#Crumpled like a tin fucking can

[fvckw4d]

also wwe all agree that that submersible exploded like 2 days ago and everyone is just fucking pretending it didn't and there's still hope right

[vigilskeep]

if you took a bad enough hit while dao rock armour was active, could you have scars from blunt force trauma that spiderweb like cracks in stone

[avocado-writing]

Omg i love your poly Deadpool and Wolverine fics !! I especially love that reader is totally a sunshine ! Could you do any fic with them and that trope ? 😍

vague sequel to this

Your bad day has been utterly forgotten. 

It’s not incredibly hard for them to cheer you up, Logan and Wade have learned. You’re so rarely sad that it’s hardly an issue anyway, but all they really need to do is redirect your energy into something else. A distraction to take your mind off of whatever’s gotten under your skin.  

There’s a little carnival that’s set up near the apartment. One of those ones which is constantly on the move, overcharges for everything, and is exactly the kind of place you love. So it was a no-brainer to take you there for the evening. 

Logan bought you a necklace made of hard candies, Wade took you on all the rollercoasters which were definitely not safe but you screamed with joy while riding. You’d insisted all three of you squeezed into a boat through the tunnel of love, and they’d come out the other side with your lipstick all over their faces, you smugly sandwiched between them. 

And through the evening you’ve been fucking jubilant. Your laughter rolls like thunder, but the kind which means a storm is going to clear out the oppressive atmosphere of a muggy day. A sweet, loud kind of laughter which peals from your very soul. Wade and Logan catch each other’s eye as you absolutely decimate a stick of neon blue cotton candy: they’ve done well. 

The three of you are preparing to go home when something catches your eye, slowing you to a stop as you stare. It’s a prize booth - the kind where you have to knock over a tower of tin cans to win. Hanging from the rafters are huge plushies of your favourite animal. 

“C’mon baby, you know these games are rigged,” Logan sighs, aware he’s marching into a losing battle. You lick the sugar off of your fingers and dump the wooden stick into a garbage bin, eyes wide in the fluorescent lights of the bumper cars nearby. 

“Aww… but they’re so cute…” you sigh, looking really disappointed. 

Well, neither of them are ones to let that happen, so Logan and Wade find themselves speaking in unison when they say: “I’ll win you one.”

They exchange a look and you grin. Oh. This has become a challenge, and both are too stubborn to back down. Together they step up to the counter, each slamming five dollars down and making the poor teenager manning the booth jump. 

“Uh, okay, you have two balls and need to knock the whole tower—”

The teen doesn’t even get a chance to finish their explanation before Logan has launched one of the pathetic beanbags at the cans with such force that it crumples a couple of them in half. They’re cleared off completely in one hit. The attendant can only gawp as he smugly points to one of the huge plushies which is dutifully fetched. You let out a little woop of joy as he passes it into your arms, giving Wade a look which says beat that. 

Wade hums, throwing the beanbag up and down in his hand, testing its weight. 

“Okay, well, not all of us are barbarians who need to use brute strength to compensate for our advanced age. It’s all about the finesse, pookie.”

Wade angles his throw so it bounces off the side wall, clearing all of the cans but one. Logan lets out a smug huff. Wade frowns. 

“Hey, look, is that Spiderman doing full-frontal nudity?” he says, pointing into the distance, distracting the teen with one hand while he whips out a knife with the other and skewers the can to the back of the booth. 

“Prize please!” he says when they turn back, turning pale at the sight of what’s been done to their game. They pass him another plushie from the roof with shaking hands, and Wade presents it to you with a flourish. 

“That was cheating,” Logan states as the three of you walk away.

“Uh, I cleared the cans, old man. No cheating about it.”

“You had a second ball to throw,” you point out, and Wade pauses. 

“Do you want the toy or not, sweetcheeks?”

And that is how you find yourself more stuffed animal than human, waddling out of the carnival with a huge smile and arms full of polyester. The whole thing is sort of ridiculous but, honestly, if you’re smiling? Logan and Wade can agree it’s totally worth it. 

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

[ectologia]

♱ ˖ ࣪࿐ 𝒯𝐻𝐼𝒩𝒦𝐼𝒩𝒢 𝒜𝐵𝒪𝒰𝒯 . . .

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ؛ asphyxiation ﾉ breeding ﾉ doggy style ﾉ riding ﾉ full nelson ﾉ dick piercings ﾉ profanity

𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 . . .

Dabi’s favourite positions.

He enjoys a classic doggy. He loves how his scolding hot hands, ribbed and marred from years of misuse, mould into the pudgy flesh cushioning your hips and tummy. Squeezing the life out of you with clawed crooked fingers stabbing into your stomach while he stuffs his lengthy shaft all the way up to the stiff peak of your cervix, kissing the tiny opening with the dangerously armed tip of his pierced cock, threatening to splurge the entrance of your womb with wet, sticky seed. It makes him feel like a dog, a ferocious hound, a wild beast. Surviving to live and living to survive. Rutting with warm pants and throaty howls, grunting into the soft hairs that line your nape as he hunches over the extension of your spine, anticipating the moment he finally gets to fill your bitch pussy up with his puppies.

On the other hand, he’s also an avid enjoyer of having you hump him. He’ll pick you up by your shoulders, interlocking each of his lithe fingers around your limbs as he poises you atop his painfully erect dick, sitting your ass down on his hips as they bump up into your soft squishy bits, commanding you to ride him like his own little cowgirl. You complain that you’re tired after the first minute or so, it’s a constant but he just doesn’t seem to care. He’ll swat the meat of your plump butt with a flick of his wrist, telling you to “giddyup” and ride him properly, hissing through grit teeth to “bounce up and down on his fat-ass horse cock.” With splayed palms, his hands rest limply at your haunches, stroking the prickled fuzz of hair growing along your calves and below your thighs as you claw and clutch at the layer of fat chubbing his otherwise lean abs, nails scrunching and sprouting along the fleshy ripples every time he bucks up into you with a sly grin. Sneering at your startled yelps and pitiful whimpers.

But what really gets Dabi going, what really tickles his fancy. Is when you let him fold you like a deck chair. His drug of choice would have to be a nice, stuffy full nelson. One where you let him crumple you up like a tin can in his fist, one where he has your legs sticking out every which way, twitching and shivering and shuddering like a spider beneath his boot. He thinks you look so sweet like that, when he has your arms smushed between your tits, and your thighs locked on his elbows, no where to run and definitely no where to hide. He’ll do you in front of the mirror, all so he can see that cute violet hue overcome your features whence he’s blocked your air ways for a second or five too many. Biceps shaking, evidence of his lassitude after purposely trying to choke you out with his manhood fucked half-way inside that puffy little cunny he loves to hurt so much. He’ll chew his lip as you gasp and splutter, barely attempting to stifle the ashen chuckle that threatens to erupt as flecks of spittle fly onto his hairy thighs. Cooing at you, he’ll rub lines into your buzzing clit, nuzzling and huffing into your ear while he taps and faps away at the hard lovebud, refusing to move when you panic, flailing and screeching as the stimulation becomes too overbearing. Only then will he relent, recollecting your flapping arms and legs to spear you from the bottom, lowering you up and down his smouldering hot length, spiked with hooks and other metal weaponry a-geared to tear your delicate pussy open from the inside out.

[drak3n]

BANKER!KENTO

CONTENT WARNINGS: fluff, slow burn, coworkers to lovers trope, reader is whipped for nanami, smut, office sex, oral (m. receiving, f. receiving implied) cum-eating

sena’s note: i will never get over my hubby :(

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST

➩ BANKER!KENTO who recently moved back to tokyo after having spent some time in malaysia; who came back as a well-rested, new man (& even more handsome with a nice tan)

➩ BANKER!KENTO who had absolutely no interest in socializing with his coworkers and making friends at his new job and whose one and only goal was to survive his shifts and leave

➩ BANKER!KENTO who didn’t think he’d meet a person who hated work as much as he did until he saw you nearly ripping your hair out in your office through the glass door

➩ BANKER!KENTO who you got teamed up with to do the annual financial statement together to present to the entire team; and you couldn’t be more nervous to approach the blonde

➩ BANKER!KENTO who approached you instead and asked if you should just split the tasks up and present them together in the end, because he assumed you didn’t want to interact with him

you blinked up at the tall man while he leaned over your desk. what?

“come again?” embarrassingly, you hadn’t listened to what he said. his forearms just looked so buff and he had no damn business rolling the sleeves of his perfectly ironed, blue shirt up to his elbows—

“—me which part you prefer and i’ll do the other.”

fuck. what did he say? you couldn’t ask him to repeat it once more. he’d think you were a dumbass. what was the best way to get out of this situation without completely busting it?

“yeah, sure!” your response was weird and overly enthusiastic, and you were never happier to be sitting at this desk. you wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with your arms and legs, or frankly, yourself, if you were standing.

totally missing the look of disappointment on nanami’s face — which he covered by clearing his throat and collecting himself again quickly — you spent the next few seconds looking at each other.

did he have something on his face? had he forgotten a splotch of shaving foam on his chin or cheek? or did he have a coffee stain on his shirt? your gaze was making him wonder.

“you can choose your part, then,” he muttered, hinting at the stack of papers that had been given to you and kento. oh now it made sense… of course he wouldn’t want to meet up to get this done together. obviously.

“uh, i could do the statistics and the powerpoint.” this time it was you hiding how disheartened you were, and he had no idea.

➩ BANKER!KENTO who, as time passed, grew fond of the way you carried yourself so gracefully; how you always kept a clear head (except for in the confines of your office where you liked ripping and crumpling papers instead of shoving them into the file shredder)

➩ BANKER!KENTO who actually enjoyed doing the annual closure exposure with you on christmas eve and watched as you stayed behind to tidy up

➩ BANKER!KENTO who silently joined you, much to your surprise as it was well-known already that he didn’t like staying for longer than he had to

“oh, kento, i’ll take care of it. just go enjoy your christmas eve.”

he grunted, throwing the plastic cups into the nearest trash can while you collected the leftover cookies, placing them into a tin. “don’t you have anywhere to be?” you asked out of interest, to which he shook his head. you smiled. “me neither.”

as you left through the backdoor, wrapped up in thick coats, gloves and scarfs, you noticed that it had started snowing. you wanted to ask him if he was up to come over to yours and have dinner together — perhaps not your usual pompous family christmas dinner, but takeout — and then watch a sappy movie with two mugs of hot cocoa… but you didn’t.

ironically, he thought the same, but he couldn’t get the worst past the lump in his throat.

instead, you seperated after a couple of feet, wishing each other a merry christmas and cursing yourselves why you didn’t speak up.

➩ BANKER!KENTO whose fingers hovered over your contact information a day before new year’s eve; who knew you two would probably spend that day alone, too, and who thought it wouldn’t be worth it to make the effort of roasting an entire duck just for himself

➩ BANKER!KENTO who was beaten to it when you called him instead

“hey, kento.” you said, and he could hear your soft smile. “i was wondering if you uh… would like to come over for new year’s eve? i was going to… bake a cake, and it would be a waste to just eat it all by myself and have to chuck the rest in the trash...”

as you chuckled awkwardly, you didn’t have the slightest clue that nanami sent a smile of victory towards the duck in his fridge and a bottle of red wine resting on his kitchen counter. as if he had gotten caught, he quickly coughed.

“yes, i’d like that,” he muttered into the speaker, which made you cover your speaker to let out a joyous squeal. “do you like roasted duck?”

➩ BANKER!KENTO whose eyes went wide at the sight of you in a dress, elegant as always, but less formal; who felt the need to loosen his tie, sweating despite the freezing temperatures outside as you pulled him into a hug after taking the pan from his arm

➩ BANKER!KENTO who never thought much of others complimenting his cooking, but who felt giddy as you swooned, asking him about all the ingredients and expressing how you’d never eaten a meal as delicious as his in your entire life

➩ BANKER!KENTO who wanted to excuse himself minutes before new year’s eve, but who let himself get dragged to your balcony to watch the fireworks, and who let out a sound of surprise as you pulled him down gently by his now loosened tie to smooch him breathless

“darling, what if someone sees?” nanami sat back in his chair and let out a shaky sigh when his dark eyes darted to the door, before settling on you, hidden right behind his desk as you sat on your knees, unbuckling his belt with deft fingers.

“you’ve been pressing against me every time you walked past me today, kento.” your eyes were laced with need as you took his thick, hard cock out of its restraints. “didn’t you want this?” the blonde gritted his jaw when your thumb knowingly rubbed against his slit, smearing precum all over the reddened tip.

“you don’t know what you do to me, love…” he couldn’t stop himself from bucking his hips into your mouth, not when you took him so well and sucked him so nicely. it was almost as if you were asking him to shoot his cum down your throat when your eyes met.

you greedily swallowed every bit of it when he did, tucking him back inside and dusting your skirt off, acting as if nothing happened. when you shot him a coy smile and attempted to leave his office, he grasped your wrist in his hand, uncaring if anyone saw or not at this point.

“w—what are you—”

“did you think i missed the way you rubbed your thighs together the entire time? sit on the desk, let me reward my lovely girl.”

➩ BANKER!KENTO who now had someone to spend all holidays with, and who he didn’t even mind working overtime with :)

tagged: @melancholia-k @tansyfleurwhisper

[mimimarvelingmarvel]

time bound part eleven

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part Eleven - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 2.7k

a/n: longest and saddest chapter x

After we unceremoniously crash-land on a guy named Pete’s KIA he was attempting to sell, the impact crumpling the hood like a tin can, the sound of screeching metal echoes through the air, drowning out the distant city noise. Pete looks delighted to see Wade, something I never thought I would see. Wade gives him a quick recap before we are on the run, following him as he takes us towards the TVA.

As we walk down the bustling street, the chaotic sounds of the city engulf us—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional siren blaring in the distance. The air is thick with the smell of street food, a mixture of hot dogs, pretzels, and something sweet like roasted nuts. The vibrant life around me feels surreal, almost too good to be true after months trapped in that nightmarish place, where the only sounds were the howling winds and the distant echoes of something monstrous.

I notice a man in a dishevelled suit barreling toward us, his tie askew, and his face a mask of desperation and fear. Sweat beads on his forehead and his wild eyes lock onto us with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. His nose is broken and I hear Wade giggle beside me, no doubt his doing.

His voice cracks as he shouts, "No, stop, piss off, you’re too late." His voice is tinged with both panic and resignation as if he knows he’s already lost but can’t help fighting against the inevitable.

Logan’s muscles tense, and his voice drops to a growl, deep and menacing like a wolf ready to pounce. His hands curl into fists, the veins in his forearms bulging. "You’re fucking done," he snarls, each word laced with venom.

I glance at the stranger, confusion and wariness gnawing at me. "Who the fuck is this?" I demand, my voice harsher than I intended. The man’s presence feels wrong, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

His face pales further, his voice trembling with the weight of whatever horror he’s seen. “You brought another Veil to this world? She was supposed to stay in the Void.” His eyes dart around.

"Zip it. Why was Thor crying?" Wade cuts in, his tone is light, mocking, but there’s an edge to it.

Paradox’s fear transforms into righteous indignation, his voice rising in a feeble attempt to regain control. “How dare you? No one comes back from The Void.” His hands twitch at his sides, as if he’s debating whether to fight or flee.

Wolverine’s growl deepens, the sound rumbling in his chest like a storm about to break. His eyes narrow, the cold fury in them unmistakable. "Tell that to Cassandra Nolva."

A sudden whirl of light and energy erupts behind us, the air crackling with raw power. I whip around just in time to see Pyro step through a swirling portal, his expression grim, his eyes shadowed with the burden of bad news. “Paradox, we have a problem,” he says, his voice low and urgent, as if he’s trying to contain the disaster that’s about to unfold.

Before anyone can react, Paradox’s neck snaps violently to the side with a sickening crunch, the sound echoing in the still air like a death knell. His body drops like a marionette whose strings have been cut, crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap, his eyes staring blankly at nothing as Cassandra steps out from the portal, a cold smirk on her lips. Her eyes gleam with a malevolent intelligence, as if she’s always two steps ahead of everyone else.

Cassandra’s voice drips with malice, each word carefully enunciated as if savoring the moment. "Paradox? You tried to kill me."

Paradox’s voice shakes, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips, his once confident demeanor shattered. “I literally have no idea…” His words trail off into a pitiful whisper, his fear tangible in the air. Her hand, pale and elegant, wraps around his brain beneath the skin. “You come for the king, you better kill the king,” she says, her voice a deadly whisper that sends chills down my spine.

Deadpool grins wickedly, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "Oh, welcome to the skull-fuck club, Paradox. You know she doesn’t wash that hand." His tone is mocking.

Cassandra tilts her head, examining the man with detached curiosity, as if he’s nothing more than a specimen under a microscope. "Oh, what’s this? A Time-Ripper, you naughty boy," she murmurs, her voice a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"Oh no, we’re on it. We’re gonna head down and dismantle that thing now. We got you, boo; you just keep playing those keys." Wade flashes a playful wink.

Cassandra’s eyes narrow, a dangerous gleam in them as she steps closer, her presence suffocating. "I don’t want to destroy it. I want to use it." Her voice is laced with greed, a hunger for power that sends a jolt of fear through me.

My heart clenches in my chest as Cassandra’s gaze locks onto me, her power reaching out, invisible but suffocating. I gasp as I’m yanked off my feet, the force of her magic slamming me back into Logan’s chest. The impact is brutal, knocking the air from my lungs and sending us both crashing through a bakery window. The glass shatters around us, sharp shards slicing through the air like deadly confetti. The scent of fresh bread and sugar mingles with the coppery tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that makes my head spin.

The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I struggle to breathe, my lungs burning as I gasp for air. Dust and debris swirl around us, and I manage to whisper, "Fuck," as I roll off Logan, wincing at the pain radiating through my body. My skin stings where the glass has cut me, and I can feel warm blood trickling down my arms and face.

Wade shakes off the dust, standing up with a grimace, his usual cocky swagger subdued. "You okay, Pumpkin?" he asks, his tone surprisingly gentle, concern flickering in his eyes.

I grunt, forcing myself to stand on shaky legs, every muscle screaming in protest. "Never better." My voice is hoarse, and I can feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, but I push it aside. My eyes scan the chaotic scene outside, where people are running in every direction, their screams of terror echoing off the buildings. "I’m going to go stop her."

Logan tries to grab me, his fingers grazing my arm, but Wade holds him back, a rare seriousness in his eyes. "We’ve got other problems to deal with, buddy. Pumpkin’s got this, our little time ripper." He glances at me, a knowing look crossing his face, his expression almost… proud? "Oops—spoilers." He says to some unknown thing in the distance.

I shrug him off, giving Logan one last look, a silent plea in my eyes, before jogging toward the subway entrance. The stairs are steep and narrow, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow hue. The tunnel is dark, the air heavy with the scent of metal and something more sinister, something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As I descend deeper, the sounds of the city fade away, replaced by the ominous hum of the machines below.

Paradox sits in a chair in the control room, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles are white. His face is a mask of terror, his eyes wide and unblinking as he watches the screens in front of him.

"You dumb shit," I seethe, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him to face me. His eyes are wide, filled with the kind of fear that only comes when you realize you’ve truly fucked up. "What have you done?" My voice

I look up at the machines, their screens flashing erratically as Cassandra wreaks havoc on the timelines. Each beep and whirr of the machinery seems to punctuate the gravity of the situation, the digital displays a chaotic dance of numbers and warnings. “She’s going to destroy the whole existence of timelines until just the Void remains,” He says, his face pale and trembling.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice barely above a breath.

“You can stop her.” I look to him, hopeful. “That’s what’s so dangerous about you, but if you do that, you’ll die.” The weight of his words hits me like a physical blow. My heart pounds in my chest, and I stare into his eyes, searching for some hint of hope or another solution.

“You idiots didn’t make a failsafe?” My voice is sharp with frustration and fear.

Paradox nods, his eyes wide with terror. “But she’s the closest one to it. This is the only way.”

I shiver as the realization sinks in. The thought of my own death is a cold, hard reality that shakes me to my core. If I do this, I’m gone. But if I don’t, everyone else dies. My mind races with the enormity of the choice before me.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

Paradox, trembling, presses a small button on a console. A video screen flickers to life, displaying a grainy, distorted image of the control systems. “You have to bridge the gap between the two feeds of matter and anti-matter. It will implode the time ripper, killing Cassandra… and you.”

My breath catches in my throat, a shaky exhale escaping my lips. “If you see Logan, tell him I’m sorry.” I step away, my legs feeling heavy and leaden. “Where is it?”

He points shakily toward the lower levels. I nod, turning toward the stairs, each step feeling like a mile as I make my way to the feeder room. The weight of the impending sacrifice presses down on me, and I try to steady my shaking hands. My heart races as I think of the life I’m leaving behind, the people I’m leaving behind.

As I descend, the cool, musty air of the stairwell wraps around me, each step echoing in the silence. I can feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, memories flashing before me. The joyous moments, the regrets, and the lingering fear of leaving Logan behind. The thought of not having a legacy, of leaving without making a mark, terrifies me.

At the bottom of the stairs, a long hallway stretches out before me, lit by flickering lights that cast eerie shadows on the walls. I pause at the end, my gaze fixed on the door ahead. The lights behind the glass window flicker and pulse, mirroring the turmoil within me. I take a step forward, but my knee buckles, and I hit the ground, a vision of blinding white light assaulting my eyes. The intensity of it nearly overwhelms me, but it fades as quickly as it came.

I try to sit up, my body trembling with fear. I need to do this. I force myself to stand, my hand reaching for the door. Just as I’m about to push it open, a voice echoes down the hallway, stopping me in my tracks.

I hear my name cut through the tension like a blade. “Y/N!”

My heart leaps into my throat, a jolt of adrenaline making me spin around. Logan is rushing toward me, his face a storm of fear and determination. His eyes, usually so controlled, are wide with panic and desperation. Behind him, Wade follows, his usual irreverent demeanor replaced by a rare, somber resolve.

“What are you doing?” Logan's voice is a mix of terror and disbelief, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my resolve waver.

“It has to be me.” I tell him, standing my ground.

Logan’s expression morphs into one of resolute defiance. “No, I won’t let you die. I’ll do it.”

Deadpool’s voice slices through the tension, his usual levity gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic seriousness. “No can do, Peanut. It’s gotta be me.”

Logan’s confusion is immediate, his brow furrowing deeply. “What?”

Deadpool’s gaze drops, his face revealing a rare moment of vulnerability. “You didn’t ask for any of this. You were right. I lied. I lied right to your face. Just to get you to help me. You did.”

Logan’s eyes dart between Deadpool and me, filled with frantic desperation. “You didn’t lie. You made an educated wish. You got a whole world to go back to.”

His gaze settles back on me, filled with a raw, unspoken plea. “I would never let you leave me in a world without you again. I got nothing without you, so give me this.”

I shake my head slowly, tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. Logan’s movement toward the door is resolute, but the sight of his anguished expression tears at my heart. I cry harder, my sobs echoing down the narrow hallway.

Deadpool steps closer, his face lined with a rare gravity. “I waited a long time for this team-up. And you know something? You’re the best Wolverine.”

The sincerity in his voice is a stark contrast to his usual banter, and it shatters my resolve. I look at Wade, my vision blurring with tears.

Logan freezes, his body paralyzed by my powers, a look of helpless frustration etched deeply into his features. Wade stands still beside me, his eyes filled with unspoken sorrow, a silent acknowledgment of the inevitability of my choice.

“Y/N? What are you doing?”

I force myself to push down my tears, my voice trembling as I answer. “I’m doing the right thing.”

I walk past them, the effort to stop me almost tangible, their emotions reaching out like a desperate plea. I reach the door, the cold metal handle biting into my hand as I pull it open, stepping inside. The door slams shut behind me with a finality that reverberates through the hallway, their desperate shouts muffled by the thick, reinforced walls.

Logan’s roar of frustration is visceral, the impact of his body slamming into the door sending a shudder through the corridor.

“Open the door!” He screams.

“I can’t, Logan. You know it has to be me. I couldn’t save them, but I can save you.” I hold a hand up to the glass.

Logan’s voice cracks, the raw emotion evident. “Why are you fucking doing this?”

“Because I love you.” I finally admit, my heart cracking at the weight of my confession.

Logan’s response is a choked, pained cry, tears streaking down his cheeks as he pounds on the door again. His anguish is palpable, each strike against the door a testament to his heartbreak.

“You fucking idiot.”

Deadpool’s voice is strained, filled with uncharacteristic desperation. “Pumpkin? Don’t do this.”

“I love you.” I tell him again.

Logan’s voice softens, a heartbreaking admission. “I love you too.”

A sad smile tugs at my lips as I hear his final words, knowing they’re the last I’ll hear from him. “That’s all I needed to hear to know I’m doing the right thing.”

I turn away from the door, my resolve solidifying as I move toward the center of the bridge. The matter and anti-matter streams twist and writhe with chaotic energy, their raw power casting erratic shadows across the room. Cassandra stands above, the time ripper in her control, her silhouette a dark, menacing figure against the flickering lights.

I reach out, gripping the matter stream first. The metal is cold and unyielding, but as my hands close around it, blue lightning crackles up my arms. The strain is immense, and I grit my teeth as I pull the stream toward the anti-matter, the effort causing my body to shake violently. The raw power surges through me like a tempest, each pulse of energy a painful reminder of the cost of my choice.

I barely graze the anti-matter before finally getting a firm grip on it. The contact sends a jolt of searing agony through my body, and I cry out, the pain almost unbearable. The lights above flicker wildly, their erratic dance mirroring the tumultuous energy converging within me. The pounding on the door fades into a distant echo, Logan and Wade’s voices reduced to frantic, muffled pleas.

As the matter and anti-matter streams converge within me, a blinding white light envelops me, consuming everything in its intensity. My vision fades to a blur of white, the world dissolving around me, until finally—black.

Next Part

A/N: angst.

taglist: @oscarissac2099 @somiaw @100percentlazybonez @obsessedwthdilfs @sun7lowxr @corvid007

[junos-jrabbles]

How would baking with the mercs go?

Authors note sorry it's all short and possibly unreadable I might do some more of the fellas another time :) I'm am so cold and eepy

Pyro, Sniper, and Scout :)

Pyro

Spectacularly, believe me, it’d go so well, definitely no burning around here! No sir!

Jokes aside, it’d go pretty well!

You guys would bake some cupcakes, maybe some sugar cookies, as they’d probably love all things sweet in the kitchen, and you’d both be covered in flour, eggs, sugar, and god knows what in no time.

You’d get walked in on while jousting with rolling pins, and have to try and make it seem like you were being normal. Impossible.

Pyro would be sat, cross legged on the floor in front of the oven, watching the baked goods through the window.

Only some of the confectionaries would come out burnt, mostly due to you two getting distracted flipping through the recipe book and gawking at all the pretty treats.

You'd point like an excited ape at a towering cake, and Pyro would excitedly drum their hands on the paper and teeter on their heels, squeaking out muffled, joyous sounds under the mask as the cycle continued.

You guys would FEAST on your delicacies in Pyro's room, and have a little picnic/tea party with some old cartoons in the background :)

~~~

Sniper

It’d be a pretty peaceful activity, I’d imagine, an hour or so spent kneading, rolling and cutting pre bought cookie dough before you set it in the oven for as long as it says on the tin while you go spoon in his bed.

He probably wouldn’t have the ingredients for baking (or much fancy cooking) in the camper, and when you guys snuck into the base’s pantry, Lieutenant Bites was paws shoulders deep in the sugar, so.

The cookies would come out pretty perfectly, a little misshapen, (Sniper definitely tried to turn one into a heart, or an animal of some sort, and it came out as a funny blob) but really good!

He'd make sure you were both there ready the second they started turning a yummy golden brown around the edges.

He'd pull out the tray trying not to laugh, “Promise you won't laugh… the dog's gone blobby—” And almost drop everything.

You guys would cook up a batch, put half in a nice big baggy and eat the other half with him on the sofa with a board game in progress on the coffee table in front of you.

~~~

Scout

He's throwing the eggs between his hands like that one cooking mama mini game, and is NARROWLY avoiding splattering them absolutely fucking EVERYWHERE.

He'd absolutely go try and steal one from Archimedes if he dropped one

There's a crumpled sheet of paper with his ma's Boston cream pie recipe on the counter, and flour covering every single surface.

“Look, I don't know what’cha mean by ‘It won't work’— Are you sayin’ my ma ain't a world star chef? Nuh— Nuh-uh, I ain't listenin!”

He's asking you to make it tiered like a wedding cake, and he's adamant that not only is it possible, but that you definitely know how to do it.

He's got his fingers in his ears when you try telling him you don't think you can do that, and only starts listening again when you offer him the whisk to lick when you're done stirring the base cake mix.

The cake comes out okay, you manage to get just about everything put together, though, you guys definitely ate a bit too much of the cream while you were waiting, and only had a small layer to put in by the end.

It's yummy, at least! And when anyone comes into the kitchen wondering why it smells vaguely like burning and moreso like cake, you two link up like a defensive wall in front of it, looking around very inconspicuously, of course.

“What cake? Where? Someone's got cake?” Sloooowly hiding it behind your backs.

[thedevilrisen]

Prompt Celly - Day Two

Luke Hughes x Y/N

Description: I will be here, by your side, plus you can't hide that fever from me.

A/N: I hope you enjoy! Would be greatly appreciated if you could reblog. I love talking to people so say 'Hi' if you want to. Feel Free to send in requests as well. I'm happy to write for most hockey players.

Warnings: None, I don't think! It should be all fluff and a bit of friendly banter.

-Sincerely thedevilrisen.

My sniffles filled the desolate room, desolate minus the tissues, empty soup bowls and discarded clothes I had haphazardly changed out of this morning after a searing hot shower I had in a desperate attempt to clear my blocked sinuses.

It was safe to say being sick sucked, I believe everyone universally would agree. My phone had been buzzing consistently against the hard wood of my side table for twenty odd minutes and the grinding noise it was making made my headache worse than it already was. To stop the buzzing I had no choice but to pick it up, squinting against the harsh light of the screen looking at the name Lukey <3, 3 missed calls and 37 unread messages.

Shit.

Lukey <3

I swear if you don't answer me I'm coming over Y/N.

Please baby, I'm scared, what's wrong? What did I do?

Y/N, its been two hours, and I didn't get a good morning text.

Fuck this, I'm coming over.

DELIVERED 12:56

the clock on my bedside table read 1:13. It takes about 20 minutes to get here.

Double shit.

Shooting out of bed quickly, too quickly evidenced by the black dots and spinning room, I stumbled around, I picked up my tissues and put them into the trash can in my bathroom, I swept the used soup bowls under my bed and threw the miscellaneous clothes into the hamper.

"Y/N" Luke called thought the apartment.

Scrambling to open my bedside draw, shove my phone in and shut it, I leant over the bed like I was making it as the light from the hallway came flooding in.

"Luke? What are you doing here?" I feigned confusion, finishing pulling up the bed spread.

"I came to check on you, you weren't answering me and didn't send me a good morning text. I got worried." He spoke walking closer.

"I'm alright babe, was just having a cleaning morning, you know I put my phone away when I do that." I sat bad on the bed, he followed and pulled my hand out of its crumpled ball, leaning into me and enveloping me into a hug. He laid a gentle, lingering kiss on my forehead.

"I'm just going to get some water, want to watch a movie?" he asked.

"Sure, I'd love too!" I responded.

"Alright, get settled and pick a movie f'us yeah?" he mumbled into my hair.

"I will. Go get your water, then we'll start." I returned.

Luke's POV:

She's sick. I fucking new it. Not only did her behaviour give it away but her temperature is far too high to healthy. Wandering into the kitchen I opened the top cupboard, snagged a tin of chunky beef soup, leaned down to the draw filled with plates and bowls, pulling one out I opened the tin and watched as the brown viscous liquid sloshed into the bowl. Releasing the latch on the microwave I place the bowl in and let it heat up.

I sent Jack a text, saying I won't be back tonight. Pocketing my phone, I opened the fridge and got out two bottles of water, walked back to the microwave, opened it and pulled out the hot bowl, grabbing a spoon I walked back down the hallway and pushed open the door with my foot.

"Before you say shit," I announced, seemingly startling her. "I will be here, by your side. Because your sick."

"I-but" she rebutted.

"No buts, you were an idiot if you didn't think I would pick up on that fever. Now, I have soup, enjoy." I smiled as I handed her the bowl.

She slumped down on the pillows, mumbled a thanks and pulled the soup and spoon from my hand.

Walking around the other side of the bed, I settled in next to her and picked up the discarded remote to pick a show I know she couldn't resist watching.

Gilmore Girls.

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

It takes a mob part 2

part one is here.

part 3 is here.

Bill was honestly considering the store up as hostage as he glared at the isle.

30 dollars for the cheapest can of formula?? 20 for diapers??

Jesus this had to be considered gouging at this point.

Bill felt another headache begin to throb as he tried his best to decipher the difference between brands. 

‘Not a day of health class Bill,’ he grimaced as he gently shook one oof the cans. ‘Yet here you are.’

Bill never saw himself for fatherhood, he may have pondered it once or twice in his years but only in that sort of abstract way that one ponders throwing your favorite cup. It would be stupid to do, but for a moment or two tempting.

Then he got tangled up into the goon lifestyle and any notion of that pondering went out the building.

There were enough kids in Gotham without father figures, no use accidentally making another one if he slipped up.

‘And look all that thinking led yah Billy,’ his old man droned on in his head, ‘all the work, non’ of the fun. that don’t make a happy man son.’

Bill was half tempted to open that old burner phone; it sat in his breast pocket.

Even if all that would answer would be the machine.

But no, Bill had this.

‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ he pondered as he put the tin in the cart, ‘watching three kids.’

they weren’t his after all.

He found his cohorts in the next isle shaking various items at the kid.

“What in the name of Crime Alley are you two idiots doing?”

“Oh, hey Bill!”

Ken didn’t even turn to face him, what kind of etiquette were they training these guys with? 

“Again, what the fuck are you doin’? I asked you two to pick out a couple outfits for the tyke.”

“annnd we did!” Marv chuckled handing over a bundle of cloth, “We just thought that the kid deserve somethin’ cute for being so good to us is all.”

“Actually Bill, mind throwing in your two cents? which one do you think Dan would prefer the rabbit or the frog?’

Bill pinched his brow,

“I don’t know man, what difference does it make?”

“What difference?! Man, this is his first toy we’re talking about!” Ken exclaimed,

“This is a big deal! If he’s anything like my Me Mah told me I was than he’s going to be carrying it for years!’

Danny for his part blew a bubble with his mouth, great input kid.

“I- the rabbit, I guess! I dunno, maybe he’ll like Alice in wonderland or some shit.”

Marv seemed to perk up at the thought.

“Hell yeah brother! Boss likes those old books anyways, so he probably won’t notice if we borrow a copy for a bit!”

Ken snorted as he casually thew the frog back on the shelf,

“Marven, in case you forgot, Boss is very careful with those books of his. If you want to risk it, I won’t stop you but it’s your fingers on the line man.”

“Aww, anything for our lil’ Danny!”

The clerk raised an eyebrow but kept their mouth shut as the three goons went to pay. They kept their mouth shut as Bill paid in crumpled bills and let them get on their way.

“Yeah, well pass Ken wonderlad will you? This shit isn’t going to carry itself.”

Danny babbled as they tried to sort everything into a carriable position. He shook his new toy too a fro in an almost comical manner. Like he was giving orders before an ops.

Eventually they made headway and started to make their way back to crime alley. Only for Bill to raise a occupied hand to stop the others in their step.

“Wait a moment.. where are we heading? It’ll be suspicious if we head back to base. We clocked out hours ago.”

Marv shook his head,

“Can’t go back to my place, Gwen just got done with a double shift in the ER.”

“Kenny?”

Ken snorted and shook his head as well,

“We can try but we all know Me Mah is packin’ and not scared to point first if she doesn’t expect company.”

“Then where the hell are going to go?”

Bill didn’t like how the two of them were suddenly staring at him,

“No.”

“Aww come on Bill!”

“Nope. Nah ah”

Ken rolled his eyes kicked at his shin,

“It’s just for one night Bill. Tomorrow we can ask around with the other guys, but it’s not like we have many options right now.”

“My apartment is like the least kid friendly place in the neighborhood!”

Danny have a little wine as he shoved his face into Ken’s shoulder,

“Bill..”

‘Fuck…’

Bill pinched his nose as he closed his eyes, if only to block out the puppy eyes Marv was sending his way. For a big lug, it was stupid how effective they were.

“Fine… One night and you two owe me a favor after this.”

The two dumbasses actually let out a cheer loud enough to wake a nearby dog.

Leading the way Bill couldn’t help but wonder if it was too late to go to bar like they planned.

~~~~~~~~~

Hoodlums:

​@reinluna,@confused-moose-child,@mimilikey,@emeraudesfateandfandoms, @dolfay, @boredomfarie, @aconitewolfbane, @withoutcontxt, @onyxlightdragon, @satanicrutialspecialist, @phoenixdemonqueen, @vixen-uchiha, @skulld3mort-1fan, @bytheoldwillowtree, @illusionwolfwriter24r8, @thewonderoflebanon, @vipower001, @autumnwulf,

[thinkblotted]

A Little Treat

We're all allowed to have one.

-

So. Things happened. Are happening. I will continue posting about stupid 80s vampire boys until I'm physically unable. Speaking of which, this drabble was inspired by something @enquiringangel mentioned a good while back (as in like. Two months lol)

The final draft doesn't have any Micky-Ds in it, but it does have Paul being the most annoying thing in the space at any given moment.

Enjoy!

Paul’s digging into his pockets before the blood was even dry on his face. 

Hand still smeared with gore, claws barely retracted, Paul rummages through first the front pockets of his jacket, grumbling when he only pulls out crumpled receipts, a broken pen, and twenty three cents worth of pocket change. He goes for the inner pockets next. 

The receipt drifts in the slight breeze blowing in across the waves and catches under Dwayne’s nose, still pressed to the body as he drinks. He snorts, startled at the intrusion and pulls off.

“What the fuck?” He growls, licking his fangs clean. Paul just shakes his head. 

“I know it’s here somewhere, I swear I stashed ‘em in here…” 

Now Marko comes up, finished with his own meal. The flesh around his bite is ragged, still needing a few tries before he finds the best spot. “Dude, you gotta kick the habit.” 

Paul throws him a scowl. “I don’t <i>gotta</i> do anything.” 

“It’s candy that’s older than my grandma, Paulie.”

“Your mom is older than your grandma,” Paul huffs, starting to realize it’s a losing battle. 

David finally speaks up. He’s further away, down the shoreline where the sandy dunes meet real dirt, among a grove of scraggly trees. He’d had his fill and gone to start making preparations for hiding their evidence. (At least, for long enough that identifying the body would take time.) He had stripped off his coat and overshirt, wearing only the thin black tee as he kneeled on the ground. Hands curled into claws and covered from fingertip to upper arm in sand and dirt. Digging, in only a way vampires can, a shallow grave. 

“First - nice comeback, Einstein. Second - I’m saving you your dignity.” 

”What!?” Paul yelps. 

David rolls his eyes. “A vampire eating candy? That’s a hill you’re dying a second time on?” 

“I paid for it!” 

Marko laughs. “You did not, you liar.” 

Paul finally abandons his search, now knowing his prize was never there in the first place, and stalks over to David. 

“Where’d you put them?” 

David shrugs and goes back to widening the hole. (If some sand happens to hit his packmate, then oops.) 

“Like I’m telling you.”  

“They’re mine!” 

David turns an icy glare up to Paul. “And keeping that shit around attracts pests. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to avoid the place I live being more rat-eaten than it has to be.” 

“Or covered in feathers and bird shi-” 

“Hey!” Marko interrupts Dwayne and his little comment, laughter turning to a scowl. 

Paul for his makes a disgusted noise and about-faces, intent on going right back to the nest and finding his sugary prize. The blood will have settled in his system by then, and the sparkling, dizzying energy that came with drinking it will have lost that bright edge. Fucking shame. Food always tasted best as a chaser. Life remembering itself in his dead body, if for only a few minutes before the clock began ticking down again. 

His three packmates watch him go, grinning amongst each other. 

“Good ‘n Plenties aren’t even good!” Marko shouts to his back. 

“Fuck off!” 

-

Paul lays on the rim of the fountain, eyes idly watching the wind spinners and mobiles twirl around languidly in the errant draft. Scattered around him were tins and boxes and clothing that had been lifted and tossed aside in his hunt, but sadly, no sweet candy had been found for him to claim, no matter how he’d torn through the place. David must have either buried it, or just tossed it into the ocean, because there wasn’t an inch of the place he hadn’t checked. 

He sighs and flips himself over, laying on his belly now. Legs kicking up, one arm tucked under his chin while the other dangled down near the floor. A single finger traces idle patterns on the sand. 

If he imagined hard enough, he could practically feel the crack of their hard shells before sticking his teeth together with the softer insides. Like bone marrow. Mm. And the sugar would be so good - it slicked his tongue and the licorice flavor was bitter in the best way. It tasted like it was supposed to. Like he remembered. Paul’s tongue traces a tooth, wanting. 

But, even now, only an hour after the feed, the taste would have been getting muffled again. He’d be fine for another day or two, but any longer and anything but blood and meat would start to taste like the cardboard packaging the candy came in. His body didn’t want sugar. It wanted fat and salt and iron. 

Life. Powerful, sustaining life.

He grumbles low, undefined curses to no one, at everyone.

So it was a little old school. So what? Not like the rest of them didn’t have favorite things from eras past. (There had been a car show in town last year, and they’d basically had to tie Dwayne down to keep him from nicking a Packard ‘22. They were good little thieves, but disappearing a whole damn sixty year old car was something not even they were stupid enough to try. And don’t even get Paul started on the deep, dark hole where Marko kept his disco vinyls…)

Stupid body. Stupid David. 

Paul can feel him, and the others, in the back of his head, like watching pings on a radar. He knows David is feeling his annoyance as background noise that’s easily tuned out. He thinks about annoying him further by sending it to him more pointedly, but that would be a lot of work, and David could just shut him out all the way. 

Paul watches the firelight from the drums flicker against the cave walls, his finger languidly twirling. Letting the gears turn in his head. 

David had things he liked that weren’t ‘dignified’ or whatever. He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. Sure, it looked cool, and Paul could understand the itch for the nicotine or alcohol to smooth out the rough edges of the world, but it wasn’t the <i>vampire</i> part that wanted it. And the clothing! David and Dwayne had always been punks, even when the definition of the word was slightly different than it was now. They’d just traded in their cuffed jeans and slicked hair for grunge and dark eclectica. The rock and roll for…well, a different kind of rock and roll, Paul supposes. 

Whatever. Same principle. David was still such a hypocrite. 

The irritation seethes in Paul. His eyes narrow as he glares, wandering this way and that as though he were physically following the progression of some thought through space. 

Suddenly, as though striking a bell, Paul breaks out into a manic grin. His blue eyes light glittering yellow in the center and all in a rush he skitters away into the depths of the nest. 

This was going to get interesting. 

-

“Where is my hair gel?” 

David stands in the doorway of the main antechamber of the cave, expression pinched. 

He’s dressed in one of his usual ensemble - dark pants and shirt, but sans vest and coat for the moment. It was early, and they’d been planning on going out to see what Hell they could raise around the concert circuit, depending on who or what was playing, and like the person he was, David took just a little longer to preen himself. Part of which involved gelling the hair on the crown of his head. 

At the moment, it was damp from a wash, still in unsightly clumps that alternatively stuck up at the wrong angles or layed plastered to his forehead. Not exactly the most intimidating sight in the world. 

Marko snorted behind his hand at the sight, and Dwayne looked up from considering his own jacket and whether it would need some new stitching at the shoulder. 

“Your what?” He asks. 

David steps into the room, hands on his hips. “My gel. I had a new container of it right on the shelf and it’s not there.” 

Before Dwayne can assure David that he hadn’t moved it in an organizational fit, or Marko could deny that well, he didn’t use gel so it wasn’t him, there was a jingle and a thump, and Paul is landing with all the grace of a lion behind David, having slipped down from some hidden nook high above in the rafters. 

He rises from his crouch with a sinuous roll, hands never leaving the pockets of his own curated black jacket, the belts slung over his shoulder and multitude of bracelets covering his arms making music with every step. 

“What’s the matter?” He drawls. 

David flashes his teeth, a growl rising in his throat. “My. Hair gel.” He over pronounces each word, as though it needed to be spelled out. “Where is it.” 

Paul stands in front of him, shoulders back and relaxed, eyes drifting. He hasn’t indulged in anything tonight yet, but he’s slow in his speech, carefree in his words. He gives David’s hair a once over, and then the rest of him in a long look. 

“Why in the world would a vampire care about something like that?” Paul asks with a shrug. 

Before David can react, before anyone can react, Paul is skirting around David and up to the entrance, giving a jaunty wave and a jovial laugh behind him. “See you dorks topside! I wanna actually catch the music.” 

And he’s. Gone. 

Marko and Dwayne look from the place he’d been, to David. 

David, who stands there for a moment staring after their missing member with an expression on his face somewhere between gobsmacked and ready-to-smack. 

In the end, David doesn’t find his gel. He settles for using some old hair spray, enduring a night of looking a bit like a blond hedgehog had made a home on top of his head, and letting the others be front and center. All the while glaring at Paul, who remains just far enough out of his way that David can’t get a grip on him. 

-

The storm is rolling in, much faster than the weatherman on the radio had predicted. 

The boats in the dark marina bob in the breeze that had picked up significantly even in the past few minutes. It’s blowing in hot and humid, a taste of the squall that’s rumbling in just off-shore. They didn’t have time to fuck around - not if they didn’t want to have their meal while drowning like rats in a bucket. 

But they were still missing a member. 

Marko is further down the beach and out of sight, keeping eyes on their target. Dwayne is perched like a massive gargoyle on the prow of a beached boat, keeping an ear out for unwanted interlopers. David is glaring at the sky. Lightning cracks across the sea only a few miles out. He can feel Paul somewhere in the back of his head only insomuch as Paul was a member of his pack that existed, but not where, not how far off. Not if he was getting closer. 

Bright urgency streaks through the bond, Marko letting them know that the boathouse clerk was starting to close up for the night. Even stumbling drunk, the man was a functional alcoholic who knew how to drive in a straight enough line to get himself home - in town. 

David hisses, teeth on full display and leavers himself away from the side of the boat, having been leaning against it smoking himself hoarse to try and keep calm. 

“Easy,” Dwayne murmurs above him. 

“I’m going to use his scalp for a fucking boot cover,” David snarls, throwing his latest smoke to the rocky beach and grinding it to smithereens under his heel. 

“He probably just got distracted. Again.” 

Dwayne says it calmly enough, but even still, there’s a hard set to his mouth and his eyes get a little darker with every patter of stray raindrops that had started to fall from the sky. The storm was basically upon them, thundering inland as the unstoppable force of nature it was. Again, Marko basically screams through the bond that if they didn’t move now, they’d miss their chance. 

Something something, most predators miss nine times out of ten. David liked to think they were smarter than most animals, but at times, he had his doubts. 

A massive wall of wind hits the beach, bringing with it a wall of rain, hard and fast. The sea lashes at the shore and the tied boats next to the docks toss. Dwayne ducks his head against it, wincing as his hair lashes against his face. The tarp over the deck of the boat picks up, flapping against him, and he calls it quits, jumping to the ground to join David in the shelter on the aft, just out of the worst of the wind. 

“Think he’s got enough on his head for two pairs of boots?” He growls at David. 

Above, the sky lights purple and blue with a massive streak of lightning, the sound deafening. Close enough that they can almost taste the crackle of electricity in the air, hear the whine of it as it splits the atmosphere. 

Marko comes charging out of the darkness, head ducked against the wind, almost flung to the side as another gust brings the first proper round of rain with it. His own expression is pinched and upset, eyes narrowed into yellow slits as he glares at David. 

“What the fuck! We had this in the bag, David! What, were the stars just not in position for this or something?” He asks incredulously. 

David matches the searing ire in his head with his own, though it’s not really directed at Marko. 

Even Dwayne can’t seem to hold back the rumbling displeasure that they’d not only lost their quarry, but that they’d gotten soaked in the process. 

Another crack of lightning splits the sky, a little further off, and in the distance, like a whirling top, spinning about a bowl, a body surfs the wind. It’s lit from behind for a moment, arms outstretched, reveling in the beauty and danger of nature, how close it could come to complete destruction, but without fear that held any mortal back. 

Paul sweeps in on a blast of storm, his hair a cloud around his head and his smile and white as the lightning. He’s soaked through, shirtless, panting as though he’d gone through some exertion. 

“Boy, nothing like waiting for it to stir up just before the shit hits to go flying!” He crows to his pack with a boyish, gleeful laugh.

David is already moving. He makes a swipe at Paul, claws out, ready tor pull him in and make damn good on his promise of scalping - but Paul sees it coming. Keyed up from his flight, he nimbly hops away, getting a little more air one final time before setting down again. Still grinning, but there’s more of an edge to it, now. More teeth. 

“Aw, what, did you wanna come with?” He asks. 

“We were supposed to be here, at eleven!” Snarls David. “What in the actual fuck were you doing?”

And Paul guffaws. 

He laughs, incredulous, as though David were telling some kind of bad pun, of a story where there’s an unfortunate ending for some poor fucker. 

“What’s it look like I was doin’?” He asks, thumbing over his shoulder at the storm that’s still going strong around them. “Went flying!” 

“We were supposed to hunt tonight,” Marko hisses, not un-catlike. 

“We were waiting for you,” Dwayne says, with all the guilt sent right through the bond like an arrow aimed true. 

Paul’s grin slips off his face. It doesn’t disappear however, simply sinking into something else. A new, subtler, more simpering smile. Which he sends right at David. 

“I don’t see what the problem is. I was just enjoying being a vampire.” 

And just the same, before anyone has any chance to react, Paul is kicking himself up. Back up into the gale above, to ride the wind currents, tossed like a toy boat on a violent sea. His howls echo across the water, distorted with each wave of wind. 

There’s a twitch under David’s eye. 

-

”So what if those girls saw us? We could just hunt them down, we’re vampires, remember?" 

”Hey, I thought the rings were really pretty, they make good additions to the decor, right? Don;t do no one any good sitting in a glass box. We’re immortal, crime doesn’t mean shit.”

”Yeah, I invited them back to the cave, it’s Friday night, party night! If they ever try to come to the nest again, we can just off ‘em.” 

David sits in his wheelchair, head in his hand. He was staring, unblinking, at an unremarkable spot on the ground, some feet away. Marko and Dwayne were nowhere to be found. It was just him. 

And Paul’s fucking music. 

The boombox had been placed up on one of the makeshift tables, where the acoustics would ring best across the huge atrium. To the sides, Paul had broken out some amp cords and had plugged it into two speakers, the pornographic, screaming metal doubly loud. And to top it off, he’d slid a curved sheet of plastic siding behind it. To direct the sound right out where he wanted it. 

So he could dance to it. 

Paul scoots across the floor of the cave, digging his heels into the stone and sand so that when he moved, it flung up, scattering like glitter and getting into just as many nooks and crannies. He was humming just off-kilter with the beat of the music, and mumbling the wrong words, mincing the chorus with the verse. It sounded awful. 

And no matter where he went in the caves, David could hear it. 

Dwayne and Marko had cleared out, a while ago. At the low end of the season, the Boardwalk was slower, but it beat this. Whatever Hell this was. 

Paul shimmies up to David, that fucking <i>glint</i> in his eye. David goes still, and his eyes flash a yellow so dark it made them look like two coals glowing in the burn barrels at the end of a long night. 

He leans over David, hips still swaying. 

“What’s the matter? Too loud?” 

David didn’t say anything. Paul pretends to pout. To think. 

“Too…much?” 

The hand that’s clutching the armrest of the wheelchair tightens, and supernatural ears could hear the groaning of the cast metal. 

Paul tilts his head. Slinking that much closer, until his lips were practically brushing the tip of David’s ear. 

“Too…whatever I want?"

David explodes up and out of the chair. Without a word, he’s slinging around and begins digging at it. Clawing off the teeshirt over the backrest, ripping out the cushion of the seat. Under which is part of the wooden carriage, a little box to settle the seat, supported by the lower crossbars. 

David wraps his hand around a little cardboard box, crushing it in his grip to the point it almost rips in two as he hurls it at Paul’s head. It finds its mark with a rattle and a scatter of the little purple and white candies as it bounces off Paul’s forehead, onto the floor. 

Without another word, he flies off, outside, to find some shadowy hidden place to plot some revenge so dark whatever lived in the Mariana’s Trench would be scared of it. 

Paul watches him go, rubbing at his head. There’s a little cut there, from the edge of the package, which Paul swipes a finger against and then sticks into his mouth. There’s an odd haze to it, the consumption of one’s own blood. But that’s fine. He’s got just the chaser. 

Paul scoops up the box on the ground, torn in half, but still plenty of the candy inside. He pops three into his mouth, and slowly grinds them between his teeth. 

“Sweet,” Paul giggles. 

[according2thelore]

Do you know what just occurred to me about the Ls/es verse? And I don’t know if you’ve written this- but like. LsDean is obviously hilariously jealous. Everyone is jealous of everyone here. And he’s super jealous about the care lssams face, and the possibility of sex, and everything. But like. Can you imagine esdean making lssam laugh? Like? Hysterically. The huge belly laughs that aren’t even easy to get out of essaam- Sam’s never laughed too easy. But lssam? You get smiles and chuckles. You don’t get that huge laughter anymore. Not for years. And just watching/walking in on. Esdean cracking up lssam? Holy shit. Murderous rage. Crippling insecurity. Just. Peak peak jealousy and hatred for himself. I’m not entirely sure lsdean wouldn’t take a swing.

GAH!!!! reporting this post to a trusted adult!!!

i absolutely had to write this--your mind...it's too big...

dean hears it when he's coming in from the garage.

his feet turn and begin a pilgrimage before he can even think about it, drawn to that sound like he's sure vultures have been drawn to the smell of carrion for millennia.

as he gets closer, it registers.

laughter. sam's laughter. his sammy's laughter. the voice is deep, booming, too low for sam's 2006 voice. disbelief and something that feels vaguely like nausea makes dean's stomach twist as he picks up his pace.

he finds them in the laundry room.

"that was the worst line i've ever heard" sam sputters between bouts of--dean rounds the corner, and yes, it is. laughter. raucous, side-splitting, freeing laughter.

sam howls again, loud, long peals of laughter bursting from him as he has to hold himself up on the washing machine.

young dean is laying a few feet away from him in a puddle of spilled laundry detergent, goopy blue sludge slipping under his palms as he props himself up. he looks up at sammy like sammy has created the earth, like sammy is the first human person he's seen in a decade. his eyes are wide, adoring, the ghost of a smile on his own lips as if to sip from sam's joy, mouth twitching in small movements around nothing as he tries and fails to come up with words.

sammy's head is thrown back.

dean's breath catches in his throat when sam tilts forward, laughing so hard that he's holding onto his stomach. his hair falls into his face.

he looks younger. decades younger. he looks like when dean--running on two hours of sleep and three skin-of-the-teeth hunts--had glued the slide of his gun to his hand when he mistook a bottle of gorilla glue for the gun oil. he looks like when he was six, rolling around crying because dean had tickled him.

dean hasn't been able to make him laugh like this in...

something shriveled and angry and mean contracts in dean's stomach.

dean wants to go over and slam his younger self's head into the concrete, again, again, until his stupid teeth out, until sam stops laughing like that, like he...like he--

younger dean is still looking up at sam like he's god--and fuck, tears leaking out of his eyes from mirth, face pink, dissolving into helpless giggles, sammy might as well be.

they were doing laundry together.

dean's ears ring.

the world snaps into focus, like unmuting a football game on TV just as the introductory musical sting plays, deafening.

sam--as if he can hear dean's life crumpling like a tin can--lifts his head. his smile dims a little, and dean wants to fucking goddamn die. when did he become a person that makes sam's joy wilt? when did he become a person that couldn't make sam laugh like this?

"dean," sam says, out of breath, still chuckling a little. his eyes flick over dean's face, then away back at dean on the ground. "you should've seen it--"

"hey!" his younger self squawks, spreading his legs a little like he's doing snow angels in the pool of detergent. "not cool, dude. let me die in my silent, clean shame."

sammy collapses.

he's holding his stomach, brow pulled together and mouth open as he cackles like he has no worries at all.

dean takes an aborted step forward, feeling raw and vulnerable like an exposed nerve, like a hunter without a brother at his back.

he's nauseous.

dean hates this. he hates that sammy needs this so bad that stopping it would be cruel, hates that he cannot give sam what he needs. since when has he not been able to give sam what he needs? what he wants? since when can sam find necessary things from others?

dean is furious, but he's not sure at whom. his hands shake, so he bundles them into fists. he looks at his younger self, who pales visibly.

dean has been labouring over sam's laughter. he's been putting in minutes and hours and days building up jokes, throwing out quips like one tries to take shots at a bullseye. he's gotten chuckles, sure, and one time--it sticks out like a recording in dean's head--sam had rocked with silent laughter when the coroner they were interviewing sneezed so hard he fell backwards into his tray of tools and sent scalpels flying.

dean has been working himself raw to get sam to look like this. and here comes this--this interloper, and makes sam look fifteen years younger, make side-splitting, joyful laughter spill from his lips.

he has never hated anything more, body and mind warring with each other as sam's laughter makes dean's shoulders untense, make his chest fill lopsided-full, and as his mind focuses on his younger self, an impudent little bastard.

has dean...has dean lost this?

he thought that sam had just been through too much to laugh so hard he cried. but clearly, he can. clearly, only dean's younger self can do this. clearly, sam can only be coaxed into joy by this...this boy. clearly, sam has a preference. a favourite.

the problem wasn't sam's. it--all along--has been dean's fault.

dean's lost this ability. somehow, somewhere, dean became too cynical or too mean or too warped for sam to feel this.

"hey, man, it's not--" his younger self says, smile completely gone and face grave. he looks--and goddamn him straight to hell--sympathetic. understanding.

dean doesn't want to be understood.

he doesn't want his failure to be understood, to be seen in real time, acknowledged that he is inferior, that there are parts of him that sam can love better, and those parts died years ago.

dean's going to kill him. he knows he's breathing fast, can feel the spark of violence right in his neck, in his arms, in his hands. he wants to slam dean's stupid face into the fucking concrete. he wants to hit him until he is as unrecognizable as dean is, until he loses this thing that sam clearly loves so much.

he tolerated the little bastard before now because he understands his awe, knows that the kid can't be helped but drawn into sam more than a sailor can be pulled towards the sea. he's an annoying little shit, and doesn't know his limits, but dean--on some level--got it.

but now he has something that dean wants, has something dean mourned for years, thought he wasn't ever getting back.

dean turns, before he can take another step forward and do something that'll turn sam against him forever, and, like a coward, flees.

GAHH your mind...i am now Thinking...you're so right LS!Dean would either be throwing punches or barely holding himself back... thank you sm for this ask!!! <3

-lizzy

(ES/LS masterlist here)

[newtonsheffield]

They’d shared a two minute conversation during which she’d managed to call him stupid a number of different times in an exciting variety of ways. And still, he’d found himself sat behind the typewriter (...) as he wrote about anything. But kindly it wasn’t about anything. Mostly it was about her, in some way or another. Or rather, the feeling of her.

THIS. This is so in line with the canon. I immediately thought of the scene during the conservatory ball. Kate gives her monologue, tearing Anthony to pieces and he is completely smitten with her from the get-go.

I bet he still has the initial pages written way back then. Maybe they even made it to Snow Filled Paper? But the originals are surely hidden in his desk: yellowed, crumpled and tattered, since Anthony has been rereading them all over again.

A version of some of them are in Snow Filled Paper but most of them are tucked away in Anthony’s desk drawer, folded and unfolded and tearing at the edges.

Anthony takes them out and reads them from time to time and Kate has no idea they even exist until they’re nearly two months into their relationship and she’s looking for something else in his desk. She finds them in an old tin from the Jane Austen Museum and it makes her chuckle as she opens it. It’s such an Anthony thing to own, and she can’t resist knowing what’s inside.

There’s a lot of things in there from there uni days actually, there’s a coaster with the mark of a beer bottle from the pub they used to go to with their friends and there’s a daisy chain that’s been pressed into a notebook that has Anthony’s thoughts in. She chuckled as she read

Grow moustache? Might look cultured and distinguished? Set me apart from D.

Her brow furrowed as she looked at the D printed there, trying to remember who that might have been. She moved on, unfolding one of the sheets of paper at the back and her heart stuttered in her chest.

It was about her, she was sure it was. She remembered the day he’d written about, when they’d met in the library to work on their assignment and her breath caught at the way he described it.

“Are you snooping?”

She dropped the paper in surprise looking up to see Anthony leaking against the doorway, sipping a cup of tea.

“Maybe a little?”

She held up the pages, “Did you really feel this way about me?”

Anthony groaned, leaning against the edge of the desk, “please don’t read that. I was still finding my style.”

“I like it.” She said gently, pressing her lips to his. “It’s very sweet.”

“I… Please don’t read too far. I think in that one I used the phrase Aphrodite would be a poor muse compared with her.”

Kate bit back a laugh, “I’m obsessed with this.”

“Is there anything I can do to convince you not to read it?” Anthony wiggled his eyebrows, “I’d be willing to show you just how close you are to Aphrodite.”

Kate hummed, tapping her finisher on her chin. “Tell me who D is? I don’t remember you being friends with a D in uni. But you fucking hate him.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows, “You don’t know a D from first year?”

It dawned on her and her mouth fell open with a gasp, “Oh you wanted to grow a moustache to set you apart from Dan?!”

He flushed, “He had a motorbike and I was jealous! He was dating my dream girl.”

“That’s very sweet.”

Anthony hummed, leaning into her, “Would the moustache have worked?”

Kate grimaced, “It would have set this timeline back at least 5 years. Now I might be into it.”

“Interesting.”

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #8: Baby, You're the Best

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by djo

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 4K (eighth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

VIII. Once the tin siding of your clapboard hut is within view, you break into a run despite your legs trembling beneath you. The wash of anxiety from riding the speeder bike shudders through your body in receding waves of nausea and panic, tilting the world on its axis until you have to pause to clutch at your stomach. 

Before you can steady yourself—you sink to your knees, gag, and heave bile onto the dirt path. 

The thrill is undeniable, but so is the terror. The illusion of control is just that, an illusion. Gone in an instant with one wrong sightline or shift of your shoulders. There’d been a moment when your life had flashed before your eyes, when you nearly crashed the bike into a retaining wall making a sharp left turn. And then again, dodging the pylons under a water tank. 

But you did it. Not long ago, you would have been stuck, trapped inside the TaggeCo compound with no way out, but today you got on the fucking bike, shifted into gear, and rode that bitch to freedom.

You’d happily thank the Mandalorian for his exasperated yet efficient tutelage—but seeing as he couldn’t care less about being here, this victory is entirely yours. Should it come up in conversation, you will definitely leave out the part where you got tossed over the front of the speeder, braking too hard. 

Fortunately, you didn’t crash in view of the guards. They were more than happy to nod you through the exit wearing a Tagge Corporation uniform stolen from the medical offices, along with someone’s very well-tailored flight jacket. 

Your heart had been racing so hard you could barely hear them over the pounding of your pulse against your eardrums, fearing they would recognize you as Kessen’s…escort, who had passed through the gatehouse hours earlier. But apparently, they hadn’t noticed anything higher than your tits and didn’t realize the ‘doctor’ waving at them as she left work for the day, was actually the same person. 

How would the bodyguard react when he returned to the clinic looking for you? Or when he discovers that you’d taken his speeder? It’s parked outside the same public hall where you both play Sabacc. Hopefully, he’d spot it the next time he visited the tables. 

But for now, you feel safe. However much Kessen ingratiated himself with the locals, drinking at the cantinas and playing cards, he was aligned with the Tagge family. None of your neighbors would tell him where to find you. 

Although, anything is possible with enough money…

No. No! You’re being paranoid. Johar Kessen is expecting to see you at the bonfire. You’ve got at least three or four hours before you have to worry about anything more complicated than crumpling into a ball of blankets and staring up at the ceiling. 

You wipe your mouth clean with the back of your hand and haul yourself upright.

Lakarani huts were all constructed in a circular design, with thick oilskin tarps stretched over their vaulted wooden beams to form a domed roof at the top. Inside, the interior walls, about shoulder height, divided the space into segments like the spokes of a wheel. It created sleeping stalls that afforded some measure of privacy once you’d draped a few curtains overhead. You pull them aside, ready to crawl under the covers and collapse into unconsciousness.

But for the second time that day, you find someone has left a gift on top of your bedroll. 

Humia—it couldn’t have been anyone else—had laid out a dress for you, presumably, to wear to the bonfire that night. 

It’s a silvery-blue color that hugs your body to the waist, then widens into a soft, flowing skirt. Obviously, one of her own, given the size, but you have to admit that it looks gorgeous on you, clinging to your breasts and curves. The tension in the fabric pulls tight across your wide hips, creating this little swell between your thighs where—

You tear the dress off, ripping the bodice in your frantic efforts to get it over your head. 

What had, seconds ago, seemed like a simple gesture of friendship suddenly feels vulgar and manipulative. Was she hoping to offer you up to Kessen in a pretty little package? She’d been so eager about the idea of you meeting him there.

What had she said…it’s not much of a heavy lift, surely?

With both hands, you grip the soft fabric between your fists and begin tearing the dress to shreds. It’s petty vengeance, but it feels so fucking good. 

The rage building in your chest is pure and honest. You let it guide every wrenching pull until your heart is racing. Hair swings about your face, tendrils sticking to your sweaty, flushed cheeks. You’re breathing so shallow and fast now that you start to get dizzy again and have to brace yourself against the pillows.

That’s when your fingers brush against the stiff and silky ridges of embroidery. Under your scattered pillows is a thin leather sheath decorated with crescent moons and stars and night blossoms—flowers that only opened under moonlight. The color of the embroidered thread matches the dress perfectly. Too perfect to be a coincidence. The dress and sheath are a set, and—you make a concerted search of blankets and discover—yes, a sash to wear over both. It’s Lakarani festival attire. 

Oh, you are such an asshole.

The sob that rises from your chest takes you by surprise. But as soon as it passes your lips, there’s no point in trying to hold back. You sob and howl like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap. And why not? You’re just as helpless. 

Humia, Nito, Johar, Mando…you don’t know how to fix any of it.

Alright, just breathe. Breathe, dammit. 

The origin of the dress did not, in and of itself, change Humia’s intentions. Honey is the word she used this morning, because using you as a honey pot is exactly what she has planned. However—that crude intent did not change the generosity of her gesture. Between the Hutts and the Tagge family, the Lakarani struggled to preserve their cultural traditions. Honatoka is supposed to be a week-long festival celebration, and it had been reduced to twelve hours of leave from work, granted by the people who thought of their sacred holiday as a sex party. 

Your anger at Humia might be justified, but nothing can justify your reaction. You have to make this right.  

Osram, the Echani who ran the wash house, also did some tailoring. Maybe he could repair—you glance down at the strips of frayed and puckered fabric—okay, remake the dress? In fact, that might be an ideal cover to approach him. 

You don’t have all the details worked out yet, but you’re percolating on a plan that would involve Osram combing a few of the uniforms you stole to accommodate Nito’s four arms. There aren’t any Ardennians currently working for the Tagge family on Lakaran, as far as you know, but that was the magic of a uniform and lab coat. As long as it was freshly laundered, crisp, and pristine, no one saw past it. You could even coach Nito to recite some incomprehensible monologue about creatinine clearance if he was questioned.   

Because Nito’s right. You need him to pull this off. It went against every instinct, but having him and the kid by your side might be the best way to keep them safe.

Nito is a child—they are both children—and yet he probably knew more about survival than you did. Sure, you had suffered, been ripped away from the loving arms of your family. But you had never gone hungry, never worried about where you would sleep at night. You had people who cared for you, if not about you. Love did not keep a child from starving or being murdered in an alley for the coins in their pocket. 

Nito had survived the streets of Coronet City, navigated street wars, and negotiated his way out of all of it. Mando had little patience for the Ardennian’s sardonic immaturity, but he respected Nito’s expertise. So should you.     

But getting him inside the Tower…ugh?!

Kriffing hell, what are you going to do about Kessen? There’s just no denying that crossing the skybridge on level seven of the residential tower is made infinitely easier with Johar’s help. Without him, you’ll need to come up with some compelling cover story, like maybe Nito was a specialist who had traveled to Lakaran to consult with you on a medical issue…or the Child is Ephram Tagge’s newest pet and you were both very legit veterinary professionals delivering him…

Or you could just waltz through the front door with Johar Kessen, no questions asked. 

And then what? Do you involve him in the entire plan to take over the Tagge refinery? 

Deep down you know that’s not your call to make. Not alone anyway. But you are loath to tell Humia about this. She will be ecstatic, of course. 

And then there’s telling Mando, who will be…who the fuck knows what the Mandalorian’s reaction will be.

Is there some way you can get Kessen’s help without resorting to seduction? Right now, that seems naive, bordering on delusional. Especially after he’s made his desires clear. Back at the clinic, he had been seconds away from placing your hand over his cock before the guard on patrol barged in. And you still don’t have an answer for what would’ve happened next. 

Would you have passively let it happen? Let him pull you into his arms, onto his lap. Let him take you on the exam table?

That’s what scares you most. The thought that you might recede inside yourself so he could use the body you left behind. If it meant that he would help you? If it meant you could defeat the Tagges? You were willing to sacrifice your life for this cause. Why is this any different?

Maybe you could pretend it was your choice. Maybe you could try to enjoy it.

But it wasn’t something you would choose. Not when your head is so confused with thoughts about Mando.

Perhaps the Mandalorian wouldn’t care? If he’s putting this distance between you…

Blessed mother, if you tell Mando about Johar Kessen and he encourages you to sleep with him, it might actually destroy you. 

No. The solution, as it stands, is to avoid crossing paths with the bodyguard ever again. Kessen would find some enthusiastic partner at the bonfire tonight, very eager to have sex with him in a moonlit field, and that would be the end of it. He would lose interest in you. His newfound love for the Lakarani would turn him against the Tagge family. He'd join the revolution, and it would have absolutely nothing to do with you. 

Erenada, you really are delusional. 

As you sob into the crook of your arm, you tell yourself to let it go. But it’s too much to let go of in one night. The weight of the cause, the guilt, your anger, and most of all, Mando and everything you might have been—it’s more than you can lay aside in a single bout of tears.

You do your best, though. It’s difficult to reach for your powers—particularly to wield them on your own body—when your mind is scattered to pieces. But you manage to reduce your hormone levels and blood pressure. Just enough to stop the racing thoughts. It’s not something you’d ordinarily do. To turn off your capacity for pain and anguish is to risk losing your empathy. It’s what had turned Tigran into a monster. You just need enough peace to find sleep. 

When you’re all out of tears, you lift your head from the damp pillow to crawl under your blankets. By then, your head aches from sobbing, and exhaustion drags you down within seconds, too deep for dreams.

*****

Halfway into your troubled sleep, a muffled but insistent beeping noise wakes you. You’ve never quite shaken that soldier’s battle readiness—a quick jolt of unease, and you’re immediately alert. You start patting down your rucksack when you realize the sound is coming from your communicator.

A glance toward the window tells you there must be another hour or so before sunset. The sky is still alight with the dusky haze of twilight. And yet, the usual noisy chorus of neighbors is missing.

Apart from the soft creak of the laundry line outside, it’s surprisingly quiet. You can’t sense Davik or Serenio’s presence either. Everyone must be down at the river already, awaiting the totality of sunset next to the bonfire, celebrating with music and dancing along the spiraling jetty.  

Vigilance costs nothing, so you double-check that you are indeed alone before pulling out the communicator. Holding it inches from your face, head cocked in disbelief, you see that someone has sent you their location coordinates. The signal originates from...inside the hut?

No. That can’t be right. Unless—no, you drop your gaze from the cloth tarps overhead. They’re under the hut, right below you.

Panicked at the implications, you try to focus and regain your bearings. Where are your boots? The signal remains motionless, waiting for you. It must be an emergency for Nito to risk coming here. You pray nothing has happened to the kid. You throw on the first thing you pull out of your rucksack and rush towards the door.

Remembering that security drones could be anywhere, you step onto your clapboard porch as if you’re making a routine trip to the privy, your new robe cinched around your waist. Admittedly you wouldn’t normally wear something this nice to take a shit in a compostable toilet, but that hardly seems like the most pressing concern at the moment. 

Swallowing a lump the size of your fist, you turn onto the rocky path sloping downhill between the houses with performative calm. When you step into the shadows between the cantilever beams underneath your hut, you release all the breath you’ve been holding. 

“Nito?” you whisper, directing your question into the darkness.

But it’s Mando who emerges into the dappled light, his Beskar reflecting the soft twilight haze like a halo.

“Thulani,” the low, gruffness in his voice as he says your name makes your skin flush with heat, from your cheeks to your chest, to between your thighs.

You want to go to him. You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to shove him against a wall and demand to know where he’s been. You want to kiss him or simply run back to the hut and slam the door in his face. You have no idea what you want, so you stand there with your arms crossed anxiously over your stomach until you hear yourself ask, “What are you doing here?”

There’s clearly no emergency. The Mandalorian saunters toward you with that slow, rolling stride you love to watch so much. 

Now you want to scream at him. This is such a stupid risk to take! He’s wearing his cloak draped over him, and sure, it helped to obscure the winking gleam of Beskar. But if he’s spotted by a drone or, hell, another living soul…

There’s no good reason for a Mandalorian bounty hunter to be on your doorstep. The sight of him would set off gossip and speculation that could put the entire operation in peril.

If he had just waited for you at the Razor Crest…But, look at him! Dammit, that saunter?! 

Mando shakes his head, leaning a shoulder against one of the support beams, “I came for you…” his voice trails off. “I wanted to check on you.” 

How strange, to hear someone as sure and stoic as Mando sounding uncertain.

Your brain throws up warning bells. Is this the part where he launches into an explanation about why it would never work between you? Gods, if he says something about valuing your friendship, you will run down to the river and throw yourself into the current. 

“How are you holding up?”

What are you supposed to say? That’s a bad habit you’ve slipped into—trying to think of what people want to hear instead of just telling them the truth.

But you have no idea what Mando wants to hear right now.

He seems so cool and collected. While you, on the other hand, can already feel yourself getting wet from his just… standing there, existing. He hasn’t even touched you yet.

“It’s been rough,” you say, your polite, passionless mask settling into place. If he’s going to play it cool, so can you. “But…we’ve made a lot of progress.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he says firmly.

When you don’t say anything more, you both fall into silence. Yet he doesn’t grow impatient or frustrated.

When Mando finally speaks, he sounds steady again. Strong. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

It’s clear he has no idea what “it” is. Still, he wants to protect you from the pain of it. And gods be damned, you need that steadiness and strength. More than that, you need him. 

How do you tell him that your silence feels like the best protection? Because if you don’t say another word, you might just save yourself from the humiliation of begging him to touch you. 

“I’ll be alright,” is all you intend to say. But suddenly, you can’t seem to stop yourself from talking.

“It’s just…a challenge to ground myself in what’s real when I’m constantly weighing what I say and do to get the correct response from people.” Gods, it felt good to say that out loud. “I’ve begun thinking about everyone in terms of their usefulness to me. Cold calculation isn’t something in my nature, but it’s really important for the success of this mission—” You hold up a hand before he can correct you, “Job.”

But he doesn’t interrupt. Mando stays quiet, giving you the chance to let it all out. 

“I worry that I’ve made a terrible mistake thinking I could do this. It’s so hard to keep track of who knows what. Which lies I’ve told to whom. What should I share about myself to earn their trust versus how much to withhold,” you sigh, throwing up your hands, fingers catching in the tangled waves of your dyed brown hair. “I don’t even look like myself anymore.”       

He cocks his head, studying you intently. “You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Your gaze snaps up. Oh? And your insides melt hearing the tenderness in his voice. It’s the same soft, gentle tone he used when you were lying naked in his arms. You look at him with a sudden glimmer of hope in your eyes.

The thrill of possibility spurs you forward, and you take a step closer to him. “I was worried you might not recognize me.” 

Mando also steps forward. With one hand, he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head back as he leans closer. He’s so tall that he looms over you. All the ambient noise around you seems to fade away. You’re completely caught in the spell he’s weaving.

Goddess, how you miss the feel of his skin pressed against yours. Please soften his heart and make him mine.

“You still have the same fiercely intelligent eyes,” he says. “Always thinking. And these lines around your mouth,” Mando’s thumb brushes over your lower lip. “From when you smile.” 

Laughter bubbles up in your chest. You never have to worry about false flattery from the Mandalorian. 

“See?” His hand slides along your jaw, caressing your cheek. “Same dimples.”

Oh! Oh, so you’ve just completely misread the entire situation. This whole time, you’ve been thinking that he wanted to distance himself…but there was no deeper significance to his actions. It was nothing calculated or intentionally hurtful. No message he was sending you.

He needed to see Yarella to ensure the safety of his crew, and so he did. 

“Is that really what’s bothering you? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Oh, you could fill a book with the things you are not telling him. The pain and anger. All the shit with Kessen. You aren’t going to tell him any of it.

Rationally, you understand that he can’t know he’s done something to hurt you unless you tell him. He’s never had a romantic partner before—shit, just getting him to acknowledge that his choices impact the people around him was a months-long learning process. These miscommunications will continue to happen if you don’t actually tell him when he fails to communicate. 

But getting into a long conversation about feelings is the last thing you want to do right now. Talking about talking? You can’t imagine anything less sexy.

You don't want to break the spell. It’s easier to forget the hurt and pretend everything is fine. 

And as for the situation with Johar Kessen? Let’s just cross that bridge when you come to it.

You wind an arm around his neck and sag against him. “I just missed you.”

Mando’s other hand palms your waist, and the part of your heart you’d been trying to bury all day leaps for joy. “Good,” he says from somewhere above your head, a smile audible in his voice. 

Despite your angry panic, the desire welling up inside of you at the feel of his hands is a living thing trying to burst through your chest. It’s not easy to press yourself against all that armor—but that doesn’t stop you from trying. All the hurt and nagging concerns are meaningless. You’re fucked. Just incapable of suppressing how much you want him.

The Mandalorian bends his head to get a better look at you. “Sounds like I don’t have to worry about your new job.”

“Worry? That I’m going to hand in my resignation so I can mop floors for TaggeCo? Absolutely not,” you scoff. "Though there is something deeply gratifying about using a pressure washer."

“I didn’t think princesses knew how to mop,” he teases.

And this...this is what you missed. These tiny moments when he made you laugh or placed a comforting hand on your back. When he made you feel like there was no world outside the circle of his arms.

“Well, I wouldn’t know—what with not being a princess,” you roll your eyes. “But I was a novice at the palace temple, and novices learn to mop. And wash dishes. And do laundry.”

Fourteen-year-old Thulani would've refused to believe it, but all that drudgery has served you well. When you arrived on Lakaran, Humia deeply resented your addition to her team. “I don’t need you, and I don’t trust you, so stay out of my way,” were the first words she’d spoken to you.  Then, she watched you get down on your hands and knees to scrub for ten hours without complaint, come home, and carry two heavy jugs of potable water uphill, one in each hand, from the tanker at the center of camp. She’s been considerably nicer to you ever since. 

“You’re lucky I’m not the Hapan princess, by the way,” you grin, looking up into his viewplate. “The real princess would absolutely hate you. She’d never tolerate such a snarky bastard like—”

The Mandalorian moves impossibly fast. He grips your arms tightly, then pushes you away by the shoulders, pinning you against the steel support beam. Mando slams his hands on either side of you, so that you’re imprisoned by his arms. His muscular body presses against you. You swallow hard, stunned by the speed, awakening something inside you that feels a little bit like fear and a lot like lust.

“Shhh,” he says, as two of his leather fingers slide up to cover your lips.

That’s when you hear the crunch of rocks.

*************

Continue reading - Volume 4 - Post #9: Lucid Dreams!

Back to all posts for Volume 4

[elekinetic]

Ten minutes. Mike has been staring at this damn piece of paper for ten minutes.

He’s all nerves. Fiddling with a pencil in his right hand and drumming his fingers with his left, shaking his leg up and down and up and down under the desk—all in rhythm with his rapid heartbeat. Buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum. He’s moving, moving, moving, but his eyes are locked on this stupid spiral notebook. It’s taunting him, really. Evenly spaced college-ruled lines in light blue, bracketed by faint red. It’s just there, still and solid and sure, and Mike feels like he’s being pulled in against his will, like he’s getting closer and closer but he’s not moving, and the notebook isn’t moving, and it isn’t saying anything because it’s a notebook, but it’s fucking mocking him and—

This is normal.

Mike’s a writer, okay? Or, well, he wants to be. But he knows that it’s like, a thing for writers to be intimated by a blank page. Something about infinite possibilities. If you don’t write anything down, it can still be perfect. Still be something actually good, and not whatever first-draft bullshit you’re gonna scribble down. Putting lead to paper is a promise to fuck up, to unavoidably make bad choices and create something that will need to be fixed. Writing it means you can’t live in theory anymore, that you’re gonna look the crippling fear of fucking up in the eye and say, “Sure, why not?”

It feels wrong to do this in his math notebook. It feels big, so much bigger than linear equations and absolute values. His notes from this morning’s class peek through from the other side of the sheet. Mike can see the ghosts of the cubes he doodled in the margins. He’s been really into that lately, trying to draw 3D shapes. There’s a couple sticky notes covered in them right by his pencil cup, which is really just a tin mug he swiped from the 1970s camping kit collecting dust in the back of the garage.

Maybe it’s just because he’s quiet, but all Mike hears is noise. He can the faint shrill of the pipes in his wall—someone showering. The wind picking up and battering against the loose storm drain along the wall outside. The muffled hum of the TV downstairs turned all the way up because his dad is either deaf or obnoxious, or both.

The clouds must part, because a beam of afternoon sunlight suddenly glints off the pencil cup straight into Mike’s eye, pulling him out of his trance. His eyes narrow as he winces and pushes the cup away from the window.

Maybe he should do it on a new page. Scratch that—he should definitely do it on a new page. Mike flips the notebook over and smooths the paper. Might as well just rip it out too.

When he crumples the paper teeth into a ball and tosses toward his trash can, he misses. It falls soundlessly to the carpet, right next to the pair of flannel pants and Judas Priest t-shirt he’d shucked off this morning. Should’ve just worn it to school, he thinks, looking down at his green flannel and pointedly ignoring the fact he’d already worn the crumpled tee all of Sunday and Monday. Maybe if he’d just put on extra deodorant he could’ve—

He's procrastinating.

It’s simple, really. Just. Write the words. That’s it. Just fucking write it down. It’s not that hard, you just take the pencil and then put it down and then make the words and then boom, it’s done. So just do it. Do it. Do it. One, two, three...

Ugh.

He doesn’t know what he’s gonna get out of this. Like, what? He writes it down and then suddenly everything is okay? This is all totally normal and there’s nothing wrong with him and every fucked-up thing that comes with this will magically disappear and his life will become daisies and rainbows and shit? Ha, sure.

Mike knows he’s just trying to talk himself out of it because he doesn’t want to do it. But that’s what this whole thing is for, facing fears and “feeling discomfort,” or whatever. Maybe to prove to himself he can think about it without shitting his pants. Fuck, he’s basically an adult. He’s literally fought monsters. He can do this.  

He gets through “I—” before the pencil breaks. Because of course it does.

Mike chuckles dryly and grabs a pen. It’s a blue BIC. He thinks there’s something kind of poetic to it being ink. Maybe it’s a metaphor.

He can’t even say it.

What was it Will said once? Something about a band-aid? Maybe it’s not a good idea to think about Will right now. Or maybe it is.

Fuck, okay. He’s doing it.

Three words. Three words. Okay.

[artisttrova]

Guess who wanted to upload the first two chapters of one fic and work on the one I've already teased? And guess who did neither because they've got a debilitating migraine?

Yup, yours faithful

So because of this, I'm actually gonna post the first chapter here in it's entirety cause fuck it! We ball.

From the fic with a work title "Broken Nest" (I've rewritten it dozens of time and I don't care anymore if the language is shit, neither do i care about any possible grammar mistakes). This is a modern AU

The people sitting around the table sighed in joy and surprise. A second later, Sakura was surrounded by her girlfriends, all squealing in joy simultaneously, forming a very merry cacophony of sounds. Sasuke was trying his hardest not to get suffocated in his friends' arms. Naruto and Rock Lee even started crying. A moment later, Sakura's tearful mother trapped her in a bone-crashing hug, repeating time and time again how happy she was to hear the news, while her father patted Sasuke on the back and started to talk about how he would be a ‘proper’ father to him. Sasuke had to stop him from speaking as the man was getting carried away quickly.

Orochimaru was standing not far away from everyone, twirling a soda can in their hands. They heard Sasuke softly but firmly tell Kizashi that he had a parent and scoffed.

Orochimaru only rolled their eyes when they next heard Mebuki quietly say "But that freak didn't even come up to congratulate you" followed by a louder "Mom, don't say that...I'll explain" from Sakura.

They kept their silence. They would surely be offended, too, if anyone reacted to the news of their children's firstborn in the way they did. Much less the ‘parent' of their daughter's husband.

Thankfully, no one really cared about their presence, and the situation fizzled down as fast as it came up. When everyone had calmed down a bit and scattered in small groups again to discuss the baby boom that had recently hit the town, Sasuke slipped away from everyone, approaching Orochimaru, all while Sakura took her parents to another room to talk.

"Is everything all right? " Sasuke asked quietly.

"Don't worry about me, it’s your day. Congratulations again on the new addition to the family." They smiled amicably as they looked around the room. "I thought surely people would figure out I knew ahead of time, but it seems like Sakura’s mom took it to heart."

Even standing a good few feet away from the entrance to the guest bedroom, both Sasuke and Orochimaru could hear Mebuki and Kizashi berating Sakura on the fact they didn’t learn the news first.

"She'll have to deal with them, they're her tribe. We had good reasons.” Sasuke answered, seemingly unbothered by the sounds of his enraged inlaws. "You know I just didn't want to make the news a surprise to you due to... everything."

Orochimaru sighed with a smile, allowing themselves a second of proud arrogance that they had raised Sasuke quite well. As well a deeply traumatized, orphaned teenager could be raised. They sipped the soda, grimacing at how overly sweet it was.

"I'm happy for you, Sasuke." They looked at the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Even if it doesn't seem like it.”

"I know." He smiled awkwardly. He was still not used to physical touch from anyone, but his wife. Sakura just seemed a weird exception from most of his weird societal deficiencies. Well, she and Naruto.

Both Mebuki and Kizashi stormed out of the room, glancing daggers at Orochimaru. Sakura followed, only sheepishly smiling at her husband.

"At least you only have me to deal with." Orochimaru chuckled, as they looked at Sasuke.

They tried to play their feelings off as a joke but didn't succeed much. The tin can crumpled slightly under their fingers.

“I take it, he keeps acting like an idiot?" Tilted his head Sasuke, noticing the forced nonchalance.

"Let's not talk about that, please."

"He's no stranger to me either. I want to know." He sighed. "Sakura says he quit not too long ago..."

"Yeah." They nodded."As far as I know, he's basically out of work now. So much for all the talk about the need for a doctor at the orphanage..."

"Does he even visit?" Sasuke frowned.

"He still comes once a week and takes Log somewhere fun. We don't talk outside of that arrangement. And by that I mean I refuse to talk to him." They grimaced as the girls laughed again as their husbands approached the group. Some leaned forward, kissing their wives on the forehead or temple, and some hugged. Sasuke felt a squeeze on his shoulder.

"It's been six months, right? And things are not moving in any direction, as it seems." Sasuke got their attention again.

"I guess. He's been acting weird lately, but it doesn't mean much to me anymore.” They set the empty can on the table. "I don't know where to throw it, is that okay if I leave it here?"

"We'll clean it up, no big deal." Sasuke waved his only hand, "Can you elaborate on the weirdness?"

"This is not the best place or time for such talk." Orochimaru turned away from the party completely, deciding not to annoy themselves any further, and crossed their arms, "Recently he's just been nagging me about allowing Log to stay at their place. All the while refusing to speak about the divorce and figuring out the visitation times. He's dragging this whole process out, even though he started it. He won't even allow my lawyer to go through his documents... Guess he's just scared I'd take sole custody, which I never even intended."

“I don't think this is about custody at all,” Sasuke mumbled.

“Well if he's trying to win me over by being annoying, he's not doing a good job.”

"Why not allow him to take Log for a couple of days anyway?" Sasuke shrugged. "From what I know, he's a great dad."

"Yeah, but he lives with Urushi, and from the rumors that reach me from the orphanage, they haven't done anything, but drink and go clubbing since Kabuto packed up his things and left our...I mean my house. I refuse to put my child in these conditions."

"I understand." Nodded Sasuke.

Orochimaru glanced nervously at their watch. They were beginning to notice people's slanted glances at themselves a little more than usual. Their sour face stood out a little too much amid everyone's joy.

"I have to go." They muttered, "Log is home all alone, and... I don't want to spoil your party."

"You're not gonna spoil anything." Sasuke looked around, causing several pairs of eyes to immediately turn away from Orochimaru. "This is an important moment in my life. I couldn't imagine not sharing it with my parent."

Orochimaru smiled as they looked into Sasuke's eyes. When did he become so tall and grown up? He was almost half a head taller than they were now, if not more. They couldn’t fully comprehend how he'd once been a small, malnourished boy who lunged at their cooking like a hungry animal. They were never good at cooking. Even now that they have gotten better at it, Log still refuses to eat almost everything they make. Sasuke was just an unfortunate little thing when they decided to take him in and now, there he was, with his own house and a family, still standoffish as ever, but so grown up and matured.

"I'm not your parent, I'm your guardian. You have a real family."

"Oh, come on." Sasuke waved his hand. "We both know that Itachi can hate you all he wants, but he was a juvenile delinquent and that's why he lost custody of me. You, on the other hand, at least tried to give me a good life and continue to help to this day. You are as much family to me as he is.”

They looked away a little embarrassed, hiding a smile.

"Thank you. But I still need to get home. I'm scared Log will freak out. There was a storm on the forecast." They tucked a strand of hair behind their ear.

"Okay." Sasuke nodded. "Sakura really wanted to give you some food to go, so…"

Orochimaru nodded and headed for the exit. “I'll wait at the porch.”

They saw no point in saying goodbye to anyone. No one but Sasuke and Sakura even said hello to them. However, the click of their heels before they stepped out onto the porch let everyone know that they were leaving.

Orochimaru took out a cigarette and lit it a little further away from the entrance. They'd given up cigarettes completely during the pregnancy and after Log was born, but lately... They've been craving a cigarette. Still, they never smoked in the car or at home, not wanting their son to inhale the smoke or smell, but smoking near the gas station on their way home or near a grocery store was for now their favorite part of the day by a long shot.

Orochimaru looked at the sky. Behind the painfully similar houses in this painfully plain neighborhood, all painted in cheery pastel colors, the gray, cloudy sky seemed even gloomier.

They sighed, remembering how they and Kabuto used to sit together in the pillow house with Log, with a flashlight and a book while a storm raged outside the window.

Log's fear of thunder was a surprising development for the family. He had been born in such weather that it seemed he shouldn't have been afraid of thunder. They even had a blackout in the middle of labor, the storm was so vicious they had to deliver a child in the candlelight. Yet, it was nonetheless endearing to help him through his fear. Something about being the source of comfort for their little guy was endlessly heartwarming.

They sighed, walked over to their car, pulled out an ashtray, and tossed the cigarette bud in it after extinguishing it. They wouldn’t litter at their son’s house.

"Ah, there you are! " Sakura materialized behind them, holding several bags. "I've packed you some snacks to go! There's soda, chips, two containers of mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, fried sausages, pork chops, salad..."

"Sakura, how much do you think me and Log are eating?" Orochimaru laughed.

"Don't interrupt me! "Sakura exhaled loudly through her nostrils. Orochimaru saw Sasuke behind her back, visually signaling them not to argue. "So, there's also, uh..."

"Yogurts." Sasuke helped her.

"Yes! Yogurt. My mom got me a yogurt maker and thought maybe Log would like it. He doesn't have a lactose problem, does he?"

"No, he likes yogurt." Orochimaru smiled.

"Great! " Sakura cheered. "There's also crackers and a couple of pieces of cake. Mom brought so much food, I didn't know what to do with it. I've done a lot of cooking myself...at least take this and eat it with Log, I know you don't like cooking. I’d feel better if you ended up throwing it away, rather than me, 'cause, you know, I see mom so rarely and I adore her cooking…"

"Thank you, honey." They took the bags from her hands and stacked them on the passenger seat after turning around and hugging her. "Congratulations again. I can't wait to see you as a mother, Sakura, I think you'll fit the role very well.”

"Thanks! " She laughed, taking a step back from them and folding her palms together, "I'm so glad we moved closer to you now. My parents definitely won't be moving out of their backwaters any time soon, and I'm so glad I can at least consult with you during the pregnancy."

"Honey, call and text me with anything you have, I know how much pregnancy fuels paranoia, and I'll always help you with anything."

Sakura looked at them, got some air into her chest, and threw herself at them, folding her hands around their shoulders again. Orochimaru smiled as they hugged her, catching Sasuke's pleased look.

"I'm so glad you and I have found common ground." She sighed and pulled away. "The beginning of our relationship was a disaster. "

"You two were just too young," Orochimaru laughed. "Right, Sasuke? Who brings a bride into the house at 16, huh?"

"We didn't get married at 16, didn’t we?" Sasuke rolled his eyes.

"I can see why you were so skeptical of me back then." Sakura turned to Sasuke, "We were… young."

“Well.” Orochimaru walked to the driver's door. “That was a temporary flaw.”

The drive from the Uchichas' house took less than ten minutes. Orochimaru tried to concentrate on the road, but somehow, their thoughts kept returning to tonight's party. How sad Sakura looked the night before when they admitted that they couldn't look at the pictures of their wedding anymore. How Sasuke jokingly promised to "talk to Kabuto with his fists" if he didn't come to his senses and act like a normal father. How Sasuke and Sakura worried about their journey home and asked them to text them as soon as they arrived. They knew they started showing more and more obvious signs. They knew people could see the weight of their situation affecting them.

Their thoughts, one way or another, came down to Kabuto.

All the narrow streets with cute shops they passed held so many memories. The bakery where Kabuto always ordered cakes for their son's birthday. The café where they went for coffee every Sunday, even before their child was born. They couldn’t help, but get choked up, thinking how a few years later, hot chocolate and éclairs have been added to their usual Sunday order. They shook their head, trying once again to think only of the road.

The yellow leaves falling from the trees were sticking to the windshield and getting stuck in the. Who thought planting so many trees was a good idea?

"How dare they not ask you in advance." Kabuto's voice sounded in their head. They must have repeated that dialog a thousand times. For some reason, the medic liked trees.

Suddenly, something black ran out into the road. Orochimaru hit the brakes, holding their breath in surprise. They jumped out of the door, walking forward to see what was it they almost hit. There was a very scared black kitten sitting a few centimeters away from the car.

"Why did you run out into the road, you silly?" They picked up the kitten and moved it to the lawn next to the sidewalk. As they approached the car, a drop of water hit them on the nose. They sighed.

The rest of the way was much calmer. However, there was still this stupid pain in her ribs they felt whenever they were in this part of town. This stupid longing for what once was ordinary. By the time they pulled into the parking lot next to the house, it was pouring.

They didn't feel like going to meet their child while they were still shaken up. They exhaled and leaned back in the driver's seat, trying to push themselves to relax.

They didn't even want to look in the direction of their house. They remembered how much happiness and love the building had held and how much misery it had brought them now. They remembered how they and Kabuto had just bought this house, how they had made plans for renovations, and chosen wallpapers and flooring. How Sasuke, who was already living apart from them, had scoffed at the pastel purple colors that had been chosen for the interior of the house and how Kabuto had always argued with him for the same reason. How they had painted the walls in the nursery together, but Kabuto had been constantly distracted by hugging and kissing them, holding their still round belly. How they arranged the pictures, arguing in animated whispers about where their wedding photo would look best, while Log slept quietly in Kabuto's arms.

They hated going back to the house that smelled of dust and delivery food, remembering how they'd always eaten dinner together before, the three of them, and how Kabuto had enjoyed cooking and discussing the week's menu with them. Hated sleeping in a bed where the fucking memory foam mattress still couldn't seem to forget the outline of the other person. They hated how Log was constantly worried, now that his routine was disrupted, how he lost focus in school because of it, and the way all the teachers looked at them as they signed the paperwork to homeschool the boy. They wanted to scream when their sweet son whispered to them about his daddy and whether he would be living with them again for the first time. They hated that they couldn’t possibly tell him the answer.

They opened their eyes, only now realizing that tears had been streaming down their face all along. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and at the same moment, they slammed their fists exhaustively against the steering wheel.

How could he do this? How could he just leave everything behind? How could he leave the two of them?

They drew air into their chest, feeling like it was becoming harder to breathe. Their throat felt like it was being squeezed.

Kabuto had always been there for them. He was there for them when their arms stopped working because of a back injury. He spent hours doing exercises with them, patiently enduring their tantrums of fear and hopelessness. Had it not been for his persistence, they would probably still not have regained mobility in their fingers. He had been involved in the delivery of their child himself and was attending to their every need for months before the birth as if they were made of porcelain. He had stayed up nights and nights in a row, sitting with Log when he was sick. He had comforted them when Log had fallen face-first onto a piece of glass on a walk and then explained to Log that his scar wasn't scary when the kids on the playground started refusing to play with him.

He'd taken up so much space in their lives, and now it was as if there was no life left.

Now he was finding it difficult to maintain life with them. Now he suddenly needed "time apart" and "to feel young and alive again." At least that's what he said. Orochimaru was sure he just wanted to find someone younger and start a family with them.

They desperately wanted a second child, but nothing worked. The doctors just shrugged, there was nothing wrong with either of them, as it seemed. Orochimaru hadn't taken testosterone long enough to get pregnant, not to mention that they had never taken high doses. Their first child had even been conceived without stopping the use of hormones. Kabuto was also healthy. Nothing indicated what could have been the problem.

They were just unlucky.

At least according to the doctors.

Though Orochimaru certainly blamed themselves and only themselves. They were born with a defect and only exacerbated their condition with hormones.

Kabuto denied it, but how could he deny the obvious?

They hadn't been able to get pregnant for a year before Kabuto left.

Not counting a few miscarriages, of course. Most of them, very early. Except for the last one.

It ruined them both altogether, after which they decided to stop trying. For their good.

Sasuke had called specifically, warning them about the nature of their party tonight. He knew they were still sore about the topic, and even Sakura agreed with his decision to warn Orochimaru. Still, they had come after all. Decided to be with their child at such an important moment, even though it ended up as Sasuke thought it would. With a meltdown in the car.

They were wiping their face from tears when suddenly they heard a quiet banging on the car door. They turned their head sharply, seeing a yellow child's umbrella outside the window. Immediately they opened the door.

"Log? Why are you outside?" They asked fearfully.

The boy stood there, sniffling, tears streaming down his face. He was in his favorite blue dinosaur pajamas and rubber boots, holding tightly to the handle of his umbrella. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

The boy couldn't squeeze out a word, clutching the umbrella even tighter in his hands as thunder rumbled behind him.

Orochimaru jumped out of the car and scooped the child into their arms. Quickly grabbing the bags from the passenger seat, they slammed the car door shut and pressed the button on the keys, setting the car on alarm.

They practically ran into the house, dropping the packages on the floor at the entrance as they went and setting the crying child on the floor.

"Honey, why did you go out in the rain? Were you so afraid of the storm?" They began to talk, wiping tears from Log's chubby cheeks. He just shook his head.

"I was afraid..." The boy was still choking back tears. "For you."

Orochimaru sighed and sat down on the floor in front of the boy. Log squelched his nose and wiped his tears with his hands, clearly scared out of his mind, struggling to cope with his emotions. They reached forward with their hands.

"Come here, sweetheart." They smiled, the way they only smiled at their son. Log was always easily reassured by their soft, friendly smiles. The boy took a step forward and fell into their arms, and they scooped him up immediately. Log buried his face in their wet coat, gripping the fabric tightly with his hands, and they placed their palms on his hair, gently stroking the blond strands. "It's okay, baby, it's okay. Mommy's here for you now. Sorry it took me so long, I'm just a little tired.”

"Have you been crying?" The boy asked, snuggling against their chest as they pulled off his rubber boots.

"No, what are you, I just... "Their gaze met their son's. They realized they didn't want to lie to him anymore. "Yes. I was crying."

"Why?" Log sniffed.

Orochimaru looked at their son, struggling to form an answer. They’d prefer not to answer at all.

In general, Log was difficult to talk to. Long before he and Kabuto broke up when they were still together but already were visibly growing apart, Log had begun to withdraw into himself. Less talking, less playing, less socializing with the kids. But after they broke up, something in him finally broke. One-word sentences and a distant expression became the norm. His therapist argued that it should have passed with time, that he'd just taken the breakup to heart…

It's been half a year. Just recently, he had started smiling again, talking to other children on walks, clapping his hands, and jumping up and down when he was happy. Barely so, but still, it was progress. But Kabuto just had to ruin it, to ask to visit him more and disturb his routine. Orochimaru could not say no. But they could see that their son had begun to regress. The mood swings and unreasonable hopes for his father's return were not good for him.

It was just painful.

"Is it because of Daddy?" The boy asked them quietly.

"Yeah." Orochimaru sighed, mentally berating themselves for allowing themselves to act like that in front of a child. His and Kabuto's problems weren't about their son. Shouldn't have been his burden. They'd tried so hard to keep him from the bitterness of realizing their family was crumbling... but they couldn't.

Log got to his feet, stepping back, giving Orochimaru a strangely thoughtful look.

"I miss daddy, too."

Orochimaru swallowed the lump in their throat and averted their gaze. They got to their feet, pulling off their high-heeled shoes. Log looked at them attentively. They couldn’t bear talking about his father. Not to him at least.

"Aunt Sakura sent over a lot of goodies," They spoke up, picking up the bags, and putting on a cheerful appearance again. "What do you want for dinner? There's mashed potatoes, mac and cheese..."

"Is it my fault Daddy's not coming back?" Log suddenly asked.

Orochimaru froze with the bags in their hands. The boy looked at them with his childishly sincere big eyes, now filled with a sadness that was so inappropriate for his sweet face. They walked past him, putting the bags on the table. They had to be silent for a second, gathering their thoughts so they wouldn't just start crying in front of him again. He shouldn't feel this way. No child deserves this.

"No, honey. Daddy loves you. He loves you very much." They saw the boy look at them with a silent question in his eyes.

Why.

"It's just..." They pulled out a container of sausage. "Daddy doesn't love me anymore. He wants to try living without me around. That's why he doesn't come often."

Tears treacherously rolled down their cheeks. Log immediately ran to them, hugging their legs. He just couldn't reach any higher. They reached lower, picking him up in their arms and kissing his cheek, smiling sadly.

"It happens." They began. "Adults are very stupid and rarely know what they want. Your dad thought he was happy, but he realized he wasn't. Now Daddy looks for happiness in other people and other things. But you, honey, will always be his happiness, as you'll always be mine too."

"Why aren't you his happiness anymore? " Log tried to repeat the gesture that Orochimaru was making, awkwardly brushing the tears away from their cheeks, causing them to start smiling.

"I don't fully know myself. I'm not sure your dad knows the answer either. He just feels that way." Orochimaru sighed and put Log down on the ground. They looked at the bags. "Shall we have cake for dinner tonight?"

"Yes!" The boy was immediately enthusiastic.

"Great, it's decided! " Orochimaru clapped their hands. ”Now you and I are going to wash up, get changed, and go watch Bluey and eat cake, right?"

Log started jumping in place from excitement, upon hearing that he was also going to be allowed to watch TV while he ate. That was normally strictly forbidden.

"Well, go to the bathroom and wash your hands and face, I'll get you some clean pajamas and come over, okay?"

The boy nodded cheerfully and ran to the bathroom.

"Don't run! You'll slip!" Orochimaru shouted back at him and sighed.

They looked at their reflection in the mirror, hanging at the entrance of the house, not that far from the kitchen, and shook their head.

They should also wash their face.

[bunny-extract]

If you do end up writing that fic based on the “let me drive line” some of us (me in particular) would be very interested in reading it 👉🏻👈🏻

"Let me drive."

It's not a request, the underlying growl a fair enough warning of how any protest will play out. Frustration makes you want to test it, loosening your already sharp tongue.

König takes a step forward even before you show it, eyes tightening beneath the mask. The defiance is clear on your face, and he has none of the patience to play into your games.

"I know the way," you shoot back, hoping you don't sound as petulant as you feel. König nods once without concession. The rear door swings open, a giant hand threatening to crumple the aluminum. "Then you will be the navigator. Get in."

There's a beat where you think, This fucks never been told 'no'. A second where your chest puffs, excitement coursing through you as the word is primed behind your smirking mouth.

Then, the millisecond it takes for König's massive paw to shoot out and grab you.

“Jesus, are you — HEY!”

Your head barely misses being bounced off the roof of the car, shoved down in time before you’re thrown bodily onto the back bench. Just as you catch yourself the door slams, rocking the Humvee like it’s on water. A boot redirects its suspension when König sandwiches himself behind the wheel. You have to pull your legs up to avoid being crushed as his seat rolls back, clicking loudly into place at the furthest distance allowed.

His knees are bracketing the wheel, the span of one hand more than half the diameter when he adjusts even that. You want to quip something smart, tell him there’s plenty of leg room where you are, but your words are left behind with half your spirit when the clutch releases and the engine tries to skip a whole gear.

He's got no intention of lowering gears, that much is obvious, but when he locks the wheel all the way to the left and spins the car in donuts you genuinely find yourself fearing a death worse than capture. At least there was some nobility in torture. If this tin can Tarzans into a tree you wouldn't even get a metal for it.

König turns his head, his deadpan expression inches from your horror-stricken countenance.

"Which way, Fräulein?"