#Red Caterwauls | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eupheme · 4 months ago

Text

— sugar, sugar

[part ii] | [part iii] | [masterlist]

wolverine/logan howlett x neighbor!f!reader

rated e - 6.5k

tags: asshole friend!wade, (sorta soft) roommate!logan, baker!neighbor!reader, flirting, mutual yearning, immature humor, a reference to while you were sleeping, wingman!wade and the worse way to meet someone, light angst, oral sex, swallowing, fingering, v. light ass play, unprotected PiV, appearance of The Claws, what’s a refractory period, sorta audible voyeurism (brief/humorous)

a/n: includes spoilers for deadpool & wolverine (which omg I loved - what was your fave cameo?)

Your eccentric neighbor Wade may drive you a little up the wall… but, you’re willing to put up with him if it means he’ll introduce you to his new, grumpy-looking roommate.

“You gonna introduce me?”

You’ve cornered Wade in the apartment’s laundry room - the door to the front-loading washer hanging open as he holds a bundle of red fabric up to his chest.

“You think this will wash out?”

The suit in question looks like it had been run over by a truck and then set on fire, with the rips criss-crossed in the leather and the numerous charred holes scattered across the chest.

“Definitely.” Your eyes flicker down, and then back up, “So, will you?”

He bundles the suit up - flinging into the back of the washer, the laundry basket still tucked under an arm.

“Really? Not even ‘hello, Wade’? ‘Looking good, Wade’?” His voice pitches up, imitating yours, “Does our friendship really mean nothing to you?”

You wouldn’t necessarily call Wade Wilson a friend.

In fact, he’s honestly the worst neighbor you’ve ever had.

Loud, obnoxious. Persuasive - the first night you met you had been banging on his door at three in the morning, yelling at him to shut up as music and a caterwauling voice blared through the shared wall.

Ten minutes later you were playing the drums on his late night session of Rock Band, using a banana and a wooden spoon in place of sticks. Only for Althea to stomp out of her room and shut everything down, scaring both of you out of your skins.

But sometimes, you think - remembering the times he came through for you, a shoulder to cry on, helping him this slump he’s been digging himself out of - he might just be the best, as well.

And maybe that was friendship, after all.

You sigh, leaning against the row of washers. Eyes flicking over him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“You do look good, Wade,” There’s a tilt of your head, the smile widening, “Glad you lost the toupee, that really wasn’t your color.”

“Ah, ah. Repurposed,” He chides, cupping his crotch, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed-”

“Ew, stop.” Your face scrunches, a hand covering your eyes as you shield your vision, “Will you please just answer my question?”

He throws a handful of shirts in the washer, “Which was...?”

Your head shakes - a hand on his arm as you reach for a glint of gold in the pile of clothes. Cringing as a handgun appears, held gingerly between thumb and forefinger as you set it on the side table.

“Good call,” He nods, “Dry clean only.”

You can't help a laugh then, even as your hands brace on your hips, “I want to meet your roommate.”

He frowns, “You’ve met Blind Al.”

“Jesus, Wade. Not Al." A hand waves, " I mean Mister Tall, Dark, and Brooding.”

You’ve seen the stranger in the hallways a few times in the month since he’s moved in. Scruffy and scowling the first time, a silent shadow behind Wade’s endless chatter.

But in the weeks following, that look had softened. You’d stopped by twice with cookies to welcome him, but every time you’ve just gotten Al.

Not that you dislike Al, that’s not it at all. She’s sweet enough to you when it’s not 3 a.m. or if Wade doesn’t have her annoyed half to death.

But you certainly weren’t harboring a crush on her. Maybe even secretly hoping that maybe the new neighbor will get a little lost and end up at your door, instead of his new place.

“Ooh,” The syllables draw out - detergent flung in, before he’s leaning against the washer too, facing you. “Yeah, Logan. He's great, got a mean ‘Hugh Jackman’ vibe, just without the singing. You’d like him.”

Something like hope flutters in your belly, but then he’s raising a finger - wiggling it at you, “Just one question though. What’s in it for me?”

That has you scowling, “What do you mean? You owe me. I covered for you when you had that barqueue in the stairwell.”

“God, that was great sausage.” Wade groans, thinking back, “Mmm, but I think Peter covered for me.”

“Who do you think got Peter?”

“Well, I don’t remember seeing you.” He shrugs.

“I was right-,” You pinch the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger, a sharp exhale of breath, “Fine. If you do this for me, I’ll do that thing you keep asking me to do.”

Wade gasps gleefully, “You mean you’ll make the triple decker-”

“-chocolate caramel cheesecake chimichangas. Yes.” You finish with him, arms crossing over your chest, “You’re lucky you heal fast because that should put you right into a food coma.”

“Right. Lucky me,” He smirks. A second as he thinks, before he snaps his fingers, “I’m having a little get-together tonight! You should come. Was gonna invite you anyway.”

The pounding in your head ratchets up at the thought that all this could’ve been avoided.

“Logan sleeps on the couch, though,” He adds, sagely, “So just letting you know that if the two of you decide to get your fuck on in my bed, according to the state of New York I am legally allowed to join you.”

“Thanks for the warning,” You grimace - even if you’re certain that cannot possibly be true, “But I do have my own apartment.”

“Oh, right.” There’s the faintest edge of disappointment in his tone, paired with a sigh.

You give him a sideways look, then.

“I saw Vanessa leaving yesterday. Things getting better?”

He sobers at that, eyes moving towards the sliver of a window. The glimpse of the street outside.

“Yeah.” Wade manages, “Yeah, I think so.”

There had once been a flicker of something. In-between your annoyance and exasperation, there were tendrils of tenderness. Long snuffed out, when you had seen just how banged up his heart was. How it’s always belonged to another.

You had gotten over it. Gotten to a place where seeing him now, like this, makes you smile.

“I’m really glad to hear that.”

He smiles, then.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“Hey, hold on.” Wade darts in front of his roommate, a leg kicked up high to block the doorway, “Where are you going? You can’t go out.”

Logan scowls, an arm already shoved into his leather jacket, “Sure I can.”

The blow against his shoulder might move a lesser man, but Wade’s fingers just grip the frame even tighter, “But I promised-, I got a friend that wants to meet you. There is some really important shit at stake here. I can’t let you go.”

An eyebrow cocks, “Can’t? I think we both know how that would go if you tried to stop me.”

It would be easy to get into this right here and now, but his suit is still in the dryer and he’s not about to spend another hour cleaning up blood.

“Wait, wait, wait,” He throws a hand up, “Aren’t you listening to me? A girl wants to meet you. She’s hot, she has a job, and she has an apartment. You’re only one outta three there. Can’t you see what a good opportunity this is? This is totally in your favor!”

Logan scoffs, his tongue tucking against his teeth. Hesitating for just a second, but it's enough that Wade knows he’s got him.

“I’ve met your friends,” He eventually acknowledges, “They’re good folk and all, but there isn’t anyone there I’d like to ‘get to know better’, yeah?”

“You haven’t met this one. She lives next door.”

The pause stretches longer this time. Dark eyes dart out into the hallway, and Wade can practically hear those rusted gears turning.

“Apartment 16 or 18?” Logan finally rasps, his arms crossing.

Oh, he’s definitely got him. Just call him Wade Wilson, New York’s own personal Cupid. New life goal - get his friends laid.

He nocks a mental arrow - aiming, and then firing with his answer.

“18.”

Another beat passes, and then a sigh.

“Alright.” The leather sleeve slips from his arm, drooping in his fist.

“Five minutes. That’s all I’m staying.”

Wade’s fist pumps.

Bullseye, motherfucker.

The apartment is packed and it’s been well past the allotted five minutes. Logan’s been nursing a beer for the last fifteen, eyes flicking over the people he’s grown to know well.

Offering a tight, half-smile when the big man claps him on the back, followed by Opposites Attract. Almost tempted to find that damn dog, just to have something to do.

Or maybe, just bail all-together.

Starting to think this was all an elaborate prank. Some fucked up aspect of this Earth, unknown to him until now.

He’s too old for this shit. If he heads for the bedroom now, he might make it out the fire escape before anyone notices.

Logan is still entertaining this new thread of thought until he hears his name - called out over whatever fuck-face bullshit boy-band music Wade’s been playing.

Ambiance, his ass.

The muscles of his crossed arms flex. Catching the way his roommate hauls a girl across the floor - the look of panic on her face as she tosses a container onto the nearest surface.

Wade hadn’t been lying, after all. It was Apartment 18 - that was about as much as he knew about you.

Other than the color of your eyes. The smell of your perfume in the hall. Your hair, your schedule - waking in the mornings to hear your door opening at 5 a.m., five days a week.

A baker. A damn good one, from the bits of cookie he’s snuck when no one was home.

Had never thought to introduce himself, because he’s been through all this before. Knows better than to reach out in the first place - still nursing the old wound of heartache, one that still flares to life in his chest.

Better not to hope, or even think, at all.

You stumble when he lets go, and Logan’s hands only curl tighter. Afraid to touch, now that you’re so close.

A pretty young thing compared to him. This was a fucking stupid idea, his eyes darting away as Wade claps, his hands spreading wide.

“Logan,” Wade’s tone is cordial, as if discussing the weather, “This is our neighbor, Sugar. She bakes a mean penis cake and likes emotionally unavailable men.”

A dejected sigh as he regards you, “Which is why it’s never worked out between us. I am just too available.”

Penis cake?

Logan shoots you a sideways look, an eyebrow cocked. Caught off guard by this unexpected intro, and it seems you are the same - gauging by the way your mouth drops open.

Your face swimming with regret, as you hiss, “Oh my god. Wade. It was one time. Why do you have to put it like that?”

Wade’s smile widens, his tone still innocent, “Just skipping over the ‘getting-to-know-you’s, so you can know if you’re compatible.”

Already pivoting to face Logan with a little wink, his own scowl already deepening. Something like nerves flickering to life - as he wonders if this will all be over before it ever begins.

“And this is Logan. He’s from another Earth, is two-hundred years old, and has a metal dong.”

Jesus Christ.

Logan’s teeth grit, before he snarls, “It’s not made of metal-”

Out of the corner of his eye, catches the curious dip of your gaze. Past the folded twist of his arms, the flannel, down to his thick belt buckle.

A knock rings out then, interrupting him from any further clarification.

“Ooh! Door,” Wade thumbs over his shoulder, “Go on now, we’ve got some good energy going here. Sugar and spice, I love it.”

A spin on his heel, and he’s leaving them alone. Silence a lingering companion for a long moment, before Logan turns.

“Nice to meet you.” He seethes, jaw working as he shoots daggers at Wade’s back. A hand extended - he’d manage that much at least.

Waiting for you to make an excuse and run, but all you do is fit your hand into his. Soft and strong and a near perfect fit.

Logan doesn’t touch people much anymore unless it’s a hand around a throat, or claws buried deep into a chest. Had almost forgotten what it was like, even if this meeting is close to his own personal version of hell.

“Nice to finally meet you, too.” Your smile is wry. Hands still clasped a moment longer, until he’s withdrawing.

Your hands shove into your back pockets. The tilt of a head as you regard him, and he lets his eyes meet yours.

They’re pretty, like the rest of you. Captivating even, if he could use such a word, and Wade’s words ring out in his head.

She wants to meet you.

He’s wondering if that’s still true. Maybe you’re wondering the same, with the way you look at him.

“So,” You begin, awkwardly - another unconscious flick of your eyes,“How does-”

“Uh-uh.” Logan’s head shakes. He’s picked up a couple things living with Wade. Never used to be a bargaining man, but he has to admit it has its uses.

“If you wanna know, you gotta go first.”

He hates you.

He must, with the way he’s scowling. Thighs spread wide as he sits on the couch you had gestured to, fingers in a vice grip around the bottle. No doubt plotting a dozen ways to ditch you the second he can.

Who wouldn’t, with a meeting like this? You could kill Wade, cheeks burning as you sink into the worn cushions next to him.

That is, until your knee knocks against his. The muscles in his thigh flexing - but Logan lets it rest, instead of pulling away.

“You gonna-?” His voice is gruff, a low rasp that makes goosebumps raise across your skin.

“Uh, sure.” Your fingers twist, “Which part did you want to hear about?”

His eyebrows lift. Those dark eyes beneath, almost a hint of amusement in them.

“Right,” The little laugh that bubbles from you is self-conscious, “Well, I don’t really like emotionally unavailable men, they just have a habit of finding me.”

His voice is low, “How would Wade know that?”

“Mm, how would he know about your-?” Your eyes flicker down for the third time, and he shifts.

“You first.”

“Alright.” You huff, but you’re smiling now. Some of your discomfort easing.

Logan is even more handsome than you had thought. You like the way his eyes dart away, only to come back and linger.

It’s starting to make you think that maybe it’s not dislike that has so much of him hidden away. Maybe it’s just been a long time since someone tried to peel any of him back.

Maybe he’s as nervous as you are.

“Well, he’s had to scare an ex or two away.” You shrug, “He only knows because I told him. And the cake, oh-, that was him, too.”

You turn then, to face him. A shoulder brushing the arm he has thrown across the back of the couch, a flicker in his eyes as you get comfortable beside him.

“Well, Wade had gotten ripped in half a couple years ago,” You nose wrinkles, a wave of your hand, “And it all like, has to grow back, right? It’s so creepy.”

Logan grimaces at your explanation, and you wonder if he understands. You think he must - you had thought he was like Wade, in some ways.

Different. Special.

“Well, he uh, finished growing everything in,” You make a sweeping gesture over your lower half, “And the next year to celebrate his dickiversary, he ordered a penis cake from my shop.”

“His… dickiversary.” Logan repeats slowly.

The heat is back in your cheeks, but you nod, “Yeah, because it like, it came back and all. And he paid in cash, I couldn’t say no.”

There’s the smallest twitch of Logan’s lips, and it feels like a victory.

“Right. What flavor was it?”

Your smile widens with relief, “Strawberries and cream. It was so good. I’ll have to make it for you sometime.”

A second before you cringe, adding, “I mean, a normal one. Not…”

He hums then, close to a laugh.

“Sure. You do that.”

You smile, letting your shoulder bump his, “And with that… I think it’s your turn.”

The bit of humor in his expression flattens. A searching look thrown your way, before he inhales a breath.

Setting it free.

“I’m a mutant.”

Logan waits there, as if expecting something. You only nod, thinking of the ones you know. Colossus, Ellie, Yukio, Domino. Wade.

“Wade said you were similar to him. I had assumed-” You encourage, waiting.

“Right,” He seems relieved, some of the tension ebbing, “My powers are regenerative, like his. But unlike him, I have these-”

There’s the jerk of his wrist, and three sharp metal claws sprout from between his knuckles. Your gasp is caught in your throat as you cling to his flannel shirt - the surprise bleeding into worry.

They glint in the light, as his fingers flex.

“Adamantium instead of bones. All of me is like this.”

The claws sheath themselves inside him again. His wounds smoothing over seconds later, as he scrubs his knuckles across his jeans, wiping away blood.

Offering out his hand, after. Letting your grip unwind from his shirt, and press against his skin instead. Feeling the tendons in his hand, his wrist. The skeleton beneath utterly unyielding, a weight to his limb that is so unlike your own.

“Metal…” You trail off, as pieces click into place, “I get it now. So does Wade really think there’s like, an actual bone-?”

Logan huffs again, “Guess so.”

You laugh then. A thought sobering you after, as a fingertip drifts up to the dip between his fingers.

“But doesn’t that hurt?”

It makes you wince to even think about it. Much less how casually they sprung from him, no different than breathing.

He shrugs, and it’s heartbreaking.

“Doesn’t even phase me anymore.”

“And, the two hundred years,” Another facet you put together out loud, “You’re still alive because you keep healing? Will it be that way forever?”

His hand flexes in your grip.

“Not forever. Apparently my powers will run out, at some point.” His eyes meet yours, “The Logan in this world is dead. Wade pulled me from another.”

Your brow furrows - always trying to keep up with the snippets that Wade has told you across the years - stories about time-traveling and mutants and even how he came to be. But this seems too deep. Surely Logan must be joking.

“Another world, huh?” You ask, head tilting - trying your best to roll with it, “Won’t they miss you in yours?”

Only now does his face falter. That sharp mask cracking, as his hand pulls from yours. Resting again on the back edge of the couch - his answer low and rough.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Another jolt racks through your heart. You don’t know him know him yet, but you already can’t believe that could possibly be true. Your fingers fan out, hovering - before it folds into a fist.

“Well then, I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t reply.

The room is darker now, dim with the setting of the sun. Street lights outside pouring in a golden beam that cuts across his face.

His eyes are hazel, you can see that now. A fading rim of green spilling into the brown, beneath the near-permanent furrow of his eyebrows.

Yours caught in the glow of the flamingo string lights that curl out from the kitchen, stapled to the walls.

He breaks the silence, the words coming slowly.

“Let me ask you one more thing.”

“Sure. You know some of my worst secrets already.” You smile, a shoulder lifting.

His hand twitches, where it rests near your shoulder. The tip of a finger ghosting against skin.

Just the slightest brush but it feels like it radiates out, lingering after.

“Why’d you tell Wade you wanted to meet me?”

His voice is still low, rough. But it’s lost that sharp edge. The combination has your stomach tied up in knots, suddenly more nervous that you’ve been the whole night.

Surely he must know?

“Well…” You hedge. It’s your turn to look away, but then there’s the brush of his fingers again.

“Because I did want to meet you.” You admit, “You, you seemed like someone I wanted to get to know. In whatever capacity you’d like.”

“Is that right, Sugar?” Logan husks, and the nickname sounds even sweeter on his tongue, stealing your breath.

All you can do is nod, as his eyes darken.

Voices rise behind you, ripping you out of this little bubble you’ve found yourself in. Nearly forgetting just how many people are here, how many eyes have been glancing your way since you’ve arrived.

“Not strip poker Wade, please.” The rough rumbling plea of Colossus’s voice rings out above the others, “You never wear anything under the suit-”

You didn’t even realize when he had changed, but he had - patches of bare skin on his ass showing through the holes. Your nose scrunches, before you turn back to realize that Logan’s eyes are still on you.

Dropping when your tongue peeks out to wet your lips - your words coming out in a soft hush.

“You want to get out of here?”

You want him. You can only hope that he might just want you, too.

The corner of his lip twitches.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

It’s strange to have someone like Logan in your space. You can remember the last time you’ve wanted someone here.

His fingers still entwined with yours, from where you had reached back for him. Leading him through the dim corners of the room.

Thinking you had made it, only for the rousing cheers to rise when you had cracked the door open to slip through.

His grip tightening when you made to tug your hand free, in an urge to press it against burning cheeks. Letting you fumble with one hand, to open the lock next door.

It’s quieter here. A low echo of the music next door, as the darkness wraps around you again.

Here, his fingers move, but it’s only to skim up your wrist. To tug you between him and the front door, until your back presses against it.

His nose brushes yours as he steps into your space, your lips already parting. Holding himself there for a moment, inhaling the scent of you as his arm braces above your head.

Leaving you to be the one that closes the gap. The tilt of your head and the press of your lips against his.

A rough hum when your arms wrap around his neck, fingers buried in his hair. His hand gripping at your waist, pulling your hips against his.

Tugging and pushing. A messy path from the front door through the small living room - a mirror-image of the apartment next door.

Through to the bedroom, wandering hands and the brush of his tongue against yours as he deepens the needy kiss. Until his knees are hitting the edge of your bed, and he’s letting you nudge him back onto the mattress.

He brings you with him - your hips cradling his as you settle yourself astride him. Hands flatten against his chest as you rock down - drawing a rough, mumbled “fuck”.

Grinding yourself down where he’s hard, the curve of his cock straining against his jeans. Letting your hands follow, as his own cup your ass. Squeezing, before slipping to press the heel of his hand against the seam at your clit.

You moan into his mouth, as your fingers curl around him. Eyes blown wide when you pull back, scooting your hips down.

It’s here that he comes back to himself.

Going tense as you fit yourself between his thighs, fingers at this belt as the other still cups him.

“You shouldn’t want this.” He rasps, those eyes glinting in the dark, “A man like me. You know that, right?”

Propping himself up on an elbow, so he can see your expression. So you can see the way his jaw grits, nostrils flaring.

It’s a warning, wrapped up in silk. A last ditch effort to scare you away - knowing that once he has you, he won’t want to stop.

Your fingers slow - his zipper half-undone, baring skin and a dark shadow of hair beneath.

The other pulling away, “You want me to stop?”

He catches your wrist, jerking your hand back. His hips bucking into your palm, grinding himself into your touch.

“The last thing I want to fucking do is stop.” It’s almost a growl, “But on my Earth, I-”

You sigh then, impatient, “Logan, this Earth isn’t all that great either. I lost five years of my life to the blip.”

He frowns, not understanding - but your head shakes as you continue, “I’m tired of being too scared to take chances. I’ve been trying to live each day to the fullest, and I’d like to end this one with you.”

And out of everyone - Logan knows a little something about second chances.

“Yeah,” He manages - the grip of his fist leaves you, “Yeah, okay.”

"Thank you,” You answer primly, just as you finish yanking the zipper down.

His hand beats you in the race to ease himself out, fingers curling around the base. You can’t help it - you inhale a breath at the sight of him.

Heavy, with the way the flushed tip bobs in his grip. Thick enough that you’re already wondering if you’re going to be able to take him.

The huff he makes turns into a groan as you start small - engulfing the leaking head with your lips. The first inch turns into another as his hips lift, feeding his cock into your waiting mouth.

Only when he’s halfway inside you, bumping against your throat, does his hand drop. Letting you replace it with your own - squeezing, as drool slicks up his shaft. Your head bobbing in time with the twist of your fist.

That brief hesitance is quickly forgotten. Fingers brush at your cheek, curling around the base of your head as he guides you.

Leaving you eager for more. Another hissed groan when your mouth leaves him, your hand loosening as you strip your clothes away.

“Oh fuck yes,” He coaxes, when he realizes what you’re doing, “Let me see you, baby.”

Your shirt and pants left to pool on the floor. A second of boldness as you unclasp your bra next, leaving you in your panties as you focus on his cock again.

A bitten-back moan when your tongue slips across his swollen shaft - an low throb between your thighs as you rub them together, clenching around nothing. Resisting the urge to slip your hand beneath the hem to ease the ache.

Instead, your keep your hands on him. Goosebumps raising as your nails scratch against the deep v of muscle at his hips. The others working him into your mouth, as he slowly comes more undone.

His hips flex with each bob of your head, lips parted as he pants. The words a rough mumble, becoming almost desperate.

“That’s it sweetheart.”

Another moan when you take him deep, hollowing your cheeks as you suck, “Oh fuck, gonna fill that pretty mouth.”

His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady as he bucks into your mouth. Those dark eyes fixed on you in wonder, all that pretty skin bared for him to touch, to taste. He’s mesmerizing like this - the weight of gaze. Jaw slack with pleasure, eyes aflame.

You did this to him.

It sends something warm flooding through you, as his eyelashes flutter. The tipping back of his head, muscles ticking in his cheek as his teeth ground down.

A sound still slips between them, as he floods your mouth with the next flex of his hips. Pulsing between your lips as you swallow him down, a choked sound ripping from his chest when you cup his sack to gently squeeze out every last drop.

Logan melts into the mattress after, an arm thrown over his eyes as he catches his breath. His gaze focusing on you when he feels you squirm - dark, and hungry.

A lithe stretch of muscles as he moves - legs easing from beneath you.

“Hands and knees,” He commands, head tipping towards the bed next to him, as he rolls off. Kicking off his jeans as you listen, watching over a shoulder as the flannel and white tank underneath joins your clothes on the floor.

Your eyes widen at how toned he is - muscles rippling, the bed dipping as he fits himself behind you.

His broad hand at the small of your back, pushing your torso down against the mattress. A pleased hum then, fingers trailing just along the elastic edge of your underwear.

“Could smell how much she needed this.” The tips of two press against the damp fabric between your thighs, making you gasp, “Even next door. You want it that bad?”

It should be embarrassing that he could tell how much you desired him, but at the moment all you can think about is him touching you more.

“Yes,” You agree, “Please, Logan.”

“So fuckin’ polite,” The fingers withdraw; but only so his nose can replace them. A ragged inhale, just before his tongue drags against your clothed slit.

A groan against your skin as you cry out, before a finger hooks around the fabric, baring you for him to taste.

The heat of his tongue flattens against you - lapping at where you drip with need, a rough rumble in his chest.

“Sweet, too.” Another flick of his tongue, “Your name. ‘s fitting.”

You can’t manage words. Only his name, muffled against the sheets as your fists twist in them. Back arched as you resist the urge to grind yourself against his tongue, as it flicks against your clit.

It’s messy, how he eats you. You don’t think you’ve even had someone take you like this. Hungry, desperate even, as he devours you. The rumble of a groan against your cunt as his tongue delves inside you, stretching you open. Letting your slick smear into his beard, with how close he presses his mouth.

That need inside you thrumming. Winding tighter as he yanks your panties down your thighs. His palm flattening against your ass, holding you open as he licks you from clit to hole, then higher. Humming as you squeak, when his tongue flattens against your tight rim.

A thick finger nudging against you then, as his tongue dips back to your clit. There’s no resistance as it slips deeper, into slick walls that clamp down around him. It’s what you needed - that little bit more.

Unable to help rocking into the crook of his finger now. Whining when a second joins it, spearing deep and curling. Dragging against your walls, loud and wet and filthy with each plunge.

Your whimpers only grow louder. Needier, as his lips wrap around your clit. Fingers pounding deep, stretching you out. Leaving you babbling, your words slipping together.

“Don’t fucking stop.” Tears prick at your eyes, each breath a rattling gasp, “Oh my god you’re gonna make me come-”

He has you gushing, with the next flick of his tongue. A pleased groan as he feels your pussy tighten around his fingers, hearing the wail that is muffled into your pillows. That sharp pace slowing, his thumb replacing his tongue to draw your orgasm out until your legs are shaking.

His fingers sticky when they pull from you, only to slip between his lips - tongue curling around his knuckles, sucking them clean.

It leaves you floating above yourself. You can’t remember ever coming this hard, even by yourself. Only the tintest thread of disappointment as you drift, and it’s only that you won’t get the pleasure of his cock filling you tonight.

You would’ve liked to see what he can do with the rest of him.

Perhaps you can convince him to stay until morning.

But he moves behind you, instead. His knee pressing against yours, spreading your legs further. The rhythmic shuffle of skin against skin, as his hand slips from between his lips to fist around his cock.

“Tell me I can fuck you.” It’s not a plea, not with the harsh rasp of his voice. But it’s as close as you’ve heard, as he swipes the tip against your leaking pussy.

Smearing your slick on him, teasing at your waiting hole.

You don’t know how he’s hard again, but at the moment you really don’t care. Not sure if you’ve ever felt a need like this, your back arching further as you present yourself to him.

A twist of your neck, so your eyes can meet his.

“Fuck me, Logan.”

He groans, broad hands squeezing at your ass. Slipping up to sink his fingers into the flesh at your hips. Holding you steady as he lines himself up.

Your breath held, when you feel his cock start to breach you - muscles stringing tight.

“Relax, sweetheart,” He grits out, though not unkindly, “You can take it.”

Trying to hold himself back from filling you with a single thrust, with the way you’re already gripping him.

Easing himself into your heat. Two inches forward and then one back, and with each one you think you’ll feel the press of his thighs against yours. A low whine as your cunt makes room for him, that sharp stretch as it feels like he’s reaching into your belly.

Feeling full when he finally is flush, the weight of his sack kissing against your clit. His shoulders following the curve of your back, as a hand slips up to plant next to your head.

“Feels fucking incredible,” It’s mumbled against your skin, almost as if it hadn’t meant to say it.

“Mm,” You grin, your face tipping up to his, “Should’ve met you weeks ago.”

He smirks, a low sound in his throat as his mouth presses to yours. Starting a slow rhythm that drags his cock against your walls. Slipping until he’s halfway out, only to sheath himself again. Pushing the air from your lungs as he flattens himself, knees digging into the bed as your thigh spread wider - forcing him deeper.

It’s almost too much.

You hand shoots out, reaching. Wrapping around his wrist, nails biting against his skin.

It feels like he’s surrounding you. Each thrust a heavy weight that presses you into the bed. Splitting you open, until all you can do is squirm beneath him.

That pressure in your belly building again, as his hips pound. His breath, hot and panting in your ear as he chases his own end.

“Fuck, Logan.” You sob, “Harder-”

His tendons flex under your grip. Knuckles pressing flat against the sheets as he makes a rough sound in his throat.

Those claws unsheathing with his next thrust. Punching down into your mattress. Anchoring as he loses himself to the feel of you beneath him.

How tight and wet and warm you are, your arousal still sweet on his tongue. Fighting the urge to sink his teeth into your throat, as everything tightens up inside him.

“Sweetheart.” It’s a warning, rasped out.

“Come in me,” You whine, “Wanna feel you.”

He does growl then, at the thought of filling you to the brim, until he's leaking out of your pretty little pussy. Hips snapping faster, pinning you to the bed as he ruts into you. Each squeak of the bed paired with the sharp rip of fabric as his claws dig in.

Feeling how your body strings tight beneath him, how you clench down in anticipation. Wanting to feel you once more, before he gives in to his own desires.

“Come on, baby,” It’s hushed, murmured against your skin, “Fuckin’ give it to me-”

The sharp point of a canine scraping against your skin, his groan rough and throaty in your ear.

Your fingers work down to wedge themselves between your thighs. The tips brushing where you’re speared open, before circling your clit like his tongue had.

He has you mindless. Fucked out - that soft glow from your earlier orgasm shining bright as he tips you towards a second.

Burning at that tightly wound thread inside you, until the ends fray, and then snap.

It has you coming with his next thrust. A wail ripped from you as he buries himself deep, feeling the way your pussy clenches down around him.

Fingers still swirling, drawing out the deep pulses that fan out from your core as your toes curl, vision going hazy.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” He rasps, those sharp thrust slowing to a sloppy grind, “Make a fucking mess for me, there you go-”

Panting, as he groans. Another roll of his hips before he’s coming with you - teeth bruising skin as they sink into your shoulder. The sound he makes is broken as he spills into you, muscles clenching with each pulse that paints your walls.

Marking you thoroughly with teeth and come, the saw of his hips slowing until you both finally go still. A breath finally caught.

Blissed out, when he rolls you both to the side. His thighs still mapping yours, cock still notched deep. A thick arm thrown across your waist, his breath ragged in your ear as he catches his breath.

Your fingers drift, as you bask in your afterglow. Dipping into the rips in your mattress, knuckle deep.

There’s a grunt as you wiggle, the words low in your ear, “I’ll get you another, sweetheart. Just lost control for a moment.”

The thought doesn’t bother you as much as you’d think. In fact, you wouldn’t mind if happened again.

Only as your imagination runs wild, do you hear the muffled moan from the brick wall behind you.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

Dramatic and drawn out, paired with faint rhythmic noise.

A beat - before you hear mumbled protesting. The voice of someone talking with their mouth full, “No. Back the fuck off Peter, I’m not going to share.”

Eating. The fucker was eating his end of the bargain, ear pressed to the wall.

The next louder, “Alright, pay up everyone, Operation ‘Get Sugar Some Sugar’ was a success!”

You grimace, eyes rolling. Logan grunts behind you, the words mumbled out sleepily.

“Wish I could sew that goddamn mouth shut.”

There’s a faint “they already tried that!” before Logan’s fist bangs on the wall, shutting him up.

But you can’t help the smile. Your fingers fitting between the ones that rest just below your breasts, squeezing.

“He’s not so bad,” You admit, “Wade, I mean.”

Logan groans, “Don’t say his name while I’m fucking you.”

“You’re-” You start - but then you can feel him.

Still hard - as his hips cant slowly against yours. Your joined hands slip up to cup a breast - as his lips press against your neck, stubble scraping you skin.

“Again?” You breathe, disbelieving that he’d be up for a third time - your hips rocking back to meet his. The sound lewd with how he drips from you - but it only has him grinding himself deeper, “You sure you’re two hundred?”

“Regenerative powers, sweetheart.” Logan husks, the flash of teeth with a knowing smirk.

“Can’t say it doesn’t come with perks.”

I used to have the biggest fucking crush on wolverine, haha - so fun to watch a new movie with him!! 👀💕 thank you so much for reading! And please me know if you'd like to read any more for him! (like more one-shots,etc!)

#phew this got away from me - i can't remember the last time I wrote this much in 2 days #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x f!reader

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xinxiaogato · 1 year ago

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— you're dating who!?

summary. no one believes that you’re dating the esteemed duke of the fortress of meropide. that man is only ever seen locking lips with the orifice of a teacup. however, all of that changes when you and your alleged “boyfriend” are invited to a coworker’s dinner party.

love interest. gn!reader x wriothesley.

warnings. unedited, cursing, bullying, attempted homewrecking, mentions of blood, murder, and assault (nothing crazy), slight angst, lack of communication, a bit suggestive (mentions of light bdsm).

word count. 2,187

note. happy late birthday to wriothesley! this shortfic was inspired by a scene from spy x family (iykyk). you are referred to as “reader” by the way!

while loading up your plate with chips and french fontainian onion dip, you could sense the smugness of your colleagues from all the way across the dining room.

“i mean, we all saw this coming, didn’t we?” one of them piped up with a snarky laugh.

another obnoxiously chortled in return. “i won't forget the day reader told us who could have possibly given them those flowers.”

“right!? and i’m lady furina!”

that joke rocked their worlds to the point that one person started choking on their garlic baguette. your eyes flitted over to your friend, pauline, who was shaking with rage beside you and on the verge of strangling someone.

“why i oughta give them a piece of my mind!” caterwauled pauline, but you perched a hand on her shoulder so that she wouldn’t go ballistic—even if it was on your behalf.

“can’t really blame them,” you conceded. “if you told me you were in a relationship with the iudex of fontaine, i would need a minute.”

“are you saying it’s impossible?”

“i’m saying it’s highly unlikely.”

“hmph! a girl can dream.” pauline haughtily raised her nose into the air and crossed her arms with indignation, which tugged your lips into a small smile. you knew she had your best interests in mind. since day dot, your coworkers were constantly unleashing a tirade of vitriol against you. “anyway, where’s your boyfriend? did he get caught up with something?”

“probably,” you ascertained, taking a sip of red wine. you looked for a seat to settle at; you couldn’t let your chips go cold. “he warned me that he might not make it in time for the party. a new batch of inmates was processed for registration today, and allegedly, they’re unruly.”

her eyes widened after connecting the dots. “are they related to the famous case of the missing paintings? they finally caught the culprits!?”

you raised an eyebrow. “you didn’t know? it’s all over the steambird.”

as you and pauline were sitting down, the hostess of the party, anaïs, and her entourage strode over with purpose. one of anaïs’s minions was the first to start yapping, “well, if it isn’t reader, the person dating the wolf!”

“more like the person who cried wolf!” followed anaïs, which made the group howl like hyenas.

rolling your eyes at their sneers, you replied, “where is your husband, anaïs? don’t tell me he’s at the office ‘working overtime’ with his assistant again.”

all of anaïs’s friends practically broke their necks to look at her.

“h-how did you know about that…!?” anaïs spluttered, her cheeks flared red. “that’s… that’s my personal affairs you’re airing to everyone!”

a follower of anaïs cupped a hand to her ear and hissed, “don’t you remember? reader is friends with charlotte, a journalist for the steambird. she’s notorious for her intel gathering so that she can compete with others for the juiciest scoops!”

“hey, hey, does charlotte know anything about monsieur neuvillette’s type?” pauline whispered to which you were about to answer—only for anaïs to grab your glass of wine.

“you think you’re so high and mighty all the time…!” anaïs said in a shrill voice, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “at least i don’t pretend i’m the bitch of the lord of the fortress of meropide to get attention!”

“i think it would be better for you to channel your energy into divorcing that shitty excuse of a husband,” you corrected her, unfazed by the fact she was threateningly holding the drink above your head. “it’s not your fault that he’s a scumbag, so don’t stick around to see if he’ll change.”

something in anaïs seemed to falter at your words, but it was only for a moment. resentment got the best of her, and in the blink of an eye, red liquid was splashed onto your chest and dripping down your top, making bystanders gasp at the scene before them.

it kind of looked like you just got murdered.

“what is wrong with you!?” pauline furiously yelled after jumping up to shield you, who was still reeling from what happened. “how old are you to be acting like an immature brat!?”

as pauline and one of anaïs’s flunkies began to pull at each other’s hair, a different one pointed a finger into your face while cackling. “ha, serves you right! that outfit must have been dirt cheap anyway, so it couldn’t have been a total loss!”

“oh, you wouldn’t want your shoes ruined, right?” a second cooed, snatching them right off your feet and looking for the nearest window to chuck them out of. “don’t worry, i’ll dry them off for you!”

you got up to take them right back, but anaïs blocked your path, eyes narrowed into slits. “just admit it, reader,” she snarled. “you’re nothing but an attention-seeking whore for the fortress of meropide’s administrator, a goody two-shoes for our boss, and a laughing stock for all of fontaine. you’re nothing!”

“monsieur wriothesley!” a voice resounded from down the hallway, causing everyone in the dining room to freeze. “we’re so honored to have you join us! did lady anaïs invite you?”

before you knew it, a strong arm wrapped around your shoulders from behind to give you a tight squeeze, and a pair of lips kissed the top of your head.

“so sorry i’m late, my love,” a deep voice purred by your ear. “my hands were tied…”

his voice trailed off. wriothesley, whose sudden appearance had dropped every partygoer’s jaw, noticed that your top felt weirdly damp. when he craned his neck to investigate, his heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach.

he immediately questioned if it was your blood or not.

“reader!” your boyfriend shouted, turning you around and holding you by the shoulders. a fear he had only felt as a teenager flooded rapidly into his system, and it was taking everything in him to not explode. “what happened to you? are you hurt!?”

you were still stunned in the aftermath, but you quickly collected yourself and placed your hands atop his. “no, no, i’m fine, wrio. i’m not hurt. it’s just red wine.”

“red… red wine?”

recovering from his initial shock, wriothesley twisted around, his jacket fluttering swiftly in tandem. his eyes took in the sight of an awestruck anaïs holding something behind her back and a petrified person clutching onto a pair of shoes (which explained why your dogs were out).

in a calm tone more terrifying than him speaking out of anger, wriothesley said to the hostess, “i apologize for souring the mood. however…” quickly, he engulfed your body with his jacket and swept you off your feet, hitching the air in your throat as he held you close to his chest. “my partner is not feeling well, so we’ll be taking our leave. we humbly thank you for the invitation.”

“b-but you just got here!” anaïs fretted.

her first mistake was revealing the wine glass she was desperately trying to hide earlier. in wriothesley’s realm, we call this a foul.

“reader was just a little tipsy and spilled a drink on themselves!” she crooned, tilting her head up at the duke and innocently batting her eyelashes. “why don’t you stay and become acquainted with your partner’s coworkers?”

her second foul: coveting a man in a relationship.

“i mean, they can’t be unwell to the point of needing to go home!”

her third: messing with reader. and three fouls meant a disqualification.

“heavens, no,” wriothesley insisted. “my partner’s health is my main priority, and time is of the essence. besides, the longer i remain, the less time i have to file a detailed report on an assault and battery that took place here.”

it became so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

“a…assault…?” even through the makeup caked on anaïs’s face, you could see the color drain from it entirely. “what… what assault…!? no assault happened here, your grace!” when his frown spoke volumes, she cried out, “y-you don’t have any proof!”

“oh, i would suggest otherwise. and i believe there are many eyewitnesses to testify.”

you peered around at the guests who had gathered to view the spectacle, and they were nodding in support of wriothesley’s claim, including pauline. even anaïs’s goons were vehemently bobbing their heads up and down, still in disbelief that the man, the myth, the legend himself had graced them with his presence.

“now if you’ll excuse me…” with you firmly in his grasp, wriothesley approached the woman still clinging to your footwear, who immediately began to quiver. “i would like for you to return my partner’s shoes,” he ordered with a look as cold as ice.

��o-of course!” she stammered, extending the shoes toward him. “it was all in good fun, your grace!”

“oh, those aren’t mine,” he said with a cock of his head at your bare toes. “like i said, those belong to my partner.”

finally picking up what was he putting down, the lady shakily slipped your shoes back on your feet for which you glanced up at wriothesley with furrowed eyebrows. he only reacted with a smile that thawed the rigid expression on his face.

“i-i can’t possibly rot in jail!” anaïs was still making a fuss nearby. “i’m so young and beautiful! can’t you look past this, monsieur wriothesley…!? i’ll do anything!”

“well, it’s not something you’ll go to prison for, ma’am,” he said, not even sparing anaïs a glance as he headed for the front door, “but this misdemeanor will forever stain your official records and reputation… just as you stained my partner’s clothes.” (mic drop.)

and that was that. with a quick kiss on both cheeks from pauline, you exited the dead-quiet house in your boyfriend’s arms.

“wrio…” you murmured as he started walking in the direction of your home. “i’m really sorry for inconveniencing you.”

wriothesley momentarily stopped in his tracks to gaze down at you, his lips pursed before sighing. “no… don’t apologize, my love. i’m sorry for not arriving sooner.”

“but that isn’t your fault,” you pointed out.

a chuckle resonated from deep within his chest. “touché.”

however, his lightheartedness faded out with that chuckle when his hands gripped onto you tighter, as if you were about to dissolve into water at any moment.

“what happened, reader?” he croaked, displaying a side of him reserved for your eyes alone. “how long have they been treating you like this? and for you to not even give them a taste of the boxing skills i taught you for these kinds of situations…”

you clutched his jacket tighter to your body. “you already have so much on your plate. i could not dare to tell you something that may weigh on your conscience.”

“please,” he whispered. “i want you to weigh on my conscience.”

after a moment’s worth of hesitation, you finally gave in, explaining that the fresh bouquet of rainbow roses he sent to your office one morning sent your colleagues into a frenzy that turned your life into a nightmare. as you spoke, wriothesley’s expression became grimmer and grimmer. he couldn’t even fathom how much of a shitshow your company was for permitting the kind of behavior he merely glimpsed this evening.

and he couldn't bear the thought that you had been suffering alone for months.

“they didn’t believe me for a second, even when i had pictures of you and me framed on my desk. ‘oh, those must have been edited’.”

realizing wriothesley's muscles were so taut, you attempted to alleviate the atmosphere. “i guess no one can accept an ordinary office worker dating the administrator of the fortress of meropide. like, picture the tianquan of the liyue qixing with an npc.”

in any other situation, your boyfriend would be laughing, but certainly not this one. “no one can determine our relationship,” wriothesley stated with a clear veracity. “you are the light in my bleak world, reader, and nothing is allowed to take you away from me. if so, i will travel to the ends of teyvat to bring you back.”

he then grinned, showing off his cute canines. “and you bet i'll put my handcuffs to use.”

you slapped a hand to your forehead. “way to ruin the mood. i was just about to kiss you.”

in response, he grinded his knuckles into the top of your head, which made you yodel out in pain. “what was that for!?” you exclaimed.

“for not kissing me, but more importantly: for keeping a secret from me,” he clarified, his pale gray eyes twinkling under the moonlight. “no more of that, okay?”

you warmly smiled up at him and rested your head against his broad shoulder, completely wiped out from the party-turned-fiasco. “okay.”

as the two of you reached your abode, a question popped up in your mind. “were you serious about the handcuff thing?”

he smirked. “yes, and you’ll find out just how serious i am after we take a shower together. you reek of wine.”

a pink blush dusted your cheeks. “what? together!?”

“together. you and me.”

“ahhh! put me down!”

“nope. not a chance.”

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x you #genshin impact x you #wriothesley x reader #fluff #crack #comfort #angst #stella writes — !#you're dating who!?

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mysteriesmuse · 1 year ago

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You’re hiding in your Hiding Place — Bakugou Katsuki’s bicep 💪

In your later years at UA, Bakugou Katsuki ends up with an —unusual reputation within class A. He’s got a notoriously famous mean streak, but in 1-A he’s also got a reputation for having a strangely nutty tough-love aura about him — which makes him a decently good person to come run to when things go wrong. Naturally, not anyone’s top pick or anything, but a good one for when you need cry your heart out, or something. And, Bakugou usually knows, which is why he’s not all too surprised when you plow into his midsection in the middle of the hall. He’s headed upstairs from a later dinner because of his internship when he sees you. You’re coming straight from the dormitory showers, a chrous of familiar caterwauling floating out from the boys side. That’s why he took his showers in the morning, if he could help it, because at least Iida didn’t attempt to sing. You look soft and malleable stepping out from the bathroom. An old tye-dye shirt boasting participation of some kind of annual charity run and a pair of sweatpants on. The cuff at you ankles revealing your — now, slightly pink house slippers due to a washing mishap that happened last week in the dorms with a certain Shitty-Hair’ed guy and his red-themed hero costume. Your arms and face are dewy with what he presumes is that moisturizer that all you girls like to lather up in daily — and your hair is still on the verge of wet and stringy, but also frizzy and fuck, you look so very tired and soft right now. Katsuki pauses, red eyes squinting at your face; your nose is pink and your face is dewy, but those aren’t fingerprints left in the wake of moisturizer — it’s old tears that’s streaked over it. He huffs from his nose, nostrils flaring before he takes his hands out of his pockets and flexes his fingers at you where they hang by the side of his hips. And it’s then that he sees your shoulders slacken slightly before you’re suddenly pressed up against his front. All causal and warm — pressed as far into his abdomen as you can get, and he can feel your boobs smush against his chest because you’re very clearly not wearing a bra — and also because he’s earned a reputation for being a decent fucking human and for being nonchalant about that stuff. Bakugou is one of three guys in the dorm you guys deem trustworthy and reasonable enough to do that with. (The other two being Shouji and Todoroki.) And thus, he’s been grappled into many squishy-boob hugs by all you shitty girls. And your cheek is pressed against the hard plain of muscle that is his chest and your arms are wrapped around him — just under his shoulder blades in an action that lifts him and pulls Bakugou in towards you just a little bit. Your fingertips pressing into the muscle on his back and he hopes you don’t feel the way his heart is lub-dubbing inside his chest at the action. And suddenly Bakugou pulls you closer to him. A bicep circling protectively beside your chin, as a big palm comes to rest atop your damp hair. His other arm squeezing around your mid-section like a python and it’s a good thing too because as soon as he puts his arms around you Bakugou can feel that strength seeping from you and it feels like he’s holding you together. And that’s when the sniffles start.

“I’m so pathetic,” you whine. “As soon as you put your arms around me I felt my knees buckle.” And you’re pressed so close Bakugou can feel the way your lips move to form the words right against his chest. And instead of Bakugou saying anything mildly helpful in this situation his says, “I have that effect.” With a slight shrug that brings the top of your head pressing against his jaw, which might just be him engulfing and cradling you completely, but who knows? And Bakugou has no fucking idea why he said that. Or how he managed to say something so flirtatiously cringy with such calm, but all you do is attempt to shake your head against his hold and mumble, “yeah, that makes sense. I’ve seen the other girls around school.” Which you punctuate with a snort, an arm moving from his back to swipe at your face. Bakugou has no idea where this is going — except for you to start “hilariously deflecting” from whatever problem is at hand. “There’s this one girl,” you start with a breath, “she’s always hanging around the hallway between classes. She’s definitely trying to catch you at your locker, but she always just ends up next to mine and Momo’s — saying something random before running off. She’s definitely into you.” You look up at him, still completely weak in his hold and Bakugou scrunches his nose at you. An action that you find looks unnatural and awkward on the sharp features of his face. You frown, hoarsely laughing, “Stop that.” About his facial expression. Bakugou can’t imagine any girls wanting to be with him. Surely he’s a terrible catch at a boyfriend.

He face curls into a snarling scoff, “Nope. Can’t see it. You must be imaging things.” He declares forcefully pressing your head back into the cocoon of him. He settles his head back on top of yours and you’re now squirming like a damn worm. And you find some strength as you manage to peek your face out and blink at him with furrowed brows. And maybe it’s cause you’re in a vulnerable state with a good friend and maybe it’s because you’ve been harboring a little bit of a recent crush on the boy, but you blurt out, “You’re a catch. You know that, right?” And again his stupidly handsome face scrunches into that weird shape again before his red eyes are staring into yours. The hand on your back clutches at your shirt fabric before he says, “You really think that? You’re not just fucking with me?” You snort, wiping a few more stray tears from an entirely different problem than the internal one that the blonde is currently having. “Yeah I really think that, Bakugou.” And there’s a little quip on the side of his mouth that might count as a Bakugou smile, but it’s gone before you can tease him about it. The explosive murder god boy being unsure about his status as attractive is entirely too precious and far too laughable a situation — which is probably why your aggressively smooshed back into his chest and why he starts waddling side to side. For some damn reason the gently rocking from foot-to-foot placebo affects you into crying it all out. Some remnant of being a baby you suppose, but it’s still annoying how Bakugou’s managed to peg it on you so easily. And you’re damn right Bakugou’s doing it on purpose because you very clearly have a problem of your own or you wouldn’t be clutching onto him for dear life like you are right now. And despite this revelation that Kirishima may be right in the fact that’s he’s attractive he’s still whirling at the thought that you think he’s a catch. Because you’re the only girl he’d probably ever want thinking that — but Bakugou tucks that piece of knowledge into the back of his brain when Momo comes out of the showers next. A giant frilly nightgown on as she scampers over — talking and whispering to you gently from within your little hiddie-hole formed by his curled bicep and forearm. And he just huffs, and continues to cocoon you in his embrace rocking back and forth like a damn rocking-chair as you rattle off whatever’s been on your mind.

What’s on his mind is for another day . . .

#mysteriesmusing #katsuki bakugou #mha fanfiction #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou drabble #bakugou katsuki #bakugou headcanons

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godihatethiswebsite · 5 days ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Five - On Trial

Apologies for the delay as there were a few speed bumps that my foggy brain just did not want to hump over. This chapter gave me some grief, but I'm still happy with how it turned out :)

Trigger Warnings: religious imagery, ptsd, angst, brief mentions of rape/incest/assault/drugging/coercion/miscarriage

Flat deadened eyes bore chasms through your own.

They peeled away the impregnable shroud of shame masking the abhorrent malefactions of those you’ve wronged.

In a split second of time, those eyes foisted judgment upon all your heinous sins with an executioner’s toll. Damning you to an endless oblivion amongst the cacophony of wailing souls eternally condemned to the River Styx.

Behold! The face of your adjudicator!

Blackened barbed wire constricts the fat of his gluttonous form. Exposed sickly ashen skin held together by threaded catgut, bursting at the seams with bone-white mold. Hellfire caged in little glass vials illuminates the agonized expression glued to a visage of perpetual torment, standing against a backdrop of towering decayed limbs, basking in the multitude of jewel toned offerings left by those who worship at the base of this miserable creature’s sacrificial altar.

…Of all the cheerful residents from the Hundred Acre Wood, who on god’s green earth decided that Eeyore of all things would be the poster boy for Christmas?

The melancholically predisposed cartoon character was a mess of tangled Christmas lights, having apparently failed in his endeavor to liven up the wilted excuse of a barren evergreen behind him and somehow succeeding in trapping his own pudgy form in the decorations instead – the ‘D’ in December knocked crooked in his fruitless struggles.

A paltry souvenir magnet from someplace sunny holds the calendar aloft, Winnie the Pooh designs posted on the side of your fridge with thick glossy sheets. A gift from your fathers; a new one included in their holiday care package every year.

You’re sure the overstuffed box currently shoved beneath your kitchen table for lack of anywhere more reasonable to house it has its plastic-wrapped replacement buried amongst the other contents. Previous years involved such colorful settings as early 2000’s internet memes or a compilation of fun facts regarding the world’s different varieties of cheeses. Not for your own enjoyment, of course, but for the chagrined expression your family insisted on basking in come Christmas morn.

Not that you admitted to liking this past year's theme of childhood whimsey…

The curlicue numbers on the wintery grid mark the passage of time – crossed out with dry streaks of red ink. Christmas is naught but five days from now, the emphasized date stamped in the upper righthand corner with a glittery ribbon as if the holiday needed even more call for attention. It means almost nothing to you outside of a familial facetime over a microwaved breakfast of cheap eggo waffles.

You’ll suffer congenially through the good natured poking and prodding. Chloe will send a text; Alex won’t. And the day will pass by in a whisper of silence – the magic of miracles stored back in their damp corporate box for cheapened rehashing the following year.

Holing away in the confines of your solitary habitat came with the added benefit of only exposing yourself to the overhyped celebration on a reasonable once-weekly basis, driving to and fro your therapist's office; painfully ignoring the garish spectacle of such yuletide enrichment as fuzzy wonky reindeer antlers wedged atop sticker splattered minivans, off-key fourth graders caterwauling carols in the backseat, tinsel and fiberglass grating on your teeth.

At least, your antisocialness normally would save you from such headaches.

When the pharmacy didn’t bungle communications with your primary care physician and refill your prescription two weeks early.

The voicemail left on your phone this morning was a little more than a minor annoyance. You’d only just finished chasing the taste of bile with citrusy mouthwash, leaning your leaded weight against the cold marble of the sink, stomach still spasming with painful braxton hicks-like contractions. Shaky hands splashed tepid water on your face, wicking away the evidence of exertion and clearing your chin of digested chicken noodle.

You’d only half paid attention to the robotic voice droning over speakerphone, wiping off your face with a disgruntled glare at your reflection and muffling a groan into the pilled fabric of your hand towel at the automated message. This was not a day to be playing at adulthood. This was a day for warm chunky socks and Disney movie marathons.

And now because some overworked new hire chugging Red Bulls probably keyed in the wrong refill date in an over-caffeinated zeal, you were once again paying for someone else's mistake.

(A running theme for your life.)

You shook off the bitter thought with a weary sigh, hanging the damp towel from the plastic command hook on peeling wallpaper. The buzzing of the keypad rattled the counter as you’d cleared out your phone’s voicemail, scooping up the device and trudging back around the corner to begin what should’ve originally been an easy day.

Now, a few hours of lounging had garnered you enough gumption to voyage out amongst proper society once more, rinsing your chubby dinosaur mug from earlier in the sink as your eyes flick up unwittingly to the calendar nearby.

You know what you’re counting even as you abash yourself for it.

The crumpled bag of mostly full coffee grounds has been sitting in your bin for the past two days, put there in an abstract protest to the blatant disregard of your feelings by a caustic alpha. The taste on your tongue has become as phantom as the scent that once clung to your coat rack, wafted away by a bottle of descenting spray the same way you wish to purge his lingering effervescence from where it's taken root in your spine.

The offending bag collects dust at the top of the pile, placed there in a huff at the start of every morning. When its existence mocks your suffering and the grief of a life you’ll never get to live is at the forefront of every painful heave into grimy porcelain, forced onto your knees like the flaccid servient creature that beast has morphed you into.

Still, there’s no sign of refuse or food waste on the flimsy outside packaging. It never stays put long enough to accumulate filth or bury itself in neglected disuse. At the end of the night, when the wounds of before are wrapped in a somnolent layer of protective padding, it returns to its spot amongst the clutter of your countertop, a pitiful idol to the foolish part he’s allowed to fester against your better judgment.

God, you’ve tried so hard to ignore it – you really have. With what little there is to occupy your mind in this lackluster environment, the labor of staying detached is proving arduous. John’s memory agitating the stripped-bare axis of simple order your world rotates upon.

Distraction eludes you at every attempt to forget. The warmth of your nest is the comfort of his leather embrace, the Zofran on your tongue the calloused paw at your nape grounding you in tempered reality. Soft boar hair bristles are his fingers, the zest in your meal his vigor. His face is in the deep prussian sweater jailed to the back of your closet for the sole crime of coming too close to the cerulean shade that haunts your waking memory.

You thought you already knew what it meant to belong to another. To be branded with someone else’s signet like a bored kid in history class taking chunks out of his desk until it was too desecrated with graffiti to be regarded as anything other than his unofficial property. No one wanted to touch what the school bully had already sullied.

Until John.

It didn’t matter that the seat was already occupied. He just scratched out the nameplate with safety scissors and staked his claim with a wad of gum beneath the chair.

He was dark matter wedging its way to take up space between condensed molecules, bullying the other elements into submission until his chemical makeup twisted you to something there was no coming back from. Sweeping in with the strength of a category five and the persistence of the big bad wolf.

You despise John for the damage he’s incurred to your house made of straw – all of them really – but you detest yourself even more for the gnawing disappointment flooding your gut that he hasn’t shaken the foundations further.

The hiss of pain between your teeth as you adjust the abrasive scarf around your neck serves as a sobering reminder of the real cancer infecting your cells. Even if the claim was buried under layers, it didn’t mean your flesh didn’t still carry the scars from its etching.

Slinging your purse over your shoulder, you take to the task of unlocking each of the bolts guarding you from the true terrors of an alpha’s altruistic attention.

Please just let this be quick.

The sneer from the old crone in aisle two has you ducking the latter half of your face in the itchy fabric that hides the one thing you’re currently being judged for.

You don’t know her name, but you’ve seen her outside the steps of your apartment enough with her hellspawn of a pomeranian to know she lives in your building. The grey curls of her poodle cut perm do nothing to hide the splotches of alopecia that come with age. Tissue paper skin dappled with sun spots begs for the youth of collagen, gaunt around her cheekbones and only highlighting her witchy exterior, a moth eaten shawl hanging loosely over the quasimodo hump keeping her from standing at a height taller than that of a twelve year old child.

The grouchy bat is clever, though, you’ll give her that. There’s a discerning eye behind those tortoiseshell frames that speak of a bygone prime filled with intrigue and gossip that’s followed her well into her twilight years.

She’s honed her intellect well.

And she knows.

Your skin crawls with maggots under her heated glare, boring subdermal tunnels that reach beyond the capabilities of a simple itch. The writhing anomalies only add to the growing discomfort of waiting in the pharmacy queue for far longer than need be. Ten minutes you’ve been behind the same middle aged man – too diffident to interrupt the conversation going on ahead of you – as what should’ve been a simple snatch and grab of his blood pressure medication turns into three decades of catching up with a bygone acquaintance from primary school.

“–when Janine drank some weird concoction back at Jimmy’s place. Fucking health nut has his own carbonator in his kitchen and she got the bright idea on six shots of cuervo to run a glass of milk through the damn thing. Ended up spewing all over Crystal’s pants.”

To their credit, the pharmacist had at least been working on filling prescriptions as he prattled on with the bald spot beta in front of you, bustling between stocked aisles of jarred substances and counting out little white tablets with every ping from the database. He just didn’t seem to care about the goings on inside the store. “Adam mentioned that when I ran into him at the football match last June. Isn’t that O’Hara’s omega? The one who used to save her gum in a giant ball after she was done chewing it?”

Eww. Seriously?

“Nah, that’s Abigail. Crystal was Billy and Carter’s girl.”

That seemed to catch the other alpha in his tracks, a quizzical brow replacing one of mild interest as he paused his fingers over the keyboard. “Was? What happened to her?”

“Fucking up and left them, that’s what. And right after they supported her through that unfortunate miscarriage too. Came home one day to an empty nest and a note on the table telling them she was done. Poor guys never even saw it coming.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be one of them?”

“Yea,” the beta’s tone turned sour. “Unfaithful bitch.”

The Unfaithful.

That’s what they call you now.

Those who have forsaken their oaths and disgraced the name ‘omega’. The sanctity of packdom desecrated by egocentric bond breakers. Scheming harlots abandoning their worshipful protectors– denying them their designated rights and withholding the gift of eternal peace upon those alphas worthy enough to be chosen.

False omegas. Government apostates to how things are supposed to be run.

Doesn’t matter that those who claim to be victims before the courts are the same conniving bastards stripping us of our bodily autonomy. Nothing is impermissible.

Rape. Incest. Assault. Drugging. Coercion. Words that carry weight become cotton candy deadlifts in the face of a mating bond. It has no undoing – no magic words or medical procedures. There is no running towards the arms of a better pack in hopes of a brighter future; no room for another in the tether of your soul. That anchor has taken root in the rock bed and cannot be claimed outside the mysticism of a scent match.

Crueler parts of the world would hunt you down like the runaway slave they’re too cowardice to admit they perceive you as, a bounty placed upon your head and welts on your back for disobeying, brittle nails clawing at the dirt in a last attempt at freedom, dragged back to your master in an iron wrought collar displaying the shame of your sins.

Suppose you should consider yourself lucky that here, amongst the dredges of refined society, your kind are merely shunned.

Bosom friends all turn their backs, work desks empty into a cardboard box under the guise of ‘performance issues’. The deli at the corner claims they’re closed, red blocky letters drawing blood by the gallons as the patrons inside regard you like you’re nothing more than a sopping wet stray begging for scraps in the rain.

There are no laws that protect from discrimination for people like you. The lease in your fathers’ names and the lie from their lips are the only things sheltering you from homelessness. Others are not so fortunate as to have the word of an alpha keeping them off the street.

The forlorn promise of a better tomorrow is all that greets you now in the wake of devastation. There is no higher contract than the bite marks on your neck.

The scathing look from the disgruntled woman would be warranted by those around you if they were privy to the same suspicions she carried. The signs were all there if they only knew where to look.

“Miss?”

You hardly notice when they end their interaction, the off-putting customer service smile from the alpha behind the counter making the pit of your stomach rumble with unease as you scurry to the front, quietly offering up your personal information as you place your ID on the counter.

If he only knew he had the power to blacklist you in his hands…

You fork over the cash in far shorter time than the previous customer did, spending less than two minutes to his twenty before you duck away from the substantial line that’s formed in the time since your subsequent arrival.

It’s your luck the old hag is three guests behind you, averting your gaze to the task of stashing your meds to try and keep from further interaction. Too bad a half century’s worth of smoking comes out in the rasping slur she spits at you from underneath her breath.

“Fucking glitch.”

You’ve heard the words directed at you once before, only far more cutting and uttered from a far different mouth. That didn’t stop the insult from piercing through to bone, a deep ache in your ribs that slows your gait and gives you pause beside the basket drop-off.

A quick glance around confirms a lack of disdain from your fellow shoppers. You’re surprisingly fortunate that her biting remark hadn’t been made any louder. You frequent this shop often enough to be recognizable to most of the staff – though not on any sort of conversational terms. Being blacklisted here wouldn’t just result in an inconvenient trek farther for medical service, but a mark that would deny usage no matter the location.

Every step out your front door is a chance for your past to catch up to you… in one form or another.

A shock of cold jolts you from your far-away stare, startling a yelp that draws brief attention as you jump back from the unwanted contact, hand retreating away at the abrupt offense. Cradling it to your chest, you’re met with cobalt eyes and sunshine hair, a bright eyed pupper beaming up at you from its spot perched at your feet.

“Sorry about him!” An apologetic voice squawks to the left of you, calling your attention to the hobbling beta woman at the other end of the leash. Her neon green marshmallow puffer greets you before her dark curls and round cheeks, a prosthetic hand keeping grip on her furry friend. “He’s a well behaved boy I promise! Ain’t gonna bite ya or anything.”

“Oh no, he’s fine!” The tremble in your words is more from social awkwardness than anything, having been caught off guard in a place far too crowded for your tastes, rolling your shoulders to halt the impulse to scratch. “Just wasn’t expecting a wet dog nose is all.”

The beta, on the other hand, has no problem running a knitted mitten over the back of her neck. “Yeaaaah, it’s not often he gets away from me like that. You see, he’s my service animal.” She calls attention to the black vest around his body, a litany of bright colored patches and big blocky words adorning the functioning harness that you hadn’t quite discerned upon first glance. “He uh… was just alerting to you.”

It takes you a moment to process the words, blinking down at the panting canine regarding you with eyes more keen than the pea-brained expression would suggest.

Good to know even a dog can sense you’re nine different levels of fucked up.

“You can pet him if you want,” comes the gentle offer upon spying the embarrassment painting your features, taking her faithful companion’s inattention in stride. The quirk of her mouth gives you a green light even if her words already did. “Far be it for me to disagree with the boss here when he puts his mind to something.”

The words of declination rest limp on your tongue, a moment’s hesitation giving way beneath the understanding gaze of an impartial animal whose sole purpose is to provide the comfort of love. Crouching down to its level – uncaring of the salt trekked state of the tile – it's almost instinctual to wrap your arms around the retriever for an act that seems so much more dangerous coming from any other being. The muzzle that finds home in the junction of your shoulder roots you through the floor, going beyond solid concrete foundation and miles of serpentine pipeways, winding through terraceous cracks unyielding to the progress of man to find purchase in the damp soil unseen for thousands of years, unbowing to the anything but the turn of the earth.

Calm is not the word; the pounding pulse in your ears and the headrush of being out in public still ring through the chittering bustle of checkout lanes to keep you on your toes. Yet the ache in your soul feels less like a boulder and more like a handful of a pebbled shore.

Pulling away from the smell of damp fur, slobber greets your face in the form of affection, features pulling taut against the playful onslaught trying its best to intrude between the cracks of your mouth.

“Easy does it, bud.” A soft yank on his harness serves as a gentle reminder, turning from loveable pup to esteemed gentleman panting in perfect submission. “No one wants to taste what you had for lunch earlier today.”

You flash her a grateful smile for the interference, fingers moving next to scritch around the bright red collar mostly hidden by dense hairs, a glinting dog bone with cursive scrawl clacking against the knuckles of your hand. “Rocky, huh?”

“Yea,” she chuckles. “Don’t judge, but he was actually my favorite power ranger as a kid.” Her mittened hand joins yours in the thick pelt of his neck, scratching at some secret spot that gets his tail thumping, the appendage a whirling propeller trying in vain to achieve liftoff. How long they must’ve been in each other’s company for such familiarity. “Figured since this little guy was gonna be my hero too, he deserved a name befitting the courage he inspires.”

Her sincerity sparks something in you as you reach back to your own childhood, the sizzling of pancakes on the griddle against a backdrop of Saturday morning shows. Your smile warms at the memory. “Hey, no judgment here. After all, mine was Tommy.”

The moment breaks with shattered glass somewhere off to the right, the both of you reacting with varying degrees of frazzled nerves. You don’t miss the way her hand strikes out with practiced swiftness towards her hip, something nonexistent bumped away from flexing fingers by a patience nudge. Wide eyes glance down at her stalwart companion, already staring back with all the surety of his namesake, pushing her palm further against the smoothness of his head, urging her to stay with him in the safety of the moment. You don’t know the ghosts that haunt her–doing your best to avert your gaze from the glimpse of carbon fiber–but you watch as they retreat with calming breaths back to the place where they were born.

She shoots you a look you know she rather wouldn’t, an unspoken apology wrapped in embarrassment as familiar to you as it is to her, understanding passing between mirrored irises. There’s a shuffling of feet as you both scurry on your respective ways, you towards the outside air while her path takes her further inward. A quick glance over your shoulder finds him pressed against her side, snout turned upwards with a lolling tongue and dopey smile, eyes on the caregiver staring back at him with fond devotion. To have something that loves you that much…

Your gaze softens along with your words. “Good boy, Rocky…”

Fire ants bite into your cheek as the sharp crack that accompanies them leaves an outline of lava, the slap mark on your face glowing red hot and searing with the weight behind their assault. It dulls as the molten rock cools, a beating heart on the surface kept in time with the now racing pulse in your neck. The shock of it is almost as painful as the protruding iron shelves getting knocked against your spine, blowback jostling the festive display contents some poor stocker worked so hard on as cardboard cubes of kleenex clatter like ornaments to the muck-stained floor.

The outcry from your lips is muffled in comparison to groaning metal shifting under your weight, hand instinctively flying up as a wall to protect from further onslaught. Heat blooms again even under your careful touch, hissing in a gasp as wide eyes filled with glistening saline catch up a moment before your nostrils take in a familiar decadence.

Her omega scent of rich warm brownie, fresh out the oven – but swallowed from the edges by the beginnings of char. Too high a temp getting cooked for too long, potent in its fury as it cracks and concaves. A sickeningly sweet outer shell transmuting under pressure, turning perfect gooey fudge into bubbling tar.

The visage that greets you is tempered by dread; a mixture of refined beauty and smoldering hate.

White fluffy earmuffs contrast against long chocolate waves spilling like molasses over a matching pristine peacoat – as if not even fate itself dared to sully such purity. If the air of refinement somehow doesn’t outclass you than the designer handbag does. No pack could ask for a more exemplary omega.

You’ve seen those cheekbones on the cover of magazines, that glassy skin splashed clean in luxury skincare ads. Perfect porcelain as artistically rendered as fine chinaware. Every model you’ve ever envied taken shape as your worst nightmare. Dark bambi eyes red-ringed with acidic tears, button nose flaring with each heaving rise of her trembling shoulders. Full pouty lips quiver under the enormous weight of emotions that threaten to claw almond manicured nails through your skin like chainsaws.

There is anger, but there is also pain.

And you caused it.

You do not know which response consumes you more: panic, or shame.

“You–” her voice breaks like her heart, delicate wind chimes in a spring downpour. “You s-stay away from them…” Her words come in a struggle, fighting for stability whilst she hangs onto her composure with a thread as thin as spider silk. “They’re not yours… so… so just– just leave us alone!”

Gone is the lighthearted vision spun in innocent etherealness from that day in the store. Sparkling doe eyes now filled with scorn don’t suit the unblemished being not a foot in front of you. There’s an ingrained sweetness in her now pitiful form that so easily calls to an alpha’s protectiveness, a creature that deserves to be cherished, adorned; royalty reincarnated to a modern day princess.

There are only traces of that now standing a few feet in front of the automatic sliding doors, a smashed box of tissues keeping the mechanism from closing and sending a chill over the entire conversation.

You shrink in on yourself, lowering your gaze in a meek show of submission that speaks where your own voice fails. How could you continue to look her in the eye when you are the reason this woman is suffering? When you are the bad guy in every sense of the word?

Filth. Sullied. Poison. Suffocating her with your very presence as if your own tainted pheromones could overcast hers.

You expect more–deserve more–but she turns on her heels, the sensors allowing passage as she hurries back out the way you suspect she only just came.

You’re as stunned as the bystanders around you, blinking at her retreating form into the small parking lot beyond. You can’t help but watch as she races across the asphalt, thoughts of her own task left behind in a trail of her own tears. Badly muffled whispers start in earnest at the display. Chorused words of ‘wicked woman’ following you out onto the pavement. Tongues lashing into open wounds kept bleeding by your own shame.

That pain is nothing in the wake of the familiar figure of a towering form.

He meets her halfway, hulking mass climbing out from the cab of a blackened range rover at the first sign of her obvious distress. From this far away you can only make out the sounds of heaving sobs, watch as dainty hands clutch the dark material of her protector, the furrow of his brow as he searches for answers to her suffering.

Whatever she responds, you find yourself once more snapped in place by the weight of his stare, looking no less worse for wear than the first time he did.

Logic says the phantom tartness on your tongue is a hallucination ingrained from previous exposure, but the inner omega whining helplessly to be understood doesn’t comprehend the self inflicted wounds she scores with brittle claws at the first chance to taste. In many ways, designative instincts retain the innocence of youth: purely reactionary in their naive disregard. They’re doe-eyed five year olds holding up the mangled body of a broken baby bird and proclaiming ‘they can fix it’. To them, they don’t realize the damage that comes with wishing for a bite of lemon zest when they know that cupcake is theirs, deaf to the scolding of a parent who knows better.

After all, what gives you the right to take what hasn’t been offered? For wishing for the comfort of an alpha’s scent that doesn’t belong to you? All it does is make you feel like the shameful thief the people in the shop think you are.

So you keep your distance from the alpha and his mate, once more stuck in a whirlwind of unintentional trouble. He’s too far away to make out the hues of his eyes, but his body language tells you exactly where he stands in all this. Fingers flexed in a possessive grip, the placement of his hand curled around her mid back, the subtle hunch he takes as he tucks her tearstained face beneath his covered chin.

A choice.

Conceal. Protect. Intruder.

You once wondered at the outcome if you hadn’t run that night; if the call that beckoned you ‘wait’ had kept you rooted to the floor. How would this mammoth have reacted - the one who only watched in pure neutrality as your world crumbled apart? Would he have let his friend make the first move forward? Would there have been an altercation? Spoken words and awkward introductions such as with their Scottish brethren? Did they care about your cowardice? Did the alphas give you chase? Lose your scent in the produce aisle and catch their breaths in the crisp night air?

At last you have your answer.

The judgment he passes as he turns his back to you has far more gravitas than the mopey donkey on your fridge. The conjured images of morbidity that entertained you earlier this morning feels like a holiday in comparison to the way your arteries shrivel from necrosis; down another size and a half by Grinch standards.

(Would it ever grow again?)

Closing your eyes against the sight is all you can do to maintain your sanity.

“Lass!”

As if life hasn’t finished causing you torment enough, the rough brogue catching your ears has your eyes peeling back open, the depression gluttoning away at your insides taking note at the promise of further feast, cackling gleefully at the tousled mohawk rounding the the opposite side of the vehicle his companions are approaching. Concern sits heavy on his brow, footsteps sure of their path as the pair sidle up along the drivers side of their SUV, lemon shuffling his omega through the open door he holds and into the relative safety of the back seat. You expect John to join them – to fuss and coo over her the same way he did for you in the cafe. Your masochism soaks up the envy like a yorkshire pudding at Christmas dinner.

But he makes no move to join his mate, blazing a path that leads beyond.

It’s not her he’s calling out for. It’s you.

Something smothers in your chest at the meaty glove that yanks him backwards, the heft of his brawn outmatched by the iron grip stopping him from advancing any further, shoved back against the shiny black of the range rover. The suspension creaks from the sheer force of the impact, giving you a hint as to the momentum which was suddenly reversed and applied to the hull, vehicle tilting a few centimeters off its wheelbase before thudding back down to settle on its chassis.

Charged static fills the air as overwhelmingly as the growl ripped from their chest – from which alpha you aren’t sure. The palpable anger that must be flaring in their scent chokes those unfortunate few nearby into hurrying along, a group of teenagers giving wide berth as the old man a few cars over shoves something fragile into the boot with a telltale crunch, slamming the latch shut before climbing over his center console to the steering wheel from the opposite side. No one wants to get involved in pack business, much less find themselves collateral damage in a showdown between behemoths.

Where lemon’s mouth is obscured, John’s isn’t, giving you unfiltered access to the snarl he spits up at the man a few inches taller than him. He makes his displeasure clear in a volume still too quiet for you to grasp, but his argument is apparent in the gesturing of his arms, the wildness matched by the heart he so clearly wears on his sleeve. His packmate stands in complete opposition to the outward show of aggression by the former, striking in his marble-like appearance, firm against the blunted chisel of whatever’s being discussed. The only sign that he’s participating comes in the form of the other’s interrupted pauses.

Your thoughts turn to the omega inside overhearing all of this. The discontent she must feel down the bond from those she loves most has to be just as painful as the ability to hear the quarreling itself. What must she be going through–huddled alone in the shadows by herself–having to listen to what you assume is an argument over another woman… one that a mate is clearly defending?

What consumes her more? Is it rage? Betrayal? Anguish? Abandonment? Jealousy? Your heart goes out to her at this moment in a way you’re not sure her packmates are knowing or even empathetic to.

You suddenly flinch as if being struck by the accusatory finger pointed in your direction by the up-until-now stoic alpha, nose to nose with a man he’s spent nights pressed even closer against. Whatever point he makes, there’s no rebuttal from the Scot this time – only a strained moment’s silence.

At last John shoves away the arm holding him, straightening his jacket with a look that says this isn’t over as his companion walks away to the driver’s side door. You don’t pay him further mind though as John huffs out his anger like a bull, raking a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze with far more softness. He sees it in your eyes the same way it reflects in his. Two pained apologies spoken without words.

Dark tint keeps you from seeing them as they enter the vehicle and drive off, peeling away with a nod to the discomfort inside but with enough self control to not endanger the ‘precious cargo’ in the back seat.

You knew the other day was too good to be true. It’s clear now the damage you’ve incurred in your foolish desire to forge a connection. The lies John told you to placate his unthinking selfishness. Why the radio silence has been deafening your apartment.

Nothing is alright. Everything is broken. You’ve ruined god knows how many years of passion and devotion by the sole act of your own pathetic existence.

You’ve robbed her of that–robbed them. Another reminder that they cannot give it to you. She has taken your place. They cannot claim another.

It’s your fault. Your fault.

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault…

You can’t breathe.

Something’s crawling up your throat. You can’t–

As customers pass the threshold of the automatic glass doors, no one pays any mind to the sounds of retching in the dumpster.

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moutainrusing · 4 months ago

Text

illness

987 words, @wolfstarmicrofic

Poking Sirius’s forehead was his mother’s wand. Running the length of Sirius’s body was his father’s wand. Tradition of the Black heir turning sixteen: make sure he had no disabilities. No setbacks, disadvantages, handicaps.

With stern frowns, they analysed the results. Then, “Get out.” They faced each other in shock, having said that simultaneously. He has both?

“What?” Sirius croaked.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Orion bellowed.

Walburga shoved Orion, caterwauling, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU CRETIN!”

“NO SON OF MINE, YOU CRIPPLE!” Orion screamed.

“HE’S NOT MINE, EITHER!” Walburga roared. (Now she was yelling more at Orion than Sirius…?)

His parents’ faces had twisted, fury curling their lips, passion blotching their cheeks red, anxiety shaking their hands, regret furrowing their brows, sadness freezing their voices, sharpening them to ice. They blamed themselves for his disabilities. Their genes, their problem. Upset he turned out this way, riddled with issues. Bitter, because how could life do this to them? If word got out, eyes would turn to them. This is your invalid? Makes sense.

Sirius nodded slowly, eyes prickling. He didn’t want to be disabled. The first thing people saw about him: the fact that he was incapable, helpless, hopeless. They would judge him while pretending they weren’t. There was always stigma around it. He was weak, dumb, weird. “I— I’ll go. But… what’s wrong with me?” He looked at his parents pleadingly. Fix me.

“Mental illness and physical,” Walburga scoffed.

Orion snarled, “Won’t live past thirty, wretch.”

“Unstable in both mind and muscle. They’ll all give up on you, as they should. Immobile, paralysed.” Walburga laughed shrilly, “Get out.”

“While you can still walk,” Orion sneered.

Sirius nodded silently, a sob choked up in his throat. When he shut the door, he heard his parents break. He followed suit, in tears on the street.

- - -

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT THAT YOU’RE A WEREWOLF, REMUS. I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!” Sirius took a deep breath. “You,” he jabbed Remus’s chest. “Being. A. Werewolf. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“But it does.” Remus shoved Sirius’s hand away pitifully. “I’ll hinder your life. You can find love with someone worthy, live a beautiful life until you’re grey and old—”

“I’LL NEVER BE GREY AND OLD!” Sirius yelled, not catching the words before they left his mouth. His eyes widened.

“What?” Remus stammered.

Sirius laughed harshly. “I’ll probably die before you. In fact, I’m the one who’ll hinder you.” He bowed dramatically, “I’m sick.” He jabbed his chest, “I can already feel it. Y’know how you call me clumsy?” Sirius smirked depravedly. “Well, that’s my muscles spasming. Ain’t working properly. They’re giving up on me like my parents did. Like you’re doing. And I’m crazy?” Sirius cackled, “That’s my brain. Fucking disabled.”

“Sirius,” Remus whispered.

Sirius pointed frantically, “See?! Already scared of me!”

“No, Sirius,” Remus shook his head softly. “Whatever is going on is not a problem. Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re human.”

“Yeah, right, say that to yourself,” Sirius scoffed.

Remus sighed, “It’s different—”

“Is it though?” Sirius glared. “I’m gonna die early ‘cause of something I can’t control, something people still blame and judge me for. Their discrimination is more pointless than I am.”

“You’re not pointless,” Remus argued.

“And you?” Sirius returned, eyebrow raised.

“I’m not…” Remus winced, finishing pathetically, “Pointless.”

“Ha!” Sirius crowed victoriously. “You don’t believe it! How am I supposed to believe that being disabled isn’t a curse when you act like that?! When everyone acts like that?! You coo and reassure someone else it’s okay, but when it’s you?!”

“I…” Remus was at a loss for words.

Fine. Sirius had way too much for both of them. “Why do you add on to the discrimination already there?”

Remus shook his head helplessly.

Sirius prodded, “Why can’t people let us be? Everyone’s gonna die, so let us be happy. When I first found out, I hated myself. But then I realised that even with disabilities, I am still myself. I’m still brave, smart, whatever. I never stopped. And my parents’ve always been wrong. Of course they were wrong about disabilities, too. I dunno what’s gonna happen to me, but then, does anyone? You could get caught in an accident any day! We could die any day! You’re a werewolf, but you never stopped being Remus. You never stopped being thoughtful, beautiful, lovely, mine. My friend,” Sirius clarified, smiling gently.

Loud again, “But we should be more if we both want that. Let us want! Take all the love you get, because so many people will deny you the best life you deserve. So what if it doesn’t last? If it’s not always happy? Let yourself live.”

Remus was crying. While Sirius could still move his fingers, he brushed the tears away.

- - -

Sirius did make it to thirty. Wheelchair-bound, unable to move a muscle nor talk, brain functioning perfectly, heart beating a love song for Remus.

He could move a few muscles. His thumb: up and down, up and down as he pressed the button of a Muggle invention to form words on this screen.

He could write books on anything, all the knowledge of OWLs and NEWTs and beyond firmly stuck in the crevices of his brain.

Remus pulled a chair up next to him, having also made it to thirty: grey-haired, smiling, walking with a cane, tired, living, bones aching, thinking, dreaming, being.

Scanning over Sirius’s document, Remus’s eyes lit up, and he turned to Sirius with a grin. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Sirius couldn’t say anything except stare at Remus in awe. But that was okay, because Remus had enough words for both of them.

Remus leaned towards Sirius, giving him enough time to roll away if necessary, before slotting their lips together. “You’re amazing. I love you,” Remus mumbled. Sirius put all his effort, energy, love towards smiling into the kiss. Nothing happened, but he knew Remus could feel it anyway.

#marauders #microfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #wolfstar #remus x sirius #wolfstar microfic #disability #disabled characters #disability awareness #walburga black #orion black

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mochegato · 5 months ago

Text

Absolutely Smitten

Jason was beginning to regret his decisions. Not just the ones that led him to his current predicament, but all of them. Because only a massively dysfunctional historic pattern of decision making could result in this catastrophic situation from which there was no escape, at least not one he had found. And he had been looking. Don’t think a quick death hadn’t been considered, preferred even. But at this point, quick was out of the question.

He dropped his head into his hand as they came to an abrupt stop, wishing the floorboard of the car would disappear and take him with so he wouldn’t have to face any more loathsome glares. Glares to which there were no barrier because he’d allowed Dick to convince him they should take the convertible. ‘It’s safer in Metropolis,’ he’d argued. ‘How often do we get to do this?” Clearly, too often.

Yet somehow, the glares seemed to have absolutely no effect on anybody else in the car. And he absolutely refused to threaten to turn the car around again. Dick was the geezer not him, damn it. But he was not above begging. “Will you please shut up for the love of all that is holy.”

“We are on our way to a Jagged Stone concert and you have a problem with his songs?” Dick teased, taking a short break for his own overdramatic interpretation of ‘You Are the Donut of my Life’ on order to torment his brother.

Jason had to lean forward to dodge away from Dick’s hands coming for his face, but he ended up leaning closer to Roy in the passenger seat who took the opportunity to pull him into a side hug, or rather pull him down and mess with his hair. He shoved him away with a grunt and stepped on the accelerator at the green light. “Not his songs. Your caterwauling. You’re tormenting half of Metropolis.” He shot a pointed look to Duke in the rearview mirror. “I expected better of you.”

“Don’t know why,” he snorted just before joining Roy and Dick in belting out the final lyrics.

Jason sighed and stepped on the gas. The quicker he got to the arena, the quicker he could end this and pretend like he didn’t know them in the mosh pit. His sigh turned into a groan when he was immediately with another red light. What was worse was another car had now pulled up to their left, a car with a few guys, girls, and one gorgeous stunner in the passenger seat.

He breathed out a sigh of relief at the silence and shot her a dashing smile, a smile which widened at the blush that dusted her cheeks and the shy smile that graced her lips. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could get the words out the opening chords of Trocaderock suddenly echoed down the street. His smile strained as his treacherous passengers started singing again. Not just singing, full on serenading the car next to them, wild gestures, reaching for them, impassioned inflections, and all. He watched as the woman’s face morphed from shy to surprise to amusement.

“I’m sorry about them,” he called to her trying to be heard over them. “I wish I could say sorry, they’re just drunk, but they’re not. That’s just… them.”

Her smile brightened, the giggle she let out loud enough to be heard over the yowling right up until her friends joined in at which point her giggles turned into full blown laughter, lighting up her entire face as her eyes crinkled at the edges. She took a moment to settle, but the smile continued to grace her lips. “Same with mine. But it makes life more fun,” she shrugged.

“Yeah, fun. Sure,” he grumbled but eyed the rest of his car dramatically until she laughed again.

“You don’t sing?” she asked innocently.

He grimaced and shook his head. “Like an angel. It’s too powerful. It would blow everyone away.” He preened at the brilliant smile she responded with.

He kept eye contact as he accelerated slowly, making sure to keep pace with their car, until he had to return his eyes to the road, mostly because she pointed ahead of him and mouthed the word ‘road’ with a bemused smile, a smile, he would like to note, that was still there every single one of the many times he glanced over at her.

“Hey,” Dick called across to them. “You guys going to the concert?”

“Yeah,” the woman in orange tips and glasses called back. “You?”

“Us too. We’re in the pit right in front of the stage. You?” Roy yelled, not at all subtly looking between Jason and the woman with a sly grin.

“Us too!” a blonde man called back from the driver’s seat, a matching grin on his face as he looked pointedly at the woman. “Guess we’ll see you there,” he promised before peeling off to the left.

“This concert is about to be a lot more interesting,” Duke smirked.

As promised, when they got through security, got their drinks, and made their way to the pit area, the occupants of the other car were already there, but Jason frowned as he approached them. Not that they didn’t seem like fine people, but the only person he was really interested in seeing from their car wasn’t there.

He craned his neck to search the area with almost singular purpose, but aware enough to shove Dick away by the head for snickering at him and almost smacked Duke upside the head for nudging him with that smug smirk of his until he saw what Duke was pointing at, the woman trying to push her way through the crowd to get to her friends. However, she was having a bit of difficulty due to her size. Instead of the slap he had been anticipating, he patted Duke on the chest and pushed his way over to her.

“Need an assist,” he asked with his most roguish smile.

“Hey, Handsome Stranger” she grinned. The expression on her face when she saw him, not just relief but excitement, made his chest puff out to accommodate his swelling heart.

“Hey, Pretty Lady” he grinned back. “Come on, your friends are this way. I’m Jason by the way.” He didn’t even have to push through the crowd to get them back, the people parted as soon as they saw him coming.

“Ahh, so I should call you Jason instead of ‘my hero’?” Her voice was cheeky and cheerful and it somehow made his already wide smile even wider.

He hadn’t smiled this much in years. He ushered her ahead of him by the small of her back, his fingers tingling from the contact and his brain buzzing from the fact that she was not only letting him, but leaning into it. “Oh, you can call me anything you want, Pixie Pop, just as long as you call me.”

She squeaked and hid her face in her hand, only removing it to wave to her friends as they approached, but her blush was so prevalent, it ran all the way down to the collar of her shirt. “There you are, Marinette!” her friend with pink hair cheered. She looked Jason over, her eyes lingering on the placement of his hand with a knowing smirk. “And you come bearing gifts.” She waggled her eyebrows at the two of them, very clearly enjoying embarrassing her friend.

“How did it go?” her blonde friend asked. “Everything fine?”

“Yep, crisis averted,” she nodded.

“You good?” Jason asked carefully. His eyes wandered over her thoroughly but efficiently.

“Not my crisis,” she assured him. “Not a crisis at all, actually, just a drama king.”

“Awww look how smitten he is,” he heard Duke coo somewhere behind them.

Jason nodded to Marinette. “Good to hear it. Give me just a sec.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the only thing he had in that pocket, a handful of coins, throwing it at Duke without breaking eye contact with her.

Marinette giggled at his move but turned away when the backup band took the stage. Jason took the opportunity to step up behind her and lean down close enough for her to hear him among the din of the crowd. “So, you going to sing this time? You never did say if you like to sing.”

She grinned and leaned a bit closer to him without taking her eyes off the stage. “I sing all the time... and very off key, but my dancing... that is also bad. But I have never let that stop me from having fun.” She finally turned her face to meet him with a teasing smirk over her shoulder. “What about your dancing? Do you also dance like an angel?”

He hummed and let his eyes roam her face. “No, there’s nothing angelic about the way I dance and rarely in public.”

Her blush raged across her face again, but she refused to break eye contact. “You just going to stand there stoically then?”

“Might be persuaded.” His voice dipped down, as did his eyes to her lips for just a moment before lifting back up to her eyes.

They kept eye contact until the area around them shook with the reverberations of the guitar flowing through the arena and drew all eyes to the stage, some more slowly than others.

Marinette proved herself to be honest though not terribly coordinated over the next several songs as she sang and danced with her friends along with Jagged Stone, though to be fair, nobody was really dancing so much as jumping around just like her. She didn’t take a break until he played one of his slower songs. But no matter how high she lifted herself up onto her tip toes craning her neck to see the stage, she couldn’t make herself tall enough to see over the crowd and after a few moments, she gave up the hope of seeing anything until the song changed and she could start jumping again.

“Need another assist?” Jason whispered into her ear.

She blinked at the words. It took her brain a few moments to get past the feeling of his chest against her back and his breath on her neck and ear, and process what he had said. “What?” She was going to need a few more moments.

She absolutely had not expected Jason to pick her up and set her on his shoulders like lifting a pillow. “Better, Pixie Pop?” he asked, but the lilt to his voice made it clear he was teasing her.

“Yes,” she acknowledged shyly. After a moment she cleared her throat and smirked down at him. “Glad to see you’re living up to the hero moniker.”

He wrapped his hand around her thighs, ostensibly to secure her position, but really more to feel her bare skin under his hands. He grinned at the yelp she let out and slight jump. “I just want to make sure you’re enjoying the show.”

“Oh, um, yep, en… enjoying the show.” It took a few moments before she eased her muscles again and began swaying to the beat of the song. It didn’t take much longer before Jason followed her lead rocking to the music as well. “So, you do dance,” she teased.

He immediately stopped and tightened his laxed grip on her thighs. “I'm not dancing,” he insisted. “Your dancing is shifting my balance. Just trying to keep you safe.”

She took a few seconds to respond, during which time, Jason could almost feel the incredulous look he knew she was shooting him. “Huh, it's a very rhythmic shift. Almost like it's a pattern of smooth movements.”

“So, you think I'm smooth?” he asked overly sweetly as he adjusted his hands and let his thumbs rub circles on the outside of her thighs.

She shook her head. “Oh, I know you are,” she whispered breathily.

The music shifted tempo again and Jason carefully lifted her off his shoulders and set her down gently. She turned and met his eyes as everyone around them started bouncing and singing loudly to the song, all of it melding into the background as their gazes intensified until Marinette suddenly got bumped into Jason. His arms started to circle around her until her friend with the orange tips almost tackled Marinette from the side. “It’s Mirockulous!” she yelled and pulled Marinette closer to the stage.

Unfortunately, between her friends pulling her in different directions and Jason trying to figure out if Jagged Stone really was staring at him suspiciously from the stage or if he was making it up in his head, they stayed separated until the end of the concert. But the moment it ended, he intended to search for her, but as it had turned out, he hadn’t needed to because Marinette almost instantly appeared in front of him having pushed her way through the crowd to get to him. He grinned brilliantly. “Hey there, Pretty Lady. Missed you.”

She took the last few steps to him, stopping just short of touching him. Her arms twitched, almost like she wanted to reach for him, and he really, really wanted her to, almost to the point of reaching for her himself. “Hey, Handsome Stranger,” she grinned back. “The last part wasn’t nearly as fun without you.”

Dick popped up next to Jason, slinging his arm over his shoulder to smile at her and her friends who had wandered over to them. “We were going to find somewhere to get some grub. You guys up for it?”

Marinette met Jason’s eyes; her eyebrow raised in question. “How about a trade?” he offered without breaking eye contact. “You can give the one making eyes at your friend a ride,” he shoved Duke toward Marinette’s blonde friend, “and we can give Marinette a ride?” Jason didn’t wait for the others to respond, at Marinette’s nod, he grinned and took her hand leading her out of the venue. He silently congratulated himself. Clearly, his decisions lately had been the best decisions of his life.

#maribat #jasonette #jasonette july #Jasonette July 2024 #Prompt - Absolutely Smitten #Fluff

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shankss-magnificent-ass · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine helping Benn get away to see a 'friend'

Benn: *trying to slip off the ship during dinner for the third night in a row*

Shanks: *notices he's gone almost immediately* Where's Beck?

Lucky Roux: *counting the money Benn bribed him with to keep quiet* I dunno

Shanks: *Runs out on deck to find Benn trying to sneak over the side of the bot* Where we going?

Benn: we aren't going anywhere, I'm going to port by myself.

Shanks: You're leaving the crew! *Starts to tear up*

The crew: *piles out when they hear Shanks' caterwauling* You're leaving! Without even saying goodbye!

Benn: I'm just leaving for the night, not forever...*realizes no one is listening to him* oh my gods, FINE! Fine, I'm not going anywhere.

Crew: *cheers as they herd Benn back into the mess hall*

An hour later

Benn: *finally manages to claw his way out of the impromptu game night to take a breather out on deck*

You: *watches him lean on the railing, trying to light night cigarette* Need a light?

Benn: *jumps in surprise and drops his lighter into the bay* You scared the shit outta me!

You: *hands him your lighter and leans against the railing*, so why were you trying to sneak off?

Benn: what's it to you?

You: maybe I could help if you have a good reason.

Benn: I wanted to go see a friend I always hook up with when we make port here. She knows I'm a pirate, but not what crew I'm apart of.

You: and you don't want us to meet her? Are you shamed of us?

Benn: *no hesitation* very...Nah, nah, it's just she's a sweet gal and rather timid.

You: and you think she'll be scared off when she finds out you're the emotional support idiot to one of the four emperors?

Benn: yes...Wait, I'm no one's emotional support idiot.

You: In order to stop Shanks from pouting you had to let him curl up in your lap.

Benn: so?

You: You looked like you were burping him, like a baby, when he's a whole ass grown man.

Benn: *purses his lips because he knows you're right, so he elects not to respond*

You: Anyway, you want help sneaking out?

Benn: No offense rookie, but I don't think you can help me. They're a group of seasoned pirates, and you.... You've only been in this life for what? Three years?

You: You're forgetting that they're also just a bunch of dudes who are children at heart.

Benn: what are you getting at?

You: What I'm saying is sneaking out will cost you.

Benn: how much?

You: Take me shopping tomorrow and we'll find out.

The next night

Benn: There's no way this is gonna work.

You: Boys! Benn bought you some stuff! *Presents them with a 10,000 + piece Lego set of the Red Force (I'm making Legos cannon for a plot device), a dial set of Uta's newest album, and twenty barrels of booze*

The Crew: *move like a wave, taking up the gifts*

Shanks: What brought this on?

Benn: Just thought we could use a new activity for tonight, you've all been working so hard lately and all.

Thirty minutes later

The crew: *absorbed in sorting Lego pieces and reading the instruction manual*

Benn: *also absorbed*

You: *elbows him* aren't you trying to get laid?

Benn: but Legos.

You: You really gonna pick Legos over pussy?

Benn: but what if they finish it without me?

You: I'll make it have an accident, so they have to start all over. Now get out of here.

Benn: I can't believe that your plan worked.

You: yeah yeah, get outta here before they notice you're gone

Benn: You're the best *kisses your forehead and flings himself off the side of the ship*

Support me on Kofi and Patreon

List of Up-and-coming works

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #benn beckman #benn beckman x reader #red hair pirates #akagami no shanks #red hair shanks #red haired shanks #red haired pirates #lucky roux #from the depths of the dragon's hoard #tma original #7/28/23 #no beta we die like men

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skellymom · 6 months ago

Text

"LITTLE BROTHER"

THE BAD BATCH ONE SHOT

ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

Word Count: 2.7K

Background: What happens if a clone baby doesn't play by the rules on Kamino? This fic includes the headcannon (another Tumblr poster came up with this one) that Hunter has a crush on Shaak Ti. The clone baby is assigned a number, however, since there are so many of them and I didn't want to just guess left it as CT-______. Use your imagination for the number. This fic takes place right before Order 66 and before Hunter is aware of Omega's presence on Kamino. And, this baby alerts Mace Windu to the fact the Batch are the key to Omega being taken in by their squad, eventually leading to Omega helping the Rebellion defeat the Empire (this is the "Shatterpoint" in the Force Shaak Ti speaks of that Mace Windu senses.

Warning: Swearing, discussion of euthanasia, baby poop.

(Credit: Cool moving star dividers by @4ngelic-wh1spers )

The keening cry of a newly decanted clone shattered the silence of the Neonate Ward.

Shaak Ti could sense the little one's distress and hurried down the corridor. The cry was eventually shared with other babies. She entered to a roomful of loud fussy neonate clones.

Nala Se stood in the middle of the ward, a frustrated expression on her face.

“Again?” Remarked Shaak Ti.

“Yes. It would seem this decanted clone will not settle.”

Shaak Ti glanced down at the tiny instigator, red faced and screaming for all he was worth.

“IT is causing distress to the other newly decanted.”

“HE probably needs to be held...” Shaak Ti picked up the screaming bundle...

...who immediately went quiet. Then the ENTIRE ward went quiet. It seemed that THIS clone was causing the other babies to react as well.

“See. That is all that was needed.” Patting the baby's back gently. He cooed at the Jedi.

Nala Se glibly shot back. “These newly decanted MUST be able to self soothe. They must be in control of their emotions out in the battlefield.”

“Maybe it’s just temporary? They are JUST babies. Perhaps Omega can help...”

Shaak Ti was cut off by the Kaminoan. “Omega is currently assisting ME with research and does NOT have the time.”

Lama Su approached Nala Se and Shaak Ti. “If CT-_____ fails to self soothe by the end of the week, IT will shall be terminated.

Horrified, Shaak Ti hugged the baby to her. “Are we sure such a drastic measure is necessary?”

“It is imperative. We have a 20,000 UNIT deadline to complete with accelerated growth in the next few months. They MUST be ready and in top form upon delivery.” Lama Su added.

“Could we use his ‘defective’ nature to start ANOTHER specialized clone force?” Shaak Ti was grasping at straws now.

“I was under the impression Jedi should NOT form attachments.” Lama Su shot back.

He was right...Shaak Ti was doing just that. However, destroying a small life due to needing to be comforted seemed severe.

Just then the ward door opened, and Omega entered. She approached Nala Se. “Oh, hello Commander Shaak Ti. Nala Se, I am finished with the tasks you gave me. What is OUR next project!”

The Jedi nodded to the child. Then glanced up at Nala Se. Attachments indeed!

Nala Se caught the pointed look from Shaak Ti. “Come, Omega. Let us go to the lab.”

“Bye Shaak Ti” Omega innocently waved then followed behind Nala Se.

“Goodbye sweet child.” Shaak Ti beamed at the child with an important future...

The ward doors closed behind them as they exited.

“IT has 3 days to improve. If not, IT will be terminated.” Lama Su said his peace, then exited the ward as well.

Shaak Ti glanced down at the little life in her arms. She had a bad feeling about this.

Unfortunately, things did NOT improve.

CT-______ continued to caterwaul. Shaak Ti checked in daily.

Every time the clone cried, eventually his brothers would start in solidarity. When he was picked up by Shaak Ti, he stopped. His brothers would go quiet as well.

The Kaminoan’s NEVER held their test subjects. It was beneath them to do so.

Omega was NOT permitted to assist with CT-____ in any capacity.

Highly concerned, Shaak Ti sought advice from Mace Windu via comm.

The Jedi listened quietly to the predicament, then rubbed his chin in contemplation.

“I shall inquire at the Jedi Council, then give you my answer in the next standard rotation.”

Shaak Ti nodded obediently and waited.

The day came with CT-______ slated for termination. He refused to self sooth, instead reaching his tiny arms out for ANYONE to hold him...comfort him.

Nala Se, resigned to sealing this baby’s fate, loaded the bassinet onto a holostretcher and SLOWLY proceeded to the euthanasia chamber.

Before she could enter, Shaak Ti was waiting outside the entrance.

Nala Se seemed surprised to see her there. A move Shaak Ti took advantage of.

The Jedi waived her hand in front of Lama Se. “You have terminated CT-______. You must return to the laboratory with Omega.”

“I have terminated CT-____. I must return to the laboratory with Omega.” The dazed Kaminoan repeated.

Nala Se wouldn’t remember a thing.

“Well lads, looks as though Master Shaak Ti will be joining us for this mission!” Hunter beamed.

“Oh Goody. Careful Hunter, she might sense how much you PINE for her.” Crosshair sneered.

Wrecker shot back with a shit eating grin. “OOOh, Cross, you’re just JEALOUS.”

Crosshair shot Wrecker a LOOK.

Echo chuckled at his new squad's antics.

“It seems we are accompanying her to the Separatist planet of Ryloth as an envoy.” Tech informed everyone. “She will be assisting Captain Howzer.”

“WHAT!” Echo shot straight up in his seat. “We are working with Separatists?”

“The details seem to be confidential. Need to know basis for now.” Tech added.

“That’s strange...” Echo was extremely suspicious.

Hunter set everyone at ease. “I’m sure we’ll be briefed before arrival to Ryloth. “Here she is now.”

The clones stood at attention and saluted Shaak Ti as she ascended the gangplank and boarded the Marauder.

“At ease soldiers.” She warmly smiled.

Wrecker jabbed Crosshair in the ribs and grinned. Cross gave him stink face.

Tech started up the ship and prepared to leave Kamino.

“Commander, please have a seat.” Hunter offered Shaak Ti the seat behind Echo in the cockpit, as he would be seated next to her behind Tech.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” She smiled.

Hunter mildly blushed.

“Before I do there is another matter I must address.”

Shaak Ti reached down and pulled up the front of her heavy long skirts, exposing her legs and bottom torso underneath.

Hunter almost FAINTED!

He may have had some...thoughts about this Jedi General...only at times in solitude so she was unable to sense them...

The blood rushed to his head, making his vision swim.

The rest of the crew stopped and stared! This was so UNLIKE the Jedi Commander!!!

Underneath Shaak Ti’s skirts was strapped a small baby.

A clone stowaway...under a Jedi’s skirts!

The baby looked at Hunter and cooed.

“Uhhh...” Hunter stared dumbfounded.

“What the FU...dge!” Echo caught himself in time.

“WAIT? Are they NOT DECANTING them anymore???” Wrecker scratched his head trying to figure out where babies are NOW coming from.

Crosshair sighed and held his forehead.

Tech cleared up the confusion. “It would seem that Jedi Shaak Ti is covertly sneaking this clone neonate aboard so that we may shuttle it off world.”

“You are indeed correct Tech.” Shaak Ti unstrapped the baby and handed him to Hunter.

She dropped her skirt and sat down.

Hunter caught a glimpse of the Jedi’s legs before they were covered again. His brain momentarily broke.

Echo needed details. “Why? He’s too young to leave Kamino.”

“He is defective and was slated for termination. When we depart Kamino, I shall tell you the rest.”

The baby reached up and pinched Hunter’s chin, bringing him back to the moment. He sat down and cradled the baby in his arms...seemingly an automatic act even HE wasn’t aware of. “Tech, take us off world IMMEDIATELY!”

He didn’t have to tell Tech twice.

The crew was extremely quiet as the Marauder made its way off the planet. Hunter began to worry about what was to develop. Unconsciously, he began to slightly rock the baby. It soothed him.

Echo glanced over his shoulder at Hunter and smiled.

Crosshair rolled his eyes.

Blue light bathed the ship as the Marauder coasted in hyperspace.

Shaak Ti filled in the rest of the intel.

“So, our squad are the LAST defective clones to be allowed on Kamino?” Tech surmised.

“Yes, unfortunately. The Kaminoan’s are tamping down on any deviance within the clone population. They are no longer even trying to reprogram the few who develop out of parameters. Any found outside of those parameters are slated for immediate termination.” Shaak Ti grimly explained.

“Things have been changing so quickly on Kamino lately.” Hunter’s brow creased.

“Don’t like it one bit.” Echo’s suspicion was back.

Shaak Ti followed up. “Conveniently, I was scheduled to meet with the governing body of Ryloth. And, with some help from the Jedi Council we can place this little one with a family there.”

“The Kaminoan’s don’t just give away their property freely. How did you manage to convince them?” Echo enquired.

“I agree with Echo.” Tech added. “The Kaminoan’s are anything but charitable.”

“I... resorted to utilizing the Force.” The Jedi shifted uncomfortably. “According to Master Windu, the exposure to this young clone will help you all on a future mission.” Shaak Ti smiled at the squad. “As you know Master Windu sees an important Shatterpoint in your timeline.”

“And... what is that Shatterpoint?” Hunter enquired.

“Unfortunately, Master Windu did not elaborate. He FEELS something strongly in the Force but cannot put it to words.”

The clones silently glanced at one another.

Shaak Ti added “But, for now we are saving a small innocent life. This has enough merit on its own.”

“Agreed” Hunter smiled down at the small one in his arms. The baby grinned back up at him.

“Hey...Hunter...can I hold ‘em?” Wrecker asked hopefully.

“Uh...yeah.” Hunter got up and walked over to Wrecker, who seemed excited.

Wrecker held out his large hands awkwardly.

“Wrecker, support his body with this hand. Take your other hand and support his head carefully. He’s young and his neck isn’t strong enough yet. He’s a baby, not a Lula. Gotta be REAL gentle.” Hunter handed the baby over and placed Wrecker’s hands in the correct position.

Hunter stepped back and watched his brother.

“Aww, he’s SO CUTE!” Wrecker beamed.

The baby cooed at Wrecker.

Cross, sitting next to Wrecker watched silently.

Then the baby spotted Crosshair’s silver hair shining in the Marauder’s cab lighting. He made grabby hands toward Cross.

“Ooh, he wants YOU to hold him.” Wrecker grinned.

“NO.” Crosshair got up and sat at the other side of the ship.

The baby immediately started to cry.

“Look, you hurt his little feelings!” Wrecker shamed his brother.

“I don’t do kids.” Crosshair crossed his arms uncomfortably.

The baby wailed loudly.

Crosshair couldn’t handle the caterwauling and stalked to the back of the ship.

“Ohh, just ignore him cute widdle baby boy.” Wrecker grabbed Lula. “Lula says he’s a big ole’ poopy head anyway.”

The baby stopped crying and Hunter dabbed his tears away with the baby blanket.

“Brother Wrecker wuvs you...BOOP!” Wrecker gently touched Lula to the baby’s nose.

Baby smiled.

“Brother Hunter wuvs you...BOOP!”

Baby laughed.

“Brother Echo wuvs you...BOOP!”

Baby belly laughed.

“Brother Tech will wuv you too...BOOP! Especially since you’ll listen to his infodumps...BOOP!”

Baby laughed SO hard...

...and made a strange face...

...then baby’s rear end made the MOST horrid sound!

“OH MAKER! WHAT IS THAT!!!” Wrecker almost retched. “IT’S SOO STINKY!”

Wrecker quickly handed baby back to Hunter and ran away after Crosshair.

“Uh...” Hunter was woefully unprepared and just held baby out away from him. “Commander...uh...please tell me you have extra diapers...”

The Jedi laughed as she approached, taking the baby from Hunter. She had a bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ll take care of him, Sergeant.”

He turned red in spite of the horrible smell assaulting his enhanced senses.

Hunter had an awakening...

Something about maternal women and little children...

Something warm and paternal blossomed in his heart. He watched Shaak Ti as she walked to the back of the ship soothing the baby.

A minute later, Wrecker ran back up to the front of the Marauder. Crosshair followed furiously spraying refresher air freshener EVERYWHERE.

“I don’t know what that baby ate but...EWW!!!” Wrecker grimaced.

“OH MAKER!” Echo yelled; his face had a severely pinched expression. “Now it smells like FLORAL SHIT in here!!!”

Frustrated, Crosshair shot back at Echo. “Well, WHAT would you have me DO???”

Tech to the rescue: He engaged the Marauder’s indoor filtration system. However, it did take some time to dispel the smell.

When Shaak Ti brought the cleanly changed baby back, Echo requested to hold him next. The baby took an interest in Echo’s scomp.

Wrrrrrrrrrr. Baby was entranced. Wrrrr, wrrrr, wr, wrrrrrrrrrr.

Echo laughed, then the baby laughed...

And make THAT FACE.

Wrecker held his nose. “OH NO! NOT AGAIN!!!”

“It seems the Kaminoan baby formula irritates his sensitive stomach. Another anomaly in his genetics. I switched his formula for the trip.” The Jedi attempted to get up and retrieve the baby.

“Please relax Commander. I’ve got this.” Hunter got up and took baby from Echo.

Shaak Ti handed Hunter the diaper bag, and he made his way to the back of the ship.

Crosshair sprayed the air freshener in Hunter’s wake.

Echo turned around to glare at Crosshair.

“What?” Cross leaned back with an antagonistic smirk, inserting a toothpick into his mouth.

Sometime later everyone settled in during the trip to Ryloth. Hunter offered Shaak Ti his bunk so she could rest before arrival. She warned the baby may need to eat soon.

By this time, Tech had the baby in his lap and was info dumping about various animal life of the galactic planets. Baby was deeply interested in everything he had to say.

Or maybe it was just the glare on Tech’s glasses that caught the baby’s attention?

Either way, Tech set up his datapad to play the corresponding animal sound when the baby pressed a button. Baby cooed with each animal sound.

Shortly after baby lost interest and started to fuss.

“Uh oh...” Wrecker was weary.

“Well...he isn’t making THAT face, so I think we’re safe.” Echo ribbed Wrecker.

"It’s fairly obvious that he’s hungry.” Tech stated.

Hunter rummaged through the bag to find a bottle full of blue Bantha milk.

“You like the GOOD stuff, kiddo.” Hunter smiled, taking baby from Tech and popping the feeding nipple into baby’s mouth.

Baby suckled away and made grabby hands towards Crosshair again.

Cross side-eyed baby.

“Come on, Cross. He obviously likes you.” Hunter pleaded.

“Usually that’s asking a LOT of someone.” Echo joked.

“So funny, Echo.”

“Hey, we ALL held him.” Wrecker piled on. “Hunter EVEN changed his diaper!”

Crosshair wasn’t convinced.

Baby continued grabby hands and was now vocalizing in between gulps of formula “Uuuuummmm!!!”

Straining out of Hunter’s grasp towards the sniper.

Tech verbally poked at his brother “It would seem that he INSISTS you hold him. Why he wishes to be close to your unyielding nature is a mystery.” Tech was baiting him.

Crosshair pulled the toothpick from his mouth and flicked it at Tech. “All right...” He huffed. “Give me the little womp rat.”

Hunter gave Crosshair a shit eating grin as he placed the child on his brother’s shoulder. Cross didn’t expect to have baby THAT close to his face. Hunter KNEW what baby was after.

The baby held his bottle with one hand, chugging away. Then reached up with the other to grab a handful of Cross’ hair.

For a second Crosshair looked panicked. But relaxed when he realized baby only wanted to hold onto something while eating. The weight seemed strangely familiar...like his rifle when it rested upon his shoulder. But...warmer...more comfortable.

Crosshair leaned back on the seat and put his feet up.

Tech played his specially recorded soothing sounds of Kamino’s waves over the Marauder’s PA system. Baby continued to suckle away at his bottle, then fell fast asleep on Crosshair’s shoulder.

The sounds also affected Crosshair as he eventually passed out in a deep sleep on the cabin chair totally unaware of what would transpire...

...as the rest of The Batch decided to record this special moment.

After all, Baby would be in his new, safe home by tomorrow...

There’s a pic Tech keeps on his datapad of a snoozing Crosshair with a baby sleeping on his shoulder. The rest of the Batch is posed around him.

Hunter leans his head against his brother and the baby. A serene smile on his face.

Wrecker gives Crosshair Lula ears with his fingers behind Cross’ head. He pulls Gonky in next to him.

Echo puts his arm around Gonky and proudly leans into the shot next to Wrecker.

Tech took off his goggles and propped them up on the Marauder’s dash so the recording device attached to them could mark the occasion. Then blindly made his way to Hunter’s side to pose, a sassy half grin on his face.

In Hunter’s bunk, Shaak Ti sighs contentedly in her sleep.

Back on Coruscant, within the Jedi Temple, Yoda pauses and quietly smiles.

He looks to Mace Windu “The child is safe, he is.”

Mace, relieved, replies “Eventually...the galaxy will be too.”

PLEASE like, comment, and/or REBLOG!

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redneaththedogwood · 10 months ago

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Writing up a post to talk about the three focal groups rn and augh, it's already so long and I've only talked about one

#red caterwauls #original xenofiction #Red 'Neath the Dogwood #R'NtD

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gumnut-logic · 3 months ago

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“They did what?!”

Pete took a step back. “Hey, man, they’re fine. The teachers broke it up.” A snort. “Though I have to say, your little brothers know how to kick ass. I don’t think Bullneck is going to walk straight for a while. Gordon may have taken out his chances at fatherhood.” I had been quite a sight seeing that dickwad waddle off with the principal.

“Where are they now?”

Pete took a step back as Scott straightened. His friend had been out of town all day with cadets. Still in uniform, he cut a definite military vibe.

Was it weird that he’d asked Pete to keep an eye on his four brothers? Possibly, but then Pete only had two sisters, both older and all into make up and boys. He shuddered inside. It would be so cool to have a little brother.

Apparently having four was an extra challenge.

“They’re with the principal.” And Pete found himself having to skedaddle backwards as Scott shot off in the direction of the main school building.

Oh shit.

Pete grabbed his bag, and hurried after him. “Scott! They’re fine. Virgil had it under control.” Was that a scoff? A grunt? “He gave Rogers a black eye. John is okay. Hell, Gordon is a weapon of mass destruction. You Tracys are scary.”

This time there was no acknowledgement at all. Scott threw the main door to the school office and strode through.

Pete caught it on the back swing and scrambled in after him.

It was like a military review. The three younger Tracy brothers appeared to all be standing at attention in a line while the Principal spoke…strongly to them…something about physical violence in the school yard.

Virgil, sporting a split lip, was glaring up at the man, one foot in front of Johnny, as if to block access to his little brother. Johnny’s red hair was a mess, there was dirt on his pants, and he was staring at the ground.

Gordon…Gordon was poking his tongue out and making faces through the door across the room. A room full of caterwauling and injured bullies, apparently.

When Pete finally caught up with Scott, he almost wished he hadn’t. The eldest Tracy looked fit to carve someone a new one.

“Mr Tracy.” Principal Stevens apparently had a death wish. “Is your father with you?”

“No, sir.” It was cold and sharp, blue eyes darting over his brothers.

Pete didn’t fail to notice the second eldest Tracy relax just a little, his shoulders dropping, as he caught sight of Scott.

“Is he available? I’ve attempted to call him, but he hasn’t responded. This is serious.”

“He’s busy.”

“Your grandmother?”

“At the surgery.”

“I need to speak to a responsible adult about this. This can’t keep happening.”

“It shouldn’t happen at all.”

Pete stared at his best friend. You can’t speak to a teacher like that, much less a principal. “Uh, Scott?”

The eyes that hit him…okay…. Pete straightened. Apparently they were doing this and Scott was his friend so…uh…let’s do this.

What happened next was just plain weird. Not only did Scott manage to get his brothers out of that room without the principal further demanding a parental presence, but also had him admitting the school was at fault and needed to fix the problem.

The glare Scott sent Bullneck on the way out was enough to cause the kid to whimper out loud.

Shit, man, Scott was lethal.

Maybe it would be way cooler to have an older brother.

Out in the parking lot it was a Tracy-only fest. Pete stood to one side as Scott performed his own military line up…and checked each brother for injury.

Gordon started yelling, Virgil talking over him.

Johnny just stood there.

But Scott did that something he always seemed to be able to do. He took control. A hand on Virgil’s shoulder quietened the worry there. A hug strangled little Gordy’s anger.

A soft word pulled Johnny’s eyes up from the ground. Pete swore something passed between the two of them, Johnny’s shoulders straightening as Scott’s lips thinned.

Yeah, a big brother would be amazing.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #nuttyfic reblog

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secretlyscraptrap · 1 month ago

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arti art to lure you into reading a bit of fanfic i wrote >:)

tw for: death, violence, gore, usual arti stuff. Also its very long :< also i forgot about arti's jump explosion

If you enjoyed it then maybe consider reblogging? ,:)

The first thing the slugcat awoke to was blood.

Blood was pooled onto the earth around them, slowly seeping into the ground, staining it red and black. Some of the red fluid trickled into the nearby pool, staining it and dying it crimson.

There was blood in their mouth too, and in their eyes. Blood coated their paws and their tail, their ears and their muzzle. They were vaguely aware of a massive wound on their face, neck and shoulder. They just barely managed to heave themself off the ground. All their muscles and limbs hurt.

What had happened?

It was a blur.

Creatures, with too-long arms and too-short legs, with hunched spines, with sharp claws and rigid horns, with eyes that showed everything they were thinking - what the slugcat had seen them thinking, it was pure malice. The creatures had been chasing them with spears and bombs. Demanding back what had been stolen. The slugcat had nearly made it, halfway across a fateful jump, but was intercepted by a flash of noise and light and heat. And of pain.

What had been stolen?

A pearl. Just a small, pale globe, nothing unique or special about it. It looked like any other pearl under the sun. It could’ve been easily replaced with another pearl in secret and no-one would be any wiser.

Who had stolen it?

The clarity hit her like a wave, slamming her off her feet and plunging her into grief. Her breath caught in her throat and she nearly collapsed again.

Her pups.

One of them had stolen the pearl.

He took it when she had her back to him.

She’d seen him, holding out the pearl with his tiny paws, holding the pearl out to her with a look of pride and joy in his eyes. A gift for his mother.

She’d told him to not touch anything when they went through the scavenger camp. They would be hunted down and ripped apart like rats if they were.

He hadn’t listened.

The scavengers had gotten him first.

Her head was spinning and her brain was aching in her skull.

What had happened to her other pup?

She’d been holding her as she’d made the desperate last jump. She couldn’t remember anything after the explosion that had knocked her off course.

She looked to the water, barely registering the way her blood tainted the murky depths. She tried to remember but couldn’t.

Then she noticed something lurking in the water. A swarm of leeches. Fat red ones.

She knew where her other pup had gone.

A great distance away, back at the scavenger camp, they heard the dismal song of grief echoing into the camp, the caterwauls of a heartbroken mother.

In the scavengers’ chit-chattery language, one of them said, “Something survived?”

“The mother, surely,” a second scavenger responded. “I saw the pup fall into the water. Nothing that small could escape those leeches.”

“Nor could a pup screech that loudly,” a third added.

A fourth scavenger lifted its spear. “We should go back and kill it,” it said in a raspy croon.

The second scavenger shook his head. “Let her be. We have our pearl back. In the state we left her, she won’t survive long.”

Nobody questioned the orders, but a look of doubt fell upon a fifth scavenger’s face. Scavengers were not known for helping other species, but this one had empathy for anything in pain.

She pulled the second scavenger to the side and said, “I want to help her. Please let me.”

“No. She would not want our help after what happened to the pups.”

He was saddened by how downcast she looked. She nodded and walked off.

Truthfully, the second scavenger was also dismayed. When it had been learnt that a pearl was missing, he had sent a patrol after her. Yes, they had taken spears, but scavengers were skittish and terrified of everything that moved, and they had to be, in order to survive.

He had not expected them to take bombs and explosive spears from the treasury, to deal with a lone slugcat and her two children. It had been overkill, nothing else. Yes, they’d gotten the pearl back, but it was at the cost of two small lives and the grief of a mother that was surely dying now too.

He would see that punishment befell the individuals responsible for the deaths, but he would not punish them for killing the pups. He would charge them for wasting valuable items on “less-than-significant threats”, or something.

He sighed. He despised his species sometimes. But there was nothing he could do about it.

A day or so later, the red slugcat managed to find a shelter to hide in. She’d expected to die during the night - possibly from wounds, possibly from grief - but she made it to the morning. She managed to drag herself out of the den and limped onwards.

The flesh and skin of her left face and shoulder felt like it had been scraped away with a rock. She knew she had internal bleeding, and that several bones were cracked and broken, but she did not know how to treat them. She didn’t care, anyways. So what if her body was healthy or broken? Her pups were gone.

She could’ve killed herself, jumped into the water and let her body be ripped apart by leeches. Her pups would’ve been back the next cycle. They could’ve been together again.

But she despised the cycle. The few times she had died, she was left feeling graceless and confused. She flinched and cringed for wounds that simply weren’t there. She hated the way her body was sleek and healthy while her mind was barely dragging itself along.

She didn’t know if she had had the strength to end the cycle and be reunited.

It was selfish, she knew. She should’ve saved her pups. Maybe the consequences of it would come back to stab her in her heart. Maybe she would forever loath and regret the fact she could’ve saved her pups.

But right now, all she felt was an aching, bleeding body that hurt like hell, and a mind not too dissimilar.

She slid down a pole and limped into a pipe, away from the shelter, the lake and the scavenger toll, leaving splatters of blood where her tail dragged.

The slugcat had been easy to find. The scavenger just followed its blood trail.

Yes, she was disobeying orders. But she was determined to not spend too much time with her, just enough to help mend the worst of her wounds. After that, she’d leave, allowing the slugcat to figure out the rest.

Besides, she doubted the slugcat would want to be in the company of a scavenger for very long, if at all.

The blood on the ground was recent, leading away from a shelter, overlaying older, darker patches. She followed.

There was a scavenger.

The red slugcat knew it had been following her for a time, but she tried to ignore it. She didn’t care, she told herself. Let it take her life. It was meaningless anyway.

But it didn’t. It didn’t pull out the spear from its sheath. Finally, the slugcat grew impatient. Her hackles rose as she growled, “What?”

Scavengers couldn’t understand the slugcat language and vice versa, but it lowered itself to the ground in a submissive posture. Its eyes were wide with some emotion…pity?

The slugcat didn’t believe it for a second. It was a ploy to lower her guard and get her killed. They stood before each other, neither moving. Then the scavenger, slowly - as if the slugcat was a bird that might fly away at any moment - deposited the contents it was carrying onto the ground before itself.

Leaves. Herbs. Some were intact, some were dried out, some were crushed. It placed one paw just before itself, then raised it up, pointing at the slugcat.

The scavenger was a healer. It meant to help her. The slugcat stared, then frowned.

The slugcat bared her teeth.

The slugcat lunged.

The scavenger turned to run, to grab its spear, but the slugcat crashed into it before it could. The momentum of the jump sent them tumbling across the floor. She sank her teeth into its face and clawed at its body. The scavenger kicked and clawed back at her, but its blows felt like nothing to the slugcat.

All she felt was rage. Fury. Wrath.

How dare they kill her pups, then try to offer her help.

She spat on the scavenger’s body, then ripped the spear off of its back and limped away.

#rain world #slugcat #rainworld #rw slugcat #rain world downpour #rw downpour #rw artificer #rw scavenger #rain world fanfic #rw scav #rw scug

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severedfromthesource · 3 months ago

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The Ghoul and the Lone Wanderer

His bounty succumbs to the bottle in the night. Features F resus, M rescuer, aspirating on vomit (not described in too much detail), chest compressions, mouth to mouth, some aftercare.

( could have done this with Lucy but I feel better doing this to my own ocs lol)

The Vaultie was supposed to be some big shot from the Capitol Wastes. The Lone Wanderer. It was a title taken straight from one of his Pre-War pictures. Hell, they probably got it from some movie he no longer remembered filming and was stuffed down into a Vault during his brief tenure as their spokesman. A title kept eluding him: was it ‘The Man Who Wandered Alone’ or had it been ‘A Man Wanders Lone’? The memories were getting fuzzy.

Either way, she hadn’t been a lot of trouble. Only, she was fucking miserable company. She laid in a heap in the corner of a rusty shack they’d sheltered in for the night, her hands tied in front of herself. He’d done her one kindness which he knew would bite him, and allowed her to drink from one of the bottles in her rucksack. She had drank, and drank, and drank, until the bottle was gone and she was presently singing slurred renditions of whatever was on her PipBoy. The Ghoul huffed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Can you turn that shit off?” he said, elbows propped on his knees. “Just a plain and simple chapel,” she sang out, her voice warbling as tears slid lazily down from the corner of her eye and her temple into her hair. “Where humble people go to prayyy… mmm mh mh mhhhhmm-“ An empty bottle clattered off the wall near her head and she ducked into herself, raising her bound hands to shield her face. “I ain’t asking you again,” he snarled.

“What’ll you do if I don’t,” she mumbled, eyes fixed on him across the room. “Put a few new holes in you, for a start.” She twisted her wrists to click off the radio and curled back onto her side. But it seemed less like she was acquiescing to his demand and more like she just tired of listening to the song. She nestled into her suit, pulling the neckline to her chin. “Be doing me a favor,” she muttered, her lashes fluttering as her eyes drifted.

“I don’t know how in the goddamn I got stuck with a bounty for some drunk bluey, but I’m telling you now, cut that shit out.” The Vaultie stared at him with red rimmed eyes. He shifted awkwardly and leaned back against the wall, trying to find a comfortable position. “Go to sleep already. Shouldn’t have let you drink, s’my own damn fault.” He tipped his hat over his eyes, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. “We’re moving out in the morning and I don’t care if you’re hungover or dead. So knock it off.”

Lone sniffled softly and rolled onto her opposite side, hugging her arms to herself as much as she was able. “I wanna go home,” he heard her murmur in a quiet, broken voice. He made no reply. What reply was there to say? He wanted to go home too. Truth be told, he might’ve let her keep on caterwauling if she had been singing a different tune. But that one tugged at something, and he didn’t like the empty hole it had burrowed somewhere in his chest. I’ve searched and searched but couldn’t find- No way on earth to gain peace of mind.

He tipped his hat down over his eyes and let out a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. Lone’s breaths across the way evened out into intermittent snoring, and he ventured one last peek at her from under the brim of his hat. Tears still stood out on her cheeks, her mouth hanging loose. She was young, which meant she was probably even younger when she left the Vault and got stuck in this hellhole of a place. Poor kid. Tough break.

He settled back against the wall and closed his eyes, drifting into a dozing sort of half sleep. He never slept fully, didn’t need to except to reset his system really, so he was aware enough to snap awake if Lone tried anything. He doubted she would. She’d drank a hell of a lot. The desert air cooled as night came on and the Ghoul listened vaguely to her breathing, sort of coming in and out. He didn’t sleep deep enough to dream, yet the song echoed and there were snatches like dreams when he sank deep enough into slumber. You saw me crying in the chapel- The tears I shed were tears of joy-

The remnants of his lips pulled back in a soft snarl and he tore himself from sleep before those memories had time to sink their claws in him. Shoving his hat off, he smacked it against his knee and scrubbed at his face, trying to shake off the dust of an old life. He’d molted out of it a long, long time ago. He sat up against the wall, elbows resting on his knees, and looked over at his bounty. A few slices of moonlight slanted in through holes in the corrugated roof, and one framed her face as she slept. Her head was tipped slightly to the side, her hand by her face resting with her fingers half curled into her palm. The shack was quiet around them.

The shack was quiet around them. The Ghoul frowned. “Vaultie?” he called out to her. Her eyes were open to slits, but she hadn’t blinked. Was she still asleep? He whistled and tried again, “Hey, Vaultie.” Again, he got no reply. Ice dribbled down his back as he realized what the oppressive silence was missing; he couldn’t hear her breathing anymore. Her chest didn’t rise and fall. He pushed himself up and crossed the room in a few strides, crashing back down to his knees at her side. “Hey, hey! The fuck are you doing?”

He lightly tapped her cheek and her head tilted loosely on her neck, a dribble of clear vomit oozing out of the corner of her mouth. He realized there was a shallow puddle of stomach juices and bits of undigested food by her cheek, a dried, whitish trail by the side of her lips. The idiot bluey had vomited in her sleep, and he knew as he looked down into her slack face that she must have aspirated some. “Son a bitch,” he growled, maneuvering over her and grabbing her shoulder. He hauled her onto her side, tilting her head against the floor as more liquid expelled from her slack mouth. He slapped at her back, and when that won him nothing, he thrust his hand in against her stomach, shoving up under her ribs.

A few more gluts of foulness spilled over, but she didn’t take a breath. He hooked a finger between her teeth and swiped any remainders from her mouth and off her tongue, probing a little deeper down her throat to see if he could find any obstruction. When he came up with nothing, he rolled her onto her back again. “Cmon, blue,” he growled, tapping her cheek again, “Take a breath. This is a goddamn undignified way to die. Take a breath, kid!”

Half lidded eyes stared past him to the spots of moonlight in the ceiling. The Ghoul shucked his leather gloves and tossed them aside. He held her jaw still in one hand, probing into the soft underside of her throat with the other. He felt nothing. Her body still radiated heat, so it had to have just happened. His eyes took in her face, and he debated just leaving her here. His contractors wouldn’t like the idea he left their bounty dead in a pool of her own throw up, but they’d pay him anyway. It had been dead or alive, after all.

Now I’m happy with the Lord…

He growled and snapped her nose shut between two fingers, leaning over her to make a seal of his lips against hers. He blew a hot breath into her mouth and her cheeks rounded, throat bulging slightly as it shot down into her lungs. He tilted his head to lean his ear over and watched her chest deflate, satisfied it had gone in. Recycled air sighed out against his cheek and he turned before it had fully left her to force another breath into her. He wiped a bit at the dried streaks at the corners of her mouth, her pale lips brushing his knuckles.

Only good thing about the goofy Vault suits Tec made them wear, it at least made this next part easier. He grabbed the zipper and tore it down to below her belly button, but froze. Normally folks wore a simple shirt underneath so the material didn’t stick to their skin; at the very least, women in these suits wore bras. He saw the ghastly white stripe of her body underneath, and he paused as he saw her round breasts were exposed. The Ghoul shook himself out of it. When had he ever been the type to ogle an unconscious woman? A dead woman, no less. She needed help. He parted the suit and rolled it a bit down her shoulders, over her bloodless breasts. He pressed his ear against her sternum and confirmed she had no pulse. Her skin pressed soft against his ruined cheek, and she smelled like soap, instead of the sour body odor and sweat of most wastelanders. He grit his teeth and growled in frustration before sitting back up.

He laced his fingers together and planted them between her breasts, and he pushed back the momentary, fleeting thought that noticed his fingers folded over one of her nipples. He shoved forcefully against her ribcage and her shoulders shrugged inward, her body rocking under his hands with each thrust. One, two, three, four. He was transported briefly to the set of ‘A Learned Man’, when he had played Dr Henry Dogood. Stupid fucking name he’d always hated. The flaxen haired ingénue had suffered from a broken heart and died in his arms. They must have done a dozen takes: she kept fluttering her eyelashes during CPR, they wanted more emotion from Cooper, she kept needing breaks. The shoot had lasted nearly all day. This was different. It felt worse.

Mimi Roan wasn’t actually dead. She’d get up after every take, usually for a cigarette break that would make the shoot last even longer. He could feel her chest rise as she tried to take little breaths. The compressions had mostly consisted of him throwing his body against her upper chest and crying into camera. But Lone… She was dead. It was impossible to ignore. Her head bobbed in time, the hand by her face tapping gingerly against her cheek as the blows shifted her body. Her body. Fuck, it was a body he was pounding on, not Mimi Roan waiting for the director to say cut. She could die. He could kill her. Or be the reason she didn’t come back, at least.

He reached fifteen and hesitated. He couldn’t remember the protocol. He’d done so much research to play Dr Dogood, but most of it had been thrown out in the final script to make room for their overdramatized plot devices. He knew the rules were different if you had a partner or you were alone. Thirty if you have someone to give breaths. Fifteen if you’re alone. Whether or not that was the case he made the decision it was and bent over her, pulling her jaw open to give her another breath. Air hissed out of the corners of her mouth and her cheeks popped with a little huff whenever he finished giving her oxygen, and he felt the cool, stale air ghost against his cheek. Her chest remained still.

“Useless fucking Vaultie,” he grunted as he returned to her chest. He dug the heel of his palm a bit against her ribs as he settled back into position. “You’re no Mimi Roan, I’ll tell you that much. Mimi Roan wouldn’t go out choking on her own puke. Pathetic.” He shoved especially hard, one rough thrust into her heart that made her whole body jump. “You’re goddamn pathetic! Whining and carrying on like you done. I should leave your ass here.”

He paused, both because he felt a lick of guilt at yelling at a dead woman and because he was losing breath yelling and compressing at the same time. For a while the only sounds in the shack were the rhythmic thumps of her body against the concrete and his soft noises of exertion. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Two breaths.

He glanced down at the watch on her PipBoy as he knelt there, drawing in shallow gulps of air for himself. He hadn’t noted the exact time he found her, but if he had to guess, it had been about twenty minutes since he started pumping her heart for her. The Ghoul dragged his hand over his face. The learned gentleman himself Dr Dogood echoed somewhere in his mind: “Brain death usually occurs after fifteen minutes without oxygen. Poor Rochelle never stood a chance out here on her own. This world... Poor, poor Rochelle.”

He gripped her by the jaw, squashing her cheeks up towards her eyes, still hanging half mast. “Vaultie,” he grit between his teeth, “Get up. Wake up right now. Right now. Otherwise I… I’ll…” He pursed his lips. Not much could be worse than this. Regardless, he swung his arm back and slapped her hard across the face. Her head jerked to the side and stayed there. The crack of skin on skin reverberated and lingered in the air of the old shack, like it got caught between the concrete and the metal roof and didn’t know how to dispel. Her cheek didn’t redden. He assumed, somewhere distantly, that you needed circulation in order to redden after a strike. He backhanded her the other way anyway. Her head dutifully snapped that way, and his hand stung numbly.

“Get up,” he insisted, clenching a fistful of her Vault suit and dragging her chest up. The rest of her hung limp. “Blue… Lone, goddamnit, wake up!” He crashed his hands back into her chest, her ribs bowing under each strike against her heart and snapping back up in recoil. Her forced exhalations huffed against a strand of hair that had fallen across her face as he squeezed every last bit of oxygen she had left in her lungs out. Something gave way and her sternum softened with every pump.

He roughly snatched at her face once more and took in a lungful of air, forcing it into her starving lungs. He took another, shallower sip of air and gave her that too, not allowing her lungs to fully empty before he did it again. The quick round of hyperventilating breaths left him short on air himself and he sat there a moment, holding her face, his forehead pressed to the cool concrete near her head. “Come on, blue,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.

It was then he heard the shaky intake of air. The Ghoul jolted slightly and lifted his head to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, brow pinched in pain or exhaustion or both, as she breathed shallowly. He pressed his palm flat between her breasts and felt her sluggish heartbeat thudding. He rubbed his knuckles against the line there, over the colorful bruise that had developed from his hands crushing her organ back to life. She moaned, head lolling to the side.

“Hey,” he said, urgency creeping into his voice. “Good, that’s it. Good girl. Easy… take it easy…” He brought his hand up to lay against her throat and feel the pulse he had won back. A performance that put Dr Dogood to shame. He’d lost his patient in the end. A delirious sort of adrenaline fueled vindication rose in him and he sat up on his heels to whoop, “Hoo! Hot damn!” and bubble over with laughter. He fell back on his ass, only now registering how out of breath he felt, how weak his arms felt. His shoulders and back were screaming, and he was sure his abdomen was going to be tight as a drum tomorrow. He looked down at his bounty as she lay there, and started a bit to see she was looking up at him blearily.

“I wanna go home,” she whispered with a broken, cracked little voice. The Ghoul laughed again. “Darlin’ you almost went home to meet your maker.” But he looked down into her shining, almost fevered gaze. It was hard to be cruel with her in this state. He reached over and zipped her suit back up, covering the mark he’d made in the center of her chest. He shifted to roll her onto her side, a pack under her head. Then he took her wrist in his lap and flicked through her PipBoy back to the holotape player. He hit play, and sat with his scarred fingers slid in between hers.

You saw me crying in the chapel…

#resus community #resus #chest compressions #cpr #female resus #dark cardiophilia #aspirating #choking #the ghoul #mouth to mouth #mtm #resus writing

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