#a wake of buzzards

[buzzardskorner-love]

Relax and Inspire yourself! YOU DESERVE IT!

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 08. LOSING DOGS

a/n: i can't really explain why i took so long with this chapter. possibly because of how much i don't want this series to end and we're so close. but also it's just been hard to find the inspo as of late. but thanks to a movie day with @soulores where we yearned and screamed and laughed over this man, and well me rewatching the deadpool movies 1 & 2 for wade inspo i managed to finish this. it's been a ride delving into their angst and i hope you enjoy! we're one more chapter away from the ending and from this man's happy ending.

summary: time spent apart gives logan a chance to grieve - to mourn the family he lost. it gives you the opportunity to come to terms with what loving the wolverine means. the consequences that come with the choice of betting on someone like him. after all, he's not a violent dog...he just tends to bite harder than necessary.

word count: 7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, grief, dual pov chapter sorta, wade wilson breaking the fourth wall, wade wilson therapist, laura kinney is here to stay everyone, crying, pain, emotional turmoil, ptsd, time.

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You don't sleep anymore.

This wasn't due to a lack of exhaustion—you were always tired—you simply couldn't bear to withstand the dreams longer than necessary. They filled your head with their brutality. Ripped apart your psyche in such a short time frame, only to leave you split open and bleeding for the buzzards and vultures to pick at. You were surprised Wade never commented on how you resembled a walking corpse day after day.

Walking amongst the living as your soul was claimed by the dead.

Nightmares quickly became your waking reality. A piece of what Logan left behind burrowed in your chest, settling further than you could ever reach. But that remained the horrid truth. You didn't want to get rid of it—you couldn't fathom the thought for longer than a few seconds. The remedies given by Wade, Laura, Ness, were all flimsy bandaids that you stripped off when they weren't looking—hoping that the darkness within would eventually consume you whole.

What existed in your mind—in the very depths of your heart—were all you had left of the man who disappeared without a trace.

Staring at the ceiling was easier. Tracing the cracks in the plaster, the worn in marks of people who lived here long before you ever would. You pretended that he lay beside you—his body inches away from reaching for you. In search of a slice of contentment to counteract the yawning grave that threatened to bury him alive. You could play along in this delusion, create a world of your own as your vision blurred.

Maybe if you wished hard enough...it would come true.

Eventually the need for sleep won, dropping shovel after shovel of dirt. Intent on burying you six feet under in a spot that was never meant for you. Memories played on a loop, a reminder of what could never be—a fate that had been mistakenly written in the stars— and you accepted it with a solemn heart that sang a long forgotten song.

One you never should have learned.

A creak echoed in the living room, your door left ajar in case you had to run. But the cadence of her footsteps had grown familiar to your weary ears. The drag of boots across hardwood, a shuffle here and there in her attempt to stay quiet. She hardly left your apartment anymore. Taking a spot on your couch like a guard dog you never asked to keep—a protector who took on the role her father was meant to fill.

Laura often fell asleep on the leather piece of furniture never meant to be utilized as a bed. You peeked your head out once to check if she needed anything, only to find her laying with her body faced closest to the door—a cracked picture frame of a much older version of your Logan placed on the table beside her. Her brows were furrowed, face pinched in fear, and for the first time you understood her relationship to the Wolverine.

She shared much more than his DNA.

She was plagued by his nightmares as well.

Your heart cracked a bit further at the knowledge that she might never have another night of peace in her life. Forever taunted by a past that should have been happy.

Sighing, you turned onto your side, staring at the neon glow of your alarm clock—a polaroid of Logan propped against the lamp. Wade took it months before you got the chance to meet the man who would drastically shift the course of your life. Two days ago you found it on your pillow—a chocolate bar beside it. Wade's attempt at making you smile.

Even if all it managed to do was make you cry.

Broken wet sobs that left your body wracked with shivers, your heart numb to each emotion that might have existed before he walked away. You'd gone over their explanations in your head numerous times. Mulled over each word and soft whisper of why. Yet nothing registered but the emptiness—the hollow ache that spilled over with grief.

No matter how often you patched it back up, he still managed to break his way back in. The reminder of his absence only served to split you down the middle—rendering you incapable of anything but pain.

"I miss him too."

Your body jolted at the soft sound of her voice practically filled to the brim with melancholy. She stood in your doorway, hands limp at her side, and for the first time you saw her as who she really was. A child who lost her father not once, but twice. Wordlessly you dragged the blankets back from his side of the bed, rolling to face her as she clambered onto the mattress still clad in jeans and a t-shirt.

You offered your own pajamas a week ago in the hopes of making her more comfortable. Only for her to reveal she slept in her clothes even at the mansion.

Just in case.

"What was he like? Your father." The topic of the older Logan rarely came up for you, his memory somehow entwined with the man you fell in love with. But Laura knew him best. She'd seen him at his worst, only to watch him become the father he was always meant to be. "You don't have to talk about him if you don't want to."

She sighed, shifting around as if to shed the layer of vulnerability that scratched at her. "Angry."

You smiled. "Always?"

"No," she breathed. This breached onto territory she wasn't used to, memories she never liked to look back on, but for some unknown reason...it made you smile. So she persisted in spite of the discomfort that gnawed at her stomach. "He took care of Charles for a long time before he found me. Or well before I found him. But he had a lot to be angry about."

"I imagine." And you could.

Humans were their own enemy at times, destroying all that was good in the world. After witnessing what Fortuna went through—where her path lay—you understood how people would rather villainize what they didn't understand. Logan faced it each day, the difference of being someone who slipped by unnoticed yet could never truly reveal himself.

A man that carried the grief of all he lost and persisted despite the pain.

"He would have liked you," Laura mumbled, her eyes growing heavy with sleep's desperate call.

"I don't think–"

"You're like Charles." Her eyes slipped shut, body sagging into the mattress, while you were stunned into silence. "That's why."

She fell silent before the words managed to sink deep into your mind—puncturing a spot of love that existed in spite of all this agony. A place that Logan claimed all to himself. Yet as you lay there, tracing the lines of his daughter's face with your eyes, you felt her memory merge with his. Creating a small corner of your world for her to reside in—a home in your heart.

Tucking the blanket around her shoulder, you met sleep's call with a pleased sigh. It gripped you tight, closing its arms around your steady beating heart. Unbeknownst to you as the clock struck two in the morning, a shard of your broken heart wedged itself back into place. Healing over with a jagged scar sewn together by the girl who longed for permanency in a world that offered her the bitter end of a short stick.

The girl who asked for her father and got a mother instead.

Burnt pancake batter filled your senses, burning the insides of your nostrils as you were roused from sleep to the sharp off key singing of Wade in your kitchen. The spot beside you was empty, the sheets cold, and with a ragged sigh you sat up. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes. What slowly became your favorite part of the mornings—waking up beside a man who did everything he could to keep you between warm sheets—suddenly shifted into a horrid dream.

You were alone. Again.

The familiar prick of tears stung your eyes faster than you would have liked. Although that might have been the pancakes.

In sluggish movements, you dragged a flannel over your t-shirt to combat the frozen chill beginning to settle in the New York air. Fall was right around the corner, leaving you with a list of things to do before the apartment was back in working order. The window still sat unfixed—plastic taped over the gaping hole per Wade's instructions—and the radiator gave out after Fortuna's whip went through it.

"Just call me angel of the morning," Wade crooned, flipping another charred piece of bread onto a stack that began to lean four pancakes ago.

Laura watched it warily, her fingers gripped around a can of shitty soda you picked up for her two days ago. Coffee was offered as an alternative to her sugary habits; she offered to steal in case you were low on funds. You figured it was easier to appease than argue.

"Do you even know how to cook?" she muttered, taking another gulp.

"Such a ray of sunshine. It's like Logan is still here with us." Wade poured another glob of chunky batter onto your now ruined cast iron pan. "Tell me does that come from your genetics or is it a fancy power they gave you?"

She snorted, her claws coming free to stab at the pile and drag a pancake to her plate. "Genetics."

"I figured." He slid the syrup her way, the bowl in his other hand nearly tipping the batter onto the floor. "Use a fork, you alley cat. Housewives do not get paid enough to cook a fantastic meal and serve it too."

"You're not getting paid," Laura mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"Exactly." His head glanced towards the stove, eyes narrowed in mock irritation. "We should talk about that huh Feige."

A pancake slipped off the stack, hitting the counter with a heavy thud and you began to wonder if the bread was in fact what he said it was. Ever since you woke up in the mansion, Wade had been your chef morning noon and night. Each meal entirely came with  

Laura squinted at the smoke rapidly rising to the ceiling. "Maybe you should cook them for shorter periods of time."

"Don't question my methods, I'm a pancake champion Oliver." Her face scrunched, disgust flooding across her narrowed gaze. "Oliver and Company? Orange alley cat led and taught by the smooth dog Dodger?" She shook her head. "Greatest take on Oliver Twist to exist?"

"Never heard of it."

He dropped the bowl, jabbing a finger in her face quick enough to startle you where you hid by the doorway. "I hope you're ready to have your life changed Howlett Junior by the voice of Billy Joel taking away all our worries. Right sweet angel?"

Your attempt to meld yourself into the wall proved unsuccessful when Laura turned to smile at you, trepidation rising to the surface in her eyes. They watched you with an air of indecision. After Logan left you became a ticking time bomb—each second passing quicker than either of them expected—and one day when it was least expected...you'd explode.

Every emotion you tried to push down would shove its way to the front, rendering them unavoidable. That's what terrified you the most. It scared them too—you could see it hidden beneath looks of false joy and hopeful glances. They wanted you to heal, to survive this grueling time of solitude.

You simply didn't know if you had it in you to appease their worries.

Peeling away from the doorframe, you moved closer with soft unsure movements. So unlike the person from before who got over the unrelenting fear of being seen, of one day being known. He read you like a book, flipped the pages with enthusiasm and love, and you thought what resided in your own heart was enough to keep him reading. You believed he might put pen to paper and script what lay in the path of your lives spent together.

But he stopped reading weeks ago, shutting the half empty story to save you from the grief that devoured him from the inside out.

He let you remain unfinished. Perhaps that's how you were always meant to be.

"Tell me somewhere in that sexy mind of yours there's a version of Oliver and Company, cause I can't be surrounded by uncultured fiends," Wade rambled, tossing two pancakes onto a clean chipped plate he slid your way.

"I know of it," you replied. The meek echo of your voice sent a wave of shock through your system—so different, so unrecognizable.

You wanted to be known again, to exist in the confines of someone's mind. Wade and Laura offered up theirs on a silver platter—promising not to tarnish the fracture spirit housed in your weary body.

The burnt flavor of bread nearly made you gag, but Wade's smile forced you to swallow with a half hearted grin. "Isn't it a cartoon?"

Wade huffed. "And we’re comic book characters. What else is new?" Chewing happily on his own plate, he drowned his breakfast in a heaping wave of syrup that dripped onto your flour covered counter. "The offer to watch it today is on the table."

You swallowed thickly, nose wrinkled at the bitter flavor that stuck to the back of your throat. "Actually I'm gonna go into work today."

They froze. Unease stirring to life in the small kitchen as they regarded you with the hesitation you'd grown sick of facing. You couldn't be a recluse for the rest of your life, spending days watching movies on your couch with Wade—sharing quiet dinners with Laura at the table that housed a vase full of decaying flowers. Things wouldn't come to a halt because a man exited your life—they couldn't.

Logan left to heal.

It was time you did the same.

"I don't have much sick leave left," you began, the argument ready to leap off the tip of your tongue. "And my shift ends at six, which gives me enough time to pick up some actual dinner."

"Wolverine 2.0 goes with you," Wade replied—the stern lilt of his voice jarring you for a moment.

"Wade–"

"She goes."

There remained no room left to place your well thought out points in, no space for you to budge on his only demand. You supposed this was better than having both of them show up out of the blue. Your boss hardly let you get away with Logan showing up once or twice; two heroes would send them over the edge, eventually leading to your job being terminated.

You sighed, pushing the food around your plate for a second. "I guess she can learn something. Since she's supposed to be in school."

"You know I'm right here," she interjected, shoving the empty dish towards Wade.

"Hush. The adults are talking." He threw a wink your way, eyes glinting with a mischief that dimmed the day Logan left. The sight filled your lungs with air, hope settling at the base of your empty heart. "I'll pack the lunches."

Warmth filled the empty crevices of your body—sparking life into a part of you that had been vacant for weeks. "You don't have to."

"Shush. I've got to take care of my little breadwinner." He pinched your cheek hard enough to send pain flaring down your neck. "Besides I need to live up to my role as wifey or Ness will stop calling me that in bed."

Laura groaned, her eyes shutting to the sight of Wade's brash smile. "Gross."

"Ew," you replied, unable to hide the grin that cracked across your dried lips. "I didn't need to know that."

"Au contraire. If I had to hear you and Logan go at it for hours at a time. Kudos by the way it sounded like he gave phenomenal dick. You get to listen to me yap about my sex life."

Laura sped past you, vanishing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut with her boot. You couldn't blame her reaction. Hearing about her father's life drudged up pain that still existed in the back of her mind. Grief that she'd have to work through. Yet if she was anything like Logan, you'd have to face your own broken trauma in order for her to finally face hers.

"Yap?" you inquired, desperate to move on from the topic of him.

"Yeah. It's what all my fellow Gen Z’ers are saying."

With brows furrowed, you bit back the swell of laughter that bubbled up your throat. "Wade you're older than me by–"

His hand clapped over your mouth, muffling the remainder of your sentence. "Shhhh." A quick glance was thrown to the side. "Last I checked this is the Logan show. Not the Wade show. Well...not yet anyways."

"Hey Wade," you mumbled beneath a scarred palm that gripped your cheeks together. "Thank you."

For the first time all week...Wade gave you a smile that finally reached his eyes. Irises plagued with the same flicker of sadness that weighed heavy in your heart. The feeling of loss within a found family—of things changing faster than you could process. In an instant you were back to square one, struggling to keep your head above water.

Only this time you weren't swimming these dark waters alone. This time Wade and Laura clung to you, dragging what remained to a shore of a different color. A life yet to be explored.

"Anytime angel," he whispered with a kiss to your temple—drawing you close enough to feel his heart beneath the thin t-shirt. An organ that beat for one more person, that carved out space for his small inkling of hope.

For the family made up of two mutants, a blind woman, a sugar bear, the love of his life, and you.

The clatter of keychains echoed past the empty rows of shelves, bouncing off high ceilings decorated with yellowed lights. You caught sight of a small X-Men insignia stitched onto the side of the faded gray backpack. The stitches were frayed, the initials of L. K. H. placed right above it in sloppy angled sharpie, but the sight explained enough. Her entire life was stored within these aged pockets, in a pack held closed by a broken zipper and some faith.

"I like the Deadpool one." You watched her gloved hands toy with it for a moment, eyes glancing down the rows of darkened shelves every few moments.

Even here in the midst of silence and history, she remained on guard.

You wanted to promise a sliver of peace beyond all that she went through—a place where nothing happened except the shuffle of books and moving of boxes. Only to realize that you'd never be able to tell her something so untrue.

She'd never be entirely safe again. That made you want to rip at the world until your hands went bloody and raw. Until there remained a guarantee that she'd be able to sleep at night, that when her father came home things would be different.

"Peter made it." She picked at the black polish on her nails—the bottle swiped off your vanity a week ago in the hopes you wouldn't go looking for it. "Said a member of X-Force should have the marker."

"Didn't...they all die?"

"Yeah. So it's more of a warning I guess?" She grinned, wide and bright and so carefree it tugged sharply at your heart.

You placed another stack on the cart, fiddling with the order. If you kept yourself busy you could stop thinking about him. You could shove each memory and shared moment of bliss to the back of your mind. This was your chance to find a small semblance of normalcy after so much damage, a change in the rapidly shifting path of your life. You used to enjoy shelving pieces of history—find contentment in the familiar pattern of routine.

Now his eyes haunted your mind. His touch was a ghost along the back of your neck. His smile was reflected to you in the face of his daughter—the crinkles around her eyes an exact copy of his.

You were doomed to repeat history, destined to break as Fortuna did with a shattered heart and the hope that one day he might come home and find you. He'd open the apartment door set in place by his calloused hands and find you right where he left you—waiting as time stopped and dust gathered and your heart called for a man lost in time.

"I've got to shelve these," you said, voice thick with unshed tears you swallowed down. "But feel free to pick a book okay?"

She nodded, dragging a small journal out of her pack—a chewed up pen with it. "Wade gave me your lunch."

"I'll come find you in an hour?"

"I'm not going anywhere." The words were said more for your benefit than hers—a way to appease the constant flicker of unease in your mind. Perhaps this is what she lived with her whole life. The pain of yearning for someone to come back to her, to stay.

You'd be that person.

You would stay.

Smiling one last time, you pushed the cart into a row sparse with books—the light clicking on above your head as your footsteps echoed off the wooden floor. Your boss texted you quick instructions before she took the upstairs shift, the piles left behind for you to sort through. It seemed that classes were back in session, each book taken out regarding some form of historical information on New York.

Your eyes caught the titles while you worked. Sliding books into their proper spot and discarding the paper slotted in as a placeholder. It became a mindless task. A job of familiarity that your muscles immediately recognized—your arms moving of their own volition. Giving free reign to your mind that turned over information at a rapid rate.

What happens now? What would life turn into?

Now that you were back in a place that held so much of your soul you found that fitting back into the mold felt wrong. You were a human who got caught up in the affairs of mutants. It had happened before to others like you, it would certainly happen again. Yet you weren't sure you could handle the pain of being tossed into the ring with no means of protection again.

Your heart barely survived the first time.

To do it again would mean signing your name along death's dotted line. Only this time the pact would be sealed with your own blood.

A tilted stack of books slid onto their sides, grabbing hold of your attention quicker than expected. You slammed a hand against them with the hopes of saving yourself from extra work. Only for the one in your other hand to slip, hitting the cart with a thud and shoving it a foot away. Your mind went into overdrive—the noise of metal clanging against the tall shelves reverting into the all too familiar crack of a whip.

You gasped, leaping back as if the pile burned right down to your bone—the books toppling to the ground in rapid succession. A domino effect that would leave you crouching for a good twenty minutes to put everything back in its rightful spot.

"No," you exclaimed, your voice unwavering amidst the anxiety that filled your stomach.

Something ripped at the base of your spine, crackling through your body like a livewire. It pulled at every nerve, every tendon and muscle, until you were positive this was more than an overwhelming amount of stress. Your vision went black, a glare of light flashing behind closed eyelids, as the world went still and time rolled to a deathly halt.

Blue washed off your stiff form in rolling waves, curling around your stretched arms and down to the fingers that nearly curled around a book held in midair. A rush of cold air flooded your lungs, expanding them in your chest with a strength you'd never experienced before. As if the missing piece within your DNA finally settled into place—a spot always meant to hold something else.

A power that flared to life with a burning wave of heat.

It welcomed you like a long lost friend. Burrowed into the broken parts of your chest with a promise to put you back together. Time trickled by as your heart started up again—beating slowly against your ribs. Surging past each part of you that intertwined with this newfound link.

You sucked in another breath, eyes fluttering open with a flash of cerulean to see Laura struggling along the bookcase. Her face screwed up in pain, claws buried in the wooden shelves to drag herself forward. She moved an inch at a time, her cry unable to fill the vacant air as she struggled to rip you from the power that fractured your mind.

Such an inconceivable topic: time. Centuries prickled across your skin, millenniums made a home along each bone that grinded to a stop, decades offered you a life that might have ended at the age of eighty.

Infinity. Immortality. An end that rivaled Death.

Oh...what bliss.

"Yes," you relented. An answer to the question that would never be said aloud.

Another pulse of energy flowed off your shoulders, spilling across empty shelves—rattling the boxes that began to topple to the floor. If you weren't careful you'd bring destruction to a building that became your second home. But the consciousness you relied on was suddenly nowhere to be found.

"Stop!" Laura's voice struck you across the face, punching into your chest with enough blistering pain to wake up your mind to what was happening within you.

Slamming your hands against the shelves that stood on either side of you, the light of blue sputtered out, dying quick enough for you to get a hold of your body. Time fell back into place, the books you nearly dropped crashed to the floor with a loud clatter of thuds, and you collapsed. Your knees hit the floor harshly, pain coursing up your legs. Yet you could barely keep your eyes open.

"Laura," you wheezed, body sagging against the shelf.

She collapsed beside you, gathering your hands into a vice-like hold. "What happened? What the fuck was that?"

"Fortuna..."

"Is she alive? Is she here?" Her head raised, eyes scanning the vacant area for signs of your variant self.

"She–" Your vision swirled with spots of black, your head fuzzy with the prick of power that wanted to consume you. "I–"

"We gotta get you home," she muttered, shifting her strength to lift you to your feet—body braced heavily on her as she walked. "I'm calling a cab. Stay with me okay? Just stay awake."

The distant ring of her phone echoed in the background as she dragged you with her, a familiar muffled voice coming through the small speaker. Wade. You wanted to speak to him. Ask him what just happened. But only one person would hold the answers—only one person would make you feel alive again. You sucked in a shaky breath, hot tears spilling down your cheeks. The image of him—his smile, his love—filling your broken mind.

"I'm taking her home," Laura muttered into the line.

Her voice became a buzz in your ears. Sharp and unrelenting and inescapable. Your vision went dark, mind succumbing to the painful twisting of your gut—the need to be anywhere else overtaking every other thought. Laura called your name, shook your shoulders, but the world faded away before you could reach out and grasp it; your body sinking beneath the depths, drowning in the soothing waves of time.

“How did you sleep?”

“No nightmares.”

“Are you lying to me Howlett?”

“I’m not lying,” he confessed. “I didn’t really dream of anythin’ this time around.”

Your own laughter pricked at your ears. “Don’t tell me. It was because of me.”

“I think it might be bub.” His touch ghosted across your skin—breath a wash of hot air against your skin. “Guess you’re my cure. Been lookin’ for awhile.”

"Logan," you murmured, eyes fluttering open.

His smile lit up the darkness in your chest—eyes crinkled and lips parted in a sigh of love. "Yeah bub?"

"Y-You're here..."

A hand curled around the back of your neck, drawing you in close enough to make the steady beat of your heart flutter. "Where else would I be honey? I woke up with ya."

"But you've been gone." Your brows furrowed, the haze in your thoughts blocking anything other than him. "I was with Laura–"

He stilled. "Laura?"

"She was helping me," you mumbled, attempting to force your eyes to stay open. "At the library."

"You're just dreamin'," he chuckled.

"But I'm not–"

Lips that haunted you in your sleep brushed across the bridge of your nose—his fingers scratching at the base of your scalp with a hum. "You haven't met her yet honey. How could you be with her at the library?"

You wrenched your eyes open, clutching at the covers that lay over your bodies in an iron grip. "Fortuna–"

Logan's body went still, his head rearing back to stare at you in abject horror. "How do you know her name?" he rasped. "I never told you..."

"What are you talking about?" The buzzing filled each sense, each part of your already numb body. "Wait. No. I need more time," you begged, tears rushing to the surface.

His face blurred, your name a distant call on the tip of his tongue as the waves crashed over your body. Dragging you back to a shore meant for you. Darkness swallowed you whole in an instant. Until you could barely catch your breath—the speed of time rushing to a quick stop. Within the hold of darkness, the drifting peace of nothingness, you heard it.

The vibrant sapphire call of a woman you believed to be the enemy.

“Do better than me."

"Love him the way I couldn't.

You gasped, thrashing against the vice hold that wrenched you apart. The voice whispered soothingly in your ear, a warm compression against a heart that longed for more than this unfathomable excruciating ache.

She drew you to your feet, hands clasped around your wrists, and helped you stagger to the ocean's edge. She faced you with a mirrored smile that faded weeks ago—her eyes bright and flickering with peace.

"Do what I couldn't." Thumbs pressed into the base of your wrist. "Protect them. All of them."

A thick sob ripped from your chest—eyes blurry with tears that refused to stop. "How? I-I shouldn't be this."

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

"W-What?"

"When Death asks for your hand. Take it. She will lead you home." The scathing brightness of sunlight burned your closed eyelids, pushing you towards something familiar. A place you knew would protect you. "Until then. Show them that time was never the enemy. We're simply their companion."

"Fortuna!" you cried, the form of her slowly dissipating back into the realm of darkness not yet meant for you. "I can't do this! I'm not supposed to be this!"

"Tell him I'm sorry."

Hands grasped at your shoulders. The cold press of metal against the bare skin of your arms jolted you awake—lungs expanding with air that felt like home. The floral scent of your laundry soap filled your nose, the warmth of your bed dragged along your body, and the brush of hair on your neck drew you back to the present. Your eyes fluttered open, chest heaving for any amount of air you could draw in.

"Laura?"

She sighed, dropping the hold she had on your shoulders. "You did it again."

"Did it again?"

"Looks like someone got jealous of all these special powers around her," Wade teased from the doorway of your room—a glass of water in his hand.

"What?" you croaked, suddenly aware of how raw your throat was.

He huffed, settling on the side of your bed. "You've got a bad case of the McFlys. Traveling to and fro in the timeline. Don't think the big guy upstairs will like that very much."

"God?"

"Victor."

You choked. "Who?"

"Or maybe it's Loki," he huffed. "I get that show's timeline confused. Anyways up you go. Drink this. Nurse Wade's orders."

With reluctance you downed the glass of water, Laura's watchful gaze burning into your from the chair. They moved with hesitation brimming to the surface of their eyes—a glaze of uncertainty prominent in each shift of their bodies. They were scared. Whether it was due to what you were turning into or what you could become. You couldn't be certain at this time, but the fear still lingered in the air.

Thick and bitter and so unlike the two mutants who'd become your family in the past few weeks.

"What's happening to me?" you whispered, Wade's hand reaching for yours with a placating grin.

"I've got one guess and it's dredging up memories of that fucker Francis, but dormant mutant gene." The panic in your eyes had him reaching for your other hand. "Hey look at me angel okay? I know how to handle this."

You shook your head, that unsettling twist in your gut rising to the surface. "I'm not...No. That's not possible. I would have..." You hiccuped, oxygen becoming harder to reach for as his words began to settle along your skin. "I would have known," you whispered.

"I didn't." He drew you close enough for his nose to brush your forehead. "That little surprise landed in my lap like a bad case of chlamydia. It's rare, but it happens."

"Why me?" you uttered, unable to process anything other than Laura's sharp gaze."

He sighed. "We don't get to pick and choose. Something must have triggered it."

Fortuna's hold on your jaw, the rocks scattered along the dirt digging into your back. It all came back to you. Her final words bleeding with an act of sacrifice—a promise to gift you with the curse she was unable to handle. Do better than her. Protect them better than her. Wield the ebbing and flowing of time better than her.

She awoke a part of you that had yet to come to life. A dormant section of your DNA that might have forever gone unnoticed if her powers hadn't unlocked it. She gave you everything, dropped the burden on your shoulders, because she knew something you didn't at the time.

You had people—a family, a lover—to keep you stable.

You had the one thing she couldn't save.

"It was always meant to be you. Not me."

Laura sat up, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "It's time."

Wade glanced over his shoulder. "We don't know where he is Oliver."

She sneered, digging out the small phone from her vest pocket. "I do. I gave him the keys."

"Call who?" you rasped, barely able to process that you were back home somehow.

Until her eyes met yours and drew you back to the surface with a name that burned right through your heart. "Logan."

The sharp thwack of an axe against wood filled the still air. Mist clung to the area, settling over his shoulders with a wet layer of frigid condensation. He felt it weigh in his hair, sink into his flannel, and send a wave of cold familiarity through his body. A place he never thought could exist in a different universe somehow stood the test of time. The Logan that came before was somehow more like his variant self than expected.

He sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead—the split open skin of his palms healing over before he could get a glimpse of them. The axe remained lodged into a mangled tree stump. Slivers and pieces of all that he chopped scattered in the clearing. He'd have to pick them up eventually, but he chose to stick with the same motion.

A piece of muscle memory he'd grown used to.

The sun began its descent beneath the thicket of trees, nightfall coming once more to a home occupied by a single person. Merely him and the stack of unread books left behind by a man who shared his taste. He yanked the flannel off his body, tossing it to the chair on his small porch, setting another log into place with a breath.

"Fuck," he muttered, cracking his neck slightly.

A mug of cold coffee sat discarded on the small table he constructed two weeks ago. A means to an end. A way to keep his racing mind busy from the pain that echoed like a bad dream in his head. He'd forgone the whiskey bottles stored in the liquor cabinet, opting for the bitter tang of the wine you preferred with your dinner.

The image of your smile kept him awake most nights. The sound of your laughter playing on a loop like a scratched record he clung to. This was his salvation. Your memory, your joy. It kept him going on days where the horrors threatened to drag him beneath the surface of the Earth.

He dug his grave long before he met you. Whether or not he crawled into it relied on one simple fact.

Though he dragged you through hell—became the cause of so much suffering within your life—you still loved him. You were waiting for him to come home.

"Desperado," he hummed, yanking the axe out of the splintered wood. "Why don't you come to your senses."

Discarding the tool to the side, he gathered what wood might be needed for a small fire. It wouldn't have any effect on whether he stayed warm or not, but it would put him at ease after such a grueling task. Tomorrow he'd go back to work at the yard—his measly paycheck enough to keep him fed with meals cooked in solitude.

He tossed them beside his fireplace, wiping the dirt and mud from his hands with the damp flannel. Life shifted the second Laura handed him the keys to this house on the edge of nowhere. Back to a routine he once knew so well. To a life that once offered him the facade of peace. He might have deluded himself into thinking it would happen again—that he'd get the chance to breathe again.

But your memory clung to his soul. You refused to release him from the spell of your love.

Fortuna's memory remained at the back of his mind like a long lost friend—someone who once offered him a future filled to the brim with hope. And then there was you. His honey. His lover till death. You were the reason he kept himself breathing, the reason his heart continued to thrum in his chest.

You were his savior, guiding him through the grief with a warm smile and a kiss of life.

The shrill ring of his phone broke the haze of memories he found himself in. Dropping into the chair beside his bed, he unlaced his boots—yanking the device out of the drawer on his dresser. He rarely needed it anymore. The contact he had with the rest of the world now whittled down to the people he worked with and the cashier at the small market.

With a sigh, he flipped it open in the hopes it was Wade calling to finally bug him about returning. It wouldn't be unusual. Weeks went by sluggishly, dripping like honey from the jar as he attempted to fix the broken parts of his heart.

Leaving without saying goodbye is what hurt the most. His silent kiss pressed to your cold forehead, his lingering gaze that did what he could to burn your features into his mind. He wanted you with him. Here in this small home. He wanted to hear your laughter fill up the empty spaces, the warmth of your love shining in the air with a palpable physicality that stole his breath away.

Logan ached for you.

But you didn't deserve a man riddled with demons. Certainly not the version of himself that left you behind.

Laura's name flashing across the screen set that familiar unease back in his stomach. The terror that something happened again—something brought you pain when he wasn't there to protect you—filled the crevices of his heart. And with a shaky breath, he answered.

"Laura."

She interrupted him before empty pleasantries could rise to the surface. "You need to come home."

He swallowed thickly. "What happened?"

"I can't explain over the phone, but it's bad. She's not gonna cope without you here."

"What the fuck do you mean cope?" he bit out, his eyes flashing to the small framed image of you that sat proudly on his nightstand. "Is she hurt?"

"No."

He sucked in a breath, relief washing over his shoulders. "Is she okay?"

Laura hesitated. "She's...broken." The word struck him with a visceral anger—an emotion that nearly caught him off guard. "She needs you here Dad. Wade and I can only do so much and if I knew she was dormant I could have helped sooner."

Dormant.

He stiffened, fingers tightening around the phone hard enough for it to crack. "What do you mean by dormant?"

Laura sucked in a breath. "She's..." A beat of silence filled his chest with a fear he never knew could exist in this universe. "She's like us, Dad. She's like her."

Like her.

The world shifted on its axis as he sat there listening to Laura's shaky attempts to explain what occurred. How you needed him this time around. His heart rammed an unsteady beat in the confines of his chest. An echo that rang with a crippling hollow promise of loneliness. Only this time it didn't scream for him—it raged for the person he loved.

The person he left behind.

"Send her here," he said. And before his mind could comprehend the words spilling past his lips, he made a vow he failed to keep—a promise he'd fulfill until his final breath. "I'll keep her safe."

note: this is incredibly late than what i originally planned, but life has been chaotic. and to everyone in the us who are struggling, i hope you take care of yourself this week. we got this and i love you.

[throneofsmut]

Kinktober Day 6: Temperature Play

Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn x Reader || WC: 803

Your lips part gently, each soft pant escaping like a whisper, your breath warm and shallow.

 “Gods,” you mumble as Aelin kisses the right side of your jaw and neck, nibbling and sucking the soft warm skin.

Rowan claims your left side, his elongated canines scraping against your skin gently and another wave of heat floods your body, but you can’t tell if it’s from their touch or Aelin’s magic.

Your fingers twitch with the need to touch them, to feel them, but Rowan holds them both in the strong cold grip of his hand, above your head . 

Your skin glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, each bead catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows of your shared chambers. Highlighting the curves of your body, creating a sensual, almost mesmerizing glow as tiny beads slide between the valley of your breasts with each breath. 

The tiny strands of hair along your hairline cling to your forehead, sticking to your skin due to the tiny beads of sweat there. Your tongue darts out, licking your lips, tasting the saltiness of the skin surrounding your mouth. 

You gasp, squirming between both of their bodies when Rowan slides an ice cold thick finger between your wet pussy lips. A pathetic whine leaving your lips and he answers with a growl, rubbing your clit. Making your shiver. 

Aelin’s warm hand lazily drags over your tummy, up your chest, over the front of your throat, and grips your jaw. Leaving a hot trial in its wake. You moan when she turns your face to the left and licks a long strip up the side of your neck, her pleased hum filling your ears.

“You’re so hot, kitten,” she murmurs against your throat and you feel your cheeks burn at the nickname. Her and Rowan started calling you “kitten” after the first time they saw you shift into a leopard. 

Then she moves to capture your lips in a hungry kiss. Grinding herself against your thigh. Her hips rolling into you frantically as she chases her climax using your slick body. 

Your lips part in a lewd moan when you feel an ice kissed wind race over your body. A cold sensual caress that sends shivers down your spine, causing tiny bumps to rise on your body in response, and your nipples to harden almost to the point of pain. 

Aelin swallows the moan greedily, deepening the kiss. 

Rowan pulls her off of you with a growl, his lips replacing hers in a frantic, claiming kiss. 

You whimper into his mouth and he groans into yours, flicking your clit faster. his finger covered in his ice magic feels delicious against the heat of your clit from Aelin’s fire magic. But you want more. Need more.

“Ro,” you beg, against his lips. 

He nips your bottom lip. “Yes, kitten?” You feel his lips curve into a knowing smirk. 

“More.” You beg breathily. Feeling his cock twitch as he starts to grind against your other thigh. Spreading his precum on your slick skin.  

“You want more?” He moves his finger faster. Pressing and stroking your aching, throbbing clit. Your eyes squeeze shut and your thighs press together. “You want to fuck my fingers, kitten?”

“P-please,” you nod, aching for his fingers to fill you. 

“Give our little kitten what she wants, buzzard,” Aelin murmurs huskily. 

And before you can even draw your next breath, Rowan dips his finger lower, the coldness of it filling your warm soaked cunt has you keening. 

He pumps his finger all the way in, to his knuckle and almost all the way out, to the tip. Curling it inside you. Hitting your sweet spot with every pump. 

You cry out when he adds another finger. “F-fuck!” At the same time Aelin grips a handful of one of your tits in a hard squeeze as she cries out too, her hips grinding against you frenziedly. 

Your back arches from the pain and pleasure. From the heat and cold. 

Mouth falling open in a silent scream when Rowan works his fingers into you faster. To the same pace he grinds his cock against you. 

Your movements and theirs are becoming frantic, feral. 

Then your entire body jerks, pussy clamping around his fingers as you cum. 

You feel your release drenching your inner thighs, dripping onto the bed beneath you. Your  eyes squeezed shut so tightly you see stars as you cry out. 

The sound urging Aelin and Rowan to bite—to sink their teeth into the space where your neck meets your shoulders as they cum too.  

Aelin’s release gushes against your thigh, dripping onto the bed, and Rowan’s cum spurts onto your other thigh, spilling onto the bed. 

All three of you lay there on the bed, a mess of slick covered limp and tangled limbs. 

****

Taglist: @daycourtofficial @03michi01 @impossibelle @the-sweet-psycho @aestheticalien99 @itsinherited @a-courtof-azriel @lalalucha @theonewithwritersblock @blessthepizzaman @the-starlight-way @anama-cara @halo-hanging @fhgsvbnh @p1nkfluffysocks @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @wolfbc97 @importantduckhumanoidpatrol @edance2000 @velarisnightsky444 @headcaseproductions1 @mellyy-1 @caticorn61 @baileybird71 @tired-sleepyhead @rosecobollway @scarsandallaz @lilah-asteria @90angiex @scorpioriesling @hellokittysbtc @thegoddessofnothingness @comeoneladiesitstime2yearn @that-one-small-world

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Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

[whisperingmidnights]

Hiii☺️ I saw your new bingo! Congrats on 2000 🎉🎉🎉🎉 of course I would have to ask... Can you do Helion x Az x reader with morning after, please?

P.s. I have so many of your amazing stories to catch up 🥹

Take your time, baby. I certainly take mine writing them.

Waking up slowly is always the goal – especially the days we have Azriel with us. Sweet, buttery light streams in through the open balcony, the scents of flowers from the gardens below drifting in on the breeze. Everything is warm and lovely, except for the side of the bed our lover usually occupies.

The sheet is cold beneath my palm when I reach for him. Stretching, I open my eyes to see him out on the balcony, slowly going through a warm-up of his own in only the thin trousers he wears to bed...when he wears anything at all.

He looks incredible, his broad, tan shoulders back as his chest opens towards the sun. He might insist he's made for shadows and darkness, but I think he's a creature of the sun. Seeing how he opens for it, how it bronzes his beautiful skin, how could he be anything but?

Even his shadows have stayed indoors, content to drape themselves along the mattress at my side. A few of them stretch out over my hip atop the blankets like long, lazy cats. Funny little creatures.

Helion's arm winds around my waist as he wakes. His mouth is warm against my shoulder, pressing lazy kisses there until he sits up to see what I'm looking at. His reaction is immediate and, to be fair, is very similar to mine. I grin as he hardens against my spine, watching our shadowsinger lower himself into a pose that would be cobra-like, if not for the wings spread out on either side of him.

That just makes him look a little like a buzzard.

A very sexy, very distracting buzzard.

"Keep me warm while we wait?" My husband asks, nipping at the shell of my ear as his hand drifts beneath the blanket to grab my thigh.

"I could never deny myself the pleasure," I murmur slyly, letting him hitch my leg back over his. He buries himself inside of me in one fluid motion, my body so accustomed to his that I don't even notice the stretch. Instead, I relax at the familiar weight of him against me and settle back against the pillow.

Shadows tug at the blankets, roused from their morning nap, and seemingly eager to play. Helion's hands wander my body in slow caresses designed to stoke my interest without fanning it too much. At least, not yet. We have quite the show to watch. And our shadowsinger is smiling.

[vanillesuiker]

Random Weasley headcanons because today was the first day of school so obviously I've had much time to think about things that aren't school!

Arthur Weasley loves birds. You can't convince me otherwise and that's mostly because I love birds but shush. He seems like a bird watcher.

He has tried to get the kids into it, but they just don't get it. Not even Percy can be convinced that birds aren't actually boring, they're so interesting!!

He brags that he does it the "muggle" way but he really doesn't. He has magical binoculars that auto focus on a bird or some shit. If he has the time he takes a broom and flies out to a good bird spotting place. He's sitting in the bushes with about sixty silencing and concealing charms up just to look at a common buzzard (AND I WOULD DO THE SAME)

Sorry I just really love birds. I can't promise this was the last bird thing I have a fic planned. Anyway!

Percy is always one of the first to be awake in the morning. (Excluding Arthur who is... at work)

He goes downstairs, gets some coffee or tea (do wizards have coffee???) and stares out of a window for a bit.

He's a window guy.

On the other side of the spectrum you have Ron. Who wakes up last and has to be woken up most of the time.

I'm not hating on Ron I swear, I love him.

Molly does that thing that all mothers do where she yells someone's name from downstairs. And then the child responds. And she doesn't.

Charlie Weasley can make a mean fried egg.

That's it that's the headcanon. He's the eggman.

Speaking of eggs. If there's boiled eggs, Fred takes the egg white while George takes the yolk. This has been their arrangement since they could communicate that they didn't want THAT part of the egg, only the other.

That's totally based on @bastaardsuiker and me though. I <3 projecting.

Whenever Ginny leaves one of her brother’s rooms, she turns the light on. Like the big light that no one uses unless they've lost something. I'm going to pretend that's possible without electricity.

Wait how do underage wizard's turn lights on? They can't use magic and they don't have electricity (which is fucking stupid but okay)

Do they have magic circuits?

They have magic circuits now I've decided that.

Sorry another bird headcanon.

If there's a bird sitting in the window or something, Arthur will shush everyone. And everyone must listen. Because guys there's a coal tit on the window!

Yes that's an actual bird name. Why are English bird names so weird? Wdym woodCOCK? Coal TIT? Blue footed BOOBY?

Fred and George use bird names to get away with saying bad words.

They learned that from Bill.

Well. That's kinda all I have. It's mostly birds, I'm not sorry. This is my blog and I decide how much bird content there is <3

[comfortless]

HIYA SYL! I LOVE UR WORK WITH THE DEPTHS OF MY SOUL AND ALSO I HOPE YOURE HAVING A GOOD DAY (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

AHEM! I constantly have this idea of Hybrid!Konig discovering the scent of Hybrid!Reader on his territory, but due to it being so vast he can never catch her in person. All he has to go off of is scraps of food, her scent rubbed against stones and stumps, and prints that are MUCH smaller than his! Until on one faithful day, he catches the lil thing creeping around his personal space!

I just wanna add that I’d love to see you tweak this idea ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ (If you want!) like making it human!reader instead orrrr in a more human manner such as it being a cabin in woods and reader is stranded, maybe. ANYTHING, KEKEKE ID JUST EAT UP ANY OF YOUR AMAZING WORK

raaah thinking about a bear hybrid König because of the cute lil kaomoji.. he would be so big and soft… ;; reader gets to be a fox..! also thank you for your sweet words and the prompt, angel!! ^^ 💘 too many ideas… i should write more hybrid!Kö…

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. reader & König are mostly human like last time! just with ears and tails. König is incredibly awkward in this (has 0 idea how to talk to a lady someone help him), possessive behaviors, very much… love? obsession? at first sight, fluff, implied sex.

The pretty thing in the grove does not know that she sits on the cusp between admired and threatened. She skitters through summer foliage like a dance, twists and winds and stretches to reach each fattened, ripe fruit hanging from vine or limb. The scent that lingers in this place fills most up with dread, their eyes wide as they look for places to hide or run, any place but here. She hardly seems bothered when she takes a plum into her mouth, it’s juice dripping down her chin as her tail curls over her bare stomach.

She laughs when the birds in their trees warn her of danger, bares her teeth at them and tells them all she’s far faster than some old bear, speaks off-key when she’s drunken on stolen fermented fruit and dazed on the rays of sunbeams shifting through the leaves.

He could rush out, take her by surprise and hook a claw into her throat before she would even have the mind to spare him a glance. It’s just that no part of him wants to, not now, not when he’s been made aware of the beautiful passerby that steals his food and leaves a pattern of uneven, dancing footprints in her wake. He had only had the thought once when he saw this earthly garden uprooted with only the foreign smell of rosemary and lilac left behind.

Watching her now, it’s all too different.

She leaves the pit of her plum at her side when she lies in the grass to rest, tail plumed up and over her middle like a blanket as her ears flick and rustle her hair. It’s not a tentative sleep: she’s soft, warm and utterly exhausted from her day of pilfering if the long, quiet breaths were much to go by.

Any other bearman would eat her whole and pick the bones from his teeth to leave as offerings for the birds, the buzzards with their wild eyes and ruffs of feathers about their necks. But… it’s only summer, what good would eating her do? He reasons it would hurt him more than it could ever hurt her, because then all would fall back to tedium and silence. There would be no more hushed laughter and dizzying prances, no more of a sight prettier than any view he’s seen prior.

He wants more of her than this— more than what he should ever have at all or more of her than even she could offer with honeyed words or soft touches.

So, he only watches her rest. In the gentle calm of daylight, she rolls against the grass in sleep, bares herself unknowingly when the sun warms her and her thighs are too warm to press against one another. And finally, he wills himself to turn away, to wander back to that dreary cabin that serves as a proper home, because as much as he wants, he does not deserve.

The days go on like this.

The haze of summer does not let up, and she’s made a home of a strawberry patch in a glade closer to the cabin than she’s ever been before. He watches her bask amongst the bushes, lying on her belly while the sun beats down against her hide, kisses over her shoulders with a yellowish glow that only makes her look as sweet as warmed honey, a bonfire, lovely as the fruit she steals.

Nothing changes in her even when he does bring himself to detach from the shade of the pine, force himself into the light for the birds and tiny humming bees to see. She tilts her head back, flicks her tail and smiles like she’s known he’s been there all along. Known the loneliness and tastes it on her teeth to spit it back out in refusal, but she hasn’t— not like he has, because she’s the one who speaks first.

“Are you going to eat me?,” she asks when she’s risen to her feet. His little fox does not hide herself from him; her tail sways lazily behind her, each dip and curve displayed so openly that he wonders if she sees him as a threat at all, or then, maybe the danger coaxes up an unseen heat within her.

He shakes his head stiffly, ears pressed back to his skull.

The world itself must have played some horrible joke upon him now, because all thoughts of what he wanted to say filter out into a plume of smoke. It’s maddening, how he wants to tell her he would like nothing more than to drag her back into his cabin and lick honey from her mouth, yet all that comes out is a brittle, “The strawberries are not ripe yet.”

She laughs at him, not cruel, but it still feels like teeth tearing into his throat. All hope isn’t lost, though, because even through her laughter her gaze is fond and sweet. Perhaps she’s seen him time and time again, too. It isn’t easy to hide when you’re as large and difficult to settle as König.

The fox beckons him closer with a curl of her fingers and a strawberry between her teeth. She drapes an arm over his neck to tug him down to her level and kisses him there, with the berry crushed between their mouths. Bitter as expected, but not a single complaint billows up in his mind.

This sweet fairy does not know what she’s done with that shared bite, how his mind goes doughy and sap sticky when the fruit dissipates between them and his mouth finds her own.

He wonders if she does this often, seduces larger beasts to toy with and steal from to continue her reckless romping through the forest, drift off further to the mountains and the sea, endlessly searching for the very thing he’s already found with her. It does not escape him how tightly he keeps her in his hold then, nails leaving indentations in her waist as he brings her as closely as he can, licks into her mouth until she shivers.

He would bring her flowers and honeycomb, carve little idols of her from every tree she loves if she would just—

“Will you be my mate?,” he asks, abrupt, face heating up to his very ears as he finally lets her go. A croak, a shameful one that leaves him wanting to scurry off like a rabbit, but she’s already heard it all and stares up at him with a look part doleful, part adoring. The poor thing doesn’t even know him, doesn’t know that he’s already contemplated clearing out the fox dens in the forest and chasing out the wolves to make sure that she was his alone.

If she tossed him into the river now he wouldn’t dare blame her, he would only take it out on the stupid salmon with their glistening tails, and maybe if he brought her back a treasure made of fish bone and scale he could change her mind.

But she only kisses him again, lingers right on his cheek like something a proper lover would do, before telling him that she’s grateful he’s never come to harm her, that he didn’t mind sharing his fruit on those too-hot days when she didn’t feel roused enough to hunt down the mice and the bunnies, and she even appreciated his kiss: something she tells him that had made her feel like nothing else in her life. All of the very things he’s only imagined her saying in that sweet voice she uses to whisper to the pretty flowers and the bright red cardinals tweeting back to her.

He’s never been sweet, but he believes it when she tells him that he is when they’re lying side by side in the cabin later. There’s a bruise on his shoulder the shape of her teeth and one to match of his own making on her thigh. He can’t keep himself from curling his hand around her there, thumb brushing over that purple mark he’s left as he buries his face into her shoulder and catches magnolia in her scent.

“I really like you,” she admits quietly as the night air begins to chill the sweat on their bodies, as she guides his hand up to press a kiss to his fingertips. As if she had no idea just how badly he longed to ruin anything else she’s ever said that to, set the forest ablaze and lie and laugh with her in the ash.

“I love you,” he says in turn, damning himself further as he always did to a somber oblivion. Only, this one doesn’t leave. Not even when his hand pries from her mouth to take hold of her breast and his teeth graze her skin. Her face is warm, eyes misty, like she’s just been given the most hearty helping of something delicious amidst pure famine.

She doesn’t laugh at his confession, doesn’t bat his face away from her nipple, only suggests that they bathe beneath the moon. He can not fault her for not reciting the words; this bout has only made him further intent on pulling her in to keep. He convinces himself that all it would take is time, or a rougher fuck, something. He’s never been too patient, either.

The fox curls into his lap as the water reaches them, head thrown back where she sits, impaled and ecstatic while his fingers drift to her hips, head pressed to her chest where he tells her that she has more than paid him back for what she’s stolen.

She didn’t need to lie or let him sully her out of pity anymore. Testing and prying in his own way, even as he whispers that confession to her again and again, against her clavicle and up to her neck with every languid roll of her hips.

The truth spills from her mouth like rain when she comes undone, a soft sentiment that pulls him below a warm tide, drowned out and washed away only by the words she speaks then and the way her body wraps so snug around him.

She tells him that she wishes to stay like this… for as long as she possibly can.

He carries her home like a princess from some storybook, lies her in his bed and pulls her close with a grip so tight that she whines about it being too hot— that his warmth is almost smothering, but still melts beneath him when his lips find her own again. Breaking away from her feels worse than those hangdog days he had only spent watching her from afar, longing for the things that she had only now allowed for him to feel.

But König swears to her then when her eyes lock to his and her tail begins that gentle swaying again, that no matter what she will be here forever. He’ll make sure of it.

[may--hawk]

From a Revacholian One-Bedroom Apartment (Disco Elysium)

Rating: T

Relationship: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi

Summary:

Heat wave in Jamrock. Harry’s been living with Kim. He’s got to get cool somehow. KIM KITSURAGI: He leans forward and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. It’s scarcely cooler than your face. He’s hot, too. KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. Perhaps you are a bit heated.” ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Hot!! He called you hot!! SUGGESTION: Calm down, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor. He thinks you might be ill. ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Ask him if he’ll play nurse.

LIMBIC SYSTEM: You swim in an ocean of darkness. You float, effortless, in the waters, like the cool marble flow of a statue’s robes. Dolores Dei, Mother of Innocence. Her arms encompass you, lending a coolness to your overheated skin. You could stay here forever, you know.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: You can’t. Far overhead, a roar. A buzz.

There is an aerostatic, high above you. By the sound of it, it circles, like a hawk.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Or a buzzard.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: It’s going to bomb you. To end your putrid, stinking existence.

Reach for your gun.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: No. It has done nothing to you. It is more worthy of being alive than you are.

It’s beautiful.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Yes. It is. Are you going to shoot it down?

No.

The aerostatic circles, lower and lower. You can feel the air displacement on your skin, like a kiss. When’s the last time you were kissed? It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?

LIMBIC SYSTEM: Do you even remember how?

….

LIMBIC SYSTEM: The air is cool on your skin. It feels good. You can feel good sober.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Lies.

Maybe.

What does the aerostatic want?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: It wants to look at you.

Why?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Maybe it thinks you’re beautiful, too.

You drift. The sound of the waves comes to you, soft and unceasing, far off. It means nothing to you, nor you to it. The aerostatic hovers.

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: Wake up. There is someone you are disappointing.

Who?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: The aerostatic. You said you were done with that. You promised.

1. Life is one disappointment after another, and the aerostatic better get used to it, baby.

2. Aerostatics don’t feel disappointment.

3. Who am I disappointing?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: This one does.

1. Life is one disappointment after another, and the aerostatic better get used to it, baby.

2. Aerostatics don’t feel disappointment.

3. Who am I disappointing?

ANCIENT REPTILIAN BRAIN: The Lieutenant.

Wake up.

Read the rest of the story on AO3.

[cinnaleaf]

For the Racists Hiding in Anon: Log Off or Step the Fuck Up

Let’s have a chat!!! Because some of you seem to need a very CLEAR and LOUD wake up call about the way you conduct yourselves in fandoms.

Quite frankly, the racism running rampant in fandom spaces is disgusting and embarrassing. We shouldn’t have to keep circling back on this topic just because people insist on showing how truly uneducated and bigoted they are.

To the racists hiding behind anonymous accounts to send racist messages to others..I find you to be absolutely simpleton and pathetic. You’re not clever, funny, or even giving the read you think you are – so I’ll do you one better 😇 I think you’re a parroting bird that loves to hear yourselves chirp. You would never do this in public because you know the consequences it has. So why are y’all so suddenly bold online?? Your anonymity on the internet will not save you from being a pea brained buzzard hiding behind a screen. It only proves you lack the educational substance to inform yourselves of biases and at the very least correct it – it’s really the least you could do, seeing as black people live rent free in your mind.

Secondly, Trent is a black man. He’s not some token for you to project your racist fantasies onto. Regardless of his antics, this man has black ancestors, family members, and friends who are black. Thinking you can simultaneously froth and feen over him, read my fics, and send microaggressions and blatant racist hatred to other black women in this space is pure cognitive dissonance. Trent doesn’t want you. He never will. Even if you do feel that you fit his publicly conceived ‘preferences’. He’d take one look at your vitriol and be just as disgusted as we are. Sit with that and ponder.

I started writing fics because I wanted to create stories that are fun, reflect my experiences, and to connect with like minded people in the football space. My blog will ALWAYS be a safe space for black people, queer people, disabled people, women, and anyone else who understands what it means to be marginalized. If you cannot handle that, if my existence (and others) somehow offends you – this space is not for you. I don’t want you reading my fics. I don’t want you lurking on my blog. I don’t want you interacting with other black bloggers and people of color. And I definitely don’t want you bringing your racism into a fandom space that’s meant to be a fun refuge for people like me.

Your microaggressions don’t move me. Your overt racism doesn’t scare me. All it does is prove that your ignorance is a vast wasteland – you should honestly be embarrassed by that. And to be real, I refuse to make this space a comfortable place for you. If you want a space to spew your nonsense, find it elsewhere (where you’ll probably be banned) because it won’t be here. You’re not welcome here and I’ll brick the wall you try to crash into every time you attempt to make this an unsafe space for others. Maybe then you’ll understand what your hostility feels like when you dish it to others. 

And to anyone who’s been on the receiving end of this bullshit – your frustrations and exhaustions are 100% valid. This corner of the internet belongs to you just as much as anyone else, and you should feel free to make it safe for yourself in whatever you deem fitting. I don’t want anyone holding their breath before scrolling because of these people. Do not allow them to poison your safe space with utter nonsense, it’s YOURS.

I have only been active here for a few months after lurking for years, but in that short time I’ve connected with some really amazing people over these blood pressure inducing games, silly men, and just life in general. That’s what this space was meant for and I refuse to let anyone take that away from us. If you feel like this space has become more stress than it’s worth, I totally understand and would suggest taking a break if you need to, but your presence and perspectives will always be welcome to me and many other like minded individuals who aren’t smooth brained.

Anyway, I say all this to say I will not let someone else’s hatred exist here and I’m actively working on making sure these people are weeded out entirely. Make them uncomfortable, they deserve it.

If this bothers you racists in anyway, step the fuck up without anon being on so I can really give you the read you so desperately deserve.

x

[facts-i-just-made-up]

*smacks your door open like Shrek* FACTS ABOUT VULTURES, BRO?

A… VULTURE is a raptor across the world adapted to feed on diverse creatures once dead. They can snack on carrion pausing from aviation to shine as pinnacle symbols of dread.

Well, these birds barf acid and they digest rapid, Circling a carcass even 'fore it goes flaccid. But some will kill lambs just to eat their bones, they scoop 'em up live and they drop 'em on stones.

Some have bald heads, some fly in fleets, Some cool off by pissing on their feet. Their stomach acid kills most disease, As digitigrades they have funky knees.

Condor- That's a Vulture, They're endangered, must breed. Bearded- That's a Vulture, They digest bones to feed. There's species in new world and old, They have feathers to protect from the cold.

In some legends, they can play the grim reaper. Then in others, they can be your soul's keeper. To Aztecs they meant rejuvenation, In the Ramayana one had earned much veneration. Some can use tools like rocks to break shells, some can hunt well only using just smell, some will dye their feathers with red blood, without them most ecologies would go thud.

Turkey- That's a Vulture, Turkey Vultures, I mean. Buzzard- That's a Vulture, They're endemic to Crete. A feeding group is called a "wake," then when they're in flight, a "kettle" they make.

(Musical interlude and wet Vulture eating sounds sample)

Hooded- That's a Vulture, They can nest in palm trees. Griffon- That's a Vulture, They're big on Halloween. Dress as vultures to impress your friends, They'll all miss the bird jokes when holidays end…

Some vultures lack notes- There's no organ in their throats that can make a chirp or caw or a squeak. But, if they were to quote, they would probly rather eat a goat, that was already minced for their beak.

So, that's a vulture, that's their avian culture. Immortalized in paintings and immortalized in sculpture. They're pretty cool birds and they sure look neat, especially when dripping with rotting meat. So help conserve and leave them be, and adore them if they're in a tree. Accipitridae or Cathartidae, Enjoy them all and look at them fly!

White-Rump, that's a Vulture, it is named for its butt. Palm-nut, that's a Vulture, it can feed on mollusks. So that's all about this fine bird. Go and fact check everything that you've just heard. Yes, that's all about this great bird. No go write about them, you absolute nerd.

[hope-to-hell]

electric (when you're near) part fifteen: you and me and the end of the world. Gore and body horror. Stone dreams again, and the plan starts to come together. Story masterlist here.

----------

They are surrounded by sand fine as powder; Ivo slowly sinks as he draws in the dust with a finger. Hey, Stone.

Yeah?

When she eats you, can I have your stuff?

Stone looks over from where he’s busy cutting off his legs an inch at a time; the right is gone and he’s already halfway up his left foot. He throws each slice to the buzzards gathered nearby. What do you want with it? All I’ve got is a few of those. He gestures with a bloody saw, pointing to the stars that blink in and out of existence above them. Have them if you want. They’re yours anyway. But Ivo’s already disappeared beneath the sand, leaving just a shallow divot to show he’d been there at all.

Hey. Hey, Stone. Hey. Stone.

What?

Made you look. Ivo wears a crown of asters and little else; his body ebbs and flows around Stone’s as they writhe together. Hey, Stone.

Yeah?

Did you always want to take it this far?

Farther. They pause to watch a thousand sunsets crash together in an instant; the light peels them down to bones and then to nothing, but still they continue in their dance. I think my teeth are coming loose. No, that’s not it. It’s just that his teeth are in Ivo’s mouth now, just as Ivo’s ribs are tangled with his own; they build themselves back together and now they are knotted inextricably. Hey. Now it’s Stone who speaks with stars in his eyes, burning bright in their bottomless pits.

Yeah? Ivo draws a line across his face with a finger and his mustache falls away. Beneath it, he’s all wet bones.

Where do birds go when it rains?

They turn into writing desks and plant their legs deep in the ground. Now I’ve got one for you: when is a hole not a hole?

And Stone wakes, heart in his throat; beside him, Ivo sleeps openmouthed and twitching. Doctor?

Ivo rotates slowly to face Stone, winding himself up in the sheets. He prods Stone with cold toes. You had my dick in your mouth. Well, your dick in my mouth. You know what? Forget it. I think we’re past titles.

Yes, Doctor.

Smartass.

This is the back-and-forth that buoys them after a restless night; in the deep grey of early morning, lightning stabs down brightly outside, seeking something to burn. Flame is nothing without its fuel, and so it searches, hungry and hunting. Stone shuffles to pillow his head on Ivo’s stomach and tries again. Hey, Ivo?

Yeah?

I— nevermind. It’s— it’s not nothing; that would be a lie and Ivo would sniff it out. But it’s not something he can say, not yet, not when so much hangs in the balance. All he can do is press a kiss just above Ivo’s navel, and hope that says enough. I’ll tell you later.

It’s time to get back to work. Stone brews coffee and Ivo finds his gloves: one is buried in the sheets and the other has fallen beneath the bed. He calls up his schematic again as Stone hums in the kitchen. It’s strange, somehow, to find this bit of domesticity in the midst of chaos. But what are humans if not resilient? What is a dandelion but a bit of joy that fights and scraps to find the sun? Agent.

Yes, Doctor?

Get your work pants on. I need explosives. A lot of explosives. Spiderwebs and pinwheels turn in front of Ivo as he speaks. Calculations run in the background: a steady stream of numbers that flow like water. Ivo holds closed fists to the side of his head, then opens his hands in a “kablooey” gesture. What do you say, minion? Want to blow some shit up?

Of course he does, not just for the catharsis born of destruction— the need to burn the anger and fear that still roil in him— but also for the want of his own body back. On it. This is basically the whole plan: blow shit up. Not especially elegant, but it’ll do on short notice. Outside the storm still rages; the streets are flooded and the rain shows no sign of stopping. It’s getting worse. Stone sets a mug on the side table. Here you go. he storm is a great eye with the rift at its center; it blinks and lightning flashes. Thunder growls and there is something alive in it, something that speaks in blood and rot. I think we’re running out of time.

There’s a hole in the world. Remember how Aban lost an eye: shrapnel blew back and tore his vision into shreds; humors ran down his face like jelly and after that the eye was shut for good. Remember the shock of it and how, uncomprehending, he raised a hand to his face. Close the eye and the storm ends. Close it, and maybe— just maybe— all this strangeness will dissipate like so much smoke. It’s a long shot, but that’s all we’re going to get. The coordinates gleaned from the drive put the rift at the center of the storm. All this scifi crap and we could’ve just taken a crosstown bus to kick down the door.

I don’t think you could get that much C4 onto a bus, or in your car for that matter. I’ll rent us a van.

Meh. Ivo’s already gone, thoughts tuned only to his schematic. Absorb the ambient power. Let it build and build, caught in the central wheel, like a spider grows fat on the insects caught in its web. There has to be some energy that leaks out in between pulses; the readout is never zero. Energy is never lost, only transformed. Catch it, hold it, direct it back upon itself. Let it absorb as much energy as possible, then bring the house down around it. Blast whatever’s in there to kingdom come. That’s the plan.

[manonblaqkbeak]

Libraries and Chocolate Cake

i can't believe i've managed to post two stories in one day--i feel like im back in 2021 with the first rowaelin month where i managed to write a fic for pretty much every day lol

Day 16-Opening of the Royal Library/Theater. @rowaelinscourt

i miss writing fluff and i hope you enjoy it too!! xx

cw: none words: 900+

Aelin was woken up by Rowan shaking her shoulder. Frowning, Aelin looked at the time on her little clock on her nightstand. Dawn was still a little while away. Almost always, Rowan woke up first, and sometimes he would wake her up by nuzzling her neck with kisses, or with gentle touches.

Usually, he left her to wake up naturally, as Aelin often needed the rest more than Rowan did (according to him, despite the fact that he was still rebuilding Orynth and beyond, was always training with the guards and their ever-growing army and navy forces).

“What's wrong?” Aelin asked, her voice groggy. She rubbed heavily at her eyes. She didn't hear anything amiss, just Fleetfoot's light snores at the end of the bed and some birds chirping through the open balcony doors.

“Nothing,” her husband answered. “But you need to get out of bed, I want to show you something.”

Aelin's frown deepened. “Can't it wait until the sun has fully risen?”

“No.” Rowan got out of bed, the movement causing Fleetfoot's snore to pause, just for a moment, before her hound kept on sleeping.

Aelin really wished she was still sleeping.

Rowan came over to her side of the bed, her silk slippers and red silk robe in his hands.

It must be important, then, if it involved getting out of bed. Her nice, warm, comfortable bed.

Stretching, Aelin shuffled on her new slippers and robe—gifts from her mate that he had purchased during their trip to Antica—and left comfort behind as she took Rowan's hand in hers and let him lead her to wherever he wanted them to be so urgently.

On the way, Aelin heard the beginning motions of the cooks and morning guards leaving their barracks to begin a new day. The people they passed greeted them cheerily, and Aelin wished that she could have said that she responded as brightly as they did and she knew that they questioned the slight frown still gracing her face as she and Rowan walked without end.

Well, seemingly without end, but eventually, the queen and king-consort stopped in front of double wooden doors, the scent of lacquer still lingering in the air.

“Buzzard, did you really bring me hear to admire these freshly lacquered doors? Because if you did, you're sleeping on the floor for a week.”

Rowan smiled at her, his eyes sparkling, her curiosity growing at the joy in his eyes. “No, I didn't bring you here to see these doors, but I brought you here to see what's beyond them.”

“And what is behind these doors?” Aelin asked, although deep down, she already knew.

Rowan's smile grew. “My mating present to you—your royal library.” With his wind, Rowan opened the doors, the wood gliding smoothly against the stone floor.

Aelin wondered inside, her eyes darting from place to place. It looked just like the Great Library of Orynth before it burned down—but instead of simple windows (although there were plenty of them), Aelin spied stained glass instead. Some depicted flora and fauna, some books and swords, ancient art from around the world. But the most glorious one of all was the one that Aelin was staring at right now; the Lord of the North, his eternal flames bright even in glass, surrounded by kingsflame.

“This is what I wanted you to see, the dawn lighting up the new era of knowledge. I managed to find some of the old librarians that worked in the Great Library and they're more than willing to come back here again.”

Aelin spun around, her eyes filling with tears as she took in her mate. When she had first met him, she never thought that he could be capable of doing such things, but here he was, standing with her in her new library in his night clothes and slippers.

Tears fell from her eyes as she hugged him tightly, breathing him in as he wrapped his arms around her just as tight.

“Rowan...” she breathed, not able to find the words right then and there, but he knew—he knew what she wanted to say without her being able to say it. He kissed her on the cheek, forehead, anywhere that his lips could reach in their tight embrace.

They stayed like that for eternity, until eventually Rowan pulled away and turned her around to the window of the Stag, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as he told her to watch as the sun rose up the horizon, lighting up her library—sending rainbows to scatter throughout the space.

More tears fell at the beauty of the world. A reminder, that while she may still face her nightmares of her time with Maeve and Cairn, she was alive and living an eternity with her mate and husband. Her best friend.

They stayed in that exact spot until the sun rose high and while she could have spent years in the library, her stomach had other ideas.

She and Rowan walked to the kitchens, not caring about still being in their night clothes as they came across their hard working cooks and in the middle of the table full of food ready to go out, was a chocolate hazelnut cake.

Aelin kissed her mate again and all but dragged him and that cake back into their bed chamber to finish off the most beautiful day she had in weeks.

[howdyjourney]

Sing Your Body Electric

- chapter 2 -

who: William H. Bonney x Original Female Character

genre: western romance longfic (multiple chapters)

tags/warnings: This fic is Explicit / 18+ only. Minors, please step off the porch.

(not exhaustive):
Outlaws & Runaways • Slow Burn (rewarding) • Oral Sex • Handjob • Face-Sitting (f)—“from behind” / bent-over hay bale • Rough Sex & Soft Sex in equal measure • Praise Kink • Body Worship • Protective Billy • Scar Kissing • Mild Restraint • Gunshot Injuries / Recovery • Period-Typical Violence & Racism (historical context) • Runaway Heiress • Found Family Outlaws • Slow-Burn to Very Hot-Burn

(lmk if you want to be tagged)

Previous chapter

Next chapter

Chapter two

The first sun-slice knifed the horizon as the coffle shambled past a warped cedar post proclaiming BROKEN YOKE, POP 172—the “1” paint-flaked to a ghostly suggestion. A split ox-yoke hung nailed beneath, weather-silvered and cracked straight through the bow, as if the town were bragging it understood the notion of things split apart and worked to death.

Red Beard rode ahead of the mule cart, reins loose, hat brim casting a triangular shadow over his grin. Behind him, the two other outlaws flanked their living cargo: five weary Black fugitives roped hand-to-hand and Eva Fairchild tied separately, a short lead fastened to Red Beard’s saddle horn like a dog leash. Dust, kicked by their own tired feet, rose in small ghosts then settled on sweat-shining backs and Eva’s tattered calico.

Broken Yoke was waking slow. A stray dog nosed an up-ended slop bucket, lifting its head only long enough to narrow eyes at the procession before resuming the more holy pursuit of bacon rinds. A stable boy, hair mussed and shirt half-buttoned, leaned against the livery’s split-rail corral, jaw cracked wide in a yawn big enough to swallow dawn. Beyond him, under the false-front awning of the town’s single mercantile, a drunk lay curled like a comma, hat over his face, last night’s bottle still balanced against his ribs.

Red Beard sucked his teeth. “Civilization,” he announced, as though he’d personally conjured the ragged Main Street from desert dust. Eva caught sight of an ordinary dawn: a woman in a gingham wrapper shaking crumbs from a flour cloth, a half-clothed child chasing a hoop, laundry already flapping on a sag-string line. She drank it in—mundane acts free folk performed without thought—and felt the rope tug her forward.

At the livery gate, Red Beard dismounted. The mule blew out a dusty breath, happy enough for a halt. From the office emerged Stub Pearsall, a wiry old buzzard in suspenders and no shirt, chewing sage like it might turn to tobacco if he worried it long enough.

Red Beard tipped his hat. “Morning, Stub. Got a quick store-keep for you.”

Stub’s eyes moved over the captives the way a rancher checks cattle ribs before an auction. “Them five?” He pointed with a split cigarillo. “Broker wagon rolls through Friday. I’m full up ’til then.”

Red Beard shoved the rope line forward. “They ain’t stayin’ in your bunkhouse. Chain ’em in the feed shed. Keep ’em watered and quiet. Twenty percent off the top once you weigh ’em.”

Stub spat sage pulp. “Feed shed’s for oats, not folks.”

“Oats don’t fetch fifty a head.” Red Beard smiled thin.

Stub shrugged—commerce trumping complaint. He beckoned Isaac, Ruth, Mercy, Jonah, and Eli toward the side yard where a paddock gate hung crooked. Two stable hands appeared with shackles, faces blank.

Eva’s pulse thundered. She opened her mouth, but Red Beard yanked her lead. “Not you, dove.” He leered. “Got special use for your kind.” He untied her wrists from the cart rail but left them bound before her. Even the small relief of circulation felt like sin.

As Stub led the others away, Eva locked eyes with Ruth. Rain-drenched memory flashed between them—the lullaby hum, the map hidden in Eva’s bodice. Ruth held the gaze one breath, then squared her shoulders and marched, Samuel sleeping against her chest. Jonah stumbled, head bandaged, but Isaac’s steady hand kept him upright. Eli said nothing, jaw set despite the sling at his shoulder.

Eva tried to memorize every detail: the way Mercy tucked a wool scrap under Samuel’s chin, the hitch in Jonah’s step, the bite of sun on Isaac’s gray temple. She feared she might never see them again.

“Move along, lace-stocking,” Red Beard growled.

He hauled her across the wagon ruts toward the center of town. The street tilted gently uphill, opening views between board-false façades: a narrow chapel in peeling white, a schoolhouse bell beginning to clang, its rope pulled by a sleepy girl whose braid reached her waist. The bell’s bright note struck Eva’s ribs, a sound so clean it hurt.

She tried to slow—just a heartbeat—to savor the ordinary ring. Red Beard jerked the rope; pain flared in her wrists. “Quit gawkin’. Madam Dove pays prime for fresh faces.”

They turned past a hitch rack where a black-dappled mare stamped and shivered flies from her flanks. Eva reached her bound hands, brushed the mare’s shoulder in passing—one breath of velvet hide, smelling of sun-warmed dust and hayloft darkness. Another ordinary miracle.

“Hands off merchandise,” Red Beard snapped, shoving her forward. Ahead loomed the tall front of The Cherished Dove Saloon & Social House—three stories of clapboard optimism with pink trim curling like icing around sulfured windows. A faded painting of a wing-spreading white bird arched above the door, its beak chipped away.

Music drifted—piano half-awake, a ragtime figure stumbling over its own heels—and with it floated the sweet-rot scent of stale gin and perfume too eager to hide sweat. Eva’s stomach knotted.

Inside, she knew, the next scene of her life was waiting: velvet wallpaper, counting rooms, laughter carved thin as bone. For a moment she pieced out a vision—grabbing a bottle, ramming glass into Red Beard’s eye, fleeing down some alley—but her wrists burned, her back throbbed, and the map pressed a hot ache against her breastbone. She couldn’t even outrun herself.

The saloon’s batwings creaked open. Red Beard nodded to the bouncer, big as a church door. “Tell Dove I caught a wild one,” he chortled. “White lace, southern tongue. She’ll pay double.”

Eva stepped over the threshold. Behind her a stray dog barked lazy disinterest, the school bell tolled its last note, and sun flared off a distant ridge of storm clouds gathering for the march. She felt the door slap shut on the morning—and on whatever small taste of freedom had brushed her fingers.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the sweeter stink of trouble. Eva straightened as best she could, lifted her chin.

Delilah, she thought, clutching the map through her torn bodice, keep that sky wide. I haven’t finished singing yet.

And she walked forward into the dim, where whiskey, music, and a busted chair-leg awaited their cue.

**

The sun hadn't yet cleared the clapboard ridge of Broken Yoke’s roofline when Red Beard hauled Eva around to the alley mouth. The smell hit first—rot-soft fruit peel and piss-slick brick, overlaid with the sweeter musk of rosewater trying too hard. Two cats clung to the fence post, locked in a slow-motion fight over a pigeon’s wing. A broken bottle winked green in the gutter. Behind the saloon, a narrow back door flapped twice in the wind before a woman appeared, waddling into the light like a great lavender riverboat sliding off a muddy dock.

Madame Dove, as legend claimed, wore silk even at sunrise. Today’s gown strained at the seams: lilac with seed-pearl buttons and a fox-fur collar that might’ve died of old age before being tanned. Her fan—lace-edged, chipped bone—snapped shut as she caught sight of Red Beard. Keys jingled at her hip like silver chains on a jailer’s belt.

“Well,” she drawled, voice like syrup left too long to burn, “look what the dust drug in.”

Red Beard tipped his hat, tugged Eva forward by her arm bindings. “Got a special delivery. Five for the broker’s pen, and one white dove just for you.”

Dove glanced past him toward the livery. “You keepin’ livestock over in Stub’s shed now? He’ll want his cut.”

“He’ll get it,” Red Beard said. “But this one’s a house bird. Virginal type. All lace and lullabies. Name’s Eva. Just needs polish.”

Eva jerked her arm from his grip, even as her wrists stayed bound. “I ain’t for sale.”

Dove looked her over slowly, from dirt-slicked bare feet to bruised temple to the ruined line of a once-pretty collar. Her eyes narrowed at the blood stain darkening the back of Eva’s calico. “Not polish,” she muttered. “Scrub and rouge.”

“She’s got spirit,” Red Beard offered. “Bit of wild in her. That’ll fetch a premium if you play it like innocence spoiled.”

Dove’s lip curled. “It’s a slow week. Miners all gone chasing ghost veins in Mesilla.” Her fan opened, fluttered against her chest. “Still… white girls are rare coin these days. What’s your ask?”

“Hundred,” Red Beard said, bold as brass. “No haggling.”

“Please,” Dove sneered. “She’s dirty, bleeding, and smells like pondweed. I’ll give you seventy.”

“Eighty-five. She tried to bite me on the road. Teeth still white. And take a look at that caboose. Folks’ll line up just to see that thing bounce.”

Eva turned sharply. “Go rot, you bastard.”

Dove’s fan flicked up to hide her smile. “Eighty-five,” she agreed. “Once she’s bathed and seen by the doctor, I’ll decide if she’s worth advertising. Keep her in the east washroom ‘til I count out the drawer.”

Red Beard shoved Eva toward the back step. “Mind her. She bites.”

“She better,” Dove muttered, unlocking the rear door. “That’s what sells. Some boys’ll pay double for a tigress.”

The washroom was little more than a cedar-floored cupboard with a chipped basin and a clouded mirror. Light spilled from a grated upper window, catching on old nail holes and a sagging towel hook. Eva’s reflection startled her—hair tangled in sweat-ropes, blood dried on her cheekbone like war paint.

“Stay put,” Dove ordered, then turned back to the alley. “Frankie!” she bellowed. “Count out eighty-five! And fetch the chair from the card table—this girl needs somewhere to sit besides the floor!”

A grunt answered. Eva caught the name—Frankie, the one with the scattergun and fish-hook teeth. She froze.

Moments later he appeared, breath heavy with onions and leftover whisky. He carried a three-legged chair and wore his usual smile—a leer with more gum than sense. “Where you want her, ma’am?”

“Just set it inside,” Dove called back. “And don’t touch.”

But Dove was already halfway down the alley, haggling over coin with Red Beard again, and Frankie’s eyes darted back to Eva with interest too familiar.

He set the chair, then didn’t move. “Don’t look like a dove to me,” he said, sidling closer. “More like a little hen with her feathers plucked.”

Eva stiffened. “Don’t touch me.”

“Oh I ain’t touchin’. Just lookin’.” He let the last syllable linger. His fingers trailed toward her arm anyway.

She didn’t give him the chance.

Knee to groin—sharp, fast, mean. He gasped like a fish jerked from water. She slammed her shoulder into him as he doubled, then snatched the broken-back chair by its leg. Wood creaked. Frankie cursed, tried to grab her again.

She yanked hard. One leg snapped off with a groan of old glue. She gripped it two-handed like a cudgel, brandishing the splintered end.

“Touch me again,” she snarled, “and I’ll stake your belly open like a gutted pig.”

Frankie backed up, hunched, spitting curses through clenched teeth. “Bitch—Dove’s gonna kill you!”

Eva didn’t lower the leg. Her breath came fast. Her wrists still ached, tied in front, but the weight of the improvised weapon grounded her. The fine point of the splinter gleamed like a tooth. Her heart banged against her ribs, but her hands didn’t shake.

From outside, Dove shouted, “What in hell’s all that racket?”

Frankie scrambled back through the doorway. “She’s crazy! Tryin’ to kill me!”

“I said don’t touch her, didn’t I?” Dove barked, voice furious but unsurprised. “Go cool your dick in the trough.”

Eva held the chair leg tighter. Her arms trembled now, not from fear, but fury. The weapon didn’t make her safe. It didn’t undo anything. But it was hers, and it had been his, and now it wasn’t.

A small victory. The only kind she could afford.

Behind her, the basin faucet dripped. The light shifted.

She waited, chair leg in hand, for whatever came next.

**

The hallway carpeting—a once-crimson runner bleached to garnet—swallowed the thud of boots as Eva was frog-marched past closed doors. From behind each panel seeped a world of muffled giggles or ragged snores, perfume tang, last night’s gin. Frankie kept his wary distance now, cursing softly at every step. The chair-leg cudgel remained gripped in Eva’s bound hands like a crooked scepter; splinters peppered her palms, but she let them bite.

At the end of the hall, a maid awaited—plump, gingham-aproned, reeking of rose water. She opened an ornate door and bobbed a curtsy to Frankie. “Bath’s ready, Mister Frank.”

“Get her scrubbed.” Frankie’s voice cracked as he spoke, tender regions clearly still complaining. “Madam says no bruises where customers see.”

Eva stepped through on her own power. Frankie slammed the door, lock clicking.

**

The room was the size of Rosemead’s pantry, but gaudy as a New Orleans bordello brochure: peach wallpaper streaked with gilt vines, a chandelier missing two arms, and in the center—a copper hip bath half-filled with steaming water. Against the far wall stood a full-length mirror framed in tarnished gold leaf, the glass foxed and spotted, but still grand enough to flatter sin.

Two other girls hovered, apprentices in Dove’s employ. One stirred rose-oil into the bath with a silver dipper; the other laid out corsets, silk stockings, a hairbrush missing half its bristles.

The maid clapped plump hands. “All right, pet. Dress off. Soap waits.”

Eva backed a step, raising the cudgel. “Touch these ropes and I break wrists.”

They blinked at the threat—half amused, half uncertain—but training proved strong. The older apprentice advanced anyway, fingers reaching for the knot at Eva’s bodice.

Her thumb grazed the lash wound. White lightning bolted through Eva’s nerves; pain sharpened to fury. Eva dropped her shoulder and slapped—crack of skin on skin. The girl yelped, stumbling into the copper tub, water sloshing onto her skirts.

Rose maid gasped. “You dare—”

“Dare and more,” Eva hissed, backing toward the mirror, chair leg lifted. “Bring your madam. Bring your dogs. I won’t sit like meat.”

Steam curled through lamplight; water dripped onto floorboards. The maid, cheeks blotched with outrage, decided bruises on her person mattered—she barked an order: “Fetch Dove.” The younger apprentice fled.

Left alone with the maid, Eva eased to the gilded mirror. Her reflection made her suck air through teeth: hair wild, temple bruised plum, lip split, throat streaked with mud, bodice torn and stuck to the seeping lash wound. Blood, dried now to rust, peaked at corset laces. Yet her eyes—the same ones Delilah had called storm flickers—blazed bright, unbroken.

She hunched, using the mirror to block view from the door, tugged at her bodice laces. Within the cotton lining, the crumpled map remained—damp, but intact. She smoothed it once, kissed the corner where Delilah’s thumbprint marred ink, then folded tight and tucked it beneath her chemise, over her heart.

Downstairs, boards creaked—a door slammed—voices rose. Eva stilled, listening. Madame Dove’s unmistakable drawl floated through the floorboards, booming with performance:

“White virgin, boys! Auction at miners’ day. First taste goes for fifty, second for thirty. Pure lace, southern peach!”

Laughter, coarse male, echoed back. Coins clinked. A piano struck a bawdy chord.

Eva’s stomach turned. She tore the remains of her sash, cinched it tight around her bound wrists, trapping a sliver of the chair-leg beneath so she could still wield the splintered tip. Then she shoved the copper tub with both shoulders. It screeched, skidded two feet, wedging against door and wall like a barricade. Bathwater slopped, steaming across floorboards.

The maid shrieked, brandishing a bath brush. “You’ll pay for that!”

Eva leveled the cudgel. “My body’s mine. Anyone tries layin’ claim, they leave less of themselves than they came with.” Her voice quavered only on the last word, steadied by a ragged inhale.

Below, Dove’s voice climbed louder, bragging about “silk-soft skin, lips like cream.” Each syllable was a nail hammered into Eva’s resolve.

She planted bare feet, pressed shoulder blades—one ringed with wet blood—against the gilded mirror, and waited. Chair leg poised like a spear.

“If dying’s the price,” she whispered to the empty peach room, “so be it. But I’ll not lie for coin. Delilah, keep me strong.”

Footsteps thundered on the stair. Door latch rattled, met the tub’s iron weight. Dove’s muffled outrage seeped through the panels.

Eva lifted the splintered wood, breath steady in her chest. Outside, thunder cracked—much closer now—as if the very sky consented to raise hell.

**

Dust rode the company harder than any foreman. It clung to Jesse Evans’s boots, frosted the black of Tom Folliard’s hat, and wormed under the kerchief at Billy Bonney’s throat until every swallow tasted like pulverized sandstone. The three outlaws clattered in from the east trace single-file—Jesse out front on his flashy paint, Tom whistling arpeggios on a lather-flecked bay, and Billy last, reins looped loose on a wind-skin chestnut who nickered every third step as though complaining about the miles.

Broken Yoke wasn’t much: six plank storefronts, two canvas tents, and The Cherished Dove Saloon towering like a painted dowager above them all. But the town sat just far enough from Mesilla law to feel friendly, and rumor said its water trough still ran sweet after summer flash floods. That was good enough.

As they reined in at Farnum’s Livery, Billy rolled his shoulders—the rope burn across his right palm still raw from that last misbegotten horse raid—then swung down, boots thumping in the chalky dust. Low thunder grumbled to the east; the sky there stacked blue-black anvils on the horizon, but here the sun still baked the street to biscuit crust.

Jesse slung a leg over the paint’s neck and landed cat-light despite the trail grime. “Sheriff keeps mail at the smithy,” he said, wiping off sweat from his mustache. “Might be a letter from Santa Fe lawyer about them lost wages.” He shot Billy a look equal parts warning and affection. “Try not to spend our whole stake before I’m back.”

Tom laughed, thumping his saddle for emphasis. “Save me a chair at the faro table, Kid. I got feelin’s about today.” He guided the bay toward the gambling hall without dismounting, humming that rag he liked—“Buffalo Gals,” off-key.

Billy offered a salute with two fingers. “Tell the dealer I’m comin’ for his teeth later.”

When they’d gone—Jesse pacing up the boardwalk toward the smithy, Tom disappearing into the saloon’s side door—Billy let his eyes settle on a sorrel gelding hitched alone under Farnum’s awning. Good withers, kind eye, legs clean. Saddleless and for sale if the hand-painted placard was to be trusted. Billy’s boots drifted that direction like metal filings to loadstone.

“Belongs to a rancher out of Ruidoso,” drawled Farnum himself, emerging from the stable shadows. Gray ponytail, chaw lumping one cheek. “Horse’ll cut a cow on a dime, but rancher’s ridin’ freight wagon now—bad back.” He spat juice, nodding at the sorrel. “Wants ninety.”

Billy clicked his tongue, studying the animal. He had eighty-five dollars even—part Jesse’s, part Tom’s, part his own. Wages from three sleepless weeks guarding a logger’s payroll through Apache country. They’d planned to divide it in the morning, after a night’s drink.

Eighty-five. The figure felt heavy, substantial—as much as he’d ever had in one purse. It could buy months of fresh cartridges, or one fine mount to outrun half the territory. But it was meant to pay Jesse down for grubfront loans and Tom’s terrible luck at cards.

He slid a hand along the sorrel’s neck; the gelding flicked an ear, accepting. A damn fine animal.

Thunder boomed again—closer, a bass drum behind the sky. Storm smell wafted over the street: crushed sage, distant ozone. Billy’s bad knuckles ached, as they always did when lightning prowled.

Decision pressed like a hand on his back. Not yet. He’d look again after a drink, when the sky figured its mind. He stepped away, dust swirling around bootheels as if reluctant to let him go.

Inside his jacket he counted the roll once more. Eight tens, a five, three singles. Enough for one prime bottle and still square the debt—if he resisted the urge for cards. He flexed rope-scabbed fingers, felt the stretch tighten skin. Just whiskey, he promised the storm. One shot to wash dust off my teeth before Jesse’s lecture.

Across the street The Cherished Dove flaunted a new coat of faded pink, sign creaking in the gathering wind. Piano notes staggered through batwing doors—somebody practicing runs too early for business. Billy hitched his shoulders, pushed beneath the sign, and let the saloon swallow him whole—

—only to halt when a raw, furious voice slashed the quiet.

“Touch me again and I’ll brain you!”

Wood splintered. A chair-leg clattered. Billy felt the prickle down his spine—same tingle he always got just ahead of trouble, lightning on a fence wire.

He sighed, tasting storm in that breath. So much for whiskey in peace.

Boots crunching grit, he stepped sideways toward the porch’s far edge, instincts already mapping angles, counting threats.

Dust still followed him like a loyal dog— and now, it seemed, so did the trouble.

**

Billy stopped dead. Two heartbeats later the batwings burst outward and a wiry slip of a girl in mud-stained calico staggered onto the porch. She clutched half a busted chair leg—oak splintered to a wicked point—and looked ready to swing for Hell’s gate itself. Sweat glued her dark hair to her cheeks; blood streaked her temple. Two house bruisers followed: one red-faced, mustache curled with grease, the other thick as a feed sack. Behind them waddled Madame Dove, robed in lilac silk, fan beating at the muggy air like a frantic hen.

“Little bitch broke a Louis the Fourteenth!” the madam screeched. “Forty dollars import!”

Billy measured the tremor in the girl’s knees, the white scars threading her knuckles, the furious spark in fawn-brown eyes set a shade too close for debutante beauty. Bravery? Desperation? Likely both—dangerous fuel either way.

“I said I ain’t for sale,” she spat, southern drawl sanded by rage. “And I ain’t spreadin’ for any of your drunk swine neither.”

Mustache Man lunged. She swung—chair leg swishing past his ear, slamming a post, showering splinters. He cursed, backhanded her. She reeled but held the weapon, fire still crackling in her stare.

Thunder—distant, east of town—grumbled like an impatient judge. Billy sighed. Whiskey would wait.

He put his boot on the bottom step, took the porch lazy, hands loose at his belt. Mustache Man turned, nostrils flaring. “Ain’t your business, mister.”

“Maybe,” Billy drawled, thumb hooking his gun belt. “But looks to me like you’re losin’ an argument to a girl half your size. Thought I’d officiate—make sure the fight stays fair.”

Red-Face sneered. “Payin’ customer? Then drink. Pick a girl. If not, haul your hide.”

“Depends.” Billy’s gaze slid to the girl. “You want outta this dove-cote, sweetheart?”

She swallowed. “Yes,” she rasped—small sound, all the louder for the iron in it.

Madame Dove rustled forward. “That chit is mine by bill of sale—one hundred dollars U.S. tender.”

The chair leg trembled in the girl’s grip. Billy clocked the flinch, the faded lash mark peeking above her ripped collar, the way desperation warred with pride in the set of her jaw.

“One hundred,” he echoed. He counted mental coin—nineteen bucks in his vest, sixty-odd in the saddle cantle. Horse money. Hell.

He sent a glance toward Mustache and Ham-hock. Storm smells drifted off the eastern flats; a brawl would bring deputies or worse. Money stayed quieter.

“Eighty,” he offered, drawing soft bills from inside coat. “Horse-seller’s price.”

“Ninety-five.” Dove’s fan snapped shut like a guillotine.

“Eighty-five, and I replace your damned chair.” He cocked a brow.

Lilac silk shivered—eyes bright with greed. “Done,” said Dove.

Mustache Man sputtered, but a sharp whack of Dove’s fan muted him. Billy counted eighty-five even, added a silver dollar that chimed tiny thunder against her palm. Transaction sealed, he stepped between bruisers and girl.

“Drop the splinter, darlin’,” he murmured.

Slowly she unclenched; the javelin of chair leg clattered boards. Shoulders sagged, fury drained to bone-tired relief. Billy produced a handkerchief, offered it. She dabbed bloody lip, eyes never leaving his.

“Name?” Billy asked low.

“Eva,” she breathed after a tremor’s pause.

“Just Eva?”

“I… can’t remember the rest.”

Amnesia? Maybe. Maybe lie. But terror carved truth deep around her mouth: she wasn’t going back anywhere. “Eva’s enough for me,” he said.

Before he could guide her down the steps, a familiar whistle cut through evening. Jesse Evans strolled out of the smithy across the street, envelope tucked in breast pocket, grin sharp.

“Billy!” he called. “Buying yourself problems again?”

Billy angled a shrug. “Horse money spent itself.”

Jesse’s smirk widened, boots crunching grit. “Least she prettier’n that dun gelding.” He tipped his hat to Eva, eyes twinkling mischief, then to Dove with mock flourish. “Ma’am.” With a lazy salute he sauntered on—letting Billy own whatever fallout followed.

Billy took Eva’s elbow; she flinched—memory of rough hands—but he gentled the grip. They stepped to the street while Dove crowed after coins. Billy felt thunder roll closer, humid wind lifting dust. “Lean on me,” he muttered. “You look set to drop.”

At the livery rail she halted. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Don’t fret that now.” He loosened the mare’s lead. “I’ll ride you till we find a town wants a schoolmarm or baker’s wife. Folks’ll treat you kind.”

She studied him—a look too old for her years. “And if I remember…?”

“I’ll see you home,” he promised, though he suspected no home was fit anymore. He swung her up first, vaulted behind. She sat stiff as dried rawhide.

“Lean back,” he said. “I don’t bite.”

Lightning spidered across the far horizon, painting the desert bones silver. Billy clicked tongue; the mare loped west down moon-washed track. Eva’s slight weight settled against his chest by slow degrees. He felt the tremor ease, felt something else kindle low in his gut—protective, unwelcome, undeniable.

He’d meant to buy a horse tonight. Instead he’d bought a storm in calico—a heart-shaped rump and eyes full of broken skies. A nuisance. He almost laughed.

“Couple days,” he told the wind—half to her, half to himself. “Just till I drop you safe.”

Behind them Broken Yoke’s lanterns dwindled, thunder broke like distant rifle fire, and ahead the trail stretched black and uncertain, smelling of wet dust and new mistakes.

Billy tightened one arm around Eva—whether that was her name or not—and rode on into the lightning’s restless grin.

🌹

Saddle up, folks. The fun is about to begin soon. They just need to get to know each other better. 👉👈

[phaslo]

Kylo wakes up from one of his post-insomnia power naps with a gooseegg under his helmet from Kuruk driving the Night Buzzard drunk on his disgusting homebrewed IPA

[correctrvbquotes]

Cut back to the Gulch, where Church and Simmons are dropping off the Reds in front of their base.

Church: Okay, Donut, wait until we're gone, and then you can wake 'em up.

Donut: Well what do I tell them?

Church: I don't care, tell 'em you busted in and rescued them. Get yourself a medal. You deserve it.

Donut: I always did wanna be a hero... and a liar.

Church: Well then, it's your lucky day.

Donut: Don't you want anything?

Church: Like what?

Donut: Well, every time someone surrenders they take somethin'. Like when we took the medic, and you guys took Grif's dignity.

Simmons: Hyeah, like that ever existed. Uhhh, I mean, which one is Grif? Is he the yellow one?

Donut: And this time you guys don't want anything?

Church: Well, technically you're not surrendering. This is what we call in the Military, a "total asskicking." Oh, and also, we're taking your car.

Donut: What? You're leaving us out here, without any transportation? We'll die!

Church: Die of what?

Donut: Exposure! We're stranded! This is murder.

Church: Your base is right there, I can see it.

Donut: You may as well just feed us to the buzzards right now!

Church: You could have walked back to the base in the time we've been discussing this.

Donut: Go. Just sign our death warrants.

[reconstructwriter]

Ask game… a horrible goose?

*Cheshire cat grin* I was hoping someone would ask about this ^_^

Ah my beloved Star Wars x Horrible Goose Game crossover - crack treated seriously. It's actually an older WIP how'd it get here? But I really have to complete this because yOu KnOw WhAt WoUlD bE hIlArIoUs *evil grin*

(Warning for aftermath of genocide)

"The sands of Tattooine remained the only seas the former water planet has left. The tribes of Tattooine remained the only ones whose families could trace their roots to those waters. Now dunes of tawny waves swept over the silent dead, grains settled into dry wounds, uncaring of the hurt or the healed. Ripples of sand buried equally warriors armed and babes in arms. Those who fought, who fled, who hid, who begged, all united in death. Twin suns set on a tribe whose memory stretched back to the Water Times. Twin suns fled from a graveyard where once a valley of spirits flourished. Rays of light faded from the dead, leeching the last of their water with dry gazes, the last of Tattooine’s seas, as Darkness crept in.

The suns remembered. The sands remembered.

The Force remembered.

Scavengers scuttled forth and flew upon wide wings. Tongues slipped out of scaled lips to taste the air. Yet as they neared – lizard and buzzard and fly and even the mighty Krayt – they paused one by one. They could smell nothing in the air, yet they stopped. Their ears registered nothing and yet even the mighty dragon’s great rumbling passage gave pause to a scream. The circling buzzards could see nothing with their keen eyes, yet they dared not swoop down as the mirage of wailing mouths rose. Something deeper than smell warned of danger, something older than instinct whispered ‘flee’ in their hind-brains. One and all, large and small, fled the unnatural miasma which also rose from the dead.

The twin suns dared peak over the horizon. The deed was done. Nothing was left alive in the valley, not even scavengers dared enter. The double noon of a day couldn't wipe away the Darkness of the deed done.

Yet a light sparked amid the lingering Darkness. Forty thousand years of lives lingered in the Force and those were not so easily shadowed. The silence in the wake of screams, the silence of the dead, of the night, of a place where no living thing dared tread broke as the dawn.

A honk greeted the morning light.

One living thing took waddled steps through the valley of spirits. One who remembered the water, as the HrRr tribe once had. One who now remembered the HrRr.

The Darkness flinched.

It was a lovely day on Tattooine, and they were a terrible goose."

A bit somber start for a cracky story, but I wanted an in-universe reason to insert a horrible goose into SW - I'm weird like that. On this note @panther-os recommended looking into Aumakua from Hawai’i indigenous culture for inspiration. Since Tattooine used to be a water world per-invasion/conquest/settling (ye irony) it made sense that really old tribes would have a Force Ghost/Spirit/Guardian that took the form of a water-based animal.

Who’s main target is Anakin but ends up getting into the business of everyone around him: Padme, Rex, Ahsoka, Obi Wan, the 501st, Jedi, Senate and of course Palpatine ;)

[kurosakilchigo]

"Figures that I'd find you in trouble the moment I wake up." Not that Ichigo is really in trouble. Zangetsu just means to give him a hard time, his eyes half lidded and his drawl rough with sleep. He sits perched atop the assailant's body, crouched down with his knees bent as though he were atop a lamppost. A single blow to the head had been sufficient to bring down an enemy of this caliber, and by his own fortune, the blow had been blunted by Zangetsu's sleepiness. Now, he pokes their still head, head tilting in a bird-like manner. "What, they're still breathing? I must be losing my touch."

@killerinstincts || accepting

He’s catching his breath, hands braced on his knees, blood smeared tacky along his chin from the cut in his lower lip. His knuckles sting. His ribs ache. Everything feels like it’s throbbing to the rhythm of a headache that’s already forming at the base of his skull. 

Not to mention he bit his fucking tongue somewhere back there.

Then comes that sleepy drawl.

Ichigo lifts his head. And there he is--perched on top of the now-unconscious dipshit that sucker punched Ichigo not ten minutes ago as if he's a buzzard hunched over a kill. 

Zangetsu pokes the downed guy’s head like he’s testing a melon for ripeness. Still half-asleep, like this is just a mid-morning stretch.

Meanwhile, the scrawny jackass Ichigo was defending apparently noped out sometime while he was busy without so much as a ‘Thanks for saving my ass.’

Great.

Ichigo spits a mouthful of blood, straightens and swipes his jaw with the back of his hand. Then the words catch up to him, and his expression twitches. “--Figures!? You mean convenient, you smug, opportunistic, lizard-brained bastard!” He yanks off a shoe. And rage-fueled by pure, petty fury and the throbbing ache sprouting talons in the back of his skull, he hurls it square into Zangetsu's face.

A finger stabs at the guy sprawled under him. “THAT WAS MY K.O., YOU LEECH!”

His voice cracks halfway through from yelling. He stumbles forward a step, panting like he just ran a marathon through hell. “You don’t get to sleep through my brawl and then pop out last-minute to squash the final guy like a damn hero!”

His chest heaves. The wind’s picking up. His sock is already soaking through. He snatches up his ricocheted shoe, shaking it at Zangetsu like he might throw it again.

He gives up to stomp off.  “I Hope you bit your tongue off!” 

Because that’s the only real damage a shoe was ever going to do to the spirit.