#chaotic--lovely

[pendragonfics]

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Paring: Victor Creed/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader & GN pronouns, fights, conflict resolution, romantic fluff, triggers: alcohol abuse/alcholism and thunderstorms

Summary: After a tiff with Victor, Reader spends the night on the couch. It isn't until a storm comes over the farmhouse that they realise they need to be closer to him.

Word Count: 2070

Current Date: 2023-01-11

The hissing almost swallows his words beneath the just-pulled beer tab, but you catch it. It’s hard not to, as he barely opens his jaw these days to utter inhuman noises. You stare at Victor and wait for one of you to give way. The argument would not be made if he had listened to you, yet here you are.

His eyes are primal as he looks over the can, piercing your gaze.

“What?” he snaps.

“It’s nothing,” you retort. “If you even care.”

If you had dreamed that perhaps you’d be talking back to the Sabretooth himself a few years ago, you would have thought you were unwise, let alone asking for a shorter life span. Maybe that might be anyone else, but sometimes you could manage it. Not many people were this close to the man. Not many people shared this much with Victor Creed, yet you were still one of those he clashed with, albeit with his claws withdrawn.

“I’m too tired for this shit.” He barks.

“And I’m trying to communicate with a brick wall.” You throw your hands up in exhaustion and push your chair back to rise from the table. “But at least the wall would have something to say for itself!”

“Are you calling me an idiot, __________?” The can finds the table forcefully, making a harsh noise as it connects with the surface.

You can smell the drink wafting from his hot breath, yet you’re not in that proximity to your partner. It’s days like this when the liquor finds him that sets you off. It may wet his lips, but the stench of hops, of the acidic sting of bourbon that takes you back to the years of your childhood, when your lack of autonomy and the adults partaking would result disastrously for you.

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” You ball your fists, squint your eyes, and hold yourself in a tight embrace.

He grunts in response, but you feel your jaw tremor as sobs ricochet from your belly to the room. You can’t see well through the sting of tears, and stumbling backwards, you rush for the door. You’re smart enough to snatch the key fob and click the front door behind you. You don’t hear footsteps following, and you cross the snowy paddock to the detached garage.

Years ago, when you were shorter, younger, and impressionable, you lived under your father's roof. He was newly widowed, and with the agony of sadness that made its way into his heart, he drowned himself in the golden water from bars and bottle shops. You learned to take care of yourself young and distrust the drink. It left your father, a kind, intelligent, loving man, a vacant lot where once a palace stood.

Sometimes he was loud. More often, he was violent.

One night, you ran from him and slipped into a snowbank at the lake near your house. You should have died. Somehow, you breathed the water and stayed dry despite being submerged. A neighbour clearing snow found you the following day, head above the ice and fully clothed, alive.

You stare at the keys and realise you snatched the wrong set. Unless you wished to use the tractor, nestled in the barn until the weather warmed, there would be no radio and heated seating to take your mind off Victor and the plague of memories. It wasn’t unpleasant to sit in the snow, knowing your ability. Just…not something you did for fun.

Your eyes grow heavy after some time, and you do not want to kip in the powder when there’s a warm hearth calling for you inside. At this point, the clear sky ahead shows off the smattering of silvery stars above, like a bejewelled midnight sash draped above. You kick the excess white from your boots before you enter and pause at the bedroom door.

No.

Behind you, there’s still half a log in the fireplace and enough decorative pillows on the sofa. You take a coat from the rack by the door and bunker down for the night.

Sleep takes you like an old friend meeting you for a stroll, and then, you are off.

---

He found himself near his home in the early hours of the night, a window of time when the daylight has not sprung, yet the night is a pale navy, traversable by nocturnal beings like himself. But he is recounting it too soon; yes, there is more to the story than his return. Sometime after the argument, he had fled the scene, shedding his cosy clothes for his white undershirt, and leapt from the screenless window frame to the snow below. It had been the tail end of a long slog at his last post, leaving him hollow and mindless. He had thoughts on Magneto and how his order of operations ran incongruent with his, yet he persisted.

Badly.

Victor took off running like an animal from a cage, yes. Yes! He is out, freed, and enraptured by the thrill of it all. He made for the forest and took to work on an oak’s thick, heather-brown trunk. With every slash of his fingers, he tried to release his anger, yet it left him aching and just as empty as before. Before him, the oak tree, perhaps several decades old, tottered in the breeze, its bark half-slain from his touch.

“Goddamned idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The wind had a bite to it, and only now he felt its sting. Not even his lupine traits could muffle the sensation. Now cold, angry, pissed thoroughly off and dissatisfied with his outburst, Victor stood in the snow, seething.

They had tried talking to him. It was better than he could do on his worst days. They had tried. And he hadn’t listened; worse, he glazed over their words. He stood in the snow-filled forest, thinking about what might have made them so worked up, what he had done to make them feel that way.

And then – it hit him.

He feels a jolt through his arm, energy. It snaps through his cells, poises his muscles, and before he can blink or stop himself, he has withdrawn his fist to dole a solid hit to the oak tree before him. It snaps, and like when a seasoned lumberjack fells a foe, the tree falls backward, away from him.

He exhales sharply, staring at the cracked stump where the tree just stood. It looked as if a bolt of lightning had invaded the wood and snapped its core, albeit without the burn marks, and the storm required to dole the hot, instant punishment. Victor now knows what he must do now. Later, he will take care of this outburst. But first, he must make things right with his partner. As he returns to the farmhouse, he notes the station wagon is under the carport, and the prints of his __________ appear old, buried a little under fresh powder. He makes it inside and sees their boots by the entrance, and then as he moves further in –

You are lying on the couch, wearing yesterday’s clothes beneath a snow coat, head crooked on a throw pillow and awkwardly lolled over the sofa’s surface. The last log of the fire has almost extinguished itself, the light very low in the room.

Victor should feel pity when he sees you. He should always feel it for someone with less skill to take care of themselves in the wilderness than himself, the Sabretooth. Yet now, and every time he sees you, there is something in him that expands in his chest that warms thoughts with a kind of emotion previously foreign to him. Silently, he opens the fireplace and lays kindling with some old newspaper balled up. It catches quickly, and deftly, Victor places a new log atop the smoulder of flames.

He looks to you, now bathed in the red-gold glow of firelight and feels that twinge turn in his stomach. He’ll make it right to you in the morning; he must. You look too peaceful to rouse in the ungodly hours of a Canadian morning. He secures the fireplace door and, with the prowess of a natural predator, sneaks his way past you to the bedroom.

He leaves the door ajar and trades his slacks for sweats, and as soon as his head finds the pillow, sleep finds him.

---

You wake in a sweat, but not from your dream. It was a pleasant dream where you and Vic appeared human and traded niceties over decadent coffees in fancy mugs in an arthouse tea shop. Perhaps that was you in another life, but it was amiable, nothing that could stir you from sleep. Your eyes focus and notice the fire still burning. Or is it a new log? You can’t remember, but the room is warmer than when you went to bed, so perhaps that accounts for the sweat.

A low, guttural reverberation rocks the tiles on the roof above your head. Thunder.

It seems quite a (not) fortuitous twenty-four hours for you as you feel yourself rock again. Alcohol is a standard trigger for those raised around it. Most children grow out of their fear of thunderstorms, but you shake along with the rafters with the noise of the storm above.

It doesn’t matter that you went to sleep angry. It would be best if you buried yourself in the bedsheets, or better, in the crook of Victor’s embrace so there could be no change that the storm could touch your awareness. You leave the coat on the couch and scurry to the bedroom. Usually, when a storm rolled in, you would already be in Victor’s arms. You try your best to make your way to the vacant side of the sheets as quietly as you can, but a loud floorboard beneath your toes leads to the amber-gold eyes of your boyfriend meeting yours.

“Storm,” you say.

“X’s, or the –” he’s interrupted.

Another rumble, rhythmically similar to the previous one. When the silver-haired weather girl was around, her thunder was asymmetrical. Not that you knew, from experience. You weren’t a fighter. Just…a mutant stuck in the middle of the war between Professor X and Magneto.

“C’mere,” his voice is low but a good kind of reverberation that makes you fold like origami into his arms. “You okay, __________?”

You wait for the pace of your heart to slow a little before you respond. You know he can hear it beating, and together, you lay in the embrace, quiet as the storm moves overhead.

“You work so hard for us,” you whisper to him, the words dissipating in the early morning air as soon as you say them. “I shouldn’t fuss when you take liberties with your liquor. But…”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I might not be the brightest bulb, but I remember what you told me.” His shoulders flex: you can feel his biceps behind you tense up as you realise what he’s saying. He remembered. “Don’t give that cretin the time; he deserves all hell for what he did.”

“Vic, you can’t kill my father.” You remind him.

“I want to,” he grits out. “…but besides. I was an asshole about it.” He pauses, and, after a beat, as if the words came from somewhere else, but in the intonation of his voice, you heard the words.  “M’sorry, __________.”

Your heart races. Never have you heard those words from him in the years of knowing, dating, and living with Victor Creed. You know how hard it is for him. You had always accepted his condolences in the form of his actions and as the blank air where he intended them to be translated as such. You turn in his embrace and bury your head into his chest. Your arms tighten around him, your legs intertwined with his. He bends his head toward you, and in the dark morning light, as the outskirts of Edmonton are waking, your lips meet.

“I ain’t perfect, __________, but I’m trying.” He says, his breath hot on your cheek. He peppers your face with measured, tiny kisses. You nuzzle into the scruff of his neck as another wave of thunder echoes, this time further away than before.

“Vic,” you tell him, speaking into his neck, where you are positioned, his jaw above your head, “You’re just about perfect to me.”

[minimalist-quotes]

You think attention is love and that’s why you suffer so deeply.

[legendarycollectiveflower]

Two types of people on Queering the map:

[camaelczarka]

Louis dressing Lestat:

Armand dressing Lestat:

Lestat dressing himself:

[mischievous-thunder]

What's not clicking, Logan? Wade's in love with you!

[paracosmoon]

[ducksarebloodthirstylittlebeasts]

I mean that about sums it up

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Wordy by aavfvl

[academic-vampire]

“I was looked at, but I wasn’t seen.”

-Albert Camus, “The Misunderstanding.”

[nightmareevara]

Most intimate thing you can do for the one you love is loving them the way they want to be loved

[ther0sesared3ad]

The urge to learn every language and play every instrument and travel the world and live through every historical time period and be a writer and a poet and an actor and

[pendragonfics]

i’m yours

Paring: Happy Hogan/Reader

Tags: gn reader, no pronouns, working holiday, slice of life, implied sexual content

Summary: Disastrous weather strikes, and Happy and ____________ are snowed in at their place before a Stark convention. Who's to the rescue?

Word Count: 1,067

Current Date: 2023-01-18

To everyone but Tony Stark, hosting the latest expo at a fancy snow village in the north island of Japan was absurd. It took hours of flights, tight squeezes, jetlag, fumbling essential documents and sleep deprivation, but it was over. You stood in the doorway of your cottage for the fortnight, eyelids heavy, sliding suitcase heavier.

“I know you’re dead on your feet, but if you don’t move into the cabin, you’ll let all the hot air out,” Your husband’s voice came from behind you.

He’s right, and the warmth from the wood oven is heavenly. So, you shuffle in and shuck off your snowshoes as Happy dumps his duffle onto the chair by the door. Your hand finds the light switch for the main room, and all at once, you’re blinking, taking in the rustic charm of the place.

“I’m almost afraid to go into the bedroom and find a little girl who ate our porridge,” Happy snarks, eyeing the door beside the kitchenette.

“It’s perfect,” you mumble. “…I’ll unpack in the morning.”

“We could have been here hours ago if we took the jet.”

“Coach is perfectly fine, Happy.” You almost trip on the split-level floor between the entrance and the main room but steady yourself. “The ozone doesn’t….”

“I know, I know,” Happy takes your elbow, and together, you make your way into the bedroom. It’s a queen mattress, smaller than yours at home, but the sheets are a white woven pattern that feels soft against your skin. You strip your bottoms off and crawl under the sheets, otherwise fully dressed. “Don’t you want to take off your –”

“Too tired.”

He makes a noise of ascent as you snuggle into your pillow, and for a second, you hear his footsteps tap away. “Harold…” you murmur. “It’s almost midnight. Lay with me.”

“I’ve got work to do,” he says.

It’s almost sunrise when you feel the bed dip on the other side, and you feel his hands cradle your face gently as he places a kiss beside your nose. You fade back into your dreams, now with the comfort of another within reach.

---

The alarm goes off, but you don’t reach your phone in time to neutralise it. Bright white sunlight streams into the room, and blinking, you remember you’re not in your apartment in southern California. The house is pleasantly warm. You pad into the main room, take the spare blanket from the end of the bed, and make your way to the kitchenette. There’s no kettle, so you start to boil water on the stove for coffee. The view from the window above the sink is gorgeous. No houses are on this side of the building, just deciduous trees full of white and a snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Whoever stocked the cabin before you came is now your favourite person because the fridge has all milk known to humankind and some and a half loaf of pre-cut bread too. The coffee-making process goes well, and soon, two mugs of piping hot joe are in your hands as you make your way back to bed.

“Hmm?” Happy stirs at the smell of his cup on the bedside nightstand. “Oh, you’re a goddamned angel.”

“That’s me,” you smile.

Then the alarm goes off again, automatically snoozed from its previous iteration. As you quiet it, you notice the wall-to-wall notifications from your husband’s boss’s assistant. You pass the phone to Happy, who accepts it mid-gulp.

“Is your phone flat?”

He nods, scrolling through the texts and missed calls. It might be your phone, but it’s Stark Enterprises data, and you’re in no need to learn their trade secrets off their payroll. The lawsuits, let alone, what it would mean for you as an Avenger, would be hell on earth. But it seems Happy is there right now, by the colour of his face. You take his cup from him as he starts to hurry off the bed into the main room to delve into his duffle.

“Honey?”

“The main vendor has pulled out, the workers for the set up are on strike, and to top it all off –” He shouts from the other room, half a leg in his suit pant and hopping to put the other on, “and all this snow has stopped everything!”

“That’s…that’s a lot.” You place the cups on the floor by the bed and start to walk over to him. “Pepper can’t be expecting you to change the weather, Harold.”

“I need to try,” he shoves on his snow boots and swings open the front door. “Sit tight, hon. I need to –” There’s no way he’s leaving the cabin. The snow has drifted onto the porch, rising to his eye level. “Crap.”

You take the phone from him and close the door. It seems you might need to suit up, after all. “Get the laptop and start a video call. I’ll contact Stark.”

He melts a little and kisses your neck. “God, I love it when you’re bossy.”

Soon enough, you have your fellow Avenger on the phone. Stark has a tiny espresso in hand and a pen in the other, taking notes. “You know, I’m glad you’re in my entourage, ___________; what would I do without you?”

“Wither away?” You cock an eyebrow. “I’m yours.”

It takes forty minutes, two more cups of coffee, and payback from a friend of Tony’s friend, but it’s sorted. The main vendor has been replaced and paid handsomely for the short notice, the construction workers have been paid in advance, and Tony has his old Iron suits on autopilot, working with the local council to shovel the snow. Throughout this process, Happy has been pacing the cabin.

“I can send one to your place to get you out from there,” Tony offers.

You shrug. “You can…give me an hour.” You put your coffee down. “I’ve got something I need to do first.” You can see the corner of his lips turn up, words about to come through the video call, but you close the session and the laptop. He was one hell of a cheeky bastard, always trying to get the last word. “Happy? It’s done.”

He approaches the doorway. “My saviour,” he exhales sarcastically, but you know he means it. “How can I ever repay you?”

You cast the laptop aside and beckon him. “We’re on vacation. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

[thefrsers]

#hes so dad coded

[shadebloopnik]

Radioapple twitter goin thru a thing rn

LIKE AMIR????

AMIR???? CHAT???? AMIR WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR?????

[chaoticfvckingdisaster]

Something I think about a lot is how Rick Riordan very rarely uses "girlfriend/boyfriend" to refer to Percy and Annabeth within their perspectives. They're so intertwined, even Annabeth says in hoh that the word boyfriend isn't strong enough, because Percy was a part of her. They are a singular soul, too wrapped around each others' fates that regular labels are far too weak for them. But, Rick Riordan uses "boyfriend" a lot in Nico and Wills perspectives, not because they love each other less than percabeth, but to show how much the word means to them. Nico uses it any chance he gets- "his boyfriend," "he actually had a boyfriend," because Nico has never been able to say that before. Their struggle with their queer identities mixed with Nico's catholic guilt and chronic everyone-hates-me disease makes the fact that he has someone to call his actual boyfriend so much more important to his character development.

[pangur-and-grim]

he was worrying this coat like a pitbull while everyone cheered