#chapter 3 of the story

[tariah23]

The manga industry, especially JUMP, needs to hurry up and do away with weekly scheduling for mangaka. There needs to better regulations put into place for their health and safety because this is pitiful. Two weeks - monthly updates should’ve already been the standard for the manga industry at this point. These money grabbers will only continue to put the lives of these artists at stake for the sake of capitalism unless some serious changes are implemented.

[lilybug-02]

Pain is a great motivator…

Part 26 || First || Previous || Next

—Full Series—

Meanwhile Toriel:

(Loud noises don't wake her up usually.)

Artist note: I’m so proud of this :))) I know it’s a lot of dialogue and reading, but dialogue is grueling work for me. I’m glad with the art and for the amount of pages I made in such a relatively short time span -w- page 5 was super fun to work on. A lot of blood, sweat, and hours here... :) The backgrounds were a big bore tbh, but I finished them! Yippie!

[namchyoon]

day 325/547 until joon returns cr. jung-koook

[stump-not-found]

The family goes to an interdimensional Farmer's Market, Ford gets a lesson in how to haggle, and Stan gets a lesson in how not to approach his brother about his games collection.

Things go a little off the rails, but hey - at least Bill's not here!

[cream-and-tea]

must a book have ‘plot’ and ‘structure’ and ‘progression.’ is it not enough for characters to be in a place. and for that place to be really fucking weird.

[expelliarmus]

[twilightkitkat]

Part 3 of thinking about the reaction another universe's Logan would have to meeting Wade. To Wade and Logan's relationship.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4

---

Logan hadn't left Wade's side since he got here. Eventually, Wade managed to convince him to calm down enough that he could briefly explain to the X-men that this was his Logan, the one from his universe, who came looking for him.

His Logan hovered close to him, practically plastered to his side as if he'd disappear the second he took his eyes off him. Other-Logan was nowhere to be seen.

Eventually, they returned to Wade's room for the night. The X-men offered Logan a room of his own, but he point-blank refused.

When Wade crawled into the twin-sized bed (which definitely wasn't big enough to comfortably fit two people), Logan slipped under the covers behind him. Logan pressed his nose to Wade's neck and released a shaky breath of relief.

He could finally relax now that he was alone, away from the probing crowd that reminded him too much of memories he'd rather leave in the past. Now that he could focus on Wade. His scent, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the sound of his breathing.

The exhaustion hit Logan like a truck. He'd barely gotten any sleep in the past month Wade's been missing, and when he did it was fitful and left him feeling inexplicably more tired when he awoke. He didn't realize how much he depended on the comfort of Wade's presence to sleep until it was gone.

(When he was alone, it reminded him of being back in his universe. Of waking up in the middle of the night, claws unsheathed, breathing wildly. Of realizing he was completely alone, that everyone he cared about was dead. Of popping open a bottle of liquor just to silence the noise of his own thoughts.)

Wade reminded him that he was in a new universe, now. That he wasn't alone. Logan wrapped his arms around him, securely (tight enough to not let him escape) and finally, finally, let himself breathe.

Wade hummed, content at feeling the hot breath of Logan on his neck as he drifted off to sleep. For the first time in a month, he felt warm. He felt safe. He felt comforted, knowing that Logan was here with him. Apparently having a life-sized human heater spoiled him and made it difficult to stomach sleeping alone.

They both fell asleep, comforted by the familiarity of each other's presence.

(It was the best sleep either of them had in weeks.)

---

The aftermath was just a little bit awkward.

Logan hardly left his side, warily glaring at anyone who came to disturb their peace as they went about their day. He seemed to still be on edge around the other X-men (and anyone who wasn't Wade in general).

Wade was sure it would be difficult for him to interact with them, too, if he'd seen and come to terms with all of their deaths. Of being responsible for the downfall of an alternate version of them. It must be jarring to see them alive and well, to see a distortion of the future he could've had with caricatures of his friends.

(It made Wade a little anxious to think that Logan was remembering it all. Reminiscing on a better time before Wade came and took him away from his world.)

Despite the companionship they'd built, Other-Logan had been making himself scarce. Wade was a little concerned about him, but he was more focused on his own version, who'd been acting as his own personal guard dog. (If a guard dog was 300 pounds and a fully grown man.)

Still, sometimes when they passed by each other, he swore he saw that same look in Other-Logan's eyes. The one he still had difficulty deciphering, but recognized as meaningful.

The one his Logan had in the first few weeks of living together. After they'd saved the world. (Maybe even before it.)

(He tried not to think too hard about it.)

The other X-men were just dancing around them. They seemed to be unsure of how to interact with a Logan so similar and yet so completely different from their own. The only member of the X-men who knew about this Logan's backstory was Wolverine and... let's just say it wasn't getting out anytime soon.

It was almost funny to watch their attempts to start a conversation with Logan only to be met with short, one-word responses. Almost. (It wasn't funny to feel how Logan tensed up next to him, how he smoothed over his expression and put himself on guard. To see the slight trembling of his clenched fists. To see the haunted looks in his eyes.)

And so they ended up accidentally (or purposefully, on Logan's part) avoiding everyone for the first few days.

Wade hadn't gone out on any missions in that time. Logan didn't seem like he was in any mood to go out with the others, and, quite frankly, neither was Wade. He didn't realize how much he missed Logan until he was here.

(And a part of him was relieved that Logan was choosing to stay with him. That he clung to him tightly and didn't seem to be tempted to go rubbing elbows with the other X-men anytime soon.)

He'd managed to fill Logan in after they first crashed from exhaustion together. Logan seemed equal parts concerned and relieved to find out that he'd been stranded because his device was broken. (Because that meant Wade wasn't kidnapped or in danger. Because that meant Wade didn't want to leave him behind.)

They'd been sleeping in the same bed ever since. Anytime the X-men brought up moving Logan to another room, a nicer one with a bigger bed, he just growled and muttered that he didn't need it. One time, they'd offered to move another twin-sized bed into Wade's room so that they could at least have their own place to sleep, but Logan gruffly and very quickly turned that down too.

They hadn't tried to separate them since.

Even when Charles Xavier himself called Logan into his office the morning after he arrived, Logan didn't seem to consider leaving Wade behind as an option. And so they'd both stumbled into the office, suspiciously pressed close together, to report Logan's arrival.

Not that Wade was complaining. He'd offer to be Wolvie's emotional support teddy bear any day. (Even if he got dragged around roughly like a toddler who didn't learn to play nice with or share their toys yet.)

Charles had looked at them oddly, a mix of what could only be described as surprise and then understanding crossing over his face. He didn't comment on Wade's presence, nor Logan's insistence to keep him close by.

(He'd pulled aside the other X-men shortly after and told them to not bother this Logan too much. That he'd been through things their Logan hadn't and that he wouldn't be very receptive to their presence. To not comment on his relationship with Wade and to let them be.)

(It had aroused a mixture of confusion and suspicion among the X-men. Scott and Jean exchanged concerned glances with each other. What could cause Logan to want to avoid them, even in another universe? What did Logan go through to be so wary of them? To rely on Deadpool, of all people, for emotional support?)

(And why was their Logan influenced as well?)

After that, things had gone fairly smoothly. Wade occasionally still annoyed Colossus, who'd begun to reluctantly accept his presence (and who Logan was the least on guard around, out of all of the X-men). It drew skeptical glances from the other X-men, who were surely wondering what reason Wade had to be bothering Colossus, of all people.

But other than that, they mainly kept to themselves.

Until today, that is.

Today, the other X-men had finally managed to find a lead on the man who'd KO'd Wolverine and Deadpool, shattering Wade's pathway back to his own universe. Apparently, he'd set up a new base, this time with better-equipped personnel.

Seemed the asshole wasn't working alone. Of fucking course. When Wade wanted a fight all he could find were pussies, but It couldn't ever be easy when Wade actually wanted to go home. Just his luck.

It was large-scale enough that the majority of the X-men were preparing to go on the raid. Not a good sign.

Of course, Wade had saddled in and prepared to go the second they said they had a lead. And of course, by default, that meant Logan was coming with him.

They'd both rested enough, and while they were slightly on edge, Wade doubted that was going to go away anytime soon until they got back to their own universe. It'd be better to just rip the bandaid off and get this shit over with so that they could curl up on their shitty pull-out couch and eat leftovers and let themselves decompress from whatever the fuck this mission was turning into.

After a quick debrief in which they essentially went over everyone's roles and the layout of the base (or what they knew of it, at least) they set off.

Logan and Wade were paired together, luckily (well, most likely intentionally from the sharp glare Logan shot everyone when they began discussing their roles). They were tasked with clearing out the enemies and working their way to the main base, which was unsurprising given their tank-like abilities and healing factors.

Wade stared out the window for most of the ride there (and Logan stared at Wade) and before he knew it, they'd arrived.

And wow. The villains had really outdone themselves in the cliche base department. If the abandoned nuclear power plant was basic, the shady abandoned military facility was the equivalent of a white girl who liked Starbucks and listened to Taylor Swift. Completely predictable and not at all original.

They all split off into smaller, individual teams and, after a quick confirmation, they went in.

The henchmen this time were vaguely impressive. Well, impressive in the sense the typical office worker was impressive compared to a 10-year-old. It actually took more than 5 seconds for Logan and Wade to clear out the first wave.

But a run-of-the-mill decent group of villains was no match for Wade and Logan's teamwork. If Other-Wolverine and Deadpool worked like a well-oiled machine, this Deadpool and Wolverine worked like they were fucking telepaths. Completely in sync, predicting each other's attack patterns and weaving in and out like they shared a set of strings puppeteering them.

(It caused a few of the X-men to stop and stare to watch. It was brutal and grotesque and... beautiful, in way, to see how quickly they plowed through the villains. The X-men knew teamwork—they were accustomed to it, with the whole superhero team shtick—but not this type of partnership. This type of innate, primal fluidity that allowed them to move as one.)

Before long, with a suprising lack of resistance, given this was supposed to be The Villain Base (although, to be fair, they did have the X-men playing cleanup crew around them and taking care of the rest), they finally made their way into what could only be reffered to as some sort of fucked-up evil lab.

The walls were lined with shady medical equipment and some type of alien technology, and, to no one's surprise, the same fucker as last time was standing in the center.

"Nice to see you again, Deadpool," he nodded. "And... nice to meet you, Wolverine."

OK, hold on a second. He thought it was weird that this guy knew his name the first time considering he was, y'know, new around these parts, but he'd brushed it off. Maybe there was an alternate version of him running around (even if he hadn't heard of one despite interrogating an absurd number of people connected to the underground). But to know that this was an alternate version of Wolverine, just upon seeing him?

It's like the asshole predicted their arrival in this dimension.

Wade tensed slightly, and judging by a glance at Logan next to him, he'd picked up on that discrepancy too.

"Hey, Cable 2.0. Or should I call you Evil Cable? Cable the destroyer? Actually, calling you Cable would be an insult to his brand. How about generic futuristic villain #46," Wade quipped, trying to steel his nerves and school his expression back into a grin.

"I assure you, I'm nothing like this Cable you speak of," the man replied, calmly, "If he were similar to me, you wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Oooooh, scary, I think I almost pissed my pants! Quick, Wolvie, hide me, I'm quivering in my boots!" Wade ducked behind Logan, voice rising high from mock-fear. Logan merely grunted, but allowed him to hide behind him for the bit. (See, even Logan must agree he's funny if he's playing along.)

The man blinks at them, clearly unimpressed, before raising his gun. Okay, so they're getting right into it. Fun.

Logan unsheathed his claws and Wade gripped his guns tightly.

And then the fight behind.

This Logan and Wade had better teamwork compared to the last encounter. Their teamwork was down to a science, or a particularly bloody work of art.

Unfortunately, this time, their opponent knew their attack patterns. He was deflecting their attacks with ease, using minimal effort to dodge even while they ganged up on him.

This went on for a few moments, making barely any progress aside from wasting time. Until, a growl was heard from behind them—

—and another Wolverine joined the mix.

"I can you're struggling a bit, bub, let me help you out," he grunted, slashing at the villain.

"Awww! I'd be swooning right now if not for the fact it'd get me killed!" Wade chirped back, dodging a bullet that shot his way.

His Logan growled slightly and landed next to him, before murmuring, "Focus on the fight. Stop getting distracted."

Wade pouted in response but followed dutifully to attack the villain with Logan.

Their group teamwork was actually fairly impressive, in Wade's opinion. Which wasn't surprising, given that two of the members had near-identical fighting styles and both were used to working with him.

The two Wolverines clashed a bit at first, aiming for the same spots and directing annoyed growls at each other. But after Wade finally made them calm down ("Woah woah woah, ladies, there's enough hits to go around! This isn't Fortnite, you aren't going for the Battle Royale. Let's all work together, yeah?") they fell into a better rhythm.

They were holding up fairly well, even managing to make leeway and push the man back. They were on the winning side of the fight (which they better be on, with Deadpool and two fucking Wolverines trying to kill him). "Were" being the key word.

Because, right as they seemed to be tiring out the asshole, he pulled a move nobody expected. He leaped back, suddenly, creating distance, and grabbed a suspicious-looking metal device from the table.

All three of them exchanged glances and seemed to be on the same page: Do Not Let The Fucker Use It, Whatever It Is.

And so they all leaped at once, claws and guns and knives blazing, until the man sidestepped and with a clink had attached the device to Wolverine's neck. To his Logan's neck.

It folded out into a sickeningly familiar shape.

Fuck.

Logan's claws retracted and a panicked look flashed in his eyes despite his angry posture.

It was an ability-restricting collar.

And Wade had a feeling it wouldn't be as easy as punching in the code "7" to get it off, considering the futuristic, sturdy, and significantly more complicated-looking design.

The man picked Logan up by the back of the neck of his suit with an inhuman strength (had he been holding back, before?) and Wade saw fucking red.

Before he could think, he was unloading a full magazine into the man's chest and head. But the bullet wounds just closed up and the shells fell to the ground uselessly.

He saw the fear in Logan's eyes. At being powerless.

A reflection of how Wade felt, strapped to that table. Tortured. (Francis' voice rang in his ears. "What's my name?")

Wade lunged, trying to dig his katanas into the man's side. He dodged, stepped to the side, and blocked as Wade desperately, frantically tried to injure him. Just enough to let Logan go.

"Get your filthy hands off of him, you son of a bitch, or I swear to God I will tear you limb from limb like a 5 year old's shitty Barbie doll!" Wade snarled, a venom in his voice that made Logan's eyes widen from in his hold.

(A venom that made the Logan behind him look astonished, too. It'd always been him as the protector, the stronger one. He always had to carry the burden of worry, of solving the problem. And yet, here was a version of him with someone to do the same for him. Someone who would go to hell and back for him in the same way he had to, countless times.)

(That familiar ache was back.)

"I don't think I will," the man hummed, side-stepping yet another attack. "As a matter of fact, I'm getting quite bored of this back-and-forth."

Suddenly, the man held up a knife (where did that come from?) to Logan's throat. Logan, who didn't have his healing factor right now. Logan, who was just as vulnerable as any other human right now.

(Logan, who was looking at him with terror in his eyes. Logan, who had wanted death for so long, pressing himself against the barrel of his gun and fucking laughing the first time they'd met. Logan, who, through all the blood and sweat and tears and sacritice, had finally found a reason to live again. Logan, who didn't want to die anymore. Who wanted to live with Wade.)

It was like the world stopped turning. It was the same feeling Wade had felt the night Vanessa died, all noises drowned out and all colors and shapes blurring together and ohgodohgodohgod she's dead she's gone it's all my fault I never should've met her to begin with— but this was worse, somehow. It didn't just feel like the rug had been pulled out from underneath his feet, it felt like the entire fucking ground crumbled apart, collapsing in on itself, leaving him tumbling closer and closer to Earth's core until he's burned alive and swallowed whole. It felt like drowning and suffocating and burning alive all at once. It felt like losing his very foundation, the one thing he allowed himself to cling on to, thinking he'd never have to say goodbye. It felt like all his worst fears and nightmares came true in the worst possible way.

It felt like dying.

"Now," the man started, not giving a damn about Wade's internal panic and the incessant ringing in his ears, "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Why was Other-Logan just standing there? Why wasn't anyone moving? Why was nothing happening? How could the world keep spinning when it felt like his world was in limbo right now, powerless and dangled between the claws of a monster, threatening to drop him into its maw?

"You can let me go with your buddy right here, or I kill him now and you never see him again. Understood?" the man tightened his grip around Logan's throat, who began hacking slightly. The knife nicked his skin slightly, creating a trail of red down his neck. Logan hissed in pain.

Wade wanted nothing more than to tear his fucking throat out in response.

But he clenched his fists instead, feeling his blunt nails dig into his skin even through the suit.

"Wade, just let me go, you can come get me later, yeah?" Logan wheezed, barely able to speak around the constricting grip.

"But—he could—Logan, no, I can fight him, I can, I won't let you sacrifice yourself again," Wade fumbled over his words, unable to focus on anything but Logan Logan Logan.

"I'm not sacrificin' myself, just," his voice was rough and heavy, "let me go. You can't win, Wade. I'm not going to watch you die trying to save me."

"But—"

"You heard him," the Wolverine behind him suddenly spoke, putting a hand on his shoulder. (Wade wanted to rip it off. It was wrong wrong wrong, so similar and yet too different from his Logan. His Logan, who had deeper callouses. His Logan, whose hands were rougher and gripped him firmly.) "He'll kill him if we fail to fight him now."

Why was everybody else okay with this? Why did everyone else seem so calm when it felt like Wade's world was imploding, his vision was narrowing, and his senses were going haywire?

(Logan could get hurt. Seriously. Not just superficially. He could be tortured like he was. Wade didn't like knowing Logan was in pain, even with his healing factor, but without it? He could be killed. Even if the man kept his promise right now, who's to say it holds up in an hour? A day? A week? Wade couldn't even comprehend living that long without knowing if Logan was dead or alive. Logan could die and he wouldn't know, because he'd be outside of his reach.)

Wade caught Logan's eyes.

Fuck.

He was scared too, Wade could tell, but putting on a brave face for him. Trying to calm Wade down, when Logan was the one getting kidnapped. He was fucking pathetic. (It really was God's Greatest Joke that he couldn't die, huh?)

Wolverine tensed beside him, ready to hold him back if needed. Wade bit his lip until it fucking bled and finally managed to mumble, "Fine."

"What was that?" the man gloated.

"Fine," Wade hissed. "But I'll be back to get him, and I swear to fucking God, if a single hair on his head is out of place, I'll eviscerate you. I'll make sure you wish you didn't have a healing factor, because I'll torture you until you're begging to die. And then finally, I'll snap that shitty collar onto your neck and kill you in the most painful way possible.

The man seemed unphased. But it was a promise. A promise Wade would keep even if his life depended on it. Even if he had to drag himself out of his own grave, regenerate his limbs from scratch, claw his way out of hell, he would make him suffer if he did anything to Logan.

Logan's eyes widened from in the man's grasp. Wade looked at him, a dark expression on his face. Letting him know how serious he was. (That Wade would do anything for him, to keep him safe. To keep him by his side. That if he got hurt, he'd murder every fucking person involved.)

Logan's eyes shone with realization, a vague spark of hope. It made Wade all the more desperate to save him, to live up to those expectations.

"Well, I hate to interrupt the moment, but I really must be going," the man commented.

It took all of Wade's willpower not to lunge at him. Not to attack him as he picked up a suitcase and walked away, yanking Logan alongside him by the back of his neck.

Logan's haunted yet trusting (despite it all, he had faith in Wade, even when he let him get hurt in the first place) eyes were the last thing Wade saw before they dissapeared.

Wade wanted to go after them, to chase them, but he knew better. The other X-men weren't here right now. If all three of them barely managed to hold up against this man, how would the remaining two beat him? And who knew whatever other tricks were up his sleeves.

He was unpredictable. He was dangerous.

Wade knew this, but—

He should've been faster. He should've taken the hit instead of Logan (even if it seemed the man was targeting him to begin with). He should've been better, should've been stronger. Should've prevented Logan from being taken in the first place.

His knees buckled underneath him and he collapsed to the floor. The Other Wolverine startled behind him, dropping to the floor with him and wrapping his arm around Wade for support.

Wade felt the same, desolate, useless feeling wash over him that he had when he'd cradled Vanessa's dead body. He'd failed. Again. He had so much time to learn and do better and yet he still failed. It was all his fault. Everything was his fault.

He should've just brought Logan with him to begin with. Should've swallowed his fears and sucked it up, even if Logan did want to leave him. Logan was a grown man, he could make his own choices. He could realize that his current life, his life with Wade, wasn't worth it if he wanted. He could abandon him and Wade would have no fucking ground to stand on to stop him.

And yet Wade couldn't just fucking swallow his pride and had to behave like a jealous teenager.

(Would it be any different, if they came here together? If they were on the same page from the start, had time to plan and learn together? The man was so fucking strong that even if they had time, Wade was unsure if they'd beat him alone. Maybe they were predestined to fail. All because of Wade's incompetence.)

"Hey," Other-Logan started to speak in a low, worried tone, "We'll get him back. I promise."

He had a concerned and vaguely unsure look on his face, clearly unused to trying to comfort someone. Here's another Logan, comforting Wade when his feelings shouldn't even be a priority to begin with.

"It's my fault," Wade muttered.

"What?"

"It's my fucking fault. Everything is my fault. I should've gotten kidnapped instead. At least if he took me, I could take it."

"Wade—"

"I mean, it's no big deal if I get tortured. I'm used to it. At least I'd fucking deserve it for the stupidity of getting my communication device broken. At least then I'd be the only one hurt, and it's not like I matter anyway."

"Wade, what are you—"

Wade continued to ramble on, frantically, tears collecting in his eyes and threatening to fall down his face, "It should've been me. Logan is a fucking hero, he has a place in the world. He shouldn't be hurt just because of my mistake. I dragged him into this shit, into my universe, and how do I repay him? By letting him get fucking kidnapped and tortured on my behalf!" Wade had to physically force himself to not devolve into full-body sobs at this point, trembling underneath Logan's hand on his shoulde. Rocking back and forth like a lunatic.

"Wade, just listen for one fucking sec—"

"I should've just killed myself. I should've sacrified myself to destroy the Time Ripper, should've been strong enough to grab both the matter anti-matter channels and dissapeared from existence. At least it'd only be me who's gone, and Logan would still be safe. I never should've dragged him into my shit, I should've been long dead before I even met him. I should've had the balls to snap that collar on my neck and explode myself for real—"

—Slap.

Logan had honest to god slapped him. Hard.

Wade snapped out of his rant, holding his cheek as a deep purple bruise formed. He started hollowly back at Logan.

"Shut the fuck up," Other-Logan growled. "Don't speak about yourself like that. You don't deserve to die. It wasn't your fault, you fucking know that. We all were there, so it's as much on us as it was you. None of us could've seen it coming."

"Rich, coming from you, Mr. Blame Himself in the flesh," Wade retorted, scrambling for any kind of purchase in the conversation.

"I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to make me pissed off enough to let it go. But I won't." Logan took a deep breath, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He finally seemed to collect himself and looked at Wade, his gaze piercing and sharp. "Look, you... you're not worthless. Hell, you're the furthest thing from it. When I'm around you, it feels like I'm actually a person for the first time I can remember. It's like I can finally fucking breathe. And if that's how I feel, when I've known you for just a month, I imagine it's even stronger in your Logan."

Wade started to protest, but Logan cut him off. "None of that, bub. You know I'm right. You can't honestly be that fucking blind to not see the impact you have on him. On me. ...Look, when you've been alive as long as I have, it's inevtiable that you feel lonely. Of fucking course it is, when everyone around you dies and you're the only one left standing." Wade stares at him wordlessly, a hint of understanding in his eyes.

"...But you make it better," Logan settles on. "Do you see the way he looks at you? Like if you're gone, nothing matters? That isn't the look of someone who hates you. I don't, and he sure as hell doesn't. So stop putting yourself down when you fucking know he wouldn't want you blaming youself. You wouldn't blame him if you got captured, would you?"

"...No, but that's—"

"—The exact same scenario. But you're too stuck in your head to realize it." Logan groaned, seemingly lost for words to say. "Look, I'm not the best at this. At saying what I'm feeling. You know this. But what I do say, I mean. And I mean it when I say that it isn't your fault and he'd never blame you. I wouldn't. You shouldn't either."

Wade looked at him, at his sincerity, and for some reason he felt more like sobbing than he did before.

"So let's get him back, yeah?" Other-Logan asked, gruff and hesitant. It felt like a peace offering. An olive branch.

"...Yeah," Wade murmured, and let his body weight fall against Logan, who was beside him now. Logan wrapped an arm around him, hesitantly at first, and then more securely when Wade leaned into it.

Wade curled into him, thoughts running a million miles a minute.

(Where was Logan right now? How far had they gotten? What if he was hurt? What if he was writhing in pain, calling out for Wade, and he wasn't ther? What if he was tortured? What if he was dead?)

(...No, Wade wouldn't let himself imagine the worst-case scenario. Of never seeing Logan again. He wouldn't accept that reality. He couldn't. Didn't know to live, anymore, in a world without him. He'd once tore through different universes and escaped the void, all to save his family. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.)

(He'd get Logan back no matter what.)

[infamous-if]

finally able to write the Yearning from the ROs side finally beating the "nobody likes MC" allegations finally giving MC a break and having the ROs be the ones that are Down Bad this is what it's all about folks

[bunniebi]

outfits for the infamous ROs ^-^ (except O, Seb, E and LA... </3 but maybe in the future)

[ping-ski]

unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality

au belongs to @pluck-heartstrings !! if u havent read or caught up u totally should <3 (sorry for the tag)

[muffinlance]

Me: Don't write a 20k chapter don't write a 20k chapter don't write a

Also Me: ...but what if

[arthursfuckinghat]

Do you ever pause after doing a Big Important Mission where you think "yeah no more, Arthur needs a break" and trot on off to Strawberry or something

[namchyoon]

day 324/547 until joon returns cr. jung-koook

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER EIGHT: LOML

AND I'LL STILL SEE IT, UNTIL I DIE - YOU'RE THE LOSS OF MY LIFE.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, consumption of alcohol, (overly poetic) smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, technically unprotected sex even after the idiots discussed protection, minors dni

☆ WC: 3.9K+

☆ A/N: extremely sorry for the shortest chapter in this series yet. also, out of all the songs referenced for the title of chapters, this one might be the most on the nose. i kid you not, i cannot explain how perfectly loml encapsulates reader/sugar's emotions during this chapter. if you'd like the extra hurt, 10/10 recommends listening as you read. :)

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

 “Can I kiss you, Sugar?” 

You’ve made your fair share of dumb decisions in your life. Plenty of moments have slipped right between your fingers due to hesitation that you’d later regret, you have a catalog of embarrassing encounters to serve you a lifetime. You’ve said yes when your answer should have been a resounding no, you’ve made promises you knew were impossible to keep, and you’ve always had an unexplainable habit of digging yourself into graves that will surely bury you alive. 

This moment is no different. 

The correct reaction is to tell him no, to push him away and end the night here. You should leave before either of you make any mistakes and ruin whatever fragile thing resides between the two of you any further. There’s a million other options you should be taking, but at the end of the day, you still nod your head. 

Not even a second later, Eddie’s lips are on yours, and it’s hard to call it a mistake when it’s the first time you’ve felt like you could properly breathe in two years. 

He tastes like bourbon, and mistakes, and regret, and a youthful type of love impossible to grasp onto. A vague memory you never get to hold, but always learn to miss. When his hands travel slowly to your hips, you’re only pressing closer, deepening the kiss with the desperation of someone starved. Someone stained. 

You were an idiot to think it wouldn’t end this way. You were in his apartment, and you were drunk. You were brimming with bad decisions. It was always going to end up this way. 

Your knees somehow end up digging into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, your recollection of how you climbed into his lap nonexistent. Had it been his doing, his own needy hands guiding you here? Or had it been you? You, with an ache that rang throughout your entire body, soothed only by sharing each of his breaths with him when he finally pulls back from the kiss. 

“Are you sure you want thi-”

“Don’t ruin it,” you beg, silencing him as you look into those deep autumn eyes, memorizing rivets of soft auburn that never really changed. An ever changing kaleidoscope, but there were simply parts of Eddie he’d never be able to hide from you,to change, “Not yet. Please.”

You don’t know if you’ll want it come morning. You can’t estimate just how deeply the regret will burrow once it’s all said and done; you’re not in the mood to think sensibly. No hypotheticals, no curiosity for the future. 

You just want him. Right here, right now. Far beyond just sex, and far beyond casual touches. But it’s the only way you can have him, the only way he can have you, for now. 

His fingers are more skilled these days. More deft and nimble as they race up and down your sides, quickly undoing the button of your jeans and easily sneaking beneath your shirt. Two years could be two seconds with the way he still knows you and your body, knowing exactly where to apply more pressure as he plucks on every string beneath your skin that makes you sing out for him. Hums, gasps, moans – they all sort of blend together at some point, don’t they? 

“I’ve missed you,” you swear you hear him mumble against the skin of your neck when his mouth begins to wander, “I’ve missed this.” 

You convince yourself he didn’t say it just to avoid ripping yourself apart any further.  

Instead, you busy your mouth with kissing him harder, faster, more desperately. You’re all but burying yourself in him. Your hips grinding against his, your lips swallowed in his, your hands finding themselves tangled in his hair. 

You’re drunk enough that you convince yourself that this is it – this is home. 

It feels natural to let him run you down this way. It’s instinctual as he takes his shirt off and your hands roam over bare skin that whispers with the ridges of paths you’ve traced before. You know that scar on his right hip from when he got his appendix removed as a child, you know that lightened patch of skin on his left thumb from when he’d managed to burn himself with a lighter while cutting class one day with you. You know him – so much better than you’d let yourself believe these last few weeks. 

“Do you have a condom?” you pant, and you both pretend like your words are choked up from gasping to recover the air you’d offered to the kiss, and not the emotions rearing their ugly heads. 

He does. Of course he does. He’s a rockstar now – he has women throwing themselves at him constantly. Of course he’s prepared. 

It happens somewhere between him pulling the condom out of his wallet, and managing to pull his own shirt off. At some point in which you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, hips grinding down on his in sloppy circles, he lets out a low and drawn out moan. All your movements stutter, nearly halting, as that sound rings out around you. You swear, it echoes off the walls of your own head and not the eerily empty apartment. 

You break as you gasp out, “Fuck, Eddie.” 

Another dumb decision for the books. All it takes is you sighing his name for him to flip the entire script. Suddenly, you’re no longer straddling his lap, no longer biting his lip and gripping onto the back of the sofa for balance. 

Your back collides with the cushions below and he hovers over you, kissing with more intent and purpose this time. Each press of his lips is followed by the nipping of teeth, desperately trying to mark you up along your chest, completely oblivious to the way he’s already left his stain. 

You’re convinced if he presses his lips just hard enough, if he bares his teeth just sharp enough, he’ll see right through you. Your skin will become all but cellophane and he’ll see all those blooming violets and deep maroons still left behind in the shape of his mouth. He’ll see the way another has never followed these paths, not after him. 

All the failed rebounds, all the failed distractions. There’s never been another person capable of taking your mind off of Eddie Munson. No one’s kiss ever made you bleed the way he’s capable, no one’s touch could ever erase the mark of his. 

The wine still makes your head swim as your chin tilts to the roof, giving him all the room possible to paint whatever picture he’s vying for on your skin. You let him leave his physical mark; you let him leave a physical reminder of something to regret. 

“Do you know how many times I played this moment back over in my head?” his voice is a murmur that vibrates against your sternum, words not quite slurring, “Do you know how many times I swore-”

You don’t know – and you never find out what exactly he had sworn time and time again as the trill ringing of a cell phone shatters the entire atmosphere. 

One moment, Eddie’s lips are painting portraits along your chest and neck, the acceptance of making a mistake settling deep into your bones. And the next, he’s lifting up, looking wildly towards his kitchen, where you’re sure that it’s his phone buzzing erratically on the counter. 

“I-” he looks wildly between you and the distant phone, pupils blown out and lips swollen, “Fuck, I-”

All the air leaves your lungs.

There will be no mistakes tonight. 

“Go answer it,” you whisper, deflating as you accept the interruption. The moment’s over, fading in between the lipstick marks on your wine glass and the glow of the lamps scattered throughout his living room, “It’s fine.” 

It’s not fine. It’s written plainly across his face that this is the furthest thing from fine at this moment. But duty calls; his phone is ringing, your mind is buzzing, and the moment is simply gone. 

It has to be fine. You have to be fine with it. 

“I’ll be right back,” he swears as he lifts himself up off the couch, but you know he won’t be. 

Your shirt is already back by the time he’s reached the counter, laptop already tucked safely back into your bag as he answers the call. 

“Hello?” he asks, eyes flitting over to you as he watches you gather your things, picking up the wine glass that had been yours the entire night in order to carry it over to the sink he leans against the counter next to. A bit of chatter comes from over the line, and Eddie’s entire face twists, “Am I busy? Yeah, yeah – as a matter of fact, I am.” 

Just as you sit the glass into the sink, you bring a hand to his bicep, letting it rest there selfishly. Feeling his bare skin one final time, drinking in the heat he radiates through your palm, giving yourself one last chance to memorize it. 

You’re not busy, you mouth to him with a sad smile. 

He’s not. Because there will be no mistakes tonight. 

You go to pull your hand away, prepared to somehow call an Uber or taxi, but he’s quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist just as your skin slides from his. It’s not forceful, but simply firm. Clinging with a desperation you can’t recognize. 

Stay, he mouths back, the person over the line clearly continuing to speak without Eddie paying them any mind.

You almost do. You falter and consider dropping your bag then and there. You nearly stay, wait out the phone call, sit pretty and patient until he returns to you just as he had promised. 

But he had left you with a promise of later once before, and he hadn’t kept his promise then. 

“Oh,” you whispered, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. You missed hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”

Later had never found its way back to the two of you all those years ago – why would it now? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eds,” you whisper, soft enough to guarantee whoever was on the other side of the phone call wouldn’t hear you. The fall of his face is almost enough to make you take back the words and swallow them back down. 

“Wait-” he’s not whispering, almost as though he’s forgotten about the call entirely. You can hear the silence over the line, probably in confusion, as you walk away, “Wait- No- I-”

You motion to the phone still pressed to his ear and cheek, trying to remind him that someone else can hear. 

He removes it and ends the call before you can protest.

“Eddie-” you start to scold, but he refuses to hear any of it. 

“No, no,” he sounds as though he might be begging. And you can’t tell if he’s begging you to not reprimand him, or if he’s begging you to not leave, “I don’t care. It was just Matt, he can wait till morning.” 

It doesn’t answer the question of what he wanted from you. 

“It’s getting late, anyways,” you’re still trying to detect your escape route, the longer you spend in the aftermath making your chest tighten more and more.

You can’t do this. 

You can’t stand in this room with him and pretend that it’s all okay. You can’t act as though the wine’s effects are slipping away from you and you can’t brush off the feeling of his lips across your chest. You have no patience left to act as though your lungs aren’t shriveling up in your chest, unable to get enough air when he’s too close all while being all too far away. 

It would have been a mistake, and you’re both better for the interruption. 

Eddie shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh, “We aren’t doing this again, Sugar. We aren’t going to just pretend that didn’t happen-”

“Why not?” you challenge him, “This… it’s better this way, Eddie. If we kept it up, we both would have regretted it, and it’d just be another mistake-”

“Who’s we?” he cuts you off. 

We. You, me, both of us. We’d both regret it, wouldn’t we? 

But you still didn’t regret kissing him. You still didn’t regret sitting in his lap and drinking him in, you still wouldn’t take back whatever moment was shared prior to the phone’s interruption. 

All your regrets are spoken in future tense. All the mistakes are somewhere ahead of you, your mind running to things that haven’t happened yet.

How do you know if you’d regret it? How do you know if he’d regret it?

Your hold on your bag begins to loosen, “I- Both of us. We’d both regret it.” 

“I wouldn’t regret it. I don’t think I could ever regret you.” 

This is the part you walk away. You sling your bag onto your shoulder, you tell him to have a goodnight, and you leave. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you’ll pretend this conversation never happened. 

Except you don’t.

Your bag falls to the ground, a muted crash that probably pisses off his downstairs neighbors. The toes of your shoes knock into the worn bag, kicking it to the side with more gentleness than you should be capable of right now. When he reaches out a hand to hold you, you take it. 

You let him get his hot palms back on your body. You let his lips find their way back to yours. 

You finally just let the mistake happen and take the chance on finding out if the regret is nothing more than shadows in the closet, make-believe once you turn the light back on. 

The couch isn’t the destination this time. You’re almost sad that you don’t get to admire any of his decor as he drags you down the hallway, but you also doubt there’s even a sliver of the ghost of the man holding onto you in any of it. He’s not on the walls, he’s not in the pictures; he’s right in front of you, kissing you heavily and desperately, letting his feet stumble right over yours as he finally reaches blindly for the knob of the door behind you. He’s in the rings pressing into the skin of your hips and he’s in the wavering cologne that bursts from his sheets as he carefully drops you back on a bed far too large for one man. 

He’s in the shadow hovering over you, he’s in the slide of his leg as he spreads your thighs to find home between them. He may not haunt this apartment, but he haunts you. Your body, your mind, your senses. 

Always have, always will. 

Alcohol isn’t clouding the moment anymore as each kiss is gentler, retracing the bruises already forming across your collar bones. He’s taking his time, enjoying himself, no longer rushing through the process of getting to know you again. The loss of your shirt and the unbuttoning of your jeans is done with shaking hands this time. Less sure, but far more determined. 

Your own hands are steady, though, as you undress him. You’re sure. This is your mistake to make, your mistake to regret. And maybe he had a point – maybe it is impossible for either of you to regret each other. For all the tears shed and all the nights spent cursing his name, it’s never once crossed your tongue that you wanted to erase him. You think if someone were to try and take him, take all that you two had shared together from you, that they’d be met with white knuckles and deathly screams. A rancid animal foaming at the mouth, refusing to let go of the one thing it had ever managed to sink its claws into. 

You’d forgotten just how well you know him. 

It was beyond superficial scars and childhood stories. You still remember the exact pulse point that makes him moan out with just a brush of your mouth against it. You can still find that spot above his hips that spasm when your hands grip them, encouraging him to grind down onto you. You know his body, you know his past, you know his mind. 

Words are no longer necessary as it finally happens. 

Prayers of each other’s name, ignorance in the way this entire moment was becoming too gentle for two fools rekindling. A practiced dance you once only ever dreamt of swaying to with him. 

You would have given him everything. You did give him everything. Your youth, your future, your aspirations, your daydreams of a glittering gem on your sacred finger and a list of baby names the two of you had argued over endlessly. All those things still belong to him, even now. Even as this new version of him hovers over you, lips trailing with purpose over your abdomen, making his way down to your core. 

You can’t tell if he’s a stranger when he places a hot kiss over the cotton of your underwear. You can’t tell if you ever spent two years away from him as his hands hold down your hips when they buck in response. 

“Eddie,” you beg, fingers lacing into his curls just as they had earlier, gripping onto him for dear life. You’re looking down at him between your thighs, refusing to blink on the off chance that he’ll simply vanish when you do, “Please.” 

“Please what, Sugar?” 

“Touch me,” you gasp out as his fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, colossus course against soft skin, “Kiss me, fuck me- I just-” 

No further explanation is needed. Your wish is his command. 

Your panties are tossed to the hardwood floor at the edge of the bed as if they always belonged there. His mouth ravishes you as if this was just a nightly routine between the two of you. As if he didn’t have to second think what pace you might prefer, or when to add the first finger. Or the second. He plays you beautifully, crooking his fingers and nipping at sensitive skins and nerves alike, listening to the way you only seem to remember his name. Like you don’t remember the sound of a dial tone instead of declarations of adoration, like you don’t remember the excuses for him denying you all his attention. 

You wish you could just stay in this moment forever. Him, buried between your thighs. All hurt and all stains forgotten when he builds you up to the edge, when he murmurs against your clit about how pretty you look for him right now. 

Cheap wine soaking Halloween costumes. Hazy rooms, smokey with youthful desires and incense. Dancing in an apartment filled with boxes not yet unpacked. Whispers of something being real. Late night trips to the gas station and all the pride in your eyes as you heard his song played on public radio for the first time. The terrible waiting, the messy kisses of more teeth than lips. A simple necklace adorned with a simple ring, burning with more promises than either can comprehend, still gathering dust at the bottom of your jewelry box to this day. 

Just in case. Just in case he ever came back; just in case you ever returned. 

By the time he’s climbing back up your body, you have one foot in the past, cleaving yourself in two as you cling to him like water. 

“Look at you,” he whispers when his face is back above yours, lips still slick with you, “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that?” 

You swear, for just a moment, his eyes are mirrors. And you can see that dazed look you wear, the face of a woman still trapped by her past. The face of someone who can’t let the dead stay buried. Someone you wouldn’t describe as beautiful, but Eddie would. 

You should have left. You should be regretting this. You only pull him closer. 

His boxers bunch at his ankles, your fingernails dig into his back. When you feel him press against you, the tip of his dick just barely tapping against your clit, your entire body tenses. This was it. This was the mistake you had taken responsibility for, this was the choice you’d decided was worth damnation. A simple slip up, a quick fall backwards, and you’ll be right back where you started two years ago. 

“You still want this?” he sighs into your ear, clearly feeling the way you’d froze up. 

Your breath catches for just a second. More memories, more images that cut straight through you. Every careless afternoon, every serene morning. Every haunted night. 

“Yeah,” your entire body relaxes, muscle by muscle, “Yeah, I still want this.” 

You mean more than just the sex. 

The press of your heels into his lower back is all the encouragement he needs to finally push into you. The stretch burns, but it’s welcome all the same. Just an aftereffect of years of emptiness, of failing to ever find something that could make you feel as whole as he does. 

The moan he lets out as he’s wrapped in your warmth sends shivers down your spine. You swear, laced in it, there lies a gasp of relief. A sigh of coming home after a long tour, the huff of an exhale just before he crosses the threshold of a front door and has you in his arms again. 

You don’t know when the tears started. 

But between his thrusts, between all his wanton groans and your own quivers of excitement, your cheeks turn wet. 

“Then I say let it burn.”

You can’t tell if it’s sweat or his own tears seeping into your skin as your bodies press together harder, your head thrown back in ecstasy. 

“I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.” 

You find your hands tugging on the roots of his curls even harder as you try to tether yourself back to him, but it’s no use. 

“When I get back, all I care about is you.” 

It all comes crashing down on both of you as his face is buried in the crook of your neck and your thighs squeeze around his hips – all the love that was there, all the love that was lost. All the love that still remains. 

“Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart.”

He’d always warned you this would happen. That one day he’d come back to you. That he’d only ever come back for you. 

It doesn’t matter how deep of scratches you leave across his back, or how many hickies he paints your skin with. There will never be enough bloodshed between the two of you to wash away the truth. It’s not a mistake, it’s not something to regret. You wish it was; you wish it were so simple. No, this moment was one thing and one thing only – inevitable. 

They always did say that your life would flash before your eyes right before you die. 

And flash it does – a lifetime of love that was had and love that will never come back to you – as Eddie brings you both to your graves from the most cursed of little deaths.

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[coalitiongirl]

Regina cuts her off, her stomach roiling. “You talk about me with Henry?” Emma shrugs. “You come up sometimes. He really does care about you. And I think you care about him.” “You think?” Regina demands, and her fists tighten. “You think?” Emma turns away from her, focuses on Henry on his swing. Regina follows suit, letting the sight of him calm her. He’s going higher and higher, and he kicks off his shoes when he’s at the top of the swing, sending them flying across the playground. It’s so normal, so much like a scene from a year ago, before everything had fallen apart. “I wasn’t sure,” she says. “I didn’t know if you…if you saw him as something to have. Or if you really loved him.” Regina seethes. Something in her chest withers and dies. She’s furious. She isn’t hurt, because she will never give Emma Swan the power to hurt her again. “This town still stands only because Henry is inside of it. And you think that I don’t love him?” Emma doesn’t respond to the threat, which had been stupid and will set Regina’s time with Henry back again, she’s sure. “You didn’t kiss him. When he was…after he ate that turnover. You didn’t even try to kiss him awake.” Regina had sat in the hospital room and wept, had felt the world falling apart around her, and no, she had not kissed Henry as Emma had. How arrogant it is, to believe that a kiss can work magic. How privileged it is for the laws of the world to break only for you. “I am no Charming,” she spits. “I don’t get beautiful fairytales, and I don’t expect them. Forgive me for being a realist.” Emma is silent. When Regina turns, Emma is watching her again, and there is a lingering something in her eyes. Not quite pity, not quite sorrow. But understanding, and Regina hates seeing it more than anything else. Hates the way that her heart leaps, and the next few breaths hitch and don’t emerge right.

[nightdivinity]

Drink Responsibly: Chapter 2

ABO!Vampire!Batfam x reader

Minors! Do! Not! Engage! +18 only!

Platonic!Alfred, Bruce x reader, Possessive! Batboys x reader

Warnings: Bad life choices, possessive behavior, a/b/o, they're vampires, loooong age gaps, no proofreading, we die like men, reverse harem. This is getting sexual. I’m sorry.

Writer's Note: I live, I die, I live again. I’m trying to keep an even pace when publishing, I promise. It’s just that finals week knocked me on my ass. I’ve basically got to prepare week 9 and 10 before it. Graduation is also right around the corner. Besides school and work though, this has also been my only focus. Also, sorry to everyone who reached out. I promise I’m not ignoring the kind messages and everything. I just keep forgetting. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to do better. Also got to write a bio and start publishing the other things I’ve been cooking up. This series is still a top priority though. I’m going to be more consistent from here on out.

When you finally make it back to the manor after a day of detours and horrible karaoke that makes your insides warm and fuzzy, Duke doesn’t let you open your own door. All the being nice was making you itch, and you kind of were missing being a strong independent person. It’s also not that you didn’t give it the good old college try, desperately jiggling the handle to open the door that he child locked as you look out the window in disbelief as he laughed his ass off outside your door.

To get back at him, the both of you ensued the pettiest game of unlocking and locking the doors. You, holding the door closed when he unlocked it and tried to pull it open, and scrambling to the driver’s seat to keep that door closed as well. Would it be bad if you admitted you liked the way his smug pretty face grew determined and slightly irritated? Never mind the dimples, the tick in his sharp jaw had your mind skipping a beat.

It was all fun and games until Alfred, who undoubtedly was watching you from the window, opened the other door just as you held yours shut and taunted Duke. “Can’t even open a wittle omega’s door?”

You’ll never forget the feral boyish smile he gave before sliding over the moving van’s hood and gently pushing Alfred out of the way.

His big frame wedged the door open letting wind into the cabin with enough pheromones to make your eyes water. In a panic you start trying to move away from him as far as possible. Cue, Alfred opening the other door your back was against, and you almost tumbling out.

“(L/N)? Just what on earth are you doing?”, Alfred questioned.

You stare up at the old Beta and your savior. His gloved hand on your back keeping your from tumbling out of the truck cab and busting your head on the gravel. Something all three men on the property were undoubtedly worried about as they watched you dangle too close to the ground. Not that you ever saw the curtain drawing closed from the third story. All you saw was help. Because surely Duke would knock it off with Alfred here.

“I’m poking the bear”, you tell him.

A large mitt, exactly like a bear’s, wraps around your ankle and tugs you out of Alfred’s hands and towards the open car door with a slightly pissed alpha waiting. Oh no. New employment be damned, you are not going out like this.

You scramble for purchase as your dragged across the leather seat. Your fingers digging into the crevice between the driver’s side and middle cushion for dear life. Desperately you try to shake Duke’s fingers off your one good ankle.

“(Y/N), get out of the car. You’re probably hurting yourself right now while doing this”, Duke warns.

There was an unspoken “Are you stupid?” that hung in the air. With Alfred here, the big, dimpled grin has disappeared, giving way to grim determination as Duke looked as though he was five seconds away from peeling the truck’s metal frame apart just to get at you better. You didn’t know what to do, it was better when you two were playing. The air was lighter, and you could breathe and believe he had best intentions at heart. Now you couldn’t keep playing, because he seems to be getting angrier every defiant second you spend clinging to cushions. Which made you want to burrow under the seats even more, away, and safe from the anger.

What you hadn’t noticed was how his anger started the second Alfred intervened. It’s not your fault, a lot has been happening and pissed-off Alphas take priority. The old man did though, and backed the adequate amount of steps away after ensuring you would not tumble out of the cab. If it wasn’t for the promise he made to Bruce to chaperone, and to you when he hired you, Alfred would have taken up the offer the others had given him. A nice vacation, the first he would have taken, just to give you and the rest space to figure each other out. Based on the messages from the family’s missing members, it would have been smart to leave Gotham. Or the continent.

“Don’t tell me what to do” you say.

“Get out of the truck”, Duke replies.

“No. Fuck off. I’m grown up, I can get out if I want.”

“I’m seriously running out of patience (y/n)”

“Good. Leave me alone Duke.”

“Terrible things are about to happen to you.”, Duke warns.

You squint at him and stick your tongue out at him. You know he’s just full of shit and would never do anything to actually hurt you. Nor would he allow you to be in any real danger. He’s got a trick up his sleeve and the muscles in your stretched leg were taut, waiting for release so you can roll and limp away to safety.

There was hardly anytime for you to plan your next step before Duke wrapped his hand around your ankle and starts untying your sneaker.

“Don’t”, you squeal.

He ignores you and gives you another bright smile full of sunshine and mischief. Dear God, he was going to kill you with that look on his face. Totally disarming and distracting as you barely register the shoe and sock getting tugged off.

“I mean it Duke! I give up! Look, see? I’m letting go!”, you beg.

You unclench your fingers and start waving your hands in his face. Trying like hell to sit up and defend yourself. Unfortunately, the hood on your hoodie was caught on the seatbelt latch in the cushion. Preventing you rolling farther away or sitting up and smushing his face away with your freed hands.

“I will never forgive you”, you solemnly vow.

“Yes, you will, look at your face, you’re smiling. You’ve already forgiven me.”

“They stink, I haven’t changed my socks in five days.”

“That’s another lie, I know for a fact that your laundry has been washed.”

“And that’s weird. We’re going to revisit that later though. Let my foot go. I also haven’t taken a shower yet; I ran a five K this morning.”

“In what? Your dreams? You know, I think we should go back to begging.”

You give an enraged shriek that devolves into panicked laugh as he starts torturing every available space on your foot. It was not an enjoyable experience. You were scrambling and flailing to get away but couldn’t since he seemed to have super strength. He also barely swatted your thick cast covered foot you tried to jam in his face. Tears start leaking out the corners of your eyes as you giggle and beg and plead for him to release you. Not that he listened to any of it. He seemed perfectly happy watching you writhe.

The merriment came to about as abrupt and end as it started as a sleek black muscle car growled into the driveway. Duke dropped your ankle and crawled into the truck cab with you. As defective an Omega as you were, you still picked up on the spike of adrenaline and what you thought was panic although it was smothered by anger. You scrunch your nose at the onslaught of pheromones that made you want to bump up and rub against him and soothe in any way you could. Because no. You’re not that kind of Omega.

“Duke?”, you ask.

He must have picked up on the nervous twitching from you. Or the tell-tale patter of your little heart trying to produce enough pheromones to get you out of this situation. Enough to tell the Alpha that’s laying on top of you, tantalizingly close, so close you could hear the clack that the wooden beads in his dreads made as he pressed flush against you. I’m in danger, help me. Is what should have been leaking out of every pore. Yet, you were broken.

“Shh, don’t let him see you.”, Duke says.

That didn’t help the matter. Especially when Duke used his freakishly long limbs to pull both sets of doors closed as quietly as possible. What was happening? Was someone trying to attack Bruce Wayne, billionaire-philanthropist and notorious Alpha who also seems to be in close contact with the most frightening infected Alpha in the country. Merely the thought of the shadow you often saw cast on buildings as dominance battles were fought all over in the different Gotham territories was enough to make you shake. You never saw Batman. No one whoever truly interacts with him lives to tell the tales. So just what is Bruce Wayne that he seems to be in an alliance with such a monster?

“Bruce! Get out here you chicken-shit piss-poor excuse of a sire”, a booming voice shout outside.

A seismic level shockwave rocked through you, and you couldn’t suppress the litany of whines that escaped as you dug your claws into duke’s yellow and black muscle shirt. It was embarrassing, you felt like a pup again.

In all your years you had never come anywhere close to that amount of dominance that was coming out in waves that even rattled the windows. Whoever this was, he was bad news. Even Duke knew it.

Duke’s eyes were flashing gold in the sudden darkness of the cab. You were once again struck by the oddity, but this world is full of strange things. To be fair, you were mostly preoccupied with other things, and you had a feeling that if you started digging into what was going on at the place you were hired then you would truly fall down the rabbit hole.

“Stop moving”, Duke whispers.

His hand wraps around one of your wrists that you had thrown up against his chest. Just for a little breathing room, rather than being pressed face first in a scent gland that would have you dry humping everything in sight. Despite the abject terror at the situation unfolding outside.

“Where do you get off siccing Dick on me in the middle of a meeting?”, the man demands.

You didn’t hear the heavy manor door creaking open. So you had no idea just who this man was talking to. During the struggle with Duke earlier and the tickle fight, you didn’t see Alfred. You doubt the man stuck around during the shenanigans. Which begs the question. Just who was he talking to?

“Really? The silent treatment. You really are too scared to face me huh?”, the unknown man says.

Oh no. That sounded right outside your moving truck. No, nonononononono. You could feel the anger coming off him as it made your teeth chatter.

Your worst fear came true as the driver’s side door, above your head, was ripped open. No. It was ripped off the truck cab in a screech of metal that had you cringing and trying to burrow farther into Duke away from it. You were still stuck on the damn seatbelt thing that was jammed into the back of your neck. All you could do was look up and try not to burst into tears.

Because the man who just opened your door was death. You were teetering between pissing yourself from fear, and trying to control the inappropriate lust that was starting to ride you hard. Because damn. That voice, that dominance, paired with that attitude and face. My God, it’s like he was made perfectly for you. Or any Omega really. A fact that was cemented when the stern bluish-grey eyes that stare down at you flash a crimson red. Sploosh. You seriously needed to get your head checked.

“(Y/N)?”, mystery man says.

“How do you know my name?”

“Bruce told us he got you. Shit. I thought he was just pulling his usual shit”, he swears.

You were about to question who he was and what all was going on, but Duke beat you to it.

“(Y/N) this is Jason. I’m sorry, I didn’t think he would ever come back home. Speaking of what are you doing here Jason?”, Duke says.

Jason straightens, his eyes flashing another dangerous candy apple red color that brought another bout of hot oozing warmth where it definitely didn’t need to be. Not that you needed to worry about it. Like you said, you were broken. Although you couldn’t help but wonder if being by lethal amounts of Alpha fueled testosterone would kick your damaged hardware into gear. Food for thought at a later time.

“I have just as much of a right to be here, if you checked your phone you would know what was going on. Bruce… interfered with a business interaction of mine when I refused to come back to the Manor.”

“So you decided to just go ahead and give him what he wants, really Jay?”

“No. I’m going to kill him. First though, get off of her.”

The callous way he mentioned killing your employer was chilling you to the bone. You bet he could do it to. From the heavily muscled frame that was subtly flexing, his old brown leather jacket creaking as it strained. He took to cracking his knuckles as he stared down at you both. Too make matters worse, there was a small scar that twisted the left side of his face in a permanent smirk as it ran up from the corner of his slips, across his high cheekbones, and disappeared above his ear and into that thick black hair. Hair that contained a curious white streak that made you want to take a closer look. Not that you would. You were smart. Everything about this man shouted danger.

While Duke was massive in his own right, Jason looked as though he could rip linebackers in half for funsies. You believe that those thick corded thighs that your eyes had zeroed in on, the ones that his frayed jeans were struggling to contain, those are rugby thighs. Once again, it’s not your fault, you were born to be this pervy to those of the Alpha secondary gender category. Just like Deltas were made for Betas. This is all evolution's fault that you wanted to climb a psycho killer like a tree and purr. Ooooh, maybe you could get Duke to wear a firema- nope. Annnnnd you’re done. You seriously need to focus if you’re going to somehow finesse your way out of this situation.

“What are you going to do? Make me?” Duke says.

You almost think he’s teasing Jason, then you hear the bite of a challenge to an invading Alpha. Dear God, it’s almost like you’re a kid on the playground again. This was so not fun nor was it sexy. Especially with you sitting so close to the crossfire.

“I said, get off.”, Jason start growling.

Oh good, now we’re slowly becoming dogs. This is great. Totally not borderline psychotic in any way.

“You didn’t want to come back, so you don’t get to have her. Back off Jay.”, Duke warns.

“No one here gets to judge me; you know the reason why the family is so broken is sitting up there. Plotting. If I had known- well- doesn’t matter. Get off before I rip you to pieces. I might till do it, send a fun little message to our psycho father by spreading his precious new pet’s blood all over the front steps.”

“Isn’t that what Dick said to you when you met?”

“Say his name again and I will make good on my promise.”

“Can I just say one thing?”, you ask.

The tension was getting so thick you could cut it with a cheap plastic spork. Honestly, you suspect they could’ve just kept going all night if they had to with the witty one-liners. You were getting tired though, and all this negativity was not good for your heart.

“Hon, not right now, I’m winning.”, Duke tries to shush you.

First of all, how dare he shush you. You had just as much of a right to talk as they did. Duke is different from most Alpha’s you’ve met. The silent prejudice was still hanging in that back of your mind though. Omegas are useless without Alphas. So be a good little one and sit there and be pretty. Don’t ever think of talking. You know he’s not like all the other assholes you’ve encountered. What he just said though started ringing those little alarms that told you he might be though.

“No, you’re not.”, you pause and notice the slight smirk across Jason’s scarred face, “Neither of you are. Can I please get up and get my boxes in while you two have your pissing match?”

Jason lets out a surprised bark, and you give him brownie points for keeping his mouth shut besides that.

“I’ll let you up, once he goes inside.”, Duke tells you.

“No. I want to get up now.”, you say.

Duke’s next response gets cut off as you watch Jason reach over you and grab Duke’s dreads. There was a slight struggle, but the comforting weight of Duke’s body between your thighs is gone within seconds. You almost miss it. You almost feel bad when you finally wrench your hoodie free and look out the truck door and see Duke on the ground with Jason’s hand around his throat. It was ok. You can tell no real weight was being put behind it. It was just one Alpha gently reminding a younger one to submit. You’ve seen this shit all the time.

You also weren’t going to lie; the dominance was definitely starting to rev your engines.

“Please don’t kill him, I need his help with the boxes and my wheelchair”, you call out.

Jason turns to look at you, the red in his eyes damning as he stares into you. Oooh. You can have a lot of fun with that. Maybe you can ask him to pretend to be your sleep paralysis demon that has his wicked way with yo- nope. No roleplaying. No playing with these Alphas in any sexual manner. You need money and a place to stay, and while sex is nice, everyone always moves on to more compelling Omegas that aren’t broken. Besides, you’re pretty sure these Alphas don’t know their strength. Nope, you’re good without all the heartbreak and hospital visits if you go down that route.

“Boxes?”, Jay asks.

“Yeah, I’m moving in, didn’t anyone tell you?”, you ask him.

“No. They just told me- nothing. I’ll help, you don’t need shit-for-brains”, Jay says.

He gets up, slightly pushing Duke’s face to the side and into the muddy wet gravel. You can’t help but wince and give Duke a sympathetic look. Not that he was paying you any mind. His lovely brown eyes were now a liquid gold that screamed revenge. You just pray that he can hold off long enough to get your wheelchair from the back.

“What- what happened to her?”, Jay asks.

“Motherfu- get my chair”, you boss.

“She got chewed on at one of Cobblepot’s clubs”, Duke tells him.

“Shit, none of the others know huh.”, Jason sighs.

He runs his hands through his hair, and you’re stuck looking at it again. It looked fluffy and silky. Of course, it would put you in a trance, the same as the wood beads in Duke’s dreads. You might actually have a thing for hair now that you thought about it.

“No, we’ll have a war when they do.”, Duke replies cheerfully.

“Why?”, you ask. You were genuinely confused as they kept talking circles around you.

“Don’t worry about it Hon. Let’s get you inside”, Duke groans as he gets up from the dirt.

Jason reaches in and lightly grabs your good wrist as he pulls you out. You willingly let him, marveling at that the body made from the gods. Would it be bad if you reached around and gently pinched his ass? It’s just curiosity. So much muscle, how much fat?

Duke looks slightly peeved when he grabs the chair from the back and notices you in Jason’s arms. You couldn’t help but give him a slight smug wave from the safety of King Kong’s arms.

“I like the bell, maybe we should find some streamers for the back too. There’s no way she’ll get lost.”

And just like that, you lost it as Giant 1 and 2 dissolved in a fit of giggles. I’m going to kill them. Hopefully before your hormones and pheromones killed you first. Because damn it, you did seize the opportunity to smack the ass of the jack ass.

That ass is not only iconic and slightly hard, but it jiggled a little too. This is going to be so much fun living here.