over here?"

And with that, he slams the door shut, the car shaking with the force of it. The sound makes the ringing return to your ears, and you bite back the urge to curse him. He takes a seat in the driver's seat, starting the engine and rushing out of the scene before first responders arrive. The car roars to life, and as he speeds away, you feel your consciousness slipping, the pain and exhaustion overwhelming you.

The two of you sit in silence for the most part, only the sounds of the engine running and Wade humming the tune of a song you think is from The Greatest Showman soundtrack. You force yourself to stay awake. Mostly because you don't trust him, but it's also because you fear that if you let your eyes close you won't wake up again. Yeah, it's mostly because you don't trust Wade Wilson.

"Where are you taking me?" you finally ask, and you hate the way your voice sounds weak, barely above a whisper.

"Just a little safe house I know." He tells you, glancing back at you for a quick moment. "Very homey, trust me."

"What about the shipment?" you murmur, your mind struggling to stay focused.

"What?"

"The truck," you repeat, fighting to keep your eyes open.

"Oh, don't worry. That's no longer our problem." He says, "We're about to enter a whole new setting. That truck is forgotten plot."

Wade takes a sharp turn, and you wince as your body shifts uncomfortably in the back seat. The pain is getting worse, each bump in the road sending jolts of agony through your body. You grit your teeth, trying to stay conscious, but it's a losing battle.

After what feels like an eternity, the car finally comes to a stop. Wade gets out and you hear his footsteps crunching on gravel as he walks around to your door. He opens it carefully this time, his usual wiseass demeanour replaced by a rare show of genuine concern. He scoops you up gently, and you're too weak to protest.

The last thing you remember, before everything goes black, is the sight of a grand mansion looming ahead, its imposing silhouette framed by the moonlight. The large iron gates creak open as Wade carries you through them, the gravel path crunching under his boots. The mansion, with its towering spires and Gothic architecture, looks like something out of a fairy tale, a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you just escaped from.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the softness of the bed beneath you. The second thing you notice is the smell of lavender and the faint hum of medical equipment. You try to sit up, but a sharp pain in your side makes you gasp.

"Whoa, easy there," a deep, accented voice says from beside you. You turn your head slowly, the motion making your vision swim. A towering, metal-skinned mutant sits by your bed, his imposing figure softened by a look of genuine concern. "You need to rest. You are badly injured."

Your throat feels like sandpaper as you rasp, "Where am I?"

"The X-Mansion," he replies in a soothing tone, the accent heavy but comforting. "Wade brought you here. You’re safe now. I am Colossus."

You try to take in your surroundings, your head feeling heavy as you look around. The room is vast and elegant, with high ceilings that seem to reach the heavens. The walls are adorned with rich tapestries and framed paintings, depicting serene landscapes and grand historical scenes.

Large windows let in the soft, golden glow of morning light, casting gentle shadows that dance across the floor. It’s a far cry from the dingy, rundown places you’re used to, especially that old apartment with its creaky floors and peeling wallpaper.

Your eyes finally land on Wade, who is slouched in a chair in the corner. He’s flipping through a Playboy magazine with exaggerated interest, still in his dirty suit from the night before.

When he sees you stir, he grins and waves a hand in your direction. "Morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully, his voice carrying an unnerving mix of sincerity and teasing. "You gave us quite a scare. But, I've got to say, that hospital gown is doing wonders for your figure. I love the blue. Great contrast to that black you're always wearing."

You roll your eyes, too exhausted to respond properly. The gown feels scratchy against your skin, and every movement sends sharp pangs of pain through your body.

Colossus, noticing your discomfort, shifts slightly. "How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice deep and steady.

"Like I got hit by a truck," you mutter, sending a glare in Wade's direction.

Colossus chuckles, the sound deep and resonant, like rolling thunder. "Do not worry about him. We will take care of you."

Despite the throbbing pain and overwhelming fatigue, a wave of relief washes over you. For the first time in a long while, you're surrounded by people who genuinely want to help. You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the softness of the bed. "Thank you," you whisper, the words feeling strangely comforting. For once, you don’t feel the need to be constantly on guard.

Wade's grin widens as he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out and adjusting his mask. "Anytime, honeybuns. Anytime."

As you drift in and out of consciousness, you feel the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth on your forehead. The gentle pressure is a welcome contrast to the persistent throbbing pain.

The sound of soft murmurs and quiet footsteps fills the room, creating a cocoon of calm around you. At some point, you notice Colossus's massive hands, surprisingly gentle, as he carefully tends to your wounds, applying bandages with precision.

Eventually, a teenager with short hair and a no-nonsense expression enters the room. You learn her name is Negasonic Teenage Warhead. She carries a phone in one hand, handing Colossus a stack of clean bandages with the other. The faint scent of antiseptic and medicinal herbs fills the air, mixing with the crispness of the freshly laundered bed linens.

Hours pass, or maybe it's days—it's difficult to gauge. When you next wake, the room is dimly lit, the golden light replaced by the softer hues of early evening. The pain has dulled to a manageable throb, and the heaviness in your limbs is slightly alleviated. Wade is still there, his previous outfit swapped for sweatpants and a dark green sweater, though he keeps his red and black mask on. He lounges in the chair beside your bed, now engrossed in an iPad, giggling softly to himself.

"Oh, man. Instagram reels are crazy," he snorts, shaking his head as he scrolls through the screen.

He looks up and hums when he sees you're awake again. "You're tougher than you look," he comments, turning off the iPad with a flick of his wrist. "Most people would have keeled over by now."

"You wish."

"Oh, trust me, I do." Wade nods vigorously, his mask bobbing with the motion. "I tried injecting poison into your IV, but your body rejected it."

"Don't worry. My handler will kill me for you."

Wade groans, dramatically rolling his eyes as he gets up from the chair. "You’re still worried about that? I already told you, the truck and all that shit is past plot. We’re in the sequel now, babe. There are new rules. Who knows, maybe this is your redemption arc where you join the X-Men. Though, I will miss your assassin era. You were so sexy in that suit."

You make a face, "Fuck off."

Just then, the door opens with a soft creak, and Colossus enters with a tray in hand. He’s followed closely by Negasonic, who carries a stack of fresh bandages. Colossus places the tray on a small table beside your bed with practiced ease. The tray is filled with a bowl of steaming soup and a couple of slices of crusty bread, the aroma wafting up and making your stomach rumble.

"How are you feeling?" Colossus asks, his voice calm and reassuring as he sets the tray down.

"Better," you admit, managing a small smile. "Thanks to you guys."

Negasonic shrugs nonchalantly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her usual scowl. "Don’t mention it. Just doing our job."

Wade groans, clearly troubled by the kindness. "Oh great, now you’re all buddy-buddy. What am I, chopped liver?"

Colossus chuckles, the sound of a comforting rumble. "You must eat something. It will help you regain your strength."

You nod gratefully, and with Colossus’s help, you manage to sit up enough to sip the warm, comforting soup. The broth is rich and flavorful, and the bread is soft and fresh. As you eat, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of belonging. Despite the pain and the chaos, you’re surrounded by people who care, and for now, that’s enough.

Wade, not one to be left out, scoots his chair closer, setting it right next to your bed. He stretches out, propping his elbows on his knees as he leans in. "So, what do you think of the X-Mansion? Pretty swanky, right? Lots of rooms, big kitchen, danger room for training... and other things."

Negasonic scoffs, her eyes narrowing. "Gross."

You finish your meal, feeling a bit stronger. As Colossus helps you settle back into the bed, you glance at Wade. "Why did you bring me here?"

Wade’s expression shifts, becoming uncharacteristically serious. He looks at you with sincerity. "Because you’re one of us. And because... well, everyone deserves a second chance."

You blink, surprised by the depth of his words. Before you can respond, he’s back to his usual self, grinning and turning on his iPad. "Plus, it’s not every day I get to play hero. I gotta milk it for all it’s worth. And no, Colossus, I will not join your boy band, thank you very much."

The metal man grunts, waving a hand dismissively before walking out, Negasonic following right behind him. Wade stays seated next to you, his lips curled into a wide, amused grin that seems to stretch just a bit too far was he watches you.

"You're never gonna take that off?" you ask him.

Wade's laughter is a low, rumbling sound that feels almost too bright for the quiet room. "Oh, no fucking way," he says, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m ugly under this. Trust me. You’d be repulsed. Like, horror movie-level repulsed."

You give him a look, your eyebrow arched in disbelief. "I doubt it."

Wade leans in closer, the grin on his face widening. He taps his chin thoughtfully with a gloved finger, the gesture oddly contemplative. "Maybe next time I’ll take it off for you," he says, a taunting tone in his voice as he raises his brows. "Maybe that and a little more."

"There's a next time?"

"I mean, as the famous words of Natasha Bedingfield say: the rest is still underwritten."

"God, you’re fucking ridiculous," you mutter, the words coming out with a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "I can’t wait to get out of here and never see you again."

Wade's shoulders slump, the white eyes of his mask narrow at you, "What, that's it? No steamy sex? No heavy petting? Is this how it ends? Not even a kiss?"

"Fuck no. Get out."

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