#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

[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.

[durrtydawg]

What are your thoughts on Sam and Christmas-presents? Is he a good present-giver? Is he creative? Can he wrap up presents or will it look like shit?

Love youuu 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Linaaaaaa i LOVE YOU TOO!!!

Hehe alrighty. Have some Christmassy thoughts of mine including present stuff x

🎄Sam Drake Christmas Headcanons:

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

• 'Hates' (really likes) Christmas music.

• Will eye-roll and complain about the 'same old crap' being played year in, year out, but secretly clings to the whimsical sense of early-childhood nostalgia that makes him feel undeniably pleasant.

• Unless it's Mariah. Straight up can't stand it.

• Happily volunteers to karaoke along to Fairytale of New York, or both parts of Baby It's Cold Outside after one too many eggnogs (bonus points if it's the Tom Jones rendition).

• Hates (actually hates) Christmas shopping. Will avoid retail zones like the plague at all other times of the year, so the festive season boosts the hatred tenfold. If he has to, for any reason, venture near a shop around December, he will do it with a festive scowl affixed to his face.

• Because of the above, you'll hardly ever find a store-bought item gifted. If anything, store-bought means he can't stand you. Sorry.

• Enjoys providing gifts that are both comical and thoughtful in equal measure. Stolen or otherwise.

• No matter how gruff he appears at the worst of times, he's one sentimental bastard. A sappy fuck, if you will. If he's read a particular book that reminds him of you, be it an old tome, or a second hand travel guide, he'll write a message in the front pages, explaining why and hand it over in a display of nonchalance that just about hides his eagerness to please. Boom. Card and gift in one.

• Eats like a total pig throughout the season. Like a vulture when anyone's cooking in the kitchen, lurking around and picking at whatever he can, under the guise of 'helping', regardless of how many hand slaps he receives. "Quality control, sweetheart." God bless fast metabolism.

• Makes incredible roast potatoes. Everything else is quite crap though, so volunteering to play head chef is infrequent come Christmas time.

• Actually quite enjoys The Muppet Christmas Carol, and wholeheartedly believes that Michael Caine's Scrooge is the most Dickens-accurate depiction.

• Also believes that Die Hard is a Christmas film. "When the hell else are you supposed'ta watch it? Easter?"

• Despises the Grinch. Thinks the whole thing is frightening.

• Bit of a sucker for a Christmas jumper (sorry - sweater). Especially if it's crass or punny. Tries to one up himself year on year.

• God help him, his gift wrapping is abysmal. Comically so. Crumpled paper, far too much tape, improvising with tin foil and duct tape if need be. He literally couldn't give a shit, either. It's all going in the trash, after all.

• When it comes to receiving gifts, he definitely downplays his reaction to avoid any sort of vulnerability in front of people.

• Once or twice he's accidentally come across as rude when the downplaying is taken a little too far.

• Regardless, he 100% cherishes thoughtful gifts. He's terrible at expressing gratitude in the moment, but rest assured, anything meaningful is going to be treasured forever.

[puckingeccedentesiast]

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.

[buck-diass]

BUDDIE FIC RECS - heed any and all tags

don't fear the reaper (87118 words) by lscar123 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Summary:

As a masked killer preys upon the first responders of Los Angeles, Buck and Eddie are forced to reevaluate their feelings for each other amid the chaos. - It was someone with broad shoulders, dressed in dark pants and a dark jacket. They were wearing what looked like a black mask, and a black hood that covered most of their face.

The person didn’t make a sound as they tightened their grip on the ax, pulling it from the shattered remains of the Jeep’s back window and sending shards of glass down onto the ground below. Buck was frozen in place as he watched the person standing over him, their chest rising and falling as they hefted the ax over their head.

rearview blues (16529 words) by clytemnestra Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Summary:

“Eddie,” Buck says, too fast, he sounds strange. “You picked up. Sorry it’s. It’s late I know I just. I’ve been thinking a lot-”

“My kid won’t talk to me, my parents want full custody, and I fucked a married man,” Eddie says.

Buck is quiet.

“Can you…” He says after a minute. “Can you run that by me again?” - Eddie Diaz is not having a great time in El Paso.

dead reckoning (28004 words) by euadnes Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Summary:

The blades of the helicopter hadn’t stopped spinning once they had crashed. The earth was cut up, bits of sheared rock and fresh dirt tossed up around it. The tail took the worst of the hit, crumpling into a mangled heap of metal. The body of the machine was on its side, dented and crushed like a tin can. It was a wonder Ravi had made it out as well as he had. He must’ve been on the side that was pointed towards the sky, still hooked into his seat. Which meant that the side Buck had been sitting on, next to Eddie…

Before he knew it he was walking. If Ravi had pulled Buck and the pilot out, where were they now? The cleared area this side of the wreckage was empty save for a few stray pieces of metal and broken tree limbs.

Ravi came alive suddenly, reaching for him. “Wait, don’t, Eddie,” he said, his voice laced with something new, something Eddie felt deeply in his bones.

“Is he hurt?” Eddie’s words shook with the fear he now felt tenfold.

In which a tragedy on the edge of a firestorm leaves part of the 118 stranded and struggling to survive in the wilderness. Left entirely to their own devices, the survivors fight to come home, alive.

you're almost home (i've been waiting for you to come in) (34269 words) by sibylsleaves Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Summary:

“You’re really starting over, then,” Eddie says.   “That’s what I wanted,” Buck replies. “Clean slate, you know?”   “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Eddie says, knocking his shoulder against Buck’s. “That should go without saying.”   When Buck had hastily packed his bag and slipped out the door to his Jeep, he hadn’t really known where he was heading for the night. He thought about going to Maddie’s place, or even Albert’s new apartment, but in the end he’d driven himself here—to Eddie’s.   Buck moves in. Eddie comes out. Things get a little messy.

[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)

[omgitskaii]

you guys ever think that dean feels as though everyone who has ever loved him was obligated to? not loving him just because they wanted to? because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s filled with so much love, so much that it builds up like a dam and drowns him.

because he loves his dad, he hates to admit it. but, for years, john was all he had. but, when it came down to it, he loved dean because that was all he had too. he was his kid, and he looked and acted just like his mom. he needed something to cling to after mary, and dean wasn’t enough just as a son. he needed a soldier. someone to bare the heavy burden with him. he loved him, of course he did… that’s what fathers do, love unconditionally, but all that love was condensed into bittersweet pats on the shoulder, into leaving crumpled up cash on the counter and muddy footprints leading out the door, into steadying an 8 year-olds hands as he shoots tin cans off stumps. it wasn’t teaching dean to ride a bike, it was teaching dean to cut through blood and guts just to get that look of approval because without it, dean wasn’t his son. he had to learn to earn love, and no matter what he did, it was never enough to earn it.

and of course, he loves sammy. he raised him like he was his own kid, but sammy loves dean because he’s his brother. because he has to. because he’s his family, whether he likes it or not. when it came down to it, sam didn’t bother looking for dean for a year, he didn’t try to get dean out of hell. but does he love him? of course, he’s his brother. but dean loves him so much. he loves him like a brother, like a son, like a mother and a father. even when he was 10 and dean let him finish the rest of the lucky charms even though he loved them and he’d saved most of the marshmallows for himself, when he’d swaddle sammy in torn up blankets from the good will and he'd wrap himself in dads old coat and shiver, but it was okay because sammy was warm and asleep. when he’d complained his hair was too long and asked dean to cut it, and he threatened to give sammy a mullet. dean spent hours cutting it while he fussed, until sammy finally beamed and thanked him. even when he was older now, withering and crying out his name as he went through demonic withdrawals, when dean pressed a wet wash cloth to his feverish head in the aftermath, and whispered “it’s okay, sammy. you’re gonna be fine.” but when dean crawled his way through dirt and earthworms, blood and soil under his dull fingernails. his first move after coming back from the dead, is he drove hours to find sammy. his brother. to find him mingling with a chick from the bar, to find out he did nothing to try and find him… even after he gave up his soul to bring him back to life. enduring 30 years of torture, and dishing it all back for another 10.

lisa and ben. he came to their doorstep stricken with grief after losing his brother. they took him as he grieved, wasted a year of their life putting dean back together after losing his brother. dean had meddled in their lives, wiggled his way in like a leech and fed off the love they gave him until the sinking of his teeth felt like a comfort. until the pain felt like fishing trips with ben, backyard barbecues with work friends, date nights with lisa. it made him whole, for awhile, like building a dam against the inevitable crash from the weight of deans guilt and shame and fear that he’d fuck everything up. until the fear turned to reality, and deans hands were covered in the same colour of her lipstick on date night. until dean put on his fathers shoes and barked out orders to a terrified boy that he looked at like his own son, rushing lisa to the hospital where her vanilla perfume went stale and smelt like antiseptic. until dean walked out of that room, because no one could just love him. not without consequences.

and cas… his best friend. he wasn’t sure what to make of him at first, but he slowly wriggled his way into deans skin, and he learned to love him. every awkward bit of him. the small tilt in his head that was far too charming for a celestial being. the softness in his eyes as he looked straight through dean, into his soul, and dean could do nothing about it. not like he wanted to. he felt safe under his eyes, safe under the tingling of the scar on his shoulder whenever cas silently popped on, safe whenever he heard a fluttering of wings. but for cas? it was his job. it was destiny that cas loved him. it was built into the stardust that made up his being. his only purpose was to love and protect dean winchester and he did his job well. but, it was his job. an obligation. it was an order by God that he was built to obey. it was the only thing he knew how to do, everything else was building blocks to something bigger than cas. and even then, even though it was coded, dean still had to earn his love through all the fuck ups he made. he kicked and clawed his way up gravel and dirt and coughed up the insects that took root in his sternum, even though he'd rather they carved a colony in his ribcage as he settled back into that pine box. he felt love even when he didn't want to, in the way cas shoved him against a brick wall, cursing his entire existence, and blood pooled in his mouth as he let out strangled "i need you's" and "i'm sorry's." because he did and he was. because for a few terrifying moments, even the creature bound and devoted to him found it a chore to love him back. and that scared dean.

sometimes, after everything, dean would sit at the dinged up coffee table of his motel room while sam went on another beer run, and he’d stare at the nicks and scratches on it and he’d wonder if cas would still drag him out if it wasn’t fate. if it wasn’t fate, would he still look at dean like he was made of gold? like he was a savior, because he was written to be? would he rebuild him from his atoms, stich back every muscle and fiber, carve back in the scars from when he was 11 and cutting his finger trying to cook for sammy in another strange state and paste back every freckle on his face. would cas do all that all over again, if it wasn’t written? if it wasn’t meant to be?

and he’s gone to hell. he’s spent years there. he’s felt his bones break and bend in ways only a select species could imagine. he’s felt each molar and canine get torn from his mouth, skin fall off the bone, names and ugly sigils carved into his skin for years. years and years. until he’d caved. until he wasn’t the one screaming anymore, until he was so far gone that he’d listen to the same pleads and screams like his favourite mixtape. until he learned a different kind of love. a dirty kind. one that made him swallow down the lump of guilt and shame in his throat and bare his teeth in a bloody, shit eating grin to make up for it.

and he’d think that he’d take that a thousand times over, than live in a world where someone loving him was an order that had to be followed. where caring for him was nothing but a chore. because it was carved into bone marrow and littered with stardust and prophecies. because it was coded into dna and dyed the same red as his own. because it was a matter of necessity to stop him from drinking himself to death, or to do something even stupider.

so instead of thinking, he’d pour another glass of whiskey into his cup and fill himself with it, until the love he felt was nothing but a buzz. until all the love he had ran over, and he’d pour it all onto someone he knew would love him back. if only for a short while. he’d wink at the cute bartender with long black hair and blues eyes. she’d look like someone he can’t quite name, or maybe he didn’t want to. he’d think ‘fuck it,’ blaming it on the drunk fever the next day, and wink at a sturdy looking man with a cowboy hat all alone. and the man would tip his hat with a small smile, and dean would grab another drink to ignore the warmth he felt from it. he’d pour out his thoughts and feelings methodically to the girl because she’d ask, and he’d stare and blink and nod enough times to catch her attention when she spoke, and then he’d smile with no real meaning and she’d smile with one to make up for it. hook, line, and sinker. he’d whisper sweet sentiments into pillows of strangers, because at least then he knew that it wasn’t a matter of life long obligation. it was just a stranger, for just one night, who’d love dean because she’d wanted to. and all the flirting and the drinking and the pretty comments he'd earn it. just for one night.

and that’s okay with dean, no matter how much it really isn’t.

because i think abt it a lot.

[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.”

[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?"

[butterfilledpockets]

Could you please, explain the inspiration behind the robots Robin just obliterated?

It’s a pretty curious design, the head specially, reminds me of Pyramid head in that part but also, in some way, to the spaghetti robots in infinity train? Idk how my brain works.

They don’t seem to be like, fighter robots? More like just normal crew robots. Also, why do they sound British? They have a British accent in my head, why.

AND WHY IS THERE A CAFETERIA FOR ROBOTS? They don’t have mouths.

kajebkjbegkjbgr

you wanna know about my robots???

(this ask has made me unfathomably happy)

I am gonna reveal as much as I can, the spaceship is based off an old western wheel and has a horseshoe, so these guys are shaped like robo cowboys (the fringe, the stirups whattnot)

The triangle was yes, inspired by piramid head actually! And are you reading my sketchbok post its??? Cause the wires were entirely based on the wire bot from infinity train (fucking love that thing)

The triangle thingy at its core is a cowboy hat, I wanted to have its tilt be how the design can express different things

oh oh oh you are onto something my good friend, they are not designed for combat, but CAN fight. That is why Ronin was able to crumple one with his bare hands, they are tin cans

I tried to convey a sort of southern cowboy accent, but actually? British is fucking hilarious, imagine a fucking sowboy robot comming up to you like "tea my good sir? Some bickies for your troubles?"

would also match the inspiration for the entire setting of this comic (red dwarf ->fucked up dudes in space sci-fi sitcom)

they just want their robo snacks, that or they like having tea parties, or maybe someone on board just doesn't like eating alone :)

[karatekels]

TIGmas Day #5 - The Steadfast Tin Soldier

Today's story is for @pinkspidxr, one of my OG readers who I love very much! It's Christmas, it's fluffy, and it's Twig! I hope I do a decent job of getting baby Terry right!

TW: loss of virginity, oral sex (female receiving, very slight male receiving), teasing, graphic sex, Twig *kind of* talking to ghosts (or at least taking their advice)

---

The Steadfast Tin Soldier

---

Terry’s POV:

It never snowed in California.

Still, he couldn’t deny that he’d been hoping for a bit of a miracle as he returned stateside, just before Christmas.

Not that the holidays held many fond memories for him, but he was craving something familiar, bright, American.

He doesn’t want to go home.

A cab finally agrees to take him – the first few drivers cursing at him, calling him a bastard, a rapist, a child murderer, and worse – his heart icing over with the emotionless steel he’d cultivated over the course of its training. It would be useful for something back home, at least.

They ask him for an address and he blurts out yours without thinking – it’s the only one that comes to mind. He’s not even sure if you still live there.

Regardless, he settles in for the long ride, thinking back to the last time he’d seen you…

---

“What the fuck were you thinking, Terrence?!” you hiss at him, fire blazing in your eyes. His lanky frame caves in on itself as you take him to task. He’d been expecting this.

“It’s just something I have to do,” he lies through his teeth, too ashamed to tell you the real reason.

There are a lot of things he’s too ashamed to tell you.

But he needs to get out from under his father’s overbearing expectations and his mother’s coddling; he needs to. Better to jump in the deep end and learn to swim rather than slowly drown.

He knows he’s a coward. And he knows you deserve far better than that.

“What does that even mean, Terry?” you ask, tears filling your eyes. He hates to see you cry. “You have to lie about your age for them to even take you!”

He isn’t too worried about that; he may be built like a beanpole, but he’s sure his height will help him to slip through the cracks.

“They’ll let me serve,” he says with a confidence he doesn’t completely feel. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

“You’re a terrible liar, Terry Silver,” you spit at him, your voice shaking. “How can you do this to me?”

Now, that was interesting. Thoughts of you begging him to stay with you have his heart stuttering in his chest. You were the only thing worth sticking around for; if you kicked up enough of a fuss, threw yourself at his feet and begged for mercy… he supposed he could be persuaded.

“This has nothing to do with you, Y/N,” he insists firmly, inwardly cringing as you recoil as though he’d slapped you. But he can’t help but goad you; too afraid to express his real feelings for you, he settles for eliciting any emotions out of you, by any means necessary, the same way a boy pulled on a girl’s pigtails.

“Maybe that’s the problem, Terry. I thought we were best friends! We’ve always told each other everything, and now you’ve gone off and enlisted without so much as telling me first?”

And oh, how he wishes he could say he’s told you everything…

“I don’t need your permission,” he huffs instead, watching your face crumple for a moment before your temper overwhelms you once more.

“Fine, then I don’t need you. Go on and live out your little soldier fantasy, Terry, but don’t expect me to wait around to see whether you come back in one piece, if you come back at all.”

You slammed the door in his face then, and he listened to your sobs until he could bring himself to get off your porch, his footsteps heavy.

---

“Alright buddy, we’re here,” the cabbie announces, bringing him out of his thoughts. Guilt, pain, and self-loathing all rattle around in the empty hollow that was his chest, as they always did when he reminisced about you. He tosses the driver more than his fare, eyes focused on the soft light emanating from what was hopefully still your bedroom window. Stepping out of the taxi, he throws his pack over a broad shoulder, vaguely aware of the cab’s tires screeching their departure.

The worn soles of his combat boots don’t make a sound as he walks up the path to your front door, eyes scanning every window for a hint of motion as his adrenaline spikes. He clenches a fist tightly and takes a breath, trying to relax and deprogram himself from the instincts he’d been forced to develop; it would do him no good to be paranoid during your reunion.

He’s pictured this moment a thousand different times, a hundred different ways, starting from the moment he left the country. He can’t let himself ruin it now.

He forces his feet forward again, up the steps and onto the porch, a worn welcome mat greeting him just before the door. He sets down his pack, his feet precisely in the centre of the mat, and knocks firmly.

There is some vague shuffling around from the other side of the door that he can hear, and he briefly considers that even if you do still live here and didn’t still hate his guts, you may not be here alone. A wave of jealousy, hot and vicious, washes over him until he’s seeing red, and he braces himself for a fight against whoever opens the door.

A curtain flutters off to the side, the person flitting away before he gets a good look at them, but then the door opens and you stand before him, a worn housecoat wrapped tightly around your slender frame, and his anger dissipates, his gaze softening. You look different, the years of early adulthood firmly settled into your features, but he finds that you just look right.

You inhale deeply, your face flickering a dozen different emotions until you finally bring yourself to break the silence.

“Terry.”

---

Reader’s POV:

At first, you think you’re seeing a ghost – your very own Jacob Marley haunting you into learning some profound life lesson. Never leave anything unsaid, or Don’t let pride blind you.

Terry Silver, decked out in military fatigues and probably thirty pounds worth of muscle, delivered to your doorstep on Christmas Eve.

Your throat constricts, overwhelmed by the joy-relief-guilt-anger-pain-sadness of seeing him again.

“Terry,” you croak, finding it difficult to breathe, and then you’re throwing yourself at him, jumping up to wrap your arms around his neck. His hair is so long now, tied back in a ponytail that stands in stark contrast to the traditional, clean-cut hairstyle you’d grown accustomed to during your decade of friendship. He braces himself to take your weight, his arms taking an extra moment to slowly wrap around you, returning the hug.

“Y/N,” you hear him breathe your name into your hair as he sets you on your feet, though he keeps you in an embrace. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, but eventually you force yourself to release him, looking up into his pretty blue eyes. His features are harder now then they were before he’d left, but he seemed healthy and whole physically from what you’ve been able to tell.

“When did you get back?” you half-ask, half-demand, despite knowing you’re in no position to have a say in his life. No, he’d made that perfectly clear the last time you’d spoken…

“I landed a couple hours ago.”

You blink. “What are you doing here?!”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallow heavily. You knew that Terry didn’t have a good relationship with his parents, but to not want to see them after years of being in a War… as someone who’d lost their own parents as a teenager, it was hard for you to imagine not needing to throw yourself at them after going to hell and back.

“Well, come in then,” you invite him awkwardly, stepping to the side to allow him through the door into your small home. It wasn’t much, but you’d made do with the small sum you’d had left over from your parents’ inheritance after settling their medical bills coupled with your small but survivable salary. Terry lifts his rucksack, throwing it over a broad shoulder and stepping into your home, placing it by the door and bending to remove his boots. You look down at your own slippered feet, debating changing out of your pyjamas but decide against it.

“Can I get you something to drink?” you offer, trying to push past your own discomfort to play hostess. “I don’t know what your liquor of preference is, but I should have something you like.”

“You drink now?” he asks, surprised, and you give him a wry grin.

“We’re adults now, Terry; my tastes have changed.”

You’d been just shy of seventeen when he’d left, and had always been something of a goody two shoes; underage drinking hadn’t been your style before he’d left.

But then he had left, and on the one-year anniversary of his departure, having heard nothing from him, that had changed…

---

“Will you please stop moping around, Y/N? This is a party!” your friend pouts, trying to pull you up from the table in the corner where you’re sat with a drink for company. You’re not sure what your tolerance for alcohol is but this is your third Harvey Wallbanger, the orange juice helping the vodka go down easy, and you’re now in a comfortably numb, floaty space.

“I’m not moping,” you deny with a scowl. “You know I’m not a party person, and you dragged me here anyway.”

“I dragged you here because there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Roberta insists, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and bending down to talk in your ear. “He is very cute, very single and very interested.”

“That makes one of us,” you joke, lightly elbowing her in the side. Roberta sighs, sitting on the edge of the table to stare you down.

“Y/N, it’s been a year since Terry left. I know that you miss him, and that you’re hurt, but you told him yourself that you wouldn’t wait around for him.”

“I’m not waiting around for him,” you snap, grumbling at the insinuation. “I just don’t want to be with anyone right now.”

“But Y/N, don’t you think ��”

“No!” you interrupt angrily, standing up from the table. “I don’t want to get to know someone else, anyone else. I just want to be alone.”

You gulp down the rest of your drink, grabbing your bag and leaving the party without another word, crying to yourself the whole walk home.

---

That night was your first time getting drunk, and you’d turned to the bottle on many occasions over the past few years when your grief and loneliness got to be too much. It’s not something you’re particularly proud of, but it is something that you’ve managed to get under control. No one was worth grieving over like that, not even Terry Silver.

Turning back to him, you catch him looking at you with a confused, slightly frustrated expression before he meets your eye.

“Any tea?” he asks hesitantly and you nod in response, busying yourself with the kettle. You grab two teacups, part of a set gifted to you by him from a birthday during your school days, and set them of a tray along with milk and sugar, bringing them over to the coffee table in front of him.

“How long have you had the ponytail?” you ask casually, trying to make conversation as you head back into the kitchen to fill the teapot and bring it over. Terry takes a long time to respond, and when you turn back to him you see that he’s tense on the couch, his jaw clenched.

“Almost a year now,” he finally answers in a hoarse voice through gritted teeth. You busy yourself fixing his tea, hoping he still takes it the same way; Terry had never been good with speaking his emotions before the war, and you doubt that his time in Vietnam cured him of that habit.

“I grew it out in honour of a friend,” he continues, not looking at you as he accepts the proffered cup, and you bite your lip as an expression of absolute anguish crosses his features. You don’t know what to say to him, or what not to say…

“I don’t know how to do this, Terry,” you confess to him, frustrated by the discomfort you feel. Speaking with him had been easier than breathing for so long, and the difficulty it’s giving now makes your heart ache. He looks up at you blankly.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know, talk to you. It used to be so easy, and now I’m not sure what to focus on and what to avoid. I’m sorry,” you apologize with a grimace, feeling terribly awkward. He had come here, come to you, immediately after coming home, and you imagine he now regrets his decision after seeing how horribly you’re handling his return.

His large hand comes down on your shoulder, squeezing it gently, the way he used to comfort you when you were anxious or stressed, and you take a deep breath, looking up at him gratefully.

“Hey hey, it’s okay. I’m not exactly sure how to do this myself. You’re doing fine,” he coos, his thumb stroking your shoulder. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt as relaxed as you do now, under his soothing touch. You climb onto the couch beside him, still tucked under his arm.

“Thanks. Is there anything you want to talk about?” you ask, hoping to avoid anymore sensitive topics.

“Did you ever think about me?” he asks immediately, and you turn to the side to face him so quickly his arm slips off your shoulders.

“What?” you ask in disbelief. He cocks his head to the side and gives you a calculating look, like he’s trying to read your mind.

“While I was gone. Did you ever think about me, or miss me or anything?”

He seems genuine, but it’s such a ridiculous, inane question that it sparks your short temper.

“What kind of question is that?!” you hiss, glaring at him. He opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, shoving him away from you, trying to ignore how muscled his chest feels under your fingers.

“Of course I missed you, you dolt!” you shriek, angry tears filling your eyes. “Of course I thought about you, every fucking day, from the moment you told me you were leaving! How can you even ask me that, Terry?!”

You can’t catch your breath through your sobs, as much as you want to continue yelling at him; you always ended up crying this way when you cried for Terry, and everything you’d lost when he’d left you alone.

Terry slides off the couch onto his knees, carelessly shoving away the coffee table to make space for him as he kneels in front of you, looking distressed as he watches you wrap your arms around yourself tightly like you were trying to squeeze yourself shut, trapping your pain inside of you.

“Sweetheart, shhh,” Terry pleas, trying to replace your hands with his own as he moves to console you. You fight to get your breathless under control, your sobs eventually quieting to stuttering whimpers.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “I didn’t think I was leaving you alone. I thought your other friends –”

“If you think that any number of friends could fill in the void you left in my life, you overgrown giraffe, then you’re an even bigger idiot that I thought,” you interrupt him with a huff, your arms now crossed defensively across your chest as you scowl down at him.

He takes your change in mood as a good sign, and continues.

“I thought everyone else would take care of you; if I hadn’t believed that, I never would have left,” he speaks firmly, his gaze locked with yours, and you believe him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he confesses, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear; it feels like such a natural gesture coming from him. “I wrote dozens of letters to you, but I never sent them because I was scared that you hated me, and I didn’t want to upset you more than I already had.”

His blue eyes are piercing as they look up at you unblinkingly, and you feel overwhelmed by the conviction that you hear in his voice.

“I went to war to become less of a coward, Y/N,” he admits, looking at the ground with his brow furrowed. “I wanted so badly to become someone that you deserved. But I failed. I’m still a coward, and even if I wasn’t I know I’m too late.”

You can see the tension in his shoulders as he sits in silence, his words lingering in the air between you.

“Too late for what?” you ask in a whisper, unable to bring yourself to speak any louder.

“I know I’ve probably missed my chance to be with you, but –”

“I’m not with anybody, Terrance,” you inform him curtly, your heart pounding so hard you worry it’s going to burst from your chest. Terry wanted to be with you?

He finally brings himself to look back up at you, his eyes flickering as he tries to determine your honesty. You decide to reassure him.

“I’m not with anyone. I’ve never been with anyone,” you admit, sincerely hoping that he felt the same way as you did and that this confession wasn’t going to blow up in your face.

“I promised myself I wasn’t waiting around for you, I said I wouldn’t and I meant it, but no one made me feel anything close to what you did. Nobody could get through to me.”

Terry’s face lights up with hope and euphoria, and it seems to take the last few years of pain and suffering away from his features. He climbs back onto the couch next to you, giving you the same slightly-shy smile he’d always given you. He looks like the Terry you remember, the Terry you love.

The Terry that casually broke your heart one day, leaving you without a second thought to spend years worrying about his safety. As much as you adore him, you can’t let yourself forget that reality.

“I wanted it to be you. I still want it to be you, Terry, but how can I know if I can trust you? You left me,” you accuse, moving off of the couch to the armchair next to it. He hurt you, and you can’t let yourself be swept away by his presence the way you normally did. Terry’s eyes are sad as he watches you move away from him, but he grants you the space.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs brokenly, his eyes trained on the carpet by your feet. “I’ll never forgive myself for it, as long as I live. I’ll do whatever it takes to get your trust back. Please just give me a chance,” he begs, getting down on his knees before you once again. You’re not proud of the thrill that runs through you at his supplication, something in your belly clenching with desire.

“Ask me anything, sweetheart, and I’ll answer, no matter how hard it is. I promise, I’ll tell you the truth about everything.”

You curl your legs up onto the couch and away from him, wrapping your arms around them as you look down at him. What questions could you possibly ask that could repair the damage done to your friendship?

“Did you have to kill people?” you ask in a hoarse whisper, feeling guilty as the question appears to cause him physical pain.

“Yes.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yes.”

You can’t blame him for his short responses. And, at least he’s being honest.

“Did they at least… I don’t know, deserve it?” you ask, though you’re not sure how you could possibly determine whether or not anyone deserved to die.

“Some. Most of them didn’t.” Terry’s eyes are shut tightly, like his body is trying to block out the question, or maybe the memories that it evokes.

Alright, you’d tortured him enough with this line of questioning. Reaching down, you lay one hand on his arm, and he opens his eyes to look at you, his expression gaunt.

“How are you, Terry? Physically, you don’t seem to have any lasting damage, but…” you trail off, biting your lip. He gives you a sad smile.

“I’m doing the best I can; I’m sure it’ll get better with time,” he assures, almost nonchalantly shrugging off his trauma. “Physically I’m fine, just still a bit malnourished.”

“Malnourished? You look like you’ve doubled in size since I saw you last, at least!” you tease, hoping he’s not offended. Fortunately, he cracks a smile that becomes an outright smug grin, and bats his eyelashes up at you.

“At least,” he echoes your words, sitting up straight. “Wanna see for yourself?” he leers, his hands moving to the hem of his shirt. You squeak, blushing furiously, though you’re burning with curiosity and something decidedly less innocent.

“Knock it off, Terry!” you warn him with a giggle, burying your face in your knees. He chuckles softly at your reaction, the sound sending shivers up and down your spine. Eventually, you peer over the tops of your knees down at him, unsure if you really want to know the answer to your next question.

“You’re very different from the shy boy that would blush when he so much as accidentally brushed up against me,” you point out with a raised eyebrow, hoping you’re playing it casual. “Have you been with anyone?”

There is a prolonged silence, and you brace yourself for the worst.

“Almost, but no,” he admits, his hand going to the end of his ponytail and giving it a tug absent-mindedly.

“What does that mean?” you ask, feeling unsettled by his reaction to the question.

“Some of the guys in the unit got on me about being a virgin, tried to get me to give it up to a hooker,” he admits, a blush blooming across his fair skin. Your Terry was still buried somewhere inside this new, bulky frame.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask. While you’re glad that he didn’t, you know that Terry has historically been susceptible to peer pressure, especially by older men.

“Johnny,” he breathed, the name escaping from his lips with absolute reverence. He looks up at you, devotion shining in his eyes as he speaks of this other man. “Captain John Kreese. I owe him my life; I owe him everything.”

“What’d he do?” you ask, glad that Terry may have found a male role model worth looking up to.

“I… I had told him about you,” he admits, looking sheepish. “He caught me writing letters to you, told me to burn them if I wasn’t going to man up and send them to you so that no one would find out and give me a hard time. He had a girl back home, Betsy, they were going to get married…”

“And he died? How awful,” you reply, your heart going out to the couple.

“No,” Terry said tonelessly. “She did. Car accident.”

“Oh, Terry…” you murmur, your hand coming down to stroke his arm comfortingly. Terry leans against your chair and into the gesture.

“But we didn’t find out until after this. When he found the guys trying to push me into a brothel, he told them to leave off and they did. Everyone listened to John. And then he told me that it was worth waiting for the right girl, so I did.”

Your heart skips a few beats at the explanation, and Terry uses your silence to stand up on his knees, gently pulling your feet down in front of you so that you aren’t hiding behind them. You’re nearly at the same height now, and he leans forward to stare deeply into your eyes.

“I wanted it to be you too, Y/N. I always have.”

He slowly closes the distance between you, giving you plenty of time to refuse or move away, his eyes locked onto your face as though he was afraid that if he closed his eyes, if he so much as blinked, you would disappear. One large hand comes up, his knuckles lightly brushing the side of your face, and you let out a content sigh.

The kiss is chaste and sweet but still sends your heart thrumming, your lips trying to chase after him when he finally lets you up for air. He takes your cheek in hand once more, his gaze not leaving yours as he reaches down to your hand, interlacing your fingers with his own.

“I love you, Y/N, and I’ll do anything and everything to be with you. I’ve waited this long, and I’m happy to keep waiting until I’ve earned your trust back.”

“Terry Silver, I’ve spent years worrying that I’d never see you again. Even before that, I didn’t think I’d ever get to be with you. I love you, and I’m not letting you go. We’ve both waited long enough.”

Terry’s smile grows with your words, framed by his adorable dimples, making a pleased noise in the back of his throat as you wrap your arms around his neck, sliding yourself closer to him. Impatiently, you tug his head towards yours once more, kissing him deeply, every brush of his lips against yours making your heart sing. You feel him gasp into your mouth as your tongue traces his lower lip teasingly, his hands moving to your hips and squeezing them firmly. He lifts you out of the chair and to your feet, further emphasizing how strong he’s become in the past few years, and you reluctantly break apart, the difference in height frustrating you. You can think of one way to mitigate the issue…

“Do you remember the way to my bedroom?” you ask coyly, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. He gives you a slightly wicked grin in response before sweeping you off your feet and into his arms, carrying you bridal style to your bedroom door and kicking it open. Apparently not wanting to be too presumptuous, he sits on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, and resumes his task of kissing you breathless.

It’s everything you’d been imagining since you were twelve years old, and more. So, so much more…

Being wrapped in his strong arms like this makes you feel the same bone-deep sense of comfort and safety that Terry always made you feel, but tenfold. He could keep you in his lap like this forever and you’d consider yourself more than grateful, but you also desperately need to touch-see-taste-feel more of him.

You squirm, getting him to loosen his grip, and when he does you throw a leg across him, straddling him and pressing yourself against his chest. His grip tightens in response, his hands low on your hips. Gathering your courage, you trail your hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt, your fingers disappearing beneath the fabric. As you explore the contours of his abs he hisses into your mouth, sliding back on the bed and taking you with him. You push him to lay down, hands pushing his shirt up as your eyes greedily drink in his chiseled abs.

“Like what you see, Dollface?” Terry leers up at you, giving you a wink. You huff in response, sitting back on his thighs and crossing your arms as you turn your head to the side. This gives him the element of surprise as he grabs you by the waist, flipping you onto your back on the mattress and leaning over you.

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart. I like what I see; I have from the minute I first laid eyes on you,” he murmurs, eyes warm with affection and underlying desire. He pulls his shirt off over his head, muscles on full display, and while you’ve been in love with Terry for the better part of a decade, when you were both scrawny kids, you can’t deny that the way he looks now, and the confidence it’s given him, has your body humming with need. You look back to his face with hooded eyes, reaching up to pull him down to kiss him, teasing his tongue with your own. Eventually, he sits up, looking down at you in a way that has you squirming. His eyes could be so intimidating sometimes, and now the rest of him matched.

Idly, he toys with the belt of your housecoat, the fabric tied in a bow at your waist.

“You’re wrapped up like a present for me,” he teases in a low voice, making you blush. “It’s not quite Christmas yet, but maybe I can unwrap mine early?”

You giggle, turning to bury your head into your pillow to hide your face. “You’re an idiot, Terry Silver,” you inform him, your voice muffled, but your gasp comes through loud and clear as he takes advantage of your position and starts kissing your neck. “Terry!” you moan, feeling dizzy as his lips and tongue claim every inch of sensitive skin they can find. Terry lets out a growl against the front of your throat at the sound of you moaning his name.

“Do I get to open my present or not, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your skin, pulling back to look at you with his stunning, glittering eyes.

“Yes!” you groan in exasperation, throwing an arm over your eyes. You feel him slowly pulling at the frayed ends of the strip of fabric, and shyly peek out from under your arm, wanting to witness this. The knot comes loose, and you feel his hands shake slightly as he pushes the robe to either side of you, revealing thin dark blue pyjama pants and a baby blue tank top. He licks his lips, and as you follow his gaze you see that your nipples are hard and very prominent through the lightweight fabric.

“Please,” you cry out in need when he makes no move to, well, ravish you.

“Terry, please! You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass. I want you, I need you, please touch me!”

He hums in approval at the sound of you begging, his thumbs rubbing your hip bones in small circles, savouring the soft skin visible between the hem of your shirt and your waistband.

“I know you’re not made of glass, beautiful. I just want to savour you, take you in just like this before I worship you the way I’ve been dreaming of.”

He lowers his head to taste your again, his lips exploring your now-exposed shoulders and collarbone, and you clutch his head to you, pulling him closer still. He lets out a sinful chuckle, a far departure from the shy, self-conscious boy you were used to, and the vibrations of his lips make you arch up against him with a needy whine.

Lips never faltering, he blindly snatches up your wrists, pinning them again the mattress to either side of your head. He slowly explores every inch of bare skin, his hot, wet tongue following the featherlight touches of his fingertips as he traces patterns from the sensitive underside of your wrists up your arms to your breastbone, sliding down your body to lay kisses on your stomach where your shirt has ridden up, his tongue swirling around your bellybutton and making you shriek.

“God, I love the sounds you make for me,” Terry groans, laying kisses straight up the middle of your chest over your clothes, intentionally avoiding your breasts. The devious smirk he gives you afterwards lets you know that he knows exactly how much he’s tormenting you.

“Will you let me up so that I can have a turn?” you ask grumpily, fed up with the teasing. Or, at least, how one-sided it was.

“No,” he says mockingly, clearly enjoying antagonizing you. “But I will reward your patience…”

Terry’s POV:

Ponytail’s lewd advice over the years came to the forefront of his mind the moment he laid you out on your bed, and Terry decides he’ll borrow more than just a hairstyle from the older man. He can practically see Ponytail in the corner of his eye, leering at the pair of you as Terry put his lessons to practice. Based on the way you were responding, it was apparent that the guy hadn’t been all talk, at least before…

He latches onto your breast, his saliva darkening the fabric of your top, focusing on you instead of dwelling on the past. Your whispered pleas come even faster now, as his other hand slides up your body to tease your other nipple, the sensation nearly overwhelming him. He can’t believe he’s finally here, finally doing this, and with you of all people.

He hadn’t lied to you before; it really had always been you in his mind, in his heart, in his soul…

He forces himself to continue to go slow, carefully keeping his erection from brushing up against you. He’s already so close, and he hasn’t even gotten you out of your clothes yet. He’s waited long enough for this, and so have you; he needs it to be perfect.

He slips his hands beneath the hem of your shirt once more, pausing in his ministrations to look you in the eye.

“Can I unwrap the rest of my present, doll?” he leers, burning the way you blush into his memory forever. You bite your lip, staring up at him with wide, needy eyes, and you’ve never looked more beautiful. You nod wordlessly, and sit up as he pulls your pyjamas over your head, tossing the top to the side.

He stands corrected, taking in your bare breasts, the curve of your waist, the way your blush continues down your neck to the top of your chest. You’ve never looked more beautiful than right now.

Your breath comes hard and fast under the weight of his stare, nearly panting with desire.

Take it slow, Twig. Make her beg you for it. Ponytail’s voice echoes in his head, and he lunges forward, pinning you back against the mattress, claiming your lips again as he brings his fingers up to play with your nipples, only pausing in his attack to knead and squeeze your breasts, cataloguing your responses to his every action as you writhe underneath him, whining into his mouth.

“Terry, you’re driving me crazy!” you manage to tell him between kisses, your chest now covered with love bites that give him a primal sense of satisfaction and ownership.

“Good,” he coos, finding it easy to be dominant in this arena. Watching you come apart for him has given him such a heady sense of control, he thinks he could happily do it forever.

Maybe he will.

Your hand, which had formerly been obediently laying down by your side, runs across his thigh to his cock, squeezing it experimentally over his pants, and his restraint all but disappears as his hips reflexively buck into your palm. You bat your eyelashes at him with mock innocence, and he snarls, reaching down and yanking your pants and underwear down your legs in one quick motion, making you yelp and press your thighs tightly together. Oh, now you were shy?

Reining himself back in before he forces your knees apart, he slows down once more, running his hands from your ankles to the tops of your thighs, relishing the feeling of your soft skin and the way that your muscles jump beneath his fingers.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he whispers, his awe carrying over into his tone. “My dream girl…”

He buries his face between your breasts, switching between them to ensure they both receive equal treatment from his lips and tongue. It isn’t long before you relax the lower half of your body, your legs moving to either side of him to wrap around his waist as your arms mirror the movement, locking themselves around his neck as you cling to him, trying to pull him closer. Terry thinks he’d happily let you pull him closer until he disappeared inside of you; his cock twitches at the thought.

“What is it, love?” he teases, though his tongue tingles around the pet name. “What do you need?”

You give him a glare, though its effect is weakened by the fact that you are practically vibrating in his arms.

“Stop teasing me, you big dumb jerk!” you complain, even as you roll your hips up against him. He bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the burning hot arousal that jolts through his body at the sensation of your soaking centre rubbing against him, even through his clothes.

“Well, that was just plain hurtful,” he says with false sadness. “Maybe I’ll just go…” he trails off, peeling you off him and keep his eyes on the sheets as he makes to move off the bed. You launch yourself at him, taking him by surprise as you knock him back onto the bed, straddling him with a pout.

This time, he knows that you feel his cock twitch against you.

“You’re not going anywhere, Terry Silver,” you say imperiously, even as you bend down to kiss his chest, your tongue boldly and thoroughly exploring his torso. He hisses, and feels you smirk against his skin. “I just got you back, and you’re not going anywhere, especially not before you finish what you started.”

He nimbly rolls you onto your back, hooking one leg around his hip, his hand stroking the inner thigh of your other leg and making your breathing come heavier once again.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” he asks, cracking a wicked grin. “For me to help you finish?”

Instead of telling him off, or stubbornly refusing to say anything, you look up at him demurely.

“Yes,” you tell him bluntly, staring up at him unflinchingly. “Make me come, Terry, make me yours!”

He growls and slides down your body again, forcing your knees apart – not that they need any forcing. He takes in the sight of your wet, pink pussy, and it briefly makes his brain short-circuit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, before throwing caution to the wind and burying his face between your legs, eating you out like you’re his last meal on earth. You literally mewl as he latches onto your clit, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, your grip on his head stinging deliciously as you tug at his locks. You try to grind yourself against his face, but he holds your hips down firmly; all of the pleasure you felt tonight would be because of him.

His tongue probes your entrance next, your walls tight but inviting, and he brings a hand up to assist, one of his fingers continuing to tease your clit. He hears you moan his name, and he moans yours right back, the vibrations adding to your pleasure until your soft inner thighs are quaking.

“Terry!” you cry out, your thighs clenching around his head, but he is relentless in his pursuit, knowing that you’re close. “Oh God, Terry!”

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he purrs approvingly, stretching you out with a finger joining his tongue. “Come for me, Y/N, let me taste how much you want me.”

He dives back in, adding a second finger, his thumb rubbing your clit in circles that you mirror with your hips. Secretly, he writes his name on your centre with his tongue, claiming you as his, and with one final swipe at your clit you’re coming apart for him, screaming his name in ecstasy as your thighs tighten their grip even further, the pressure a testament to how hard you’re coming.

“Fuck!” you groan between stuttering, whiny breaths. “Fuck…”

He patiently waits for you to catch your breath, content to be trapped between your legs, laying kisses all over your inner thighs and breathing you in. Eventually, your legs collapse bonelessly to either side of him, releasing him, and he crawls up your body, his cock aching from being pressed against the seam of his pants. Still slightly dazed, you look up at him with a shy smile that makes his heart skip a beat. Still so innocent, even after all that…

“Does this mean it’s finally my turn?” you ask, brazenly reaching for his belt. Kneeling next to your head, he allows you to remove his belt, pulling his zipper down and tugging his pants down to reveal his tented trousers. You let out a whimper of desire, though he also detects a note of anxiety. You have nothing to worry about, sweet thing; he’ll never let anything bad happen to you.

Not on his watch.

You gather your nerve, pulling his underwear down to free his cock, and he swiftly divests himself of the clothing kicking them off and to the floor, his erection bobbing with the movement. Your eyes follow it as though hypnotized, and he finds himself staring at you with a downright hungry expression. Mine, a possessive voice growls in his mind as he watches you stare, awestruck at his member.

Slowly, like you were scared of scaring it away, you move your head towards it, your tongue peeking out from between your swollen, pouty lips to lick the precum off of his tip.

He nearly blows his load then and there.

Instead, he climbs on top of you, spreading your legs to either side of him.

“Ter-ry!” you whine, pouting up at him. “I thought it was my turn!”

He bends down, silencing your complaints with a kiss until you’re laying pliant against the sheets.

“I won’t last long if you do that now, love,” he admits, trying not to be embarrassed or ashamed. “The first time I come, I want it to be inside you.”

Your expression softens at his words, and you pull him down for another sweet kiss. He reaches between your bodies, getting his fingers slick with your juices and stroking himself, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation. You break apart, but his forehead stays rested on yours as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“I’ll be gentle, I’ll go slow,” he vows, the promise as much to himself as it is to you. He would have control; he would not hurt you.

“I trust you, Terry,” you tell him earnestly, and the words mean more to him than he can possibly express.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathes, slowly sliding himself inside of you until he feels himself come up to your hymen. You tense up slightly at the intrusion, or perhaps at what’s to come, but you nod at him to continue, responding to the question reflected in his eyes.

“Don’t draw it out – just do it quick, and then it’s over,” you ask quietly, shutting your eyes tightly. That won’t do.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he requests, and your eyes flutter open. He doesn’t hesitate, thrusting himself past your barrier and fully into you, watching the pain cross your features with a perverse sense of satisfaction before he immediately moves to soothe, stilling his hips as he peppers your face with kisses, cooing sweet nothing and words of encouragement and running his hands comfortably up and down your body.

The distraction is appreciated; it gives him something to focus on other than how incredible your cunt feels wrapped around his throbbing member.

“Just relax, Y/N,” he coaxes, feeling you tighten around him when he says your name. He wants to spend eternity figuring out all the ways to make your body respond to him…

You nod up at him, your body’s grip on him loosening just enough for him to pull out slightly before smoothly thrusting back inside, hearing your breath escape you with a moan. He stills again, not wanting to push his luck, but you have other plans, rocking your hips up towards him, your legs tightening their grip around his waist.

“Don’t stop,” you beg him quietly. “I can handle it, I promise.”

“I’m not hurting you?” he asks doubtfully, taking in the tears at the corners of your eyes.

“I like it,” you admit to him bashfully, and he can tell by your embarrassment that you mean it. He groans at this confession, feeling his self-control slipping away, and he lets it, deciding to just be in the moment with you. Burying his face in your neck, he slides his hands around to your butt, kneading the plump flesh as he holds you up, his hips setting a slow pace, savouring the delicious friction of moving inside you. You let out a wanton moan of approval, breathless pleas escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair.

Your cries are music to his ears, his own need for release growing with every thrust, every noise you make spurring him on.

“Terry,” you whimper his name, trying to meet his hips thrust-for-thrust, eventually settling for just hanging on, begging for more as he chases his orgasm, rutting against you and making your toes curl. “Come for me – Let go for me, love!” you moan in his ear, and he finally does, feeling your pussy tighten around him and milk him of every drop.

It isn’t until after he’s caught his breath that he realizes his still whispering your name like a mantra. Forcing himself to pull out of you, no matter how much he wants to stay buried in your tight heat, he rolls onto his back, pulling you on top of him and securely wrapping you both in the blankets. You nestle into him, fitting quite naturally against his side just as he always knew you would.

“You’ll stay?” you ask hopefully in a tired voice. It was now well after midnight, and you had already been dressed for bed when he’d shown up.

“If you’ll have me.”

“Always, Terry.”

He kisses the top of your head, wrapping his arms around you protectively. He can’t remember the last time he felt tired, relaxed enough to sleep deeply for any length of time, but he senses it won’t be a problem tonight.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he murmurs, recalling your fondness for the holiday as children. Maybe that was why he’d been so attached to it, despite having few personal memories about it himself.

“Merry Christmas, Terry,” you reply sleepily, kissing the pectoral that you’re using as a pillow as you drift off.

He’ll count this as a Christmas miracle.

---

Just look at this cute little fucker in his little bucket hat, thinking about his own girl back home 💕