#i want wade to have a face full of cactus

[maybe-im-dark]

Through the dark

Summary: After the events of Deadpool and Wolverine, Wade takes on the challenge of helping Logan quit alcohol and recover from years of self-destructive habits.

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Logan had always been a man of few words, a wall of gruff strength hiding a lifetime of pain. But recently, that wall had started to crumble. Wade wasn’t surprised—he could see the cracks even before Logan did. After all, you didn’t go through what Logan had without some serious damage. Physically, Logan could take any hit and bounce back, but emotionally? That was a whole different story.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a half-broken TV screen playing some Western movie. Logan lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, his face twisted in pain as the withdrawal ravaged his body. He hadn’t touched a bottle of whiskey in days—hell, maybe even weeks—but it still felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside.

Wade stood by the door, leaning against the frame, his usual cocky grin absent. He wasn’t making jokes tonight. Not when Logan was going through this.

“You know,” Wade said, his voice softer than usual, “if you wanted to hang out more, all you had to do was ask. Didn’t have to go and quit drinking to get my attention.”

Logan let out a low, pained grunt, clutching his stomach as another wave of nausea hit him. Wade crossed the room in a few quick strides, grabbing the bucket they’d kept nearby just in case.

“Easy, big guy,” Wade murmured, holding the bucket steady as Logan dry-heaved into it. “I got you.”

Logan’s whole body trembled as he leaned over the bucket, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His ribs were painfully visible under his sweat-soaked skin, his face pale and gaunt. Wade had seen Logan in bad shape before—he’d watched the guy take bullets to the face and walk it off—but this? This was something else. This was the kind of pain that didn’t heal overnight.

After a few agonizing minutes, Logan slumped back against the pillow, his breathing shallow. Wade set the bucket aside and grabbed a damp cloth, wiping the sweat from Logan’s forehead.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan rasped, his voice rough from vomiting. His eyes flickered up to Wade, filled with a mixture of frustration and vulnerability.

Wade shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t end up face-down in your own puke. Plus, you know, I just love playing nurse.”

Logan grunted, closing his eyes. He looked so damn tired—more tired than Wade had ever seen him. And that was saying something. The guy had lived through centuries of wars, loss, and god knows what else, but this battle? This one was hitting him hard.

“Can’t believe you’re doing this for me,” Logan muttered, his voice barely audible. “You don’t even like me.”

Wade paused, looking down at Logan. The guy had no idea how wrong he was.

“You’re wrong,” Wade said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I like you just fine. You’re like a cactus—prickly on the outside, but deep down, you’re full of... well, whatever the hell’s inside cactuses. Point is, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Logan didn’t respond, but Wade saw the slight tension in his shoulders relax, just a little. Wade pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down, watching as Logan drifted in and out of sleep, his body still wracked with tremors.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Logan was a survivor, a fighter. Wade had seen it firsthand, on the battlefield and off. But alcohol had been his crutch for too long—something to drown out the nightmares that never really went away. Every bottle was a temporary escape, a way to forget the pain of immortality, the faces of everyone he’d lost.

And now? Now Logan had decided to face it head-on, cold turkey, with nothing but his sheer stubbornness and a bit of Wade’s relentless support to carry him through.

Quitting alcohol had been Wade’s idea, originally. Not that he’d expected Logan to listen. But something had changed after their last mission. Something had broken in Logan, and he’d finally agreed to try.

That’s how they ended up here, in this small, shitty apartment, with Logan going through the worst of withdrawal and Wade doing his best to keep him from falling apart.

INT. LOGAN AND WADE’S APARTMENT – KITCHEN – MORNING

It had been two weeks since Logan had his last drink. Two brutal, hellish weeks.

He was starting to look better now, though. His ribs were still visible, but the gauntness in his face had softened slightly. He was eating more regularly, thanks to Wade’s constant badgering—and cooking. Wade wasn’t exactly a five-star chef, but he knew how to grill a steak, and that’s what Logan had been living off of lately.

Wade stood at the stove, flipping a steak with a spatula, watching the blood sizzle as it hit the pan. He threw a glance over his shoulder at Logan, who sat at the small kitchen table, staring blankly ahead.

“You know,” Wade said conversationally, “you could at least pretend to be excited about the fact that I’m making you food. This is prime-grade steak, my friend. The good stuff. Not that cheap crap.”

Logan grunted, his eyes still distant. Wade sighed dramatically, turning back to the stove.

“I swear, you’re the only guy I know who can make eating a steak look like a funeral.”

Logan finally looked up, his gaze meeting Wade’s for the first time in hours. There was something in his eyes—something raw, like the pain hadn’t quite left yet. Wade knew what that felt like. He knew what it was like to have ghosts that wouldn’t stop haunting you, even when you were wide awake.

Wade plated the steak and set it in front of Logan with a flourish, like he was a waiter at some fancy restaurant. Logan stared at it for a long moment before picking up the fork and knife. He cut into the meat, the blood pooling around the cut. It was just how he liked it—rare, almost raw.

Wade watched, his mouth quirking into a grin as Logan took his first bite.

“Well?” Wade asked, leaning against the counter. “Am I a genius, or am I a genius?”

Logan chewed slowly, his face unreadable. For a moment, Wade thought maybe he’d screwed it up somehow, but then Logan swallowed and set the fork down.

“It’s good,” Logan said quietly.

Wade’s grin widened.

“Damn right it is. You’re welcome.”

Logan kept eating, and Wade watched him, the tension in the room easing slightly. Logan was still recovering—both from the alcohol and the years of malnutrition—but at least he was eating again. Wade had been shoving food in his face for weeks, determined to get Logan back to his old, gruff, muscular self.

It was working, slowly but surely. Logan’s ribs weren’t as prominent as before, and there was a little more muscle on his frame now. His cheeks weren’t as hollow, and the dark circles under his eyes had faded a bit. He still had a long way to go, but Wade wasn’t about to let him give up now.

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

The nightmares still came.

Logan thrashed in his sleep, his brow furrowed in pain. Wade sat on the edge of the bed, watching over him like some kind of twisted guardian angel. He’d lost count of how many times he’d woken up to the sound of Logan screaming, trapped in some hellish memory from his past.

Tonight was no different.

Logan jolted awake, his chest heaving, his fists clenched. He blinked, disoriented, before his eyes landed on Wade sitting there, watching him.

“You alright?” Wade asked, his voice soft.

Logan didn’t answer right away. His breath was still shaky, his body tense. Wade had seen that look before—the look of a man haunted by things no one else could see.

“I’m fine,” Logan muttered eventually, though it was clear he wasn’t.

Wade didn’t push. He knew better than to try and get Logan to talk about his nightmares. They were too personal, too raw. Instead, he leaned back, his usual sarcastic tone creeping into his voice.

“Gotta say, your sleep schedule is worse than mine. And that’s saying something.”

Logan snorted, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind,” Logan said gruffly.

Wade’s expression softened, just a little. He wanted to say something comforting, something that might make Logan feel better, but he wasn’t great at that kind of thing. So instead, he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing playfully.

“You know what might help? Some more steak. Bloody as hell. Just the way you like it. Or maybe we can watch a movie? I’ve got Shrek 2 queued up. It’s a classic—great for stress relief, I swear.”

Logan shot him a sideways glance, part amused and part exasperated. It was a look Wade had become familiar with. One that said, I don’t hate you, but I might punch you if you keep talking.

“Not in the mood for ogres tonight, Wade", Logan answered his voice low.

Wade shrugged dramatically, flopping back on the bed next to Logan, his arms behind his head.

Wade sighed. "Fine, no ogres. But seriously, man, you need to get your beauty sleep. You’re already starting to look less like a starved bear and more like, I don’t know, a well-fed, angry one.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched—barely noticeable, but it was there. Wade took that as a victory. He glanced sideways at Logan, his tone softening.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know what’s going on in that head of yours. You’ve been through more shit than anyone, and I’m not exactly an expert on emotional stuff. But... you’re not alone. Not anymore”, Wade added.

Logan sighed, his body sinking deeper into the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He had never been good at talking about what was going on inside his head. Even after all these years, it was easier to drown it in alcohol than face it. But Wade—Wade had been here, through the worst of it, and Logan couldn’t bring himself to push him away, not after everything.

“I appreciate it, Wade. I do. But it’s... it’s gonna take time”, Logan said quietly.

Wade didn’t need to say anything in return. He just nodded, understanding. Time was something Logan had plenty of, even if it felt like a curse more than a blessing.

A FEW DAYS LATER

Logan stood in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee. The smell of sizzling steak filled the air once again—Wade’s attempt at cooking, which had surprisingly become better over the last few weeks. The healing factor might have saved Logan from physical wounds, but Wade knew it couldn’t heal the things that had been festering inside him for years. No one could, really.

Wade appeared next to him, setting a plate down on the counter with an exaggerated flourish.

“Tada! The most beautiful steak you’ve ever seen. Just like me”, Wade exclaimed gleefully.

Logan rolled his eyes but sat down at the small kitchen table anyway. He wasn’t about to admit it, but Wade’s efforts had been helping. The days of gnawing hunger had slowly started to fade as Wade made sure he ate regularly—steaks, eggs, protein shakes, whatever Logan needed to keep his body from deteriorating.

And the alcohol? That was still a battle. The cravings hadn’t gone away, but they weren’t as suffocating as they had been in the beginning. Cold turkey was brutal, but it was working, at least for now.

Logan cut into the steak, the knife sliding easily through the tender, rare meat. He chewed in silence, savoring the taste. It wasn’t just the food—it was the fact that, for the first time in years, he actually wanted to eat. His body was starting to feel stronger, more alive.

Wade sat across from him, watching intently. He was quieter than usual, which was rare, but Logan appreciated it. There was a lot Wade didn’t say, and Logan knew it was his way of letting him recover without pushing too hard.

“So... feelin’ a little less like death warmed over today?”

Logan nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah. I guess”, he muttered.

Wade smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Good. Because I was thinking—if you’re feeling up to it—we could go out. You know, get some fresh air. I hear there’s this nice park nearby. Maybe we can scare some pigeons, throw a few swings at each other. Real bonding time.”

Logan snorted, shaking his head. “Bonding time? You’re full of shit, Wade.”

Wade feigned a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically.

“Me? Full of shit? Never. I am a beacon of truth and righteousness!”, he practically yelled.

Logan chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. It was the first time in a long while that he felt something close to normal. Maybe this recovery thing wasn’t as impossible as he’d thought.

INT. APARTMENT – NIGHT

Logan lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling again. His muscles ached, not from withdrawal this time, but from actual exertion. Wade had dragged him to the park earlier, and despite himself, Logan had enjoyed it. The fresh air, the movement, the brief sparring match they’d had—it had made him feel alive.

Now, as the apartment settled into silence, Logan could feel the weight of everything pressing in again. It wasn’t as crushing as before, but it was there, lurking in the background, like a constant reminder of the battles he still had to fight.

Wade walked into the room, his footsteps uncharacteristically quiet. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.

“Can’t sleep again, huh?”

Logan didn’t respond right away. He just lay there, listening to the sound of Wade’s breathing.

“Not really”, he mumbled.

Wade walked over to the bed and sat down at the edge, his usual playful grin absent. He glanced at Logan, then looked away, his voice softer than usual.

“You know... it’s okay to not be okay, right?”, the merc asked.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking up to meet Wade’s. “I’ve been ‘not okay’ for longer than I can remember.”

Wade nodded, understanding. “Yeah. I get that.”

For a long time, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that comes from knowing someone’s got your back, no matter how fucked up things are.

Finally, Logan shifted, pushing himself up slightly so he was sitting against the headboard.

“You ever think it’s not worth it? The healing, the... trying to be better?”, he said.

Wade looked at him, his eyes serious for once.

“Every damn day. But then I remember... there’s chimichangas. And Shrek. And you, of course. You’re like, third on the list, but still, you’re there.”

Logan snorted, shaking his head. He didn’t have the energy to argue, but Wade’s weird sense of humor was strangely comforting. It was something to hold onto, something to remind him that maybe—just maybe—there was still something good in the world.

“Thanks”, Logan quipped, gruffly.

Wade raised an eyebrow. “For what? The steak or the life-changing wisdom?”

“Both, I guess.”

Wade grinned, standing up and heading toward the door.

“Anytime, buddy. Now get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow—more steak, maybe a chimichanga or two, and if you’re lucky, I might even let you watch Shrek 2.”

Logan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. As Wade left the room, he settled back into bed, the tension in his body easing slightly. The road to recovery was still long, but for the first time in a while, Logan felt like he wasn’t walking it alone.

[chibi-pix]

Ah, tis a good night to watch more Voltron Force! And tonight I got through episodes 7 through 10.  So, without further delay, let’s begin. 

Episode 7 has me interested in the Voltron game for underground supporters. Intriguing and a good way to connect. Especially when it leads them to a planet that needs their help. And those creatures, I’ve been calling them shiisaa in my notes because I can’t hear properly of what they’re actually called and it’s what they remind me of, on the temple thing, I had a feeling from the get-go they weren’t bad. Called it.  Though I’m glad Pidge also seemed to see through that, too, and stop Keith.  And seeing little Daigo (was that right?), the kid is adorable. And calling Daniel a “cheap shot artist”. Poor Daniel was insulted, but it was amusing.  Voltron lions against those drill bots of Wades and they were tipped with haggarium. Just as I was writing my question about how he got them (and if I missed something) in my notes so I wouldn’t forget for my recap here, Pidge asked the same thing. So I didn’t miss anything it seems. Good! It’s a little sad that Daniel isn’t pleased with Vince being special. But that is what it’s like to be a human. Emotions. Though I feel sad for him. He feels insignificant. But at least he finds his own way to show he’s as much as an important part of the team as the others. And! He wastes no time going after Vince, worried, when a shiisaa steals our glowy blue boy! But. As expected. All goes well in the end. Happy days. 

Episode 8 gives us an oddly active volcano and an even stranger holes. Everywhere.  Hunk: I got a strike once. Lance: On the wrong lane.  I feel you, Hunk. I wasn’t that good, either. But at least I kept my ball in the right lane. Better than my sister who accidentally threw it backwards and scared a bunch of old ladies on the team. Oops.  Me: “I expected that thing to ram them, keeping them from for-” item proceeds to ram into the lions, preventing Voltron “-oh, never mind, it did.” Daniel breaking rules and going against orders, but he does mean well. And he did well. Lance needs to learn a bit to be more humble just because someone did something he couldn’t. At least things worked out and they let Daniel help them to form Voltron and be faster. And Lance humbling himself a smidgen. Good job, Lance.  Seeing that Maahox sent the eye thing, I simultaneously did not expect that but was not surprised. Also, at the note of Hunk working on the castle for five years just seemed intriguing. Kinda gives me a slight idea on how long they have been on Arus. At minimum. 

Episode 9 left me stunned. Though not for the reasons we may think. I actually agreed with Lotor on something! He’s right, Maahox is creepy!  Though I also was stunned further with agreeing with Maahox as he seems annoyed with Lotor. And wanting to give him a “neck rub”. I too wish to strangle... I mean... give a neck rub to the royal pain.  Poor Vince. Having a nightmare and feeling he isn’t brave and wanting to proove himself.  “With all due respect-” No respect when the Drule end up shooting.  And Lance’s sass. “Hey Keith! I respect you.” “Touching, Lance.” I love their comments and sass. This is highly amusing to me.  “I’d call you an incompetent food, but there’s really no need to kick you while you’re down.” I feel like this is a line I need to remember for any writing. It’s brilliant. Even if it came from the creepazoid himself. And I think he called the Drule “Commander Cossack”. I remember that name from DotU!  Vince having a Daniel moment and doing his own thing to help. Though wires from the fingertips and binary code in the eyes? Vince, darling, you’re just becoming more and more intriguing, aren’t you?  The ship going down on the planet and sinking. Deeper and deeper. And deeper. I’m just getting Subnautica vibes.  The creature that got into the ship, I had hoped it was friendly. Vince using his glowy powers and syncing with it was intriguing, though. At least until it touched the haggarium. Oh look, it infected the creatures and made them aggressive. Definite Subnautica vibes dude. I appreciate Pidge infodumping about Greek and Roman myths and the difference of characters. Vince needs a nap at the end of the day. He deserves it. 

And finally, for the night, we have episode 10. I was going to say that Keith sucks at teamwork, but finding he had a plan already, it’s understandable. But at least in the end, Daniel’s able to help.  Ah, sending a kid to prison. That’s always fun. And Daniel gets into a fight on the first day. At least big guy got another guy to help him.  Also, rest in peace to the alien sucked out during the “escape”.  To no surprise, Daniel didn’t listen to any important data before speeding off.  And Wade. Sky Marshal Wade. He needs a high five to the face with a cactus.  I like the cloaking foe. Though I feel sorry for them. I wanna hug them.  Big guy (Manset? Was that his name? I suck at names, dudes) using his body to plug the hole and protect the other prisoners. Good on him.  It was also highly amusing.  I also have a grand appreciation for the voltcoms turning into their suits, helmet included. Very nifty.  Damn. Wade lived and escaped. 

Okay, that be another night of Voltron Force! I’m still trying to figure out what “snart” means. I mean, using “quiznak” in VLD, we kinda easily assume what it means and one of the guys who worked on the series saying it means “dang it”, honey... I think the quiznak not. Snart, though... it’s a very amusing term.  Also, Vince! Working with the tech, communicating with it and creatures, binary codes in his eyes, oooh! It’s all intriguing and I want to know more about him! Also! Such a thing! Can you imagine a VLD AU with Pidge able to do that? But glowing green because she’s our green baby? THAT WOULD BE SUPER AWESOME!!!!

Anyway, I think that’s it for the night. I hope y’all enjoyed. Have a good night guys and remember, high fiving people in the faces with cacti is typically frowned upon but does wonders in driving the point home. Or... several points.  Until next time. 

[eldritcharchive]

battle cries, dear

Read on AO3 | @bamf-jaskier‘s Witchertober 2020 Day 9 - Destiny

"Come on, Mordred, just put me on the roster?" Beorn is not begging, but he's close. Mordred's been put in charge of a team the trainers are sending out to deal with the wyvern sealing sheep (and at least one goat, according to councilor Eskel's last count) from the farmlands of Kaer Morhen.

"Why are you so set on this, B?" Mordred asks, exasperation leaking into his tone. The Wolf pup cornered Mordred in the library, and he desperately needed to visit with one of the mages (Ashwood, if he was being honest he preferred talking to Ashwood) in order to get help preparing potion for the trip. It wouldn't be far, so they wouldn't need much. Yet, he's still here, because, despite Beorn's diminutive size, the idiot was fast (and Mordred is fond of him).

Beorn huffs. "Because for one, it never hurts to have extra people on a hunt like this, and witcher code or whatever doesn't prohibit traveling in groups," he says, sounding bored with his own explanation. "And two, there are no Wolves in your team and three -" he leans forward for emphasis "- you know the only reason they excluded me from consideration because of my size. I passed the trials, Mordred, I'm a full-fledged Witcher just like you and they treat me like a fucking initiate."

"There is a Wolf on the team," Mordred says with a sigh, "we're bringing Oskar."

"Good. He'll vouch for me then."

"Freya's blessed ass, Beorn." Mordred sees an opening and twists away from his friend, walking briskly towards the main hall. Beorn soon falls in step next to him, and Mordred growls. "Fine! Fine. Just meet us at the stables in two hours." They stop in the main hall and Beorn's face lights up. "If you're late, we're leaving without you."

                                                         ---

Initiates crowd around the hunting group as they gather at the stables - many of them haven't seen teams of witchers prepare for hunts and the elders are still used to the old days when witchers walked their Paths alone. Mordred spends time checking over their potion supply before addressing each member of the team.

"Wynona, did you bring explosive bolts?"

A young, lithe Viper Witcher stood slightly apart from the group with her arms crossed over her chest. Her lip curled from a large bite scar, the partners of which danced up the left side of her face. “Letho took a huge supply with him down to Aedirn,” she said, scowling. “Arms master said we can’t spare any for right now. Cactus helped me make some grapeshot to compensate.”

“How many grenades?”

“About ten.”

“It’ll have to do,” Mordred says, picking at the ragged scar on his forehead.

“We’ve got some split bolts,” called Liam, one of the taller boys, standing next to his twin brother, Gavin. The only difference between the two were the scars down their arms - Gavin sported bite marks from various necrophages; Liam, slashes and gouges from aerial beasts. (They wore Cat armor that exposed their forearms to help people identify them.) “Gav picked some up on his way back from Kovir.”

Mordred nods, “Anything else? We’ve got enough Swallow - more than enough, you know how Amma is with prep work.” A series of good-natured groans echo out from the group. “Hearing none, we gotta do a roll-call and then head out. Wynona, Liam, and Gavin are here, obviously. Drummond?”

“Here.” Drummond, a Manticore of considerable bulk and height, crouches near the initiates as he finishes pulling on his leather gauntlets and checking the various pouches strapped to his armor.

“Oskar? Beorn?”

“Both here, Dred!” Os calls as Beron finishes securing a section of chainmail over Os’ right thigh. Of the crew, the two Wolves have a more haphazard collection of gear - their swords are fine, but lack the pommels standard to their school. Both boys have linen and leather armor, well-cared for and hand patched in places. The Wolves still prized self-sufficiency, and their yearlings tended to purchase or patch their gear on the Path, rather than returning to a Witcher outpost for repair.

Mordred sighs - he’d hoped maybe Os would talk some sense into Beorn. Still, they were here, and that’s what mattered. “Cel?” He calls out. The Griffin (sporting traditional light-Griffin School plate over linen armor), waved their hand.

“Can we get on with it,” Wynona hissed. “We’re wasting time.”

“Look, if you want to explain to Papa Vesemir why we didn’t turn in a roster before leaving, be my guest,” Modred responds, looking over his list and making notes. He rolls up his list and looks over the crowd of initiates. “Alright, littles, you have training with councilman Eskel in fifteen and best get to the training grounds now.”

Most of the initiates scatter, though Mordred stops Friedrik and hands him the note. Friedrick nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet and sprints off toward the keep to deliver the roster to the keep’s Porter.  The team followed Mordred toward the eastern gate, and Drummond went over the plan.

“The wyvern has been spotted east of here, near a ruined watchtower at the other end of the Pond,” he starts, falling into step behind Mordred and allowing the others to circle around him. “It’s likely to have its nest somewhere in that area, perhaps even in the ruins. Plan is Wynona hits the nest with grapeshot -”

“Damn straight.”

“- Liam and Gavin will find high ground and use their scattershot to ground the thing,” Drummond continues. “Beorn and Os, you’re on the ground near the nest as Wynona’s backup, while Mordred and I focus on drawing its attention.” The manticore absently cracks his knuckles. “Not saying this’ll be easy - lots of points of failure. But it should be routine, yeah?”

Os groans. “Don’t fucking jinx it, Drummond.” Liam and Gavin burst into laughter (fucking, Cats) and clap Os on the back.

“Come on, Os, we have Beorn,” Gavin says with a toothy grin. “A whole extra witcher for a wyvern small enough that the trainers considered sending initiates with us to watch. We’re going to be fine.”

                                                        ---

Wynona doesn’t get up immediately after crashing into the treeline; the wyvern, The Killer, tossed her from her perch at the tower toward the forest. Os and Beorn are pinned by a younger wyvern - the Killer’s hatchling, and likely the wyvern seen at the keep - and can only watch as she sails through the air and crashes through the branches. The grapeshot ignites the nest (Wynona managed to plant two grenades before the Killer spotted her), but the rest of the bombs explode from the shock of hitting the ground. The Wolves have no idea if their Viper comrade is still alive.

The Killer screams above them, taking flight and circling over the field - Beorn manages to clip the young wyvern in the wing with aard and sending it spinning toward Os, who sinks his sword into its neck. The hatchling screams, the Killer screams, and Os yanks his sword forward, neatly severing its head from its neck. His sword slips free of the wyvern and he and Beorn sprint toward the tree line; crossbow bolts tear through the Killer’s wings, knocking it out of the air as it whirls back toward the Wolves. It crashes somewhere behind them as they sprint toward Wynona - she stumbles through the treeline, bleeding from a gash in her leg.

The next few things happen incredibly quickly - the Killer hauls itself into the air, low enough to threaten Mordred and Drummond with her claws; Beorn hears the Killer scream and pick up speed toward Wynona; two more sets of crossbow bolts screech through the air, slashing new cuts into the Killer’s wings; Mordred sprints toward Wynona but Beorn gets there first and lunges, attempting to cast Quen, but he doesn’t quite get the sign off in time. Beorn shoves Wynona out of the way and the Killer snatches Beorn off the ground, claws puncturing his armor.

Beorn screams.

Mordred knocks the Killer out of the sky with a well-cast Aard; the claw holding Beorn relaxes, dragging along his torso as the wyvern falls. Beorn hits the ground hard some distance behind the wyvern with a sickening crack that echoes in the ears of his friends.

Beorn loses track of his senses, the world turning to mush around him - he thinks he hears Drummond shouting, and the sound tastes like copper and heat and his own screaming. The world goes dark, but he feels Wynona’s knees thunk into the grass next to him and the burn of Full Moon on his lips.

                                                        ---

When the hunting team arrives, the pup they’re carrying is sobbing, delirious with pain. He’s babbling, the words largely lost in the tide of pain, blood, and tears. Elder witchers, yearlings and initiates flood the courtyard, and Drummond and Mordred lower Beorn onto a stretcher. Disconnected syllables continue to trip out over Beorn’s lips, but among them, Os manages to pick out a refrain.

"Amma. Get Amma, please. I want Amma."

Os sprints off toward the gardens, darting through the crowd at speed, barely dodging past people as he runs. The courtyard and artisan stalls give way to the gardens suddenly, as if they were portal-ed in from elsewhere. (In a way, they were - herbs were gathered in the wilds before Ashwood arrived at the keep.) Councilman Ashwood - their Amma - is crouched in the middle of the garden, scratching notes into a small notebook.

“Amma!” Os yells, unaware of the slip - none of them ever call Ashwood ‘Amma’ to his face. Still, Ashwood’s attention snaps upward; “It’s Beorn, please, he needs you!” Ashwood’s eyes widen; he snatches a bag from one of the collection tables, jogging toward the young Wolf.

“Where is he?” Ashwood asks, and Os turns heel, Ashwood not far behind. The return trip takes time - Ashwood is not a Witcher, and even at a dead sprint cannot match Os in speed. But he tries, and he skids to a stop in the courtyard, his chest heaving from the effort; the air is so thick with the scent of blood that it fills Ashwood’s lungs and mouth and he can nearly taste it. He swallows around his gag reflex - now is not the time to lose his stomach - and wades through the throng of people around Beorn.

“Please, give the boy some space,” Ashwood says firmly, barely louder than his normal speaking voice (the benefit of working with Witchers). Initiates and instructors alike move back, and Ashwood kneels next to Beorn. The boy - he could be called a boy, despite his twenty-four summers, because of Ashwood’s agelessness and the slowed aging of Witchers - has pulled at his hastily bandaged wounds, blood oozing from the deep gashes in his torso. Beorn babbled uselessly, and Ashwood takes his hand and gently brushes Beorn’s hair away from his face. “I’m here Beorn,” Ashwood murmurs, pushing a light healing spell into Beorn’s skin as he tries to comfort the young Witcher.

"Amma, Amma please, it hurts,” Beorn sobs, looking at Ashwood with hazy eyes.

"Shh, I know just stay still, we'll see what we can do about this, okay?" Ashwood looks up scanning the crowd. “Who did the field dressing?”

“I did, sir,” Wynona says, stepping forward. “I gave him a dose of Swallow and a dose of Full Moon, to treat any internal injuries, but the surface wounds…”

“You did an excellent job,” Ashwood says, holding up a hand. He makes eye contact with Mordred and Drummond in turn. “We need to get Beorn inside, to the infirmary,” he says, voice even and calm, “lift the stretcher gently and do your best not to jostle him. Keep him level.” The boys nod and gently lift Beorn off the ground. When Ashwood stands, Os hovers at his side, staying with him as they drift toward the keep.

“Amma, is he going to be okay?" Os murmurs, tentative and shy and almost too quietly for Ashwood to hear, but the name, ‘Amma’, sticks in his gut. He is Amma - Beorn had been calling for him, specifically. He wonders, distantly, why they named him that.

"We'll do what we can, Os,” Ashwood says, “Let's get inside where I can treat him better. The nickname can come later, right now he has one of his Witchers to treat. He and Os follow Mordred and Drummond closely, with a parade of yearling Witchers behind them. Instructors swarmed the initiates, moving the children back to the training grounds.

Ashwood hurls out a burst of magic as soon as they enter the keep - two birds erupt from green smoke swirling out of his hand and go screeching off in different directions. All activity in the keep stops; with no noise to distract from their frantic procession, it’s only a matter of time before people drifted over to watch them pass. Ashwood made eye contact with an instructor he recognized - Coën, of the Griffin School - and jerked his head toward the crowd.

“Okay, get back to your duties,” Coën yells through the crowd. “Stop fucking gawking!” Spectators danced away from the scene and parted as Triss made her way toward the infirmary door; she held the door open for Mordred and Drummond before tying back her loose, ginger curls and setting up a table of medical supplies.

“What do we need?” she asks, not bothering to look at Ashwood as he helps ease Beorn onto a bed. They’ve done this before, many times, with many Witchers.

“Catgut, sterilized needles,” Ashwood says. “Mordred, Drummond, you can go - make sure the rest of the yearlings know we’re doing everything we can.” The Bear and Manticore nod and leave the room, looking numb from the shock of things. Witchers are expected to die on the path, but not this young. Not on something that was supposed to be routine. Ashwood turned to Os - “I need you to go get us a few buckets of water, okay, Oskar?”

“Okay.”

“Warm, clean water. Not from the springs. You understand?” Beorn groans, rapidly losing the strength to even cry, pulling Ashwood’s attention away from the other Wolf.

“Yes, Amma,” Os says with a firm nod. He’s gone by the time Ashwood turns back to Triss, who pulls up a seat on the other side of the bed. She hands Ashwood a pair of scissors, and they begin the grim work of removing Beorn’s armor and cleaning his wounds.

                                                        ---

Vesemir arrives with Os, both carrying buckets of water. Ashwood and Triss are bloodied; Triss has a smear of blood across the coral brown skin on her cheek, obscuring her normally bright freckles. Ashwood is stitching up smaller wounds on Beorn’s chest, murmuring words of comfort as he works desperately to save the young Wolf.

“Amma… I can’t…” Beorn moans, fresh tears slipping down his face. Ashwood presses a warm hand against his neck, willing strength into Beorn’s failing body.

"Hush, pup,” Vesemir says, gently placing the requested water near the supply table. “Your Amma is doing his best, you need to be still." He turns to Triss and Ashwood, "Would this be easier if he was put under with Axii to keep him still?"

The mages share a look before Ashwood reluctantly nods. Vesemir makes the sign and presses it toward the injured Witcher. “Sleep,” he says, and Beorn is gone.

They send Os out for additional bandages and Vesemir gets to work grinding up celandine blooms and willow bark, mixing the herbs with water. Triss uses the mixture to gently wash Beorn’s deeper wounds as Ashwood works.

“When Os gets back with bandages, can you soak them in this mix?” Ashwood asks Vesemir.

“Of course,” he says, holding his hands out. “Is there anything else?”

“Prayer may not be out of the question,” Triss murmurs. “He’s feverish and in shock. Even if we get everything closed…”

“It’s going to take a lot of patience and magic to keep Beorn alive,” Ashwood finishes, a nearly imperceptible frown tugging at his lips. Vesemir lets out a ragged sigh.

“Prayer is not my forte,” he admits, “but I will help however I can.”

                                                        ---

It's early in the morning by the time they finish packing, stitching, and bandaging up Beorn. Vesemir took Os away hours ago and Triss takes her leave when she and Ashwood have dumped the last of the bloodied water buckets, leaving Ashwood alone in a chair by Beorn's bedside. Someone needs to stay, in case he wakes up. They agreed on shifts, but Ashwood knows he's not likely to leave the infirmary until Beorn does.

He sags a little in his chair staring up at the ceiling. Os has seen twenty-one summers; Beorn, twenty-four. Mordred is the oldest Bear of the yearlings, and he’s only seen twenty-seven summers. Aiden left home when he was five-years-old. They're children. Ashwood squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall, but he knows it's a lost cause as a ragged sob rips out of his chest.

 Amma, please, it hurts...!

They’d called him Amma - "A sort of version of Mama," Os told him, "because you're... you know... you and you take care of us."

Ashwood hadn't known what to say to that. He wonders, vaguely, when it started, but that wonder was snatched away by the sheer fucking injustice of it all. No one, none of the men (and the handful of women and others) who lived here deserved to be in that much pain. And yet Witchers had, for centuries, thrown themselves at monster after monster to protect folk that hate them. And hate them still. A fury burns in Ashwood's chest alongside his terror and sadness and he thinks he might kill the next person to insult the witchers to his face.

Beorn's breath hitches, his face momentarily twisted in pain - Ashwood watches him carefully, but he remains asleep. Ashwood takes his hand gently and traces the scars there - so many for one so young. Then again, was Ash any better? He'd inflicted his own wounds many a time by the time he turned four-and-twenty. Some days he felt like he might inflict many more.

"I just heard.” Ashwood starts when he hears Lambert at the door. “Is he...?" He's trying to be calm about it but he's rattled and angry and anxious and it's hard to keep your voice down and have it be gentle at the same time so he picks one and hopes the other one makes it through by force of will. It mostly comes through as a growl.

Ashwood looks up - there's no hiding tears that are sad and righteously angry. He lets out a shaky breath. "He's ah... Beorn's gonna be okay. Os and the others got him to the keep and then came and got me just in time," he says, trying not to look like an utter mess. "They're kids, Lamb," he mumbles into his hands.

Lambert finds a chair next to Ashwood and sits down, running a hand through his ginger hair - the beeswax pomade hadn’t held up well in his rush from repairing the walls. “What happened?” He asks. “They just told me he came in covered in blood.”

“He went out with the team of yearlings sent out to take care of the wyvern,” Ashwood says, eyes dark. “Coën got me the details - according to Mordred, the wyvern had a hatchling. Beorn was caught up in its claws trying to protect Wynona. He wasn’t able to cast Quen in time.” The mage sags again, leaning gently against Lambert’s side. “He was nearly incoherent when they got him here…”

“They’re just fucking kids,” Lambert mutters. “They’re kids, Ashwood, and we break ‘em down and build ‘em back up into Witchers and throw them out into a world that hates them. And the instructors don’t know shit about the yearlings. They just see a grown Witcher and assume they can handle the shit Geralt and I do.”

They sit in silence for a while, twin fires of rage and love burning down to their cinders. Because Lambert’s right - they’re practically children, despite their bluster and bravado. They have Lambert in their corner, obviously, but they have Ashwood now, too. And he’d do his best to keep them safe, to take care of them, make sure they knew someone on this fucked up Continent gave a damn about them. That, at least, he could do.

[sitched-a]

              actually  here,  I’m  known  as  synthodrone  no.  901.

it’s  an  echo  in  her  mind  as  she  blinks,  slowly,  vision  hazy,  conscious  hazy,  everything  so  hazy;  and  it’s  in  that  haze  that  she’s  tricked.  oh,  it’s  just  a  bad  dream,  it  didn’t  really  happen.  prom  hasn’t  happened  yet,  she’s  still  tucked  comfortably  in  her  bed,  the  day  hasn’t  started.  she’ll  lay  under  the  covers  a  little  longer  before  she  joins  her  family  for  breakfast  and  then  spends  the  day  getting  ready.  her  dress  is  at  the  dry  cleaner’s,  she’ll  have  to  set  aside  time  to  go  pick  it  up,  then  she’ll  work  on  her  nails,  her  hair,  her  makeup.  hopefully  no  drakken  nonsense  will  pop  up;  she  doesn’t  have  the  time.

head  lolls  to  one  side,  paired  with  a  pounding  inside  her  skull  that  she  hadn’t  noticed  a  moment  ago;  and  then  all  too  quickly  she  feels  it  in  her  arms,  in  her  legs,  in  her  torso;  seeping  into  her  skin  like  water,  soaking  straight  to  her  bones.  it  aches,  and  even  worse,  it  burns;  as  she  blinks  again,  light  floods  her  vision  and  she  winces,  a  low  groan  falling  out  of  her,  ears  ringing  as  the  pain  sinks  further  into  her.  no,  it  hadn’t  been  a  bad  dream—it  had  been  a  full-blown  nightmare.

and  even  worse,  she  thinks  as  everything  comes  into  focus,  it  really  happened.

all  of  a  sudden  it’s  all  catching  up  to  her,  like  a  movie  set  on  fast-forward;  meeting  eric,  running  into  him  all  over  town,  the  impromptu  hanging  out,  making  plans,  getting  swept  up  in  the  whirlwind  of  romance  because  eric  was  everything  she  could  possibly  want  in  a  boy—kind,  smart,  funny,  charming,  sweet,  romantic,  handsome,  perfect.  she  didn’t  have  to  think  twice  about  saying  yes  when  he  asked  her  to  prom.  heck,  she  didn’t  have  to  think  at  all.  

and  she  didn’t.  

and  that  was  the  problem.  all  the  red  flags  seem  so  obvious  from  where  she  sits,  bound  tightly  to  a  decorative  oversized  cactus  somewhere  deep  within  bueno  nacho  headquarters:  eric  forging  a  wedge  between  kim  and  her  friends,  between  kim  and  ron,  under  the  guise  of  just  being  a  boy  with  a  crush  on  a  girl,  saying  all  the  right  things  at  the  right  moments,  telling  her  that  wade  could  wait  until  the  night  was  over  because  really,  what  could  be  going  on  that  was  more  important  than  enjoying  prom?  calling  ron  paranoid,  undermining  his  theories,  protesting  when  she  decided  to  check  it  all  out  in  an  effort  to  thwart  drakken’s  very  real,  very  dangerous  plot.  then  he  was  kidnapped,  and  the  only  thing  she  could  think  about  was  saving  him,  because  that’s  what  kim  possible  always  did—she  always  fought  the  bad  guy,  she  always  rescued  the  people  she  loved,  and  she  always  saved  the  day.

almost  always  saved  the  day.  the  thought  leaves  a  bitter,  hollow  taste  in  her  mouth  as  she  stares  down  at  the  floor  several  feet  below,  lost  in  her  own  shame.  she  almost  saved  the  day,  she  almost  had  a  boyfriend,  she  almost  fell  in  love.  she  almost  doesn’t  hear  ron  at  all,  lost  in  her  own  thoughts  as  she  comes  to  terms  with  everything  that’s  transpired  within  the  last  couple  of  hours.  but  his  voice  is  so  full  of  hope,  relief;  the  polar  opposite  of  how  she’s  feeling  in  that  moment.

‘  why  couldn’t  I  see  he  was  a  fake?  ’  shoulders  slump  as  she  speaks,  gaze  still  locked  on  the  ground;  she  still  endures  a  dull  pounding  in  her  head,  a  deep  ache  in  her  body,  but  it’s  nothing  compared  to  the  crushing  weight  of  defeat  bearing  down  on  her.  for  a  girl  who  claims  she  can  do  anything,  the  only  thing  kim  possible  wants  is  to  disappear.  how  stupid  she  was  to  think  that  she’d  actually  find  someone  who  saw  who  she  was  and  still  liked  her.  eric  had  been  perfect,  because  he  was  designed  to  be  perfect,  to  say  and  do  all  the  right  things,  to  sweep  her  off  her  feet.  that  person  didn’t  exist  in  real  life;  he  never  would.

she  can  already  feel  her  throat  closing  up  as  it  all  just  digs  deeper  into  her.  yeah,  it  doesn’t  get  much  faker  than  a  synthodrone—EUGH!  you  kissed  a  synthodrone!  '  I  never  kissed  him.  ’  she  freely  admits  it  to  ron  and  all  the  discarded  decorations  from  naco  night  that  now  make  up  their  surroundings  for  when  drakken  finally  takes  over  the  world.  she  can’t  look  at  ron  as  she  speaks,  too  ashamed  with  the  situation  and  the  truth  of  it  all.  too  ashamed  that  she  let  drakken  exploit  her  one  insecurity  exacerbated  by  bonnie’s  meddling  and  the  ever-present  fomo  that  seemed  to  pollute  her  life  at  every  turn  these  days.   ‘  but  I  wanted  to.  ’

and  then  he’s  asking  about  a  game  plan.  how  are  they  going  to  break  out?  what  are  they  going  to  do  to  stop  drakken?  for  the  first  time  in  her  career  as  a  hero-for-hire,  she’s  stuck.  stumped.  lost.  what’s  the  point?  she’s  used  to  the  robots,  the  death  rays,  the  hostile  attempted  takeovers  of  whole  countries.  she  can  disarm  a  doomsday  device  with  both  hands  tied  behind  her  back.  but  this  time  drakken  sunk  lower,  dug  deeper—he  thought  of  everything.  she  can’t  power  up  her  battlesuit  with  how  she’s  restrained;  she’s  still  too  weakened  to  break  through  the  rope.  all  of  her  gadgets  are  far  beyond  her  reach.   ‘  ron?  ’   she  breathes  out  his  name  and  it  breaks  somewhere  in  her  throat  as  fresh  tears  sting  against  her  eyes.  she’s  failed  the  world,  she’s  failed  herself,  but  most  of  all,  she’s  failed  him.  he  saw  what  was  happening  the  whole  time  and  she  didn’t  listen,  and  look  where  they  ended  up,  all  thanks  to  her.  ‘  I....  I  got  nothing.  ’

she  doesn’t  bother  trying  to  keep  it  together,  and  why  should  she?  what  pride  does  she  have  left  to  hold  onto  at  this  point?  head  lifts  up  and  she  still  can’t  look  at  him  as  the  first  of  many  tears  roll  down  her  cheek,  a  tightness  wrapping  around  her  chest  as  she  tries  to  speak  without  losing  it  altogether.

‘  I’m....  ron,  I’m  so  sorry.  ’   she  finally  meets  his  gaze  and  the  look  on  his  face  is  like  another  electric  shock  running  through  her  system,  frying  her  nerves,  killing  her  a  little  bit  more.  maybe  she  could  live  with  defeat,  maybe  she  could  live  with  humiliation.  but  there’s  something  about  the  concern  on  his  face  that’s  worse  than  any  synthodrone  designed  to  deceive  her.  she  can’t  live  with  that,  and  she  can’t  look  at  him  longer  than  a  second  as  she  admits  defeat.   ‘  drakken.....  drakken  finally  won.  I  should’ve  stuck  to  babysitting.  ’

plotted  thread  with  @grandesizeit​

[southboundhq]

MEET HECTOR,

FULL NAME › Hector Miguel Ibáñez AGE › twenty two GENDER › Cis male (He/His/Him) FROM › Reno, Nevada LODGING › Copper Cactus Motel PRIOR EMPLOYMENT › Petty Thief NOW PLAYING › Surfin’ On Heroin by The Forgotten Rebels

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: homelessness, drug use mentions, sexual situations mentions, criminal activity

Where does a boy like Hector Ibáñez come from? It’s a question that’s weighed on many minds before, but the answer isn’t as dramatic or tragic as some have imagined. Hector was born of the most normal circumstances, a suburban love story that ended in marriage and two children, one of which being Hector. The house at the end of a cul-de-sac housed the perfect little nuclear family; white picket fence, manicured lawn, a dog, a cat, even a hamster. Hector was born like any other, lived like any other, but something kept him apart from his family: an independent streak that’s lasted his whole life. Even as an infant, Hector had a tendency to pull away from others, lead the charge, not let anything get in the way of what he wanted. Hugs and kisses were met with squirms and wiggles out of it, unless he initiated it. Directing him in how to play made him do the exact opposite, pushing his sister’s hands out of the way when she wanted to help him with the child’s puzzle, his father’s warnings ignored when he got too close to something dangerous. He didn’t play well with others, he would only play Simon Says if he got to play Simon, and he always got to be Simon. Even with his independent, selfish personality, he was friendly and jovial to those he liked, but who exactly he liked changed daily, feelings changing on a whim.

Childhood in Tulsa, a nice place to raise a family, Hector only found it boring. The only entertainment, barring television and video games, was interacting, talking. As independent as he was, talking with others was the only thing to satiate his hunger for entertainment, and quickly it devolved into playing. A little middle school terror, a hierarchy was established within his group of friends and Hector gained a reputation as a troublemaker and bully—more pushy than cruel, but a bully nonetheless. Rowdy and sly, Hector never took anything seriously, thinking of everything as a joke and thinking of others only in terms of what they could do for him. His family, he liked them well enough, but even as a child, he never felt what he was supposed to feel for his family. He wasn’t attached to them, he didn’t love them like they had loved him. His parents, his older sister, they tried so hard, they loved him very much, they did everything in their power to foster a normal, healthy relationship with Hector. For all of their efforts, they were mostly ignored by Hector, and by the time he was a pre-teen, he spent every second he possibly could away from his house, never telling them where he was going or what he was doing. His sister and father eventually gave up, but his mother still has hope it’s just an incredibly long phase, even now.

Thrust into high school, Hector only worsened as he grew. Now barely attending school even when he legally had to, his main focus shifted from playing to pleasure. Only in the pursuit for a good time, that meant sex, drugs, and copious amounts of partying. Scaring little old ladies, taking cars on joyrides, swiping things simply because his hand itched for it. A petty criminal by the age of fifteen, Hector’s run-ins with the law were surprisingly low, but mostly because he didn’t get caught, and really, he had such a cute little face. A face that promoted innocence with a hint of mischief underneath, it’s really his saving grace, the only thing that keeps him from getting into trouble. High school, while it should’ve been his playground, he never attended enough to explore all its corners, the truancy officer his number-one enemy. His parents toying with the idea of military school or kicking Hector out, they never got the chance. At the age of seventeen, Hector Ibáñez left to a friend’s house and never came back home.

It’s not as mysterious as it sounds. Hector left to his friend’s house and they suddenly had the bright idea to hitch a ride to Oklahoma City for a party. Once they were there, it was hard to remember they were supposed to be high school students in Tulsa. It didn’t bother Hector none, having only the clothes on his back and nowhere concrete to stay for the night, but he was so high he didn’t have much time to dwell on it. His junior year was spent sleeping all day, hanging out all night with people much older than him, taking money wherever they could find it and sleeping wherever there was an open spot on the floor. Oklahoma City didn’t have much for Hector, ditching that friend shortly after the ‘move’ into the capital, and he left on the back of a stranger’s truck to Denver for new exploits. Denver didn’t last for very long either, creating a pattern, sticking around long enough to cause lots of trouble but leaving before the consequences caught up.

Out on his own, or rather couch surfing with like-minded individuals, Hector got the freedom he wanted as a child. Just a teenager, Hector had spent his adolescence simply waiting for adulthood, shucking his innocence as quickly as he could. On the road, his tastes started to develop, a thirst for pain and pleasure mixed together. Only eighteen, he became a full blown hedonist, the only thing that mattered (and matters) to him was fucking, fighting, stealing, and getting high. Moving whenever he felt like it, weaseling his way into homes with a sweet smile and curly brown hair. Somehow, wherever he went, there was always someone willing to take care of him, fool themselves into believing he’d change for them because they were the right person, they were worth it. The only thing that holds worth for Hector is himself, and even then, not by much. Still, those times in a nice house with a lonely old woman gave him things he couldn’t get on the streets, like his GED and a driver’s license. Of course, those times have always ended with the host realizing how depraved he is, how chaotic he is, that he’ll never change.

From Denver to Tuscon to Las Vegas, if there’s one place Hector has planted his flag, it’s Reno. It’s the place he quickly considered to be his home, though he’s never actually held residency there, even when he did a quick stint working in a casino. Even though it was his home, he left often on a whim, usually without telling anyone, always returning days to months later like a neighborhood stray cat. Sometimes leaving to evade the cops, sometimes leaving for some new scenery, sometimes leaving on accident. It’s all three when it comes to Boot Hill.

Boosting cars for a local chop shop for some cash and exhausting every connection he had for a place to sleep for a week, it seemed it was time to leave Reno again when there was word of cops on his trail. (Of course, it never occurred to him that people were lying just to get him out of their hair and out of Reno again.) Boarding a bus for Phoenix, Hector quickly fell asleep once aboard and woke up again when the bus stopped at the last terminal on the road. Sleepily confused, Hector exited the bus, only for it to practically disappear behind him, as if it vanished in thin air. Content to just sleep some more on a bench, he found the terminal suspiciously empty, only one person working the ticket counter that treated him with such hostility—he had to vaguely wonder if he’d dated them in the past or something, to deserve such treatment. Time seemed to pass really quickly, hours folding into minutes, and yet another bus didn’t come.

Being in the middle of nowhere didn’t really bother Hector, used to boarding buses or trains or accepting rides from strangers and staying simply wherever they’ve dropped him off, but it was strange how he was virtually alone. If there was another bus on this route, it seemed to only come once a day, and he had to assume the ticket booth woman went home when the sun started to lower in the sky and he couldn’t find her again. Without much thought, he left the station and started walking along the highway; the desert winter sun in the day isn’t as hot, but he didn’t think much about how cold it would be at night. Fortunately for Hector, the night never came, even though he was sure it must’ve been six or seven by the time he started walking. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was six or seven in the morning, because he felt the warmth of the sun for the entire length of his stay on the road. It must have taken him twelve hours, because the light never left. In fact, it seemed like the sun never moved at all, high in the sky as his limbs screamed with every step he took, heat visibly rising off of the blacktop. It must have taken him twelve hours, but it felt like three days.

Finally, just as he was about to give up, a car whizzed right past him. Funny, in those twelve or so hours, he hadn’t seen even a suggestion of life, not even animals or insects. It was incredibly quiet, the wind still and the birds gone. Finally, a sign of life, but they didn’t stop for him, even as he waved his arms high but tiredly. They ignored him, but still, it meant he wasn’t alone on this highway. It gave him a reason to keep pushing, despite the raw thirst in his throat and the numbness of his feet. His skin must have been burnt, blistered, it hissed with every movement. He had to imagine he looked so scary, no wonder they wouldn’t pick up a ghoul on the side of the road. Still, he kept going. Though he was alone, completely and totally alone, it didn’t feel like it. It felt like if he stopped, something behind him would catch up. If it did…

Time stretched on, feeling like he was wading through molasses. The sun kept still, but he was probably delirious, on his feet so long. He’d been on his feet so long, he wasn’t even sure anymore. Maybe he wasn’t, maybe this was Purgatory. He could’ve died on that bus and Hell is just an endless road where there’s never a destination. If it was Hell, it was quite effective, and by the time he fell to his knees on the dirt, he was promising to the Devil or God that he’d call his mother and tell her that he loves her as soon as he reaches civilization.

Of course, Hector is a liar. He reached civilization without realizing it then, stopping dead in front of the Boot Hill welcoming sign. He might’ve been there for an hour, possibly a day, but eventually, someone found him face down on the desert floor. They woke him up, concerned over the scraggly stranger on the threshold of their town, and Hector instantly thought he’d passed God’s test, an angel there to bring him to Heaven, or perhaps God decided he belonged in Hell. Either way, he was no longer on the road, despite physically laying on it. The test was over. Of course, it wasn’t a test, because once he awoke, he realized it was just a town. Some little place called Boot Hill. He’d never heard of it, a generic small western town that was just a speck of dust on the highway, but small places don’t bother Hector as much as they should’ve; he likes being the big fish in a small pond. It’s easier that way.

This angel person waking him, they brought him into town, insisting on taking him to the hospital. Like any criminal, Hector refused, lest the cops figure out where he is, or just people in general (already reneging on his promise to God to contact his mother). Besides, he caught his reflection in a store window, he looked fine. No cracked lips, no burned skin, barely any dirt or sweat; he looked as healthy and clean as a baby. He was hungry, though. Quickly ditching his savior, he fumbled his way into some diner painted turquoise. Figuring he’d have to beg his way into being a patron, the pretty waitress only greeted him with a smile and treated him sweetly as he perused the menu. He ordered a burger, it fit the americana feel and well, he was starving. Eating like he hadn’t in days, the food was finished quicker than it had arrived, and Hector was figuring out how he was going to dine and dash when suddenly, his cheque had been paid for. Some nice older woman at the counter paid for him, since he seemed to be down on his luck. He could’ve kissed her.

But now that he had ate, the question was one that he’s always had to ask since he was seventeen years old: where is he going to sleep tonight? And truthfully, he was beyond dead tired, he could’ve slept in that booth and he was sure that waitress would’ve let him. That waitress, noticing how tired he was, suggested the Copper Cactus Motel just down the street. As soon as he left the diner, he was complimented on his hair and smiled at like he’d lived there his entire life. By the time he got to the Copper Cactus, he was nearly maxed out on self esteem, higher than that damn desert sun. Though he didn’t have money for a room, the receptionist granted him a room on the promise that he’d pay later, or he’d have to do what he’s done in every place he’s ever lived: coast on charm and curls, weasel his way into good graces. After all, he just needs a place to sleep, if only for a few nights...

❝ there’s something in you that’s like biting on tinfoil. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Benjamin Wadsworth AUTHOR › Admin Rachel

[scarlct-vvitch]

“Don’t go breaking my heart.” With Deadpool? 😬

I'm assuming you meant spideypool so imma just go with that lol

“Babe. Babe. We should do a song.”

Peter gave Wade a flat look. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t go breakin’ my heart, baby.”

Peter laughed lightly at the joke. “Even if I would do that with you,” he gestured with his drink at the karaoke stage, where a drunk couple was currently belting out a duet together, “I would not be doing that song.”

Wade studied the couple singing for a moment before he turned back to Peter. “Would you do it if they were as drunk as they are?”

Peter contemplated. “Maybe. But I want expensive drinks, and you’re broke, so good luck.”

Wade frowned, then his eyes widened. Peter already didn’t like whatever idea he was forming. Before he could try and stop it, Wade sprung up from the table–nearly making Peter drop his drink–and walked over to…Tony and Pepper’s table.

Two people who were definitely not broke, and would definitely offer to pay to see Peter sing karaoke in front of all of the Avengers and their friends.

It may have been a bad idea to invite Wade to a party full of people who had the money to enable all of his bad Peter-related ideas. 

Tony looked slightly annoyed when Wade walked over, but after Wade said a few words, his face changed completely, and he gestured to a waiter behind him. After the three of them spoke for a minute, Wade came back, leaving Pepper and Tony laughing into their drinks.

“What the hell did you do?” Peter demanded as Wade slid back into their booth and put an arm over his shoulders.

Wade feigned innocence. “Nothing, sweetheart. Oh, look, Clint’s up next!”

Peter glared, but turned to the stage and watched Clint drunkenly begin Call Me Maybe. It was entertaining, and distracting, and Peter had almost forgotten about Wade’s planning when a waiter came by with an entire tray of different, expensive-looking drinks and set it on their table.

Peter looked at it, confused. “We didn’t order–”

“Yes we did!” Wade interrupted, taking the tray. The waiter nodded and left. Wade turned to Peter. “One from each Avenger. Drink up, Petey.”

Peter looked at the tray, wide-eyed. “Are you serious? There are at least ten drinks here!”

Wade nodded. “Better get started then. This one’s from Natasha.” he said, picking up a very on-brand White Russian and offering it.

Peter stared at it for a minute, then sighed and accepted it, downing the whole thing in one go. From across the room, Tony let out a cheer, which Peter pointedly ignored. “What’s next?”

Wade gave him a devilish grin and picked up the next drink.

It took Peter about an hour to get through them all, and even with his enhanced tolerance from his powers, he was thoroughly drunk. His head was pleasantly fuzzy and his mouth still tasted like the last fruity drink when he finally reached for the songbook on their table.

“Oh my god, it’s happening. What song are you gonna pick?” Wade asked eagerly, leaning over and looking at the list. 

“I dunno,” Peter answered, squinting at the list. “It’s really, really hard to read when you’re drunk. Why did I let you get me drunk?”

Wade laughed. “Want me to read them to you?” he asked, holding out a hand for the book.

“No.” Peter held the book far out of Wade’s reach, like a child. “I can do it.”

Wade held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, go ahead.”

Peter repositioned himself in the booth, turning so that Wade couldn’t read the list anymore, then did his best to look it over. It took some effort–Peter was certain that a couple of them had been written in hieroglyphics–but after about ten minutes, he had his choice.

“This’n.” he slurred, pointing at it.

Wade laughed. “You sure?”

Peter nodded very seriously. Wade grinned at him, then they got up and put in their choice, followed by Peter practically dragging Wade onto the stage.

“Easy, baby.” Wade said, laughing.

Peter grabbed a microphone, handed one to Wade, and waited for the song to start. After a moment, the familiar intro began, followed by immediate cheers from all of the Avengers in the crowd.

Wade threw an arm around Peter. “This is why I love you, you goofy sap.”

Peter grinned at him as wide as he could, then brought his microphone to his face and started to sing.

“Don’t go breakin’ my heart!”

tag list under the cut!

@gaberonimaceroni @doesitsay @zaioshima @scriptureofashes @crudforbrains @the-cactus-prince @the–space–ace @im-a-beautiful-meme @wordsablaze @animocity

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Wednesday, August 5 of 2020 with Proverbs 5 and Psalm 5 accompanied by Psalm 47 for the 47th day of Summer and Psalm 68 for day 218 of the year

[Proverbs 5]

Listen to me, my son,

for I know what I’m talking about.

Listen carefully to my advice

so that wisdom and discernment will enter your heart,

and then the words you speak will express what you’ve learned.

Remember this:

The lips of a seductress seem sweet like honey,

and her smooth words are like music in your ears.

But I promise you this:

In the end all you’ll be left with is a bitter conscience.

For the sting of your sin will pierce your soul like a sword.

She will ruin your life, drag you down to death,

and lead you straight to hell.

She has prevented many from considering the paths of life.

Yes, she will take you with her where you don’t want to go,

sliding down a slippery road

and not even realizing where the two of you will end up!

Listen to me, young men,

and don’t forget this one thing I’m telling you—

run away from her as fast as you can!

Don’t even go near the door of her house

unless you want to fall into her seduction.

In disgrace you will relinquish your honor to another,

and all your remaining years will be squandered—

given over to the cruel one.

Why would you let strangers take away your strength

while the labors of your house go to someone else?

For when you grow old you will groan in anguish and shame

as sexually transmitted diseases consume your body.

And then finally you’ll admit that you were wrong and say,

“If only I had listened to wisdom’s voice

and not stubbornly demanded my own way,

because my heart hated to be told what to do!

Why didn’t I take seriously the warning of my wise counselors?

Why was I so stupid to think that I could get away with it?

Now I’m totally disgraced and my life is ruined!

I’m paying the price—

for the people of the congregation are now my judges.”

[Sex Reserved for Marriage]

My son, share your love with your wife alone.

Drink from her well of pleasure and from no other.

Why would you have sex with a stranger

or with anyone other than her?

Reserve this pleasure for you and her alone and not with another.

Your sex life will be blessed

as you take joy and pleasure in the wife of your youth.

Let her breasts be your satisfaction,

and let her embrace intoxicate you at all times.

Be continually delighted and ravished with her love!

My son, why would you be exhilarated by an adulteress—

by embracing a woman who is not yours?

For God sees everything you do and his eyes are wide open

as he observes every single habit you have.

Beware that your sins don’t overtake you

and the scars of your own conscience

become the ropes that tie you up.

Those who choose wickedness die for lack of self-control,

for their foolish ways lead them astray,

carrying them away as hostages—

kidnapped captives robbed of destiny.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 5 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 5]

For the worship leader. A song of David accompanied by flutes.

Bend Your ear to me and listen to my words, O Eternal One;

hear the deep cry of my heart.

Listen to my call for help,

my King, my True God;

to You alone I pray.

In the morning, O Eternal One, listen for my voice;

in the day’s first light, I will offer my prayer to You and watch expectantly for Your answer.

You’re not a God who smiles at sin;

You cannot abide with evil.

The proud wither in Your presence;

You hate all who pervert and destroy what is good.

You destroy those with lying lips;

the Eternal detests those who murder and deceive.

Yet I, by Your loving grace,

am welcomed into Your house;

I will turn my face toward Your holy place

and fall on my knees in reverence before You.

O Eternal One, lead me in the path of Your righteousness

amidst those who wish me harm;

make Your way clear to me.

Their words cannot be trusted;

they are destructive to their cores.

What comes out of their mouths is as foul as a rotting corpse;

their words stink of flattery.

Find them guilty, O True God;

let their own devices bring them ruin.

Throw them out, and let them drown in the deluge of their sin,

for in revolt they brazenly spit in Your face.

But let those who run to You for safety be glad they did;

let them break out in joyful song.

May You keep them safe—

their love for You resounding in their hearts.

You, O Eternal, are the One who lays all good things in the laps of the right-hearted.

Your blessings surround them like a shield.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 5 (The Voice)

[Psalm 47]

For the worship leader. A song of the sons of Korah.

Clap your hands, all of you;

raise your voices joyfully and loudly.

Give honor for the True God of the universe;

Here’s why: The Eternal, the Most High, is awesome and deserves our great respect.

He is the great King over everything in this world.

He’s helped us win wars, suppressed our enemies,

and made nations bow at our feet.

He decides the extent of our inheritance and selects the land where we and our children will live,

for we are the pride of Jacob, the ones He loves.

[pause]

The True God ascends the throne acclaimed by shouts of the people.

The Eternal is announced by the blast of a trumpet.

Sing! Shout! Play instruments!

Praise our God and King; sing praises to Him who is worthy.

For He is the King of all the earth. Sing praise, all who can.

Put words to music, and then sing praises

At the feet of the God who sits on His holy throne,

ruling over all the nations.

All those with influence in this world—princes, kings, and satraps—

gather with those who follow Abraham’s God.

For these defenders belong to God

who reigns over the nations!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 47 (The Voice)

[Psalm 68]

A David Psalm

Up with God!

Down with his enemies!

Adversaries, run for the hills!

Gone like a puff of smoke,

like a blob of wax in the fire—

one look at God and the wicked vanish.

When the righteous see God in action

they’ll laugh, they’ll sing,

they’ll laugh and sing for joy.

Sing hymns to God;

all heaven, sing out;

clear the way for the coming of Cloud-Rider.

Enjoy God,

cheer when you see him!

Father of orphans,

champion of widows,

is God in his holy house.

God makes homes for the homeless,

leads prisoners to freedom,

but leaves rebels to rot in hell.

God, when you took the lead with your people,

when you marched out into the wild,

Earth shook, sky broke out in a sweat;

God was on the march.

Even Sinai trembled at the sight of God on the move,

at the sight of Israel’s God.

You pour out rain in buckets, O God;

thorn and cactus become an oasis

For your people to camp in and enjoy.

You set them up in business;

they went from rags to riches.

The Lord gave the word;

thousands called out the good news:

“Kings of the armies

are on the run, on the run!”

While housewives, safe and sound back home,

divide up the plunder,

the plunder of Canaanite silver and gold.

On that day that Shaddai scattered the kings,

snow fell on Black Mountain.

You huge mountains, Bashan mountains,

mighty mountains, dragon mountains.

All you mountains not chosen,

sulk now, and feel sorry for yourselves,

For this is the mountain God has chosen to live on;

he’ll rule from this mountain forever.

The chariots of God, twice ten thousand,

and thousands more besides,

The Lord in the lead, riding down Sinai—

straight to the Holy Place!

You climbed to the High Place, captives in tow,

your arms full of booty from rebels,

And now you sit there in state,

God, sovereign God!

Blessed be the Lord—

day after day he carries us along.

He’s our Savior, our God, oh yes!

He’s God-for-us, he’s God-who-saves-us.

Lord God knows all

death’s ins and outs.

What’s more, he made heads roll,

split the skulls of the enemy

As he marched out of heaven,

saying, “I tied up the Dragon in knots,

put a muzzle on the Deep Blue Sea.”

You can wade through your enemies’ blood,

and your dogs taste of your enemies from your boots.

See God on parade

to the sanctuary, my God,

my King on the march!

Singers out front, the band behind,

maidens in the middle with castanets.

The whole choir blesses God.

Like a fountain of praise, Israel blesses God.

Look—little Benjamin’s out

front and leading

Princes of Judah in their royal robes,

princes of Zebulon, princes of Naphtali.

Parade your power, O God,

the power, O God, that made us what we are.

Your temple, High God, is Jerusalem;

kings bring gifts to you.

Rebuke that old crocodile, Egypt,

with her herd of wild bulls and calves,

Rapacious in her lust for silver,

crushing peoples, spoiling for a fight.

Let Egyptian traders bring blue cloth

and Cush come running to God, her hands outstretched.

Sing, O kings of the earth!

Sing praises to the Lord!

There he is: Sky-Rider,

striding the ancient skies.

Listen—he’s calling in thunder,

rumbling, rolling thunder.

Call out “Bravo!” to God,

the High God of Israel.

His splendor and strength

rise huge as thunderheads.

A terrible beauty, O God,

streams from your sanctuary.

It’s Israel’s strong God! He gives

power and might to his people!

O you, his people—bless God!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 68 (The Message)