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danidrabbles · 21 hours ago

Text

Cardinal

Pairing: Logan Howlett ("Worst" Wolverine) x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (for themes and smut).

Word count: 16.6k

Summary: At the edge of the world, someone from another keeps you from stepping off.

Tags/Warnings (Please, read the warnings!!): Post-Deadpool & Wolverine, female reader (female anatomy etc + 2 mentions of hair long enough to fall into your eyes), strangers-to-lovers, depression, suicidal ideations, suicide attempt and mentions thereof, addiction, drinking alcohol, drugs (mentioned not used), panic attacks, sobriety meetings, anxiety, recovery, co-dependency vibes, sprinkles of soulmateism, explicit smut (oral and unprotected PIV), happy ending (yay!!). If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Notes: Deadpool and Wolverine re-triggered my X-Men obsession and what started as a means to write some smut actually became this idea about two broken people who shouldn't even have met in the first place finding each other. There's a lot of me in this story, more than there's ever been I think. I'm sorry for this glimpse into my head, and I'm sorry if this isn't as Reader-insert as it should be, but... I'm not that sorry, you know. Huge thanks to @javier-pena , for not only reading this over and fixing so many embarrassing mistakes, but also for saying she'd read this even if it was 20k words and always believing in my abilities as a writer, even when I sometimes didn't.

If you want to read the smut as a standalone, you can! Just CTRL + F (or search in page) for 'Logan reaches for' and read away.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this.

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here.

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind.

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor.

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset.

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff.

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name.

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same.

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?”

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.”

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it.

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy.

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?”

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand.

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.”

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief.

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle.

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far…

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air.

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small.

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk.

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door.

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this.

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you.

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better.

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment.

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang.

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little.

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat–

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here.

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.”

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared.

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.”

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are.

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway.

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition.

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile.

You respond in kind.

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed – like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago.

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination.

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day.

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week.

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support.

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters.

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front.

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand.

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts.

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–”

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after.

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.”

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply.

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.”

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead.

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely.

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.”

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.”

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place…

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room.

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare.

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan.

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze.

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.”

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips.

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you–

“Logan,” you breathe.

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes.

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth–

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your…

friends.

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor.

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.”

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you.

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction.

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him.

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit.

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down.

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine.

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge.

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt.

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel.

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt.

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin.

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you.

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.”

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple.

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall.

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies.

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come.

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions.

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed.

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

And lastly, if you're struggling with mental health problems, please don't wait for a handsome stranger to sweep you off your feet. I know from experience that it can be incredibly difficult to reach that hand out, but I also know from experience that things can get better. There are ways to get help and you deserve to get help 🫂

#dani writing #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #james logan howlett x reader #worst wolverine x reader #logan x reader #x men x reader #worst wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine smut

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riot-grrlboy · 2 days ago

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Last week I went to a hearing for like 26 new oil wells they wanted to open up a town over

Every single person except for ONE (who I believe worked for the oil company or lobby) at the hearing was speaking against the implementation of these wells. The plans they were proposing were extraordinarily dangerous and experimental and ran right under the houses of people already living there.

The fracking company wanted to build 5 miles of lines intersecting with older wells. During a survey of the area, the city government found SIX oil wells they didn’t previously know the existence of. This particular fracking company has only ever made wells 2 miles long, and even then, the pipes created leakage. Some people who spoke had already experienced negative health consequences because of the preexisting pipeline leakage. One of them had gotten a terminal disease because of the gasses that entered her home through her cracked foundation (a foundation that was cracked by the vibrations of the pipelines)

Despite over 150 attendees and at least 40 speakers against the pipelines, the city still might move forward and we won’t know till the decision hearing on Wednesday.

Our state exports most of its oil. We are currently drilling more oil than ever before. Trump loves to say “drill baby drill” because it’s what will make him the most money. Fracking is killing our planet. If we stopped fracking today, the rest of the climate crisis would be much easier to mitigate and our emissions would plummet. Oil companies are negligent and greedy and can sense that their industry might be coming to a close soon. They’re going to fight to open new wells and drill all they can over the next few years, and Trump is going to do all he can to help them

PLEASE research what fracking initiatives are occurring near you, especially over the next few years. MAKE YOUR VOICE HEARD. It may not stop the implementation of these wells, but it might. There’s a chance. Research different methods of non-violent direct action for climate! There are so many ways to help!! And our planet NEEDS help!!

rightfully people are posting a lot about abortion rights and trans rights but god i keep thinking abt climate change. it was 76 degrees in new england on election day.

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emilys-bangs · 3 days ago

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the end of beginning | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, fluff, no use of yn, s2 baby emily, a whole lotta yearning

Summary: In which Emily is new to the team and finds a friend in you. Requested here.

Word count: 1.2k

Emily has always felt out of place.

In high school, in her mother’s lavish gatherings, in the sprawling estate that she’d eventually learned to call home. It’s never something she can help, though with gritted teeth she developed the art of blending in with fake smiles and perfectly crafted words. It’s a habit that stuck with her, one she’s never quite learned how to shake off even after all these years.

So it makes sense that she doesn’t fit in at her new job.

It works just fine with her. Emily has had a lifetime to get used to it; isolation had become her friend, the liquid movement of her following shadow more than often her only, constant, companion. Despite that, she had a small, lingering hope. That maybe coming back to DC would mean making herself a home, finding—if not friends—companions that she could be casual with, invite out for a round of drinks when the thick silence of her apartment was too much.

Hope was quickly snuffed out. Her boss only thinly veils his distrust, and the youngest—Reid—stares at her with accusing eyes. The rest of her coworkers are lukewarm, not quite yet interested in getting to know her; their gazes are more often than not tinged with condescension, as if they’re not sure she’s earned her place. It seems like everyone’s waiting for her to slip up, for Hotch to chew her out and pluck her from the neatly rounded group they’ve found themselves being, a well oiled machine that works perfectly in order without her.

Everyone, apparently, except you.

You and Garcia, that is, but the tech analyst’s influence is a lot less reassuring given that it’s behind phone calls and computer screens most of the time. But with you there with her—in the field, at your joint desks in the bullpen—things are more bearable.

“Hey.”

You’re whispering slightly as you slip into the vacant seat in front of her, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug.

Emily looks up at you. The dimmed lights of the jet reflect in your eyes, painting you in softer edges as you sit down across from her without waiting for an invitation. There’s an easiness to your movements, one that she would say is out of place considering how long you’ve known her. Still, warmth spreads to her icy fingertips, and she can’t help the small smile that pulls at her lips.

“Hi,” she says back, matching your tone. Other than the hum of the jet itself—and the rumble of distant snores she’s too far away to be bothered by—a soothing silence has settled across the cabin, and her voice doesn’t carry much farther than your seat. The smile that you return is friendly, a sight that she’s been slowly getting accustomed to these past few weeks.

She’s a little surprised when you don’t offer anything more to say. You simply lean back in your seat and take a sip from your mug, her eyes tracing the bop of your throat as you swallow and look down at the sudoku in your hand. Emily’s finger is still slotted inside her book; she’d automatically marked the page and shut the cover closed when you appeared, some subconscious mechanism turning in her head so that you get her full attention.

The revelation that you might simply want her company comes too late.

You’re looking back up at her, your eyes meeting hers as a slow warmth runs beneath her icy skin. Emily should look back down; she has nothing to say, other than the blunt but genuine question of why are you here, but you give a small shrug and she’s enraptured, tracing the sheepish line of your pressed lips.

“Gideon’s snores get a little loud.” You say.

Emily’s surprised to hear her own laugh. It seems you are, too. A small movement draws your brows upward, but the curve of your mouth is distinctly pleased, your eyes brightening beneath the dim lights of the jet. The sound doesn’t last long—it’s low, soft, joined by your own laugh for a few brief seconds—but its effect carries tension from Emily’s shoulders, makes her slip her finger out of her book with a genuine smile.

“That they do,” she murmurs back, already familiar with the loud rumbles that have made their way through thin motel walls, occasionally piercing her already irregular sleep. The sleeves of her cardigan are pulled over her knuckles; she tugs them higher, seeking to cover the ice in her fingertips.

“Are you cold?”

Maybe she is. Maybe the sound of your voice spills warmth down her veins. Emily doesn’t like admitting things, but her smile gives her away. It borders on shy, barely wide enough for her dimples to curve in her cheeks; she wishes she had a mug of her own to hide behind, but she has an inkling that hiding from you would be pointless.

In the end she shrugs.

You set your mug and sudoku down. “I’ll be right back.”

She’s left staring at your empty seat, brows furrowing slightly as goosebumps break out on her skin. The jet really is ridiculously cold. And yet when you come back less than a minute later holding out a fuzzy blanket for her to take, she shakes her head.

“Oh, I can’t—”

“Please,” you insist. “I remember I forgot to layer up the first few times on here and I was miserable. Makes you stiff,” your lips twist into a smile, and you’re looking at her so earnestly that she submits.

“It does,” Emily says, this time accepting the blanket. You beam at her and she goes warm, though it has nothing to do with the fuzzy, light gray wool now draping over her lap. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Emily places her book on the table before effectively burying herself in your blanket. It’s warm and soft; when she brings it up over her shoulders, a faint scent of perfume nuzzles against her nose. Yours. In seconds, her hands grow warm. She chances a glance at you, a thank you almost tipping from her lips again—just to continue the conversation, hear your voice, when you do it for her.

“What does that say?” You’re peering at the worn cover of her book. The edges are curled, the spine broken. The margins are full of her loopy scrawl and unsteady underlines, more than a few pages dog eared.

Emily bites back a smile at the curious draw of your brows. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” The French slips effortlessly from her lips, smooth and curling. “The Dangerous Liaisons. It’s a French classic, one of my favorites. I could tell you about it,” her hand peeks out from the edge of the blanket and she fidgets with her hair, tucks it behind her ear, “if you’d like.”

You lean your elbows on the table, sudoku very much ignored as you peer at her with something like astonishment. A grin pulls at your lips and she’s suddenly overheating.

“I very much would, Agent Prentiss.”

“Emily.”

“Emily.” You agree, tilting your head in a nod. “Tell me about Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” You butcher the title beyond belief. The displeased wrinkle of your nose says you know it, and butterflies erupt along Emily’s lungs.

She laughs, the beginnings of a blush staining her cheeks.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @moonlight-simp

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic

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syluslnd · 5 hours ago

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hi!! i love your writing, i’ve never made a request before, but i was thinking about sylus (in the early stages of their relationship, the “rivalry”) finding MC at his door injured?? like a “i had nowhere else to go” kind of a situation

when you end up at your rivals doorstep

A chill filled the night air as you limped up to Sylus’s front door, each step sending a fresh wave of pain through your body. Blood stained your clothes and every inch of you ached but you had nowhere else to go. You and Sylus had always been two sides of the same coin—equal in skill, stubborn as hell, always toeing the line between animosity and something… else. But, in this moment, all you wanted was to see him.

With a trembling hand, you knocked weakly on his door before your vision blurred and your knees buckled. The world tilted and you sank to the cold ground, the last bit of strength leaving your body.

You weren’t sure how much time passed but the sudden flood of light hit your closed eyelids as the door opened. You forced your eyes open just enough to see him—Sylus, staring down at you, clearly about to make some sarcastic remark. But then his eyes widened and all traces of humor vanished.

“Sweetie” His tone was shocked, low with concern, as he dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly over your bloody, bruised form. “What the hell happened to you?”

You managed a weak, half-smile. “Long story…” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper.

Without hesitation, Sylus scooped you up in his arms, his grip surprisingly gentle but unyielding. He carried you inside, the warmth of his chest against your cheek feeling like the only thing keeping you grounded. The smell of him—warm, familiar, infuriatingly comforting—filled your senses and despite the pain, you felt a sense of relief wash over you.

Sylus laid you down on his plush couch, his gaze sharp as he took in every injury, his jaw clenching tightly. “I hate seeing you like this” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his fingers brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. “What were you thinking, coming here like this?”

You let out a faint chuckle, though it hurt to laugh. “You know I don’t run to you unless it’s… a last resort.” Your voice was faint but you tried to keep your usual sass, even through the haze of pain.

He scoffed but his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “And here I thought you’d be too stubborn to admit you needed my help” he murmured, grabbing a clean cloth and carefully dabbing at the cut on your forehead. His touch was surprisingly tender and you closed your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his hands, the way he was taking care of you despite every argument you’d ever had.

“I… I didn’t know where else to go” you whispered, feeling yourself growing drowsy, exhaustion finally overtaking you.

He went silent, his gaze lingering on your face as he continued tending to your wounds. You weren’t sure if it was the pain or the proximity but you could feel your heartbeat quicken under his gentle touch. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear your own voice whispering that this was dangerous—that you should pull away, keep up your walls, protect yourself. But here, lying battered and broken in Sylus’s living room, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

His hand stilled, hovering over your shoulder as his eyes met yours, a conflicted look crossing his face. “You know I can’t stand you, right?” he murmured, though there was no real malice in his voice. “But… seeing you like this…” His voice faltered, his usual cockiness gone. “I hate it even more.”

Something in you broke. Maybe it was the pain or the adrenaline—or maybe you were just too tired of pretending. “Yeah, well, I can’t stand you,too” you whispered, trying for sarcasm but sounding much more vulnerable than you intended. “But maybe that’s… not the whole truth.”

You barely processed your own words before his gaze softened, surprise flickering in his eyes. He studied you, his fingers stilling on your shoulder as his expression shifted, like he was searching for something in your face.

“Do you know what you’re saying,sweetie” he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant—a tone you’d never heard from him before.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling your pulse race. “I… I think so” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but… I don’t hate you, Sylus. Not like that.”

For a moment, there was only silence and you braced yourself, half-expecting him to laugh it off, to throw some snarky remark back at you. But instead, his gaze softened, and he leaned in, his hand slipping to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin.

“I guess I don’t hate you either” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Infuriating as you are.”

You felt your face heat up but you couldn’t look away, your breaths shallow as his face hovered just inches from yours. The tension between you was palpable, a slow burn that had been building for far too long and in this moment, it felt like it was finally going to snap.

But he just gave you a teasing smirk, leaning back ever so slightly. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you after this. You’ll owe me, big time.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile breaking through despite the pain. “Trust me, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

And as Sylus settled down beside you, his hand resting protectively on your arm, you realized that maybe, just maybe, your rivalry wasn’t as simple as it had once seemed and as you drifted off, his warmth anchoring you, you felt something new stirring—a feeling you weren’t sure you wanted to fight anymore.

#love and deepspace #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 hours ago

Text

Death Wish 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

“Come on, doll,” Barnes takes your hand and leads you across the room. You follow as you will for the rest of your life; obediently.

His grip is like a vice as he guides you through the hall and down the stairs. Silence meets you at the bottom as your sisters no doubt hear the descent. Yet he doesn’t let you go nor make a move to leave. Instead, he brings you into the front room.

He squeezes your hand, pressing the large ring into your finger, and releases you. He steps forward as Kitty turns away from the window and Adrienne stands from the sofa. He commands any room he enters and you don’t think you’ll ever be used to that.

“Sisters,” he declares brightly, “that is what I will call you from now on.”

He goes first to Kitty and places a kiss on her cheek, then does the same to Adrienne. Each watch him in confusion. You stare blankly.

“And you can call me brother and ask for anything and everything you need,” he says.

“Sir,” Kitty moves towards your younger sister.

“I ask discretion for the time being as I tie up a few loose ends,” Barnes explains. “And we get you all settled where you need to be.”

Your sisters blink at you then each other. You can’t say it out loud. That makes it real.

Barnes turns on his heel, “speaking of loose ends, I should go.”

He comes towards you and takes your hand again. He raises it, certain to show off the glaring diamond, and kisses it. The gesture makes your blood run cold. It is a statement. It isn’t the same as when you kiss his ring, it isn’t deference, no it is a show of ownership.

“Have a good night,” you say at last.

He pulls back and lowers your hand. He grins, “it’s already spectacular, doll.”

He lets you go and steps past you. You stand, stuck in place, as he leaves. The door opens and closes, the hinges jarring you into motion. You go to lock it behind him and Kitty calls your name.

“What’s going on?” She appears in the doorway.

You take a breath before you face her. You shrug. Adrienne scrambles around her and snatches your hand.

“Oh my god, it’s huge.”

“Stop,” you try to tug your hand back.

“You’re marrying him?” Kitty’s voice deflates by the last syllable. “Why?”

You look between them. You can tell one sliver of the truth. “To keep us safe.”

“Us? We’ll be fine. Barnes says we get an inheritance, we get houses, money--”

“And then what? It’s not enough to last forever,” you argue. “Even if we can find work, we’ll never make enough to keep that. How long did you work at the yogurt shop before daddy threatened to burn it down? And I have about a week’s experience down at the diner.”

“We can start now--”

“We can start now and never reach the finish line,” you insist. “Kitty, you know who daddy was. You sat there and watched what they did to that man today. This isn’t a life you walk away from, even if he’s dead.”

Adrienne sniffles. She’s on the edge of tears again.

“So, you do it over? Marry another one? Go through it again?” Kitty challenges.

“He can make sure that neither of you have to--”

“We don’t need you to be our martyr,” Kitty argues.

“I’m not--” you seal your lips and sigh. You wish you could tell her. You wish you could say I shot that fuck and he deserved it because you know she would have loved to do the same thing. Yet, saying it out loud means admitting that you’re all trapped for that moment of vengeance. “Kitty, how much choice do you think he gave me?”

She stares at you. She knows exactly how it works. There is no asking with these men.

“We could all go. Disappear.”

“And they wouldn’t find us? How far could we get, really?”

“Not far,” Adrienne pipes in. “Kitty, would you rather daddy still be here?”

Your older sister is silent as her jaw squares.

“I could marry instead. Maybe not Barnes but someone else. It shouldn’t be you. I’m the oldest--”

“It is me,” you say, “and it could be any one of us but this is how it is. It’s... not the worst.”

“It’s not?” Kitty says. “That man stood and ordered another beaten to death. He didn’t flinch.”

“I know,” you say.

“No, you don’t know,” Kitty insists, “you can’t be sure that he isn’t like daddy.”

She’s right. Barnes might have helped vanquish the monster but it can’t erase his own misdeeds. Yet, you asked for all of this. You went there in the middle of the night and sold your soul. You could excuse yourself with naivete, but you deserve more to be branded by it.

“If it keeps you two from men like daddy--”

“Stop,” Kitty grabs you by the shoulders. “None of us deserve it.”

“You stop,” you wrap your fingers calmly around her forearms and peel her hold off of you. “Should I go hand that man his ring back or do you want do it for me?”

She untangles her wrists from your grasp and recoils. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes up against the threat of tears. She stamps her foot in frustration.

“You tell me,” she points her finger at you. You’re almost stunned by the fire in her voice and face. Kitty is the sweet one, she’s gentle, but she has your mother’s quiet strength. “You tell me if he ever puts a bruise on you. You fucking tell me.”

“Kitty,” you murmur.

Adrienne covers her mouth and watches, swept up in the fraught emotion of it all.

“No, because I spent a lifetime watching you two cry over that beast we called a father,” she snarls. “I will not waste the rest of my life doing the same. I thought—I thought we were free. I wanted us to be free.” She curls her lip and exhales heavily. “So, you will not lie to me again. And I will know. I will see right through him so you don’t even try to cover it up. One bruise...” she wags her finger then throw up both her hands with a frustrated growl. “I sound like him.” She turns and drags her feet to the stairs. She sits on one and hangs her head. “I sound like daddy. I’m just so... tired.”

You look at Adrienne and reach for her. She gives you her hand. You bring her over to Kitty and touch your elder sister’s shoulder. She looks up through sparkling eyes.

“You will know. We will all know. We are sisters and this doesn’t change that,” you say. “We stick together, no matter what.”

“Oh, we will,” Kitty insists, “I will be at your damn house every day and I will look at that man and I will see all the cracks. Trust me you. He will not take you from us.”

“Kitty, Ade,” you look from one to the other, “no one can take us from each other. If daddy did one thing, it was making sure of that.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #drabble #mob au #au #death wish #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers #winter soldier

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stllmnstr · 1 day ago

Text

breathing room

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing.

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal completely.

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat.

Yours, to be exact.

It’s a nice one, all things considered. Despite its lethality, it’s small, delicate almost. From this angle, he can just make out the detailing on the hilt. A series of vines wrap around each other intricately, forming kaleidoscopic patterns that extend all the way from the blade to where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt, knuckles white from the way your hand is straining.

Jesus, he thinks. If it takes that much concentrated effort for you to not let the knife press any harder against his skin, draw any blood, then maybe he should start taking the threats you throw his way like extra change a little more seriously.

Lazily, he lets his eyes trace a line from your fingers to your face. Skipping over the rather boring details of the plain black training shirt you wear, he directs his attention to the way your brow furrows in concentration instead.

Under usual circumstances, a knife to the throat would encourage all of his senses to narrow in on the sensation of metal against his pulse point. Would spur his brain to work a bit faster through all the biological fight or flight mechanisms in a last ditch attempt at survival.

But these are not usual circumstances. In fact, ever since the two of you were split into separate training cohorts a handful of months ago, this has become a rarity. And the only thing Heeseung wants to do is enjoy it a little more.

Without his self-preservation instincts kicking in, his brain has plenty of room for other things. The forgiving surface of a training mat beneath him, slightly soft where he lets his body relax into it. The unusually warm air of the training room, courtesy of a busted air conditioner that no one has gotten around to fixing just yet.

The way your hair falls around your face as you lean over him, chest still heaving from your recent bout of exertion. Your eyes are pure fire, embers and ashes and every stage in between as you sit atop his ribcage, knees on either side of his torso where you pin him to the mat.

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory. After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter.

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.” You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us a both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

Heeseung all but rolls his eyes. “What are you gonna do? Kill me in front of everyone?” The way he wraps sarcasm up in every syllable is almost as infuriating as the way he just let you win without putting up any semblance of a fight. “You’ve got a mean streak, princess, but that’s a bit much, even for you.”

The pressure on your blade increases, and Heeseung fights a wince as he feels it break the barrier between his skin and blood. It’s a miniscule cut, surface level at most, but he hears the threat all the same. “It’s like you want to die,” you marvel.

Heeseung’s eyes betray nothing, other than the fact that they can’t quite seem to stray from your own. Does he? No matter how deep inside himself he searches, the answer is always a resounding no. Despite the effort he put into this particular spar, or rather lack thereof, his survival instincts are still kicking. His pursuit of life is still alive and well.

So no, he doesn’t want to die. Quite the opposite in fact. But if he were to explain in plain terms that he never feels quite as alive as he does in the moments when you’ve got a knife on his throat and hatred in your eyes, he has the distinct feeling you might well and truly make good on your frequent promise to send him to an early grave.

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own.

He was a tool, in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks.

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry. At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you.

Back then, it had been easy. As new recruits, you were in the same training cohort, which meant you had the same daily schedules. As long as Heeseung had the chance to beat you to the last piece of toast in the dining hall at breakfast or tie the laces of your training boots together the night before an early morning, he was guaranteed at least one of your signature glares and a few choice words that would make his grandmother blush.

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring.

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in.

A little bit of breathing room. Something that will have his partner lowering their guard, weakening their defenses just enough for him to strike. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until the match is won and victory rests on his square shoulders.

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way.

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh.

“Alright, ___, that’s enough. You’ve earned your tally.” The most of anyone in today’s group. But you’re still glaring at him, and he knows it isn’t enough, not for you. “Heeseung, get it together. I expect better from you next time.”

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence.

Releasing one final, sharp exhale, you pull your knife away from his throat, tucking it back into the sheath on your upper thigh in one fluid motion. Swinging your leg over his torso, you remove your body from his own, give your anger some space to breathe. Without looking back, you let your strides eat up the distance between you and the exit.

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon, tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks. Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face.

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else.

Lips pulled in a taut line, you unsheath the blade at your thigh once again, this time sending it spinning with deadly accuracy towards the line of trees that skirt the outside of the training facility.

You don’t miss. You never do.

It still feels like defeat.

…..

Heeseung notices when you’re not at dinner later that evening. Despite the fact that you no longer train together, the inter-cohort spars have shifted this week's schedule. You should be here, sitting next to Jay and Jungwon, probably, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you.

The training hall is dark when he arrives, but Heeseung is no fool. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he sees you soon enough. Silhouette dark against the empty expanse, he has half a mind to intervene before you shred yet another punching bag to irreparable pieces. Instead, he just watches for a moment longer.

He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse.

But he wants to. Wants to examine them until he knows them as intimately as the back of his own hand, until he can recite them by name and express them in ways that don’t make you want to press a knife against his neck.

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing.

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body.

You need a break.

He needs an in.

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat.

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be?

Chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion, you finally catch your breath well enough to tell him, “If you’re not here for a rematch, then you have exactly ten seconds to get out of this building.”

A beat passes.

Another.

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

Heeseung is across the room before you can release another breath. It’s ridiculous how quickly he disarms you. And you’re caught off guard, yes, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Your knife in his hands, he throws it to the corner of the room. And then it’s just the two of you.

Heeseung spares neither time nor effort knocking your legs out from under you, sending you careening towards the mat. Screwing your eyes shut, you brace for the impact of a training mat that never comes, the back of your head cradled in a hand that serves as a barrier between you and the ground below.

It’s a complete reversal of your earlier roles as he lets his legs fall to either side of you, face inches from your own. There’s no knife on your neck, and he was gracious enough to break your fall, but suddenly find your breath a difficult thing to catch regardless.

Above you, his eyes are dark. Your noses nearly touch. “This is what you wanted?” he breathes, and you feel his words as much as you hear them. They dance across your cheekbone, your lips. Have your bones feeling molten, all your hard edges malleable. “You want me to fight you like I mean it? To really fucking spar with you?”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

“I was there, you know.” Unbidden, the hand that doesn’t hold your head falls to the bottom edge of your black training shirt. Heeseung pauses there for a moment, lets his fingers trace the seam. Something in the air shifts, tightens, waits. Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him.

You don’t.

Slowly, his hand begins to track an upward journey, taking your hem with it. The air of the room is warm, choked with summer heat and the odd sensations that simmer just beneath your skin, but you suppress a shiver anyway as a sliver of skin is revealed.

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone.

Heeseung inhales, eyes returning to your own for a moment. They’re searching for permission you won’t give and boundaries you won’t set. If he wants to walk this tightrope, he’ll have to navigate on his own.

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area.

It’s a scar you hardly think of, one you can’t believe he remembers. Gifted to you in your early days of training, when a fellow recruit thought the best way to better his ranking was to discard the strict sparring rules set by your superiors and draw blood as a last ditch attempt at victory.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol.

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?”

Heeseung glances up, something sincere in his eyes when he matches your gaze. His hand is still on your skin. “We’re all delicate. And we all have the scars to prove it. I’ve just developed a particular… aversion to seeing evidence of it when it comes to you.”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Apparently not,” Heeseung counters. “Since I’m not the one begging for a fight.” He holds your gaze when he adds, “And I have to say, princess, if you wanted me to put you on your back, there are much easier ways to ask.”

It’s as if you’ve been burned submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been.

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful.

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

Heeseung doesn’t need to be told twice.

#heeseung x you #heeseung x reader #heeseung fanfiction #heeseung fanfic #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #heeseung scenarios #enhypen scenarios

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starry-bi-sky · 1 day ago

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Okay so this is almost a direct copy-paste of my earlier reblog but only the Xin Yuan parts, because its long enough to be its own post and i want to share it! It deserves it's own post <3 typical starry stuff to write a 2k word long reblog, unfortunately.

I say almost because I went through to proof read and ended up adding more stuff.

I've been cooking on this idea for the last two days since I saw the Xin Mo!Shen Yuan post but??? I can't find anything on Xin Mo's backstory or how it came to be -- which means that's free fucking plot right there baby. That's a sandbox and im making LIFE SIZED CASTLES. I'm so excited.

The idea of Shen Yuan transmigrating centuries before the events of PIDW as Xin Mo -- but when he wakes up, he's not the sword. He wakes up in the body of a young boy named Xin Yuan. Now it makes sense for this boy to be a demon, but the drama, the intrigue, the spice of Xin Yuan being a human child.

SY wakes up as a boy below the age of ten, and the System tells him where he is, and SY is excited to meet his favorite protagonist -- only to gradually realize that he's like, a thousand years or so before the events of the novel. The rant he gives the system is legendary.

Bc what's the point of getting dropped into PIDW if he's never going to meet his favorite character??? This is a scam! BUT he settles into his new life, he's like, some orphan street rat or some other tragic airplane-esq backstory.

The system gives Shen Yuan his first mandatory quest: become a righteous cultivator. Which was like, kinda his plan/hopes anyways, except! There's like?? No official cultivator sects anywhere? The Cang Qiong Mountain Sect hasn't even been established yet, and there are pockets of cultivators running around, maybe some groups or schools popping up and then sinking back down, but nothing's really taken root!

If he asks someone how to become a cultivator, there's no straight answer. No "oh you can go to X to do that". He's pissed! How can he become a cultivator if there aren't any schools around to teach him? Deus ex machina, that's how.

Out of sheer luck, SY manages to help save a rogue cultivator, and promptly gets adopted by said rogue cultivator, who gives SY the name 'Xin Yuan'. He is ecstatic. And you know what? It's actually pretty fun!

He's getting to travel the world of PIDW in its early stages, and gets to see the building blocks for the eventual main story. He's discovering all this local flora and fauna that are foreign to his old world and unmentioned in the book, and he's learning cultivation! Granted, its unsafe, newly(ish) discovered cultivation, but it counts!

Wistfully, he thinks about perhaps he'll do something grand and get his name carved into legend. Something that would eventually help the protagonist later down the line in his quest for revenge.

The system remains silent to his thoughts.

But Xin Yuan doesn't take much stock in that daydream anyways. It's nothing more than fantasy to him; wish-fulfillment. He does discover however, that he is positively brimming with spiritual energy. Overwhelmingly so.

It's both a blessing and a curse, as it puts a strain on his meridians if he's not careful, and leaves him prone to qi deviations for the exact same reasons. He already has a heart demon or two from a few traumatic experiences in the past.

(bc hey! angst a day keeps the writer sadism at bay, and all that)

I'll say he's about... eight when he gets picked up by the rogue cultivator, who I'm calling Lin Kai bc he deserves a name. They travel around PIDW up until Xin Yuan is twelve, where he goes through a traumatic experience that results in a heart demon.

It's after that that Lin Kai decides to put a stop to his wandering, and find a place to settle down to raise Xin Yuan in. Coincidentally! They settle down in a nice mountain region that's thriving with spiritual energy. The mountains at the time were called something different, but they will be eventually known as the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect

Coincidentally, the mountain Lin Kai and Xin Yuan end up on is Qing Jing Peak. XY does not realize that the mountain he's on is Qing Jing. The System does not tell him. But he likes it there, more than he was expecting. And as much as he's traveled around, he really does enjoy being in one place.

He has a tendency to go down the mountain and help the village setting up down there, and when he's a teenager he starts venturing out more and more.

Xin Yuan forgets sometimes that he's in a novel, especially after settling down on Qing Jing peak. The system becomes remarkably quiet since there's no quests for him to do and not a ton of opportunities to get B-Points. He cultivates with Lin Kai, helps tend to the garden they're growing, goes down to the village to play with the other kids.

There's one boy he's best friends with, a boy whose not all that good with words, named Liu Zhihao. He's got potential for cultivation though, so Xin Yuan drags him up the mountain when he can so that Liu Zhihao can sit in on lessons with Lin Kai. He drags him all over the forest at the foot of the mountain to go look at bugs and animals.

(One time, when they're fourteen and Liu Zhihao has been learning cultivation for a few years now, Xin Yuan drags him out of bed late one night to go look at the stars. Xin Yuan tells Liu Zhihao about ascension -- something that still feels like a far off dream to many in this time -- that night, while they're sitting on the wet grass.)

("We should ascend together." Xin Yuan tells Liu Zhihao, jade eyes gleaming. Never let it be said that Xin Yuan doesn't love deeply, no matter what kind of love it is. He was always so lonely as Shen Yuan, Liu Zhihao is his best friend. "We'll become immortals, and then we won't ascend until the other is able to.")

(Liu Zhihao stares at him silently, his face unreadable. Then, quietly, he asks; "Promise?")

("Promise.")

When he starts adventuring outwards, further away from the mountain and the village, Liu Zhihao sticks to him like rice. Not that Xin Yuan's complaining, that's his best friend after all, and Liu Zhihao has become a formidable cultivator. He deserves to show off his skills.

He starts making something of a name for himself by the time he's, like, 18 -- although that name is in its baby steps, along with Liu Zhihao. They're slowly growing renown.

Perhaps XY uses his knowledge of PIDW and cultivation in general to help make advancements in the cultivation field. Although the system prevents him from sharing too much, it doesn't mean he can't practice it himself. Perhaps he's one of the first cultivators to develop a golden core. One of the first known immortal cultivators. One of the first to have a spirit sword.

(Although I don't know the logistics of any of this since my knowledge on xanxia/cultivation stuff in general is all still pretty new and google wasn't all that helpful lol.)

Either way, its my excuse to eventually make Xin Yuan come across as ethereal to other people. Peerless beauty SY for the win. Hs wifebeam is too strong, Xin Yuan has a line of suitors following after him and he's completely unaware of it. The rest of history is not.

Demon realm stuff has been stirring up since Xin Yuan was a kid, but at the time it was rare and in the beginning stages. Its been steadily ramping up and the system is sending him on more and more treacherous quests -- some of them mandatory, some optional. SY doesn't often take the optional ones unless it comes with a sufficient B-point reward.

for all intents and purposes though, he's a wandering rogue cultivator with Liu Zhihao, going from place to place to either help a town or village, or to discover more creatures or artifacts (although there aren't that many). Just all around living his life. He participates in a few major quest lines that are sure to get him mentioned in legend, even if it's a background character way.

(Unbeknownst to him, rather than being a side character in these legends, he's named directly. You can't become one of the first immortal cultivators and NOT get name dropped for clout.)

He has a spirit sword named Shā Mó, (杀 shā - to kill/weaken/counteract/reduce) (魔 mó - evil spirit, demon, possession). He routinely goes back to QJP to see Lin Kai, or to rest when traveling has worn down on him and he wants nothing more than to sleep somewhere he knows he'll be safe in. It becomes more frequent as Xin Yuan becomes more famous. Liu Zhihao often comes with him.

it all comes to a head though when the rifts between the demonic realm and the human realm become too great, and the balance between both realms becomes unstable. A demonic emperor's influence, wanting to merge the two realms so he could conquer both to satiate his own greed.

Typical evil king stuff. This comes to a climatic head in a great battle between every cultivator available and the demon emperor's army. Xin Yuan was one of the many who helped lead the charge.

In the end, it was Xin Yuan who ends up defeating the demonic emperor, but the rift that the emperor used to cross between worlds is destabilizing as well. Except instead of trying to close, it's getting bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow the heavens and earth and demonic realm whole.

You know how Yue Qingyuan's soul is bonded to his sword due to a qi deviation? Let's take it a step further >:)

Xin Yuan uses himself and Shā Mó to close the rift. However, it takes all of his spiritual energy to do so, as well as him filtering the demonic qi into his body to redirect it back to the demon realm.

In the end, Xin Yuan and his beloved sword Shā Mó fuse. Xin Yuan's soul becomes trapped in the sword. His physical body is unable to handle the immense amount of power it takes to close the rift, and is destroyed. He is immortalized in legend by his grieving cultivators.

(Liu Zhihao ends up ascending alone. He ascends with the hope that one day he'll see Xin Yuan again, even if it's in the face of someone else. Lin Kai does not ascend, too weighed down by the grief of losing his son.)

Xin Yuan, now Xin Mo, falls into a stasis. He's very confused and disorientated when he regains 'consciousness'. The system has been silent for most of his life, only popping up to give him mandatory quests, hints, points, or to answer any questions.

But once he wakes up, it cheerfully pops up again, congratulating him on completing the origin story of Xin Mo. SY freaks the fuck out. he'd shake the system screen if he could, but he doesn't have arms. or legs. or eyes for that matter.

He can sense his surroundings, but its all like imprints to him. He can sense the energies, but he can't see anything. It's all very disorientating and horrifying after years of being human. Like a sensory deprivation chamber.

The closing of the rift and the cycling demonic qi tainted both Sha Mo and Xin Yuan irreparably, and it did some kind of damage that resulted in SY needing to feed in order to use the spiritual powers. Kinda like how Xuan Su uses YQY's life force for it's spiritual energy, but instead of feeding on his own lifeforce, Xin Mo feeds on others.

The rest is history. Xin Mo is originally tied to the story of Xin Yuan -- believed to be all that remained of the man after he sacrificed himself to keep the realms separate. It's believed that the force of the realms closing permanently infused Sha Mo with demonic energy, turning it into Xin Mo.

But, like many stories do when faced against the tide of time, things get lost; chipped off; changed. Xin Mo is steadily separated from Xin Yuan, especially once it becomes clear how parasitic the sword really is, until they are all but separate entities themselves and the origin of Xin Mo's creation all but forgotten.

The years blur together when Xin Mo is not being wielded, and at first Xin Yuan was agonized by the fact that he stole the lives of all his wielders. He knows it's only a novel, but his decades spent in this life have softened him, and he's grown attached to the world around him.

But time erodes the mind like water erodes stone, and he becomes numb to it, then eventually anticipating of it. He forces himself to remember what he knows of PIDW's plot, and kinda fixates back on his old obsession on Luo Binghe. But while PIDW stays in his mind, his memories as Xin Yuan fall to the wayside.

Not forgotten, per se, but... tucked away. The system prevents him from forgetting fully.

Xin Mo isn't fully a demonic sword either i think, but instead harbors an ugly cocktail of both spiritual and demonic qi. Special circumstances and all that. Everyone just assumes he's a fully demonic sword because that's usually at the forefront, his spiritual qi weakened from the initial fusion and from years of not being fed spiritual qi. It's part of the reason his wielders always end up destroyed by him, other than the whole, yk, 'overwhelming qi' thing.

Nobody would recognize Xin Mo's human form as Xin Yuan other than some truly ancient demons. Of which Meng Mo might. But even that's iffy because there's a lack of surviving paintings of Xin Yuan, but also because of XM's demonic appearance and supposed lack of connection to XY.

Xin Mo has never spoken to his wielders before, not in the same way he does Luo Binghe. He tells Luo Binghe this, and he also tells Luo Binghe down the line that he is both spiritual and demonic -- something he also never told his wielders because there was no point to it.

okay okay i've got to end it here because its already gotten ridiculously long -- of which im both apologetic and unapologetic for -- but i DO think the Shang Qinghua and Shen Yuan meeting (and reveal) would be fucking hilarious. Especially if SY has learned how to pop between sword form and human form by then -- although i guess it doesnt matter either way because SQH's reaction is still the same.

And that reaction is internally screaming and going "hey what the FUCK?? WHY DOES XIN MO HAVE A HUMAN FORM??? WHAT IS THIS??? SYSTEM??? EXPLAIN???"

meanwhile from his place on the sword hilt xin mo is squinting at Shang Qinghua in bewilderment and going "aren't you supposed to be dead" but doesn't pay too much mind to it because its not like its going to change anything.

...up until he catches shang qinghua going "WTF" silently from his little corner while all eyes are off him. One moment SQH is standing beside his king, and the next he's been tackled to the ground by one wild-eyed, human-shaped Xin Mo.

everyone, including SQH, thinks Xin Mo is going to kill him. It is a surprise to everyone when he does not, and instead dissolves into deranged, uncontrollable laughter after spitting out some phrase in some ancient tongue and watching SQH's eyes grow wide in recognition.

#svsss au #svsss #scum villain au #scum villain #scum villain self saving system #shen yuan #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #liu zhihao is indeed based off liu qingge. i am a multishipper at heart and liushen is a delicious ship. XY and LZ i think were very devote #to each other regardless of if it was romantic or platonic. they're besties! and im a sucker for devotion in all aspects. its neat :)#XM eventually tells LBH about how he used to be human once and he tells him about his Xiao Zhi. and that he hopes Xiao Zhi was able to reac #ascension in his absence. LBH silently seethes with jealousy and abandonment issues a mile wide. he asks XM if he misses him. XM gets this #unreadable distant look on his face that makes him look far more mortal than is comfortable. then he mutters 'yes.' LBH hates it #Cang Qiong sect gets miraculously spared by Luo Binghe on account of 'my demonic sword grew up here and he'd be upset if i ruined it'#does LZH look like LQG? ...i want to say yes bc itd be crime to derive SY of LQG's beauty even if he never knows what LQG looks like #imagine XM as human coming to clash with YQY. he takes one look at YQY. then at Xuan Su. before going 'we're alike. you and i.'#rip SQH. executed for the crime of *checks scroll* making XM laugh before Binghe could. making XM laugh at all actually #XM is usually very reserved and restrained but for the first time in a thousand years he's met someone just like him. the emotional rush #is intense. SQH asks him later how long he's been Xin Mo. expecting like. at LEAST a few years now or after him but then XM blinks at him #and then mutters something about how he's lost track of time. oh hey btw what year it is??? he forgot to ask. SQH tells him and Xin Mo says #'oh! about a thousand years now' 'WHAT' and XM tells him about being Xin Yuan which SQH was not expecting. whether thats because #he genuinely wasnt expecting it or it was part of his outline or an idea he messed around with and didnt expect to make it into the world #SQH tells him about the legend of Xin Yuan. XM is stunned. he asks about Liu Zhihao. LZH made it into legend too. which XM is very #pleased by. 'good. he deserves it for all the hard work he put in.'

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mari-lair · 10 hours ago

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For Bonnie writing I think a lot of people get so hung up on them being a kid that they forget that Bonnie is decently smart and they do understand what's going on around them. I fully believe that Bonnie understands that they are looping and that understand Siffrin can't remember. i think they go through a lot more effort trying to 'fix' what they can control. Make people happy make sure everone eats, make sure everyone is standing in a fight with their items. But because Bonnie is so much younger I think they have much more fragile breaking points. They get overwhelmed a lot easier not because they don't understand the loops but because no matter what they'll always be the most helpless to do anything. Even if they get stronger they can't fight the king. Even if they make sure everyone eats and is healed they can't stop the loops. Cant save their sister, cant keep everyone's spirits up. I think Bonnie suffers most in the way that they're forced to be a bystander because they're 'the kid' they dont feel like their efforts are enough. Of course they're incredibly wrong but if isat had reliable narrators it wouldn't be isat

That's it, that's my biggest struggle, juggling what Bonnie would understand, what they won't, and what they know but don't want to talk/think about it. That's easily the hardest part of trying to write Bonnie T-T

Exemple: siffrin being crushed by a rock in the 'death corridor'? Even if the adults don't let them see the body they can connect the dots of exactly how 'hurt' siffrin was. But I personally think they wouldn't want to think about Sif being gone, even if temporarily. It would take a few deaths for them to explode "i am not an idiot i know what happen everytime sif 'get hurt,' and we loop!"

But Siffrin saying "sure I remember that very important moment we had, power of friendship is strong." like a liar, would make them go "you do?!" instead of going "you're not in the time loop, rationally I know that you don't, liar." cause they want siffrin to remember so bad, and siffrin is enough of a good actor to be able to fool a kid once (and accidentally make things way worse for bonnie) depending on what scenario plague my vision I can even see the first lie not being caught until hindsight so Sif gets to lie a solid two times about it.

I personally think Bonnie would understand they are in the timeloop (world restart, only the family beside Sif remembers. Consequences don't last. ) but it would take a considerable amount of loops for them to get the full extent/implications of how that affect things, especially since everyone acts at least a tad different each loop (perks of the family not going out of their way to repeating their lines/ acting very different all the times) and bonnie complicated relationship with siffrin.

Your ask gave me a lot of inspiration though. Bonnie trying to fix the loops makes so much sense, SO MUCH SENSE.

#i have one more scene i am slaping on my 'list of comics i gotta draw'#oh the woes of making an au with FOUR LOOPERS is that i have too many things to juggle #the ideas never end #isat spoilers #just to be safe #this is o

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sparkleofpizza · 3 days ago

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The Alchemy

THE 2019 SEASON

Melbourne, Australia, 2019

I was nervous, I knew you shouldn't be, but I was.

The sun was shining bright down at the Melbourne Circuit, you could hear the delighted conversations from fans just outside of the motorhome. Everyone was excited for the upcoming season of Formula 1, with new drivers and grid line up changes. And I was one of the new faces at the paddock, although not a driver.

I’ve been no stranger to this whole life at the paddock and following Formula 1. I grew up with it as I’d follow my father around since the moment i learned how to walk.

Jenson Button, former Formula 1 driver and world champion. I carried my last name with pride, I love my dad more than anything in the world, but the moment I showed genuine interest in the motorsport world people started to talk.

So now, I can't help but wonder, what is everyone going to say the minute you walk into the paddock as not a guest, but as a McLaren intern.

Sure, I will be the first to admit that having the Button last name did help I get this internship, but I conclude the training to be here on your effort, with my intelligence, my studies and everything I prepared myself for.

I knew working at the PR department didn't come easy in the motorsport world, I not only had to deal with PR, reporters, FIA, and the drivers, but you had to understand the dynamic of the sport, of the car, and everything else in case I needed to step up to give a statement on behalf of a driver or the team.

I spent countless days, in 2018, going over the FIA regulations, learning about the cars, all while taking classes in UNI and juggling the McLaren PR training.

Someone called out my name in a soothing manner. I lifted your head, meeting Sophie's smile. Behind her there were two men, one standing tall and proud and the other a bit more awkwardly. I knew very well who they were as I will be working close to them.

"Hi, Sophie." I smile at her "Would you like to join me for coffee?"

She nods, taking a sit across from me and gesturing the two men to do the same.

"I wanted to introduce you three properly since you'll be working close together." She says "These are our 2019 drivers, Carlos Sainz and Lando Norris. This is Y/n, she is our new PR intern."

I smile at both of them.

“It’s nice to finally meet you both.”

Carlos smiles “Likewise, I hope we get along well, the three newbies of McLaren.”

I laugh at his little joke and Lando follows suit with his own laughter that is a bit too contagious.

He seems a bit shy, maybe it’s because it’s his first season in Formula 1 and he feels like he has a lot to prove. In a sense I relate to him. We’re both here to show we’re good and deserve to be here.

And without even speaking for more than 5 minutes with him, I can already feel that we’re going to be friends soon enough.

Xangai, China, 2019

I have my back turned to the door of McLaren hospitality as I fumble with the coffee machine. It’s very early in the morning on Friday, a few hours away from the start of free practice. I am feeling exhausted from the long flight from England to China and the different time zones.

“It seems like the coffee machine is winning the fight.” A voice cut through the silence of the hospitality.

I turn around to find Lando standing beside me with a smile on his face, showing his dimples and amusement.

“I can’t get it to make coffee, I think it’s broken.” I complain with a huff

“Did you turn it on?” He asks me amused

“What?”

“Did you turn on the machine?”

“Of course I…” He reaches his arm across from me, pushing a button and the coffee machine beeps before finally brewing my coffee. I feel my cheeks go warm in embarrassment “Sorry, I’m uh still half asleep.”

He giggles, that infectious laugh of his that I always find myself smiling and giggling along whenever I hear it. If there is one thing I have already learned from Lando, it's that it’s nearly impossible to be serious around him. He carries this natural good natured aura, and he’s funny and likes to make jokes and see the good side of things. And whenever I’m around him I find myself a giggling mess.

We grab our cups of coffee and take a seat at one of the comfortable arm chairs at the corner of the room.

“You look tired.” Lando points out, sipping his coffee.

“I’m jet lagged, and I had a paper to turn in for uni so I stayed up until late and I only got a few hours of sleep on the plane because I had to review the questions for yesterday’s press conference.” I tell him, basically chugging down my coffee “Do you think I’d get fired if I drank Red Bull?”

He shakes his head.

“You should get some sleep during FP1.” He tells me

I sigh “Yeah, but it’s not really worth the drive back to the hotel, I will probably only manage a twenty minute nap before I have to come back here.”

“You can nap in my driver's room.” He offers, a friendly smile on his face

“Oh, no, I can’t accept it.” I shake my head “Thank you, thought.”

Lando smiles, leaning over the armrest of his seat to get closer to me.

“I insist. You need sleep to be on top of your game. Come on.” He stands up offering his hand. I eye it for a moment before accepting it. He pulls me up to my feet.

He guides me through the corridors of the hospitality until we reach his driver’s room. He opens the door and I’m a bit surprised at how neat it looks. I half expected it to be a mess of clothes.

“Here, you can sleep on the couch, it isn’t much but it’s better than nothing.”

“Thank you.” I smile, sitting on the couch and taking off my shoes.

I get into a comfortable position, curling up on the couch and instantly closing my eyes. I feel something soft covering me and I open my eyes a bit confused.

“I don’t have a blanket.” Lando says, his cheeks turning red. “So I uh… covered you with my jacket.”

I feel my chest grow warm at his sweet gesture. I smile at him.

“Thank you, Lando.”

He smiles back at me, and at that moment, I think is when I started to have a crush on him.

Barcelona, Spain, 2019

I should have expected Spain to be a bit insane considering the fact that I work with a Spanish driver. The minute I stepped out of the car with Carlos following behind me, the fans started to scream and throw themselves at us.

I’m not unfamiliar with the whole passionate fans wanting pictures and autographs, but since I used be a toddler or a child, they at least head the decency to not push and pull at my dad because I was clinging to him.

But now I am an adult, and they don’t care about those things anymore and I had never been mobbed by fans before without having my dad or my uncles by my side.

The fans screamed at Carlos who was doing his best to attend each and every single one of them. And things only got worse when Lando arrived and they suddenly wanted pictures of the best new funny duo of the grid.

They pulled at me, shoving pictures on my face to get them to sign since I worked with them, and they yelled questions about what it was like to work with the both young drivers.

I tried to step away, get away from them fans, but I was stuck in between the mass of people and to make matters worse they managed to separate me from Carlos and Lando who were looking at me concerned over the chaos.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck is going on?” A harsh loud voice cut through the yell of fans “Stop pulling at her! Get your hands off of her!”

Suddenly a tall blonde man dressed in red was pushing the fans away from me, shielding me with his body as he yelled.

I cling to the back of Sebastian's Ferrari shirt, telling like a little girl again, but completely relieved that he was there with me with his familiar force of comfort he always knew how to bring me.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, gluing me to his side and I knew if I wasn’t 20 years old anymore he would have picked me up and carried me like a toddler out of this mess. He glared at everyone who tried to get in our way and stirred me inside the paddock.

“Prinzessi.” Sebastian called me the same nickname from when he first met me as a newborn “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head “No, I’m… I’m fine.” I say, but my voice is shaky and he can tell that I’m holding back tears.

He places his hands on my shoulders, peering down at me with intense concerned eyes as he scans my body to look for any injury.

“What the hell is wrong with you both?” Sebastian yells the minute Lando and Carlos finally catch up to us “They were eating her alive!”

They look sheepish and terrified of being scolded by the German who looks lived with anger.

“She’s your PR assistant, but you’re supposed to keep your fans in check to keep her safe!” Sebastian continues with the harsh tone “She could have gotten hurt! They were touching her and shoving her! That was so reckless from the both of you!”

They nod, stiffly.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vettel.” Lando says, eyes wide “I promise this will never happen again. I’ll- I’ll make sure she is safe at all times from now own. I- I swear!”

Sebastian doesn’t correct him on the Mr. Vettel name calling, he nods still with a glare.

“Come on, prinzessin.” He says in a much more soft tone, his arm resting against my shoulder in a protective parental manner “Let’s get you to Ferrari, uh? I will get you one of those chocolate pastries you love so much.”

With one final glare Sebastian takes me away from them. The McLaren drivers share a confused look as they watch me walk away.

Monte Carlo, Monaco, 2019

The Monaco Grand Prix is always a big event. Lots of celebrities and former drivers gather in the city to watch the historical race, and that’s how I find myself sitting at the McLaren hospitality chatting away with uncle Nico while my dad gets us drinks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to watch the race from Mercedes, uncle Nico?” I ask him, making my best innocent look that always got me away with things when I was younger and probably until this day when it comes to the drivers who watch me grow up.

“No, of course not.” Nico Rosberg shakes his head, a found and almost proud smile on his face “This is the first race I am watching this season in person and you’re officially a Formula 1 employee, I’m staying all weekend here with you at McLaren.”

I want to argue with him that I’m not technically a F1 employee as I’m just an intern, but he gives me a pointed look and I only nod.

“So, what is this that I hear about you and a rookie driver?”

I widen my eyes as I look at him.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Nico laughs at me “Seb has told me that you’ve become inseparable from the rookie McLaren driver, Norris.”

I huff, I should have known uncle Sebastian would open his mouth and gossip about me to his retired friends.

As if being summoned, Lando walked into the McLaren hospitality, wearing his cap backwards and smiling big as always. Carlos is beside him as usual and they both make their way over once they spot me.

“Hola, pequenita.” Carlos greets me, ruffling my hair affectionately before spotting Nico sitting across for me and getting a bit embarrassed.

Lando stands beside me ready to make a joke when he notices Carlos’ expression and widening his eyes when he sees Nico as well.

“Hello, Nico.” Carlos greets him

“Carlos, always good to see you.” He smiles before turning to Lando “And you must be one of the 2019 rookies, Lando?”

Lando nods quickly “Yeah, yeah. That’s me, nice to meet you Mr. Rosberg.”

Nico’s smile widens as Lando addresses him as Mr. Rosberg, feeling pleased with himself. I shot him a warning glare.

“Please, join us.” He says, motioning for the boys to the empty seats.

Lando sits beside me as Carlos sits across from me, leaving one empty space at the head of the table.

Nico makes light conversation, asking mostly questions about Formula 1, but I could see the glint in his eyes every time he asked Lando something, who seemed incredibly shy at receiving attention from a World Champion.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get the drinks, I ran into some old friends.” My dad says walking to the table with a glass of my favorite refreshing drink to have in Monaco “There you go, sweetheart.”

I smile, accepting the drink “Thank you, dad.”

Lando and Carlos both choke on their saliva at the same time when they hear me call Jensen Button my dad.

“Ah, just the men I wanted to meet!” He exclaims “Carlos, Lando, you both have been doing such good jobs here at McLaren. My daughter talks a lot about you.”

I watch as they become flustered over the news. My dad smiles, taking a sit at the head of the table.

“I heard you both let her get swamped by a mob of fans?” He asks with a smile, but I can see the hard look in his eyes.

“Dad!” I scold him “Uncle Seb already gave them a hard time!”

My father chuckles, soon being followed by Nico. Carlos and Lando’s eyes are wide and they look terrified.

“I know, I know.” My dad lifts his hands in surrender “I’m just messing with them. But I still have eyes and ears on the paddock so…”

“Dad!” I scold him once more.

He laughs again and finally switch subjects, talking about the new grid line up of this year and asking questions to Lando and Carlos who seem to become a bit more comfortable at the presence of Jenson Button and Nico Rosberg.

Hockenheim, Germany, 2019

Lando was in a bad mood, I could tell it from far away. He was moving frantically around the garage and he had a scowl on his face.

The past five races have been of ups and downs from him, he had two DNF, one race out of top ten because he got p11 and two races where he scored points. But he was pissed off still from his p11 on his home race in England.

It also didn’t help that the reporter he got placed with decided to improvise some questions that wasn’t pre approved and it made Lando uncomfortable with the way he was pressing on the matter of him doing a bad job at his home race.

And then, to make matters worse, he DNFed again today.

“Lando.” I say his name in a soft tone

He whips his head quickly towards me, a deep frown on his face.

“It wasn’t your fault.” I say, I place a hand on his forearm, squeezing it in reassurance “It’s raining terribly today, everyone is spinning.”

He huffs annoyed.

“I should be good at racing in the rain.” He complains.

“How many times have you raced in this circuit?” I ask him, calmly.

“Well- this was the first time, but…”

I cut him off “And how many times have you raced in the rain in a Formula 1 car?”

Lando blinks at me as he answers “This was also the first time.”

I nod, my thumb rubbing sof circles on his forearm.

“And how do you expect to be good at something you’re doing for the first time?”

He looks away from me, and I can tell he is staring to consider my words.

“Valtteri has been doing this for a long time and he also crashed.” I tell him.

That get him to look at me again, his frown turning into something a bit more hopeful.

“Bottas didn’t finish the race?”

I shake my head “No, he didn’t. Even the experienced ones are having a hard time out there. This is only your first race in the rain, Lando.”

He sighs, and slowly he nods his head. He shifts his arm, making my hand slide down and towards his. His hand is much bigger than mine and it’s warm despite the cold weather from the rain. He squeezes my hand.

“Thank you. I just-…”

I smile at him, squeezing his hand back.

“It’s okay. I get it.”

And for the first time since he DNFed, I saw Lando’s dimples as he smiled at me.

Marina Bay, Singapore, 2019

Singapore has always been a hard circuit. The warmth and humidity did no good for the drivers to be racing for long periods of time. Still, it’s one of my favorite circuits because I find it beautiful to watch the race at night.

I’m watching from the McLaren garage, this time considering the hot weather conditions, they allowed the PR team to wear lighter clothes, so I’m in a simple dress, standing close to the AC and sipping water every few minutes.

I wince when I watch Carlos spin and crash into the barrier. The garage grows quiet for a minute.

“He’s ok!” His race engineer announces and we all finally breath normally again

A few moments later Carlos enters the garage with an annoyed look on his face. He places his helmet on one of the shelves and go to speak to his team.

I keep my eyes trained on the screen to watch Lando’s progress while I look for the schedule of reporters who want a world with Carlos after his DNF.

I accept the request of two journalists and move over to where Carlos is.

“Hey… you ready for some interviews?” I ask, eyeing him

He clenched his jaw before nodding and following me out of the garage and onto the media pan.

I give out instructions to him on the way there and step back when he positions himself to give the interviews. I watch intensely, jotting out necessary information on my iPad and ready to intervene at any given moment, but despite the bad situation, the interviews go smoothly and soon enough we’re back at the garage.

Carlos excuses himself to go shower and change clothes, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

In a blur of moments I watch as uncle Seb wins the Singapore Grand Prix, a proud smile on my face. Lando finishes in p7 which is great since he’s on the pointing zone.

“Congratulations, Lando. You did a really good job today!” I tell him

His smile grows bigger “Thank you, thank you!”

Even though he’s happy, I can notice the tiredness ok his face. He’s completely drenched in swest and I can see the slightly tremor of his hands, probably about to begin an hypoglycemic episode without even realizing.

“Hey, why don’t you take a sit?” I say, gently grabbing both his arms and walking him to a chair. I move quickly as I push my water bottle into his hands and search for a snack “Here.”

Lando looks at me a bit confused, but obliged.

“Oh.. wow.” He chuckles “How did you even know how to do this? I didn’t even realize I was feeling weak.”

I smile, my hand twitches at my side as I feel the want to run my fingers over his curls.

“I’ve been on the watching side of this sport since I learned how to walk. I learned a thing or two.”

He nods, still munching on the chocolate protein bar I gave him.

“Yeah… I uh sometimes forget you’re the Jenson Button’s daughter.”

“I’m glad you do.”

Lando tilts his head to the side, confused, but doesn’t say anything and I’m grateful for that.

Austin, United States, 2019

The season is coming to an end, thankfully. All the traveling, working and university studying at the same time has been taking a toll on me. It is too much, and I could see it every time I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror. The circles staring back at me.

My body was sore, my throat scratchy and my head hurt. I knew the flu was making it’s way to dominate my body.

Still, I put on makeup to cover up my sickness face and went to the paddock for media day.

“Buenos dias!” Carlos greeted me once I entered the van and sat across from him and beside Lando who was bouncing with energy on the seat

“Good morning.” I say, cringing a little at the way my voice sounded

Lando frowned, pushing his face close to mine to examine me.

“What’s wrong?” He asked in a low voice, his brows furrowing

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Still, he kept analyzing me. From the corner of my eyes I could see Carlos lips turn upwards in a smile he hid behind his phone as he scrolled through it.

Lando said my name slowly, softly.

“You look sick.”

I pout slightly as I say “Geez, thank you for saying I look terrible.”

He huffs, clearly not finding my attempt to brush it off as funny as I did. He lifted his hand up before placing it on my forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“Oh, so now I’m…”

“Stop trying to deflect it.” Lando cuts me off before I can make another joke. “You’re sick. Why didn’t you say anything? You should be in bed resting.”

I shake my head, getting away from his hand.

“I’m not sick. I’m great. I’m just jet lagged and a bit tired, nothing some coffee won’t fix.”

Lando frowns and it takes me by surprise to see the irritated look on his face directed at me. Sure, I’ve seen him mad before when the race doesn’t go the way expected or when the media gets too much, but never aimed at me.

“I’ve seen you jet lagged and tired before and this is not it.”

I say his name in a sigh and he says my name in a warning. We stared at each other for what feels like forever, before Carlos giggles at us and says we arrived at the paddock.

The minute I get out of the van I start to quickly walk inside the paddock, scanning my pass, knowing the guys will stop to talk to the fans and I will be free of Lando’s questioning. I start to make my way to the McLaren hospitality when I feel a large hand land on my shoulder.

I flinch in surprise, whipping my head around and finding Lando beside me, still frowning.

“Lando.” I try to sound stern as I say his name, but it gets mixed up with a cough I try to hold in.

That only makes his frown deepen. He starts to drag me somewhere.

“You’re going to the medic center now.” He says, stern.

I complain and try to stand still, but he is taller, bigger and much stronger than me so he basically drags me.

I can see some people turning around to look at us, but I keep telling him to let go.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Sebastian shows up in front of us, hands on his waist and I know that behind his sunglasses he is glaring at Lando. “What is going on here?”

“She’s sick and she’s being stubborn about it.” Lando says, still holding onto my shoulder “So I’m taking her to the medic center.”

Sebastian frowns, placing his sunglasses on top of his head as he takes a step closer to me.

“I’m not sick.” I say “Lando is being dramatic. Tell him to leave me alone.”

“She is sick! She even has a fever!”

Sebastian looks between the two of us, but he knows me long enough to know I am lying. He places a hand on my forehead.

“Norris ir right, you do have a fever, prinzessin.”

“No I don’t.” I say stubbornly.

He arches an eyebrow, as if challenging me.

“Do you want me to carry you to the medic center like you’re still a tiny baby?” He asks and I shake my head quickly, knowing very well he isn’t bluffing “Then let Norris take you and follow everything the medics say.”

“But Sebby!” I whine.

“Prinzessin.” He gives me an unimpressed look “Go to the medic center with Norris, now. And I’m not asking, I am telling you to go.”

I huff with a pout, knowing I won’t win this argument so I let Lando take me to the medic center while Sebastian watches from the distant as the McLaren rookie fusses over me.

Abu Dhabi, Saudi Arabia, 2019

The paddock was busier than ever, so many people with so many big smiles and shouts of happiness.

It’s the last race of the season and it leaves a bittersweet feeling on my chest. On one hand I am extremely happy that the season is finally over and I will be able to go back to a somewhat normal routine, going to college everyday, normal sleep schedules, as normal as an university student sleep schedule can go, and staying at home for a bit.

But at the same time, I am upset about being away from Formula 1 for the time being. I got used to seeing Lando and Carlos everyday, they are already a big important part of my life. I like the thrill of being in a different place every other week, of learning new things and watching the races.

I’m sitting at the VIP lounge section at the rooftop, overlooking the paddock bustling with activities. I’m sipping an Italian soda while I soak in the last moments of the 2019 season.

I don’t say anything as Lando slips quietly on the seat beside me. He has dark sunglasses perched on the top of his nose and he’s wearing a black McLaren shirt. His thigh brushes my slightly to gather my attention.

I shift in my seat to look at him and he already has that dimple smile on his face.

“It’s been a long year, huh?” He says quietly

I nod, smiling softly at him.

“It has been… feels like it was yesterday that I meet you and Carlos on my first day at the paddock.”

He hums, reaching out for my glass of Italian soda and taking a sip without even asking for it. I don’t mind, it’s normal between us by now.

“How was your first year as a Formula 1 employee?” He asks

“Better than I expected to be honest.” I tell him, playing with the hem of my dress “I didn’t get bad words from people for being Jenson Button’s daughter.”

Lando nods, understanding what I’m hinting at.

“You’ve been doing a good job, I think you’ve proved yourself here.”

“No, I haven’t yet.” I tell him. “But what about you? How was your first year as a Formula 1 driver?”

His smile widens “It was insane. Sometimes still feels like I’m dreaming. I know the results I’ve been getting aren’t ideal yet, but being here… it’s great.” I can tell he’s happy by the way his eyes lit up “I got so luck to have a good teammate.”

I nod, he sure indeed found a friend in Carlos.

“And even luckier to have the most beautiful and incredible PR intern.”

My cheeks grow hot the minute my brain register and processes his words. I lift my eyes to look at him, his cheeks are also tinted pink and he was a sweet smile on his face.

We stare at each other for a moment, only gazing in each others eyes. I reach for his hand and he squeezes mine in his big one.

“Will you be here with me next year?” Lando asks in a soft tone.

“Yes.” I breath out “I’ll be here with you next year.”

#fanfiction #f1 imagine #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #sebastian vettel x reader #carlos sainz x reader

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sleepy-aletheas · 2 days ago

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I love that the sentiment of "I know what's best for you, why aren't you listening to me" was always a two-way issue between them Before.

With Alhaitham, it's pretty straightforward. He saw a problem, and tried to brute force it away, because he didn't understand back then that internal struggles aren't easily solved by just going "hmmm nope" and move to healthier mindsets and good boundaries.

Kaveh's altruism isn't the core problem, but the way he goes about it; and Alhaitham tried to fix it in the worst way by going directly for the problem by himself, even if it wasn't his battle to fight.

Kaveh needed a shoulder to lean on, not a savior to fix him.

But in a sense, it goes the other way around too, where Kaveh was always someone who tried to fit in and be a part of the collective; seeing a loner Alhaitham made him want to bring his junior between people and change him to fit in too.

He would try to bring people closer to Alhaitham through their research, berate him for not helping others over and over, point out every single "selfish" action and hoping Alhaitham would eventually go "you're right".

Kaveh was always someone who could bend himself into ways that fit in the social situation so he could be as helpful as possible, and seeing Alhaitham, who refused to do it at all even if he was capable of it, must have driven him insane. His junior is able of anything he puts his mind to, and he just doesn't want to?

Alhaitham needed to be understood, not changed to someone else's whim.

It's also why their eternal debates about their ideals lasted so long. If it was always about their subjective ideas and train of thoughts, it was fine to dig into. There was nothing inherently wrong about it, and could be separated from their persons easily enough. But the moment they went from "altruism vs egoism" to "Kaveh's guilt vs Alhaitham's selfishness" they both crossed their boundaries of debate into personal dispute; and those topics could be seen as their biggest inner obstacles they had to deal with in their past and present.

It's also why Kaveh was always hostile-adjacent before the end of Parade of Providence; they blurred the line of ideals and their persons enough for their frustrations to become synonyms to everything. And with their miscommunication, misunderstandings, and ridiculously sized pride and stubbornness, it took Kaveh to be fully hit with the reality of his father's fate and seeing Alhaitham try to give him the tools to deal with his guilt himself, to realize that they both changed and it doesn't have to be "Kaveh vs Alhaitham" anymore.

And then in the subsequent events, every time they pop up onto the screen, they are more open to each other, more relaxed, more...understanding of each other and their boundaries.

They still poke fun, and point out their weaknesses, and side eye everything said and done, because they cannot be Alhaitham and Kaveh without bickering (and making it a spectacle for everyone else). But they don't make it a pointed attack anymore. They don't take it personally, don't berate and demean. Instead they listen to what the other has to say, and ruminate over it, instead of flying into fights on sight.

Alhaitham learned to trust Kaveh to work through life on his own, and be there as a support.

Kaveh learned to let Alhaitham have his space to decide who he wants to be and who he lets in close.

They're not meant to fix each other, they're meant to be companions. Sometimes it's as simple as that.

you were not mine to save -> to be loved is to be changed

i keep thinking about how

if you boil down alhaitham & kaveh's akademiya-era fallout fight, it was that alhaitham wanted to change kaveh & kaveh could never agree with his proposed course of action

but now, as full grown adults, alhaitham isnt trying to change kaveh anymore

that core conflict does reoccur, as it did during Parade of Providence when alhaitham lectured kaveh after Act II & kaveh got annoyed

(even though Alhaitham was obviously just worried about kaveh's health/wellbeing...)

this is a common pattern of behavior for them: alhaitham is worried about kaveh & kaveh reacts defensively to it

which speaks to how stubborn & hyper-independent kaveh is

despite being someone who's dedicated to giving back to the community and contributing towards the larger social good, he's quite determined on his own path in life

he'll bear the consequences (ie bankruptcy) all by himself if necessary...! and he's much too stubborn to be talked out of his own decisions

i dont think there was any possible way kaveh could have walked away from the wrecks of the first build of alcazarzaray and still be at peace with himself

and kaveh even admits he was naive (in his teapot dialogue), but he doesnt regret it still even now

so i think its cool alhaitham realised that there's no point in trying to convince kaveh to change who he is

such is kaveh. kaveh will not be someone different, not even for alhaitham. his work & altruism are parts of his core identity

why fight a mountain who will not be moved?

instead, alhaitham goes for more "harm reduction" strategies:

help cover kaveh's bar tabs, which means he's also the one lambad calls to pick up kaveh & see kaveh home safely

snark at kaveh when he's ranting about clients to keep him in a righteous mood instead of getting depressed

there's a quote about how to be loved is to be changed....

and alhaitham certainly has changed so much from that smart-mouthed student who had pinpointed what he thought was the root of kaveh's overbearing altruism and figured he could fix kaveh's problems with that knowledge!

to now as an adult with a lot more life experience: alhaitham knows that kaveh isn't his to save

and the more he tries to force kaveh to changing, the more likely kaveh is to dig his heels in

alhaitham doesnt need to be kaveh's minder or overbearing best friend--

he wants to be kaveh's partner, his equal, which means respecting kaveh's choices for what they are

anyways kaveh's drowner analogy works rly nicely for this core conflict between them (changing people vs supporting them and protecting them from harm)

& i cant believe its canon

i really appreciate this aspect of their relationship too-- it feels very mature & realistic...

how easy it would be if you could just TELL someone how to fix their problems!

its very frustrating to see someone you care about run straight towards problems again & again...

but you can't change someone's mind bc you want it to be that way. they have to decide on their own, on their own volition, and to truly believe in their decision, for the changes to really stick

as much as it sucks that you can't just solve people's problems for them

the human experience is so much richer for all of our different perspectives and ideas and principles that will not be compromised bc someone else wanted it to be

you can't control people's thoughts & that's for the best (also alhaitham's SQ is literally about this lmao)

#they make me sick <3 #on a sidenote #its funny how alhaitham says he would let someone drown if it was their choice or if someone else was already to help #because he damn well would save them if no one else would because that is simply the right thing to do #he doesn't enjoy peoples pain and suffering and he and kaveh once had aligned views #(i do think they misunderstood views and ideals back then. making them one and the same just to be hit with reality)#i need to shut up i blabber too much #thank you tho for feeding my brainworms op #alhaitham #kaveh #haikaveh

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sterredem · 2 days ago

Text

Legends

Taylor swift x driver!reader

Face claim Olivia Rodrigo

Summary the most iconic couple that exists right now, and the new mile stones.

Warning not proofread, spelling mistakes

A/N I loveeeee ittt

Also this was a request!! I hope you like it!!

Instagram

12.524 liked

WAGupdate! Taylor Swift seen entering the Abu Dhabi paddock! The shake it off singer is dating Mercedes driver Y/n Y/l/n, and is now at the last race of the season. This might also be the race where Y/l/n officially wins this season.

View all 92 comments

User1 I LOVE the glitter!

User2 she’s so hot

User3 SUPPORTIVE GIRLFRIEND!!

User4 I hope she wins!!!

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Instagram

Liked by Taylorswift and 1.725.836 others

Yourusername The 2024 season has come to an end! And with that I take many trophies with me! What a good end. I want to thank Mercedes for this amazing season, and to many more to come!

Now on to a break with lots of training, to be back stronger next season!

View all 264.151 comments

Mercedesmgf1 See you soon😉

User5 Congratulations!!!!!

User6 always knew women in f1 would be top tier

TaylorNation Were proud of you!!

User7 I hope we see her and Taylor at the prize giving gala!!

User8 sooo… contract extension confirmed??

User9 Another broken record!!

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Instagram

92.725 likes

F1updates Taylor Swift and Y/n Y/l/n have arrived at the FIA prize giving gala! They are both in custom drgear sees, the singers one is from Gucci and Y/n’ is a Vivienne Westwood dress. We hope that they both have a lovely evening!

View all 9.721 comments

User10 THEY LOOK SO HOT!!

User11 🥵🥵🥵

User12 I love that you can see the other drivers and wags looking at them like…… wtf

User13 I just know they are JEALOUS!!

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Instagram

72.624 likes

Celebrity_News Y/n Y/l/n and Taylor Swift seen at the after party of the FIA prize giving gala, the after party was hosted by a few of the drivers and the couple was later spotted leaving with a few of the WAGS. They are all knows to have a good relationship.

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User1 just fell to my knees in Walmart

User2 They are GORGEOUS (pun intended)

User3 Love the red and gold (just thing about the song red and daylight) it’s soooo cuteee and a little Easter egg if you think about it!

User4 I love their and the WAG’ relations!!

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Instagram

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Yourusername What an amazing evening! Thank you so much for this! It has been an amazing season! Can’t wait to be back the next one!

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User5 fav driver got a reason!!

Author just pretend that they are together in the 6th picture

User6 the fact that she isn’t allowed to mention Taylor in the caption but she can put her in the photos is so funny to me

User7 wait why can’t she?

User6 Because some of the country’s are against gay relationships the FIA and Mercedes made an agreement that as long as Taylor isn’t mentioned as her girlfriend with anything F1 related (from her) than they can be public, but she can still put her in the posts because for all they can know they are best friends.

User7 ooohhh that makes sense

User8 🥵🤍❤️

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Instagram

Liked by Taylorswift and 3.624.131 others

Yourusername vacation dumppp

View all 153.524 comments

Gracieabrams cuties

Taylorswift ilyyy

User9 AAAWWWW

User10 that’s a lot of food……. I’m jealous……

User11 have a great vacation!!!

User12 Is Y/n going to the eras tour now that she’s free for a bit??

User13 I hope so!!

Author Just pretend that Taylor is still doing the tour when the F1 season ends (the time line and stuff won’t add up otherwise)

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Instagram

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Taylorswift recharging before another leg of the tour!

Comments are disabled

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Instagram

Liked by Conangrey and 1.624.142 others

Y/n_jpg Vacation captured by Taylor and me

View all 98.825 comments

Conangrey Take me with you next time

Sabrinacarpenter see you soon!!

User1 Awwwwwww

User2 the fact that most pictures of are Y/n so that means that she took more pictures of her… is so cute to me

User3 Love 2.0 when???

User4 I love them!!!

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Yourusername posted a story!

User4 replied to your story

YOURE THERE!!!!

User6 replied to your story

ILYYY

User7 replied to your story

Silly Taylor

User8 replied to your story

Your winning in life

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Instgram

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Taylorswift A prophecy tells one there future… but it can be changed… My new album The Prophecy. Out march 20

View all 98.926 comments

SabrinaCarpenter CANT WAIT!!

GracieAbrams So exited!!

User9 wait… isn’t that there anniversary……

User10 the fact that the song on her last album was also the prophecy and that that was sad… and now an album also called The prophecy that will most likely be happy…

User11 I think this is gonna be a Sabrina prophecy instead of a Taylor one….

User12 AAAAHHHH

User13 I think this is gonna be something we have seen before… because WHY IS EVERYONE IGNORING TGAT THE COMMENTS ARE ON????

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#taylor swift x f1 #taylor swift x fem!reader #taylor swift x y/n #taylor swift x you #taylor swift x reader #taylor swift #formula 1 x driver!reader #formula 1 x y/n #formula 1 smau #f1 x you

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joezworld · 3 days ago

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Hey everyone seems real sad for some reason. Could not imagine why.

Anyways if you squint real hard you may notice a similarity to Thomas and the Jet Engine. That is intentional.

You can also squint and notice some similarity to several Traintober prompts. That is intentional.

Also, if you notice any similarity to any of SiF's character names... that's right! That is intentional. I did that and it's on purpose and I'm making fun of them. If you're from SiF either recognize that it was a dumb name or die mad about it.

Pip and Emma at The Top

2021 - The Summer

It was the longest summer since the last one. There weren’t any tourists - obviously - but even the inter-island traffic had died down considerably. The government on the mainland was skittishly enacting and then subsequently revoking plans to allow gatherings again, and the people of Sodor were prudently trying to keep the Island’s activities out of London’s sphere of notice.

As events were curtailed and people limited their own travel, the railway cut back on services, as they’d done several times before. Pip and Emma were the first to be relegated to the yards; while they could run a much shorter train - and often did - a shortage-related spike in the price of diesel fuel meant that it was more economical for James or Henry to take the two diesels' trains instead.

Henry had tried to make sense of how the economics on that worked out, but numbers were not his strong suit, and so he instead passed along his sympathies every time he passed the twins in the yard.

James (and no-one else) thought that he was being rather magnanimous by not endlessly laughing about how he was cheaper to run than a diesel. Several cutting responses had been prepared if he ever got too full of himself, but shockingly he’d kept the snickering to a bare minimum.

As the days stretched on into a week, and then two, a bigger problem soon began to present itself:

“I’m bored, Pip!”

“Me too!”

Pip and Emma were getting restless.

“WILL YOU TWO KEEP IT DOWN?! IT IS THREE IN THE MORNING!”

And they were more than willing to make that everyone else’s problem.

A few days later, and the diesels were overjoyed when an inspector came to them with instructions to report to the works.

Equally overjoyed were the engines in the big shed.

Pip and Emma arrived at the works in a right state, having been held up by trackwork along the main line.

“Two hours! Can you believe it Emma?”

“I don’t like running light engine, they can push us around too much.”

“Right? We’re express engines, not a train of old rubbish!” “I think they prioritized the rubbish train over us, if that smell at Kellsthorpe Road was anything to go by.”

“Ugh!”

Mr. Tedfield, the Works Manager, eventually arrived, bringing an end to their complaining. “Right you two. Seems like we’ve got some work for you.”

“Here?” They chorused.

“No,” he said quickly. “But the work is going to be a lot different from your usual job, and we’re gonna have to do some modifications.”

“Oh no,” Pip cried. “It’s going to be buffers, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” The man was baffled.

“It’s the only thing it could be, sir.” Emma explained. “That’s what they said on the Eastern Region, back in the 1980’s. ‘Just some little modifications!’ and they came back from Derby with the ugliest buffers ever!”

“It was a hatchet job!” Pip agreed. “All their lower valances, gone!”

“Easy, easy!” Mr. Tedfield yelped, not expecting that sort of response. “I’m sure that we can do a better job than that!”

“Promise?” they said in worried unison.

“Promise.”

A few days later, and the twins were relieved to discover that the works were as good as their word. Unlike the Eastern Region “hatchet jobs,” they still sported all their bodywork. Holes had been drilled through the lower valances, and buffers, couplings, and air hoses now poked through. The fibreglass was a little rough around the edges, but everyone agreed that it could also look a great deal worse. (Apparently, custom fibreglass was one of the only things the works staff couldn’t do in-house, and there was a concerning amount of murmuring from the staff about how they’d change that.)

Rolling out into the sun for the first time since they were “slightly modified,” they blinked the light from their eyes to find Mr. Tedfield, the Fat Controller, and another man who they didn’t know waiting for them.

“Well,” Started Mr. Tedfield. “I’m glad to see that our concerns were unfounded.”

The twins knew he was being diplomatic in front of the Fat Controller. He’d already said “I told you so!” several times earlier in the day.

He continued. “So now we should probably tell you what we would like you to do!”

“Because somebody forgot to mention it earlier…” The other man muttered under his breath.

The Fat Controller looked from one man to the other, and shook his head slightly. “Pip, Emma, as I’m sure you’re already aware, we are not going to be running the Express to London anytime soon. So, with that in mind, you two are going to be assigned to mixed traffic work until passenger numbers allow us to put you back into normal service.”

“Mixed traffic work?” They said as one.

“Oh yes!” The Fat Controller looked quite pleased with himself. “We have quite a lot of cargo traffic coming in through the ports right now, and you two will help take the strain off everyone else.”

The man they didn’t know coughed slightly.

“Of course, how foolish of me,” The Fat Controller rolled his eyes. “I also recognize that you two have some… special abilities that the other engines lack, namely your high-speed capabilities. With that in mind, Mr. Hargrave, from the coach and wagon department here at the works, has had an idea.”

“Yes, right.” Mr. Hargrave said with pride. “So, back when we first started coming back to work after the lockdowns, the government gave us a whole pile of Levelling-Up money, to “get us back on our feet.”” He paused, bouncing on his heels. “Thing is, we’d already fixed up everything beforehand, because we didn’t want anyone locked away in the works during the end of days with their bits in pieces, so we didn’t have anything to spend it on, but we had to spend it, otherwise they’d take it back!”

“Government logic at its finest…” Mr. Tedfield said under his breath.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Mr. Hargrave agreed. “So anyways, we decided to just make everything as perfect as we could make it.”

He stopped for a moment, long enough for the Fat Controller to look at him. “Such as…?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes, the container wagons!” He said all at once. “We took all the container wagons that were sitting around idle - and some other stuff besides - and we took them and fitted high speed bogies and bearings to them.”

Pip blinked slowly. “High speed bogies?”

“That’s right! They ride like coaches now.” He said with childlike joy. “And they won’t weigh much more than them either, so it shouldn’t be much trouble for you two. High speed containers, all the way to the mainland!”

Pip looked at him, then at the Fat Controller. “Sir, why are we doing this?”

The Fat Controller looked much more reasoned. “Quite a few companies are willing to pay a premium for their shipments to arrive as quickly as possible. There’s a lot of congestion at the bigger ports in the south, and Liverpool is operating almost at capacity, so we have an opportunity to get some very lucrative traffic.” He smiled knowingly. “And if we play our cards right, some of the companies, like Amazon, might build a few warehouses just across the channel on the mainland, and then we can serve those in perpetuity.”

The twins slowly digested this. “But sir, will it matter if we can go that fast?” Pip asked. “Once we cross the bridge, we’ve got to deal with Network Rail, and they don’t know anything.”

The Fat Controller looked as pleased as punch. “But you’re not dealing with Network rail.” He said with a satisfied smile. “Our contract for this ‘express freight’ is to get it as far as Barrow-in-Furness. If Freightliner or Colas Rail happen to be tardy after that…” he made a gesture with his hands. “That’s of no importance to us.”

Pip and Emma blinked slowly. “So, you want us to go as fast as we can?” Pip said with an expression that was rapidly passing “gleeful.”

“I do.” The Fat Controller agreed, before walking away.

---

Across the Island, the trucks and wagons shuddered.

A few weeks later

Pip and Emma fit in surprisingly well on goods trains, and could soon be found on everything from trundling pickup goods to the Flying Kipper. The Works really had made every truck as “perfect” as they could make them, and so every train, regardless of what it was or who was pulling it, was rolling on new bearings and freshly-trued wheels. Bear, BoCo, James, and Henry claimed it was some of the easiest work they’d ever had, and even the trucks agreed with them!

Pip and Emma, however, were mostly focused on one thing: speed. They’d been promised the ability to go as fast as they liked, but there was a significant obstacle to it:

“Oh come on! How long can it take to re-lay one set of points!”

The Permanent Way and Signaling departments had also received a great deal of this “use it or lose it” government funding, and were furiously working to replace, re-lay, and re-wire seemingly the entire island.

Fortunately for the twins, the work was almost at an end, and as the summer began to wane, they soon found that more and more of the line was back up to full capacity. Shortly thereafter, the “Container Express” was a regularly scheduled train on the main line, running twice a day between Tidmouth Harbour and the yard in Barrow. Keen-eyed observers of the timetable would note that it was the exact same pair of slots previously occupied by the Wild Nor’Wester, which had last run in March of 2020.

The Fat Controller promised anyone who asked him that it was absolutely a temporary measure, and most believed him, save for one group in particular…

“Lads,” A voice murmured in the container yard one morning. “I think this is forever… ‘s our purgatory for whatever it is we’ve done to the engines.”

“Nah, this ain’t purgatory,” whispered another, as a two-toned horn blasted in the distance.

“Hi everyone!” “Ready for the trip?”

“This is hell. We’re in hell.”

A few days later - Barrow

The lift bridge over the Walney Channel operated very differently than it did pre-COVID. A train would arrive at the Vicarstown side of the bridge, then it would lower. It would stay down while the engines were turned round, or were uncoupled from their train and connected to a new one. Then the train would leave, and the bridge would go back up.

This happened two to four times a day, now that the lockdowns had lessened, but there was one constant - the same train that left the island would be the one to return to it.

Then, one evening in the late summer, the bridge rolled down for a train coming from the mainland.

There was a very familiar two-toned honk-honk as it rolled over the bridge and onto the Island, wheels click-clacking across the bridge joints in great numbers.

The rear power car vanished with a roar of sound and a whoosh of diesel exhaust, and then the train was gone into the distance.

The bridge slowly cycled back up. There was a new train on the Island of Sodor.

The next morning

Pip and Emma woke up much later than usual - the main line was undergoing its final “track geometry inspection”, and freight services had been curtailed for most of the day to allow the inspection to be done as quickly as possible.

Eventually, they were rolled out of the diesel shed mostly on BoCo’s urging, (“You two are not allowed to get bored in here.”) and made their way to the platforms of the big station.

“Oh, this is weird!” Pip exclaimed as she backed down onto a set of coaches. She and Emma had been coupled back-to-back for over a month now, and it seemed like nobody was in a hurry to position them “normally” for a short run down to Suddery and back.

“Not as weird as your- oh my goodness it’s you two.” James started his sentence with a considerable amount of venom, but squeaked halfway through his sentence before stopping altogether.

“What was that?” They both looked at him funny.

“Nothing!” He said quickly. “Nothing at all. I, um, I thought that you were somebody else!”

He vanished as though by magic, and neither Pip, Emma, nor the coaches had any idea of what to say until the guard waved his flag.

Making their way down the line, they encountered several other engines, each of whom gave them some kind of funny look. As they headed down Edward’s branch line, it was all they could talk about.

“Maybe it’s just how strange we look back-to-back?”

“It can’t be, Pip! You saw how Edward looked! I think he was actually upset!”

“Goodness, I hope it wasn’t anything we did.”

“I don’t think so. They all seemed to stop once they saw us.”

“...”

“What?”

“I just had a thought.”

“What?”

“Who looks like us, but can make everyone hate them in no time flat?”

“Oh no!”

Later, they arrived back at Wellsworth station with the return service. The train terminated here, instead of returning to the big station, so once the passengers had disembarked, they had to shunt the coaches out of the way. It was somewhat novel for them, and Pip took great joy in being shown how a shunter’s pole worked. Emma, on the other buffer, was busy eavesdropping; Edward was getting ready to bank Bear’s goods train up Gordon’s Hill, and he was fuming about something to the stationmaster.

“-that damn banana shows its face here again I will show them what for!” he hissed sternly, before puffing away in a huff.

The stationmaster didn’t say anything that Emma could hear, but he seemed to look very intently at the signals outside the station. There was one signal set for an arriving train.

Emma didn’t like that, it felt very ominous. “Pip, look sharp. I think we’re going to have trouble soon.”

Pip didn’t have time to respond, because at that instant, the two-tone horn of an HST rang out in the near distance. The rails hummed with the noise of an approaching train, and a 5-coach HST set pulled into the station.

The train was safety-yellow, and bristled with cameras, sensors, lasers, and measurement equipment of all kinds. Large “NETWORK RAIL” logos were plastered on every coach and both power cars, right next to the words “NEW MEASUREMENT TRAIN.”

It was glossy. It was shiny. It was freshly washed.

“Oh, must we dawdle around this dump? I know what sort of conditions this lot keeps!”

It was rude.

“Will you stop already? I would like to not be thrown off this island, thanks.”

Well, half of it was.

Pip closed her eyes to steady herself. Emma ground her teeth audibly. Of course it was them.

Quickly, quietly, they tried to reverse out of sight, but the camera-studded train saw all, and criticised everything.

“Oh I say!” The lead power car laughed mockingly. “I thought those rumours were wrong but look at that! You two really have been demoted to common shunters!”

“Hi Pip. Hi Emma.” The rear power car said, utterly defeated.

“Hi John,” They chorused, equally displeased. “Hi, Obs-”

“Do not use that name!” The lead power car snapped brusquely. On his side there was a big brass nameplate that read “The Railway Observer.” “Use my real name.”

“Not this again…” The rear power car moaned. He had “John Armitt” bolted to his side. “I know that you think it sounds better but I promise you it isn’t-”

“I’m sorry,” The lead power car snapped. “But are you undermining me in front of outsiders?”

“They’re our sisters, you numpty.”

“And they shall refer to me by the name of my choice!”

“It’s a stupid name!”

“It’s a regal name!”

Pip and Emma observed the bickering train with muted resignation. “Why couldn’t he have been at Ladbroke Grove?” Pip said to nobody in particular. “Would’ve done the world a favour.”

Emma just wanted to get this over with. The coaches had been safely shunted away, so it was just a matter of getting out of the yard - then they could go down to Tidmouth and get their next train. “And what name would you like us to call you?” She said eventually.

The lead power car puffed himself up like a self-important cockatoo. “I,” He proclaimed regally. “Am Murgatroyd. It is a noble name, with a rich history, and-”

Pip almost swallowed her own tongue from the sudden outburst of laughter, while Emma couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. “Oh my god, that is the worst name I have ever heard of,” She said, barely audible over Pip’s gale-force guffaws. “Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you do that to us?”

Murgatroyd turned red with indignation (which, thanks to his yellow paint, was actually a shade of orange) and started shouting. “How dare you, you- you- you low-class harlot! This is a regal name, chosen to signify-”

“How much of a pretentious twat you are?” John scoffed from the other end of the NMT. “Usually people can tell when you talk.”

The retort that followed was unprintable, and a vicious three-way argument soon struck up, lasting until Pip and Emma left Wellsworth for the harbour at Tidmouth.

The New Measurement Train left a few minutes after that, an argument trailing in its wake. The yard was silent after that.

BoCo, who had been trying to nap in the shed, looked around the yard. “I don’t think anyone will believe me…” he said to himself.

-----

At the harbour’s intermodal yard, Pip and Emma found their train already waiting for them… although it was slightly different from usual.

Fifteen container trucks sat mostly empty, with just a few loaded ones up at the front. Ahead of those were two low-loaders, one empty, the other… not.

“Finally!” Thomas the Tank Engine groused from atop the front low-loader. “It’s been ages!”

“It’s been two hours.” The low-loader rolled his eyes. “We left at 11:00. It’s barely past one.”

“Well, who asked you?!”

Pip and Emma were surprised, to say the least. “What’s he doing here?” They asked the yard supervisor. “Can we take him on this train?”

“As a matter of fact,” He consulted his clipboard. “You can. I spoke to the works, and they’ve “improved” some of the flatcars with the high speed bogies they had left over. Should be fine.”

“Should be?”

“That’s what they said.” He shrugged, flipping through the clipboard to a printout of an email. “They put it in writing.”

Pip had to squint to see the small text. “I don’t like that they put “It should be fine!” on an official email…”

Behind her, Emma rolled her eyes, in the process noticing something above them. “Wait, what’s that?”

The supervisor looked up. “Oh, that’s a jet engine for an airplane. Rolls Royce rebuilds them down in Derby.”

“Why is it here? This isn’t the airport.”

“Airport’s closed for a few days because they lost their electric transformer - surprised you didn’t ‘ear about it. Rolls didn’t wanna wait, and we’re quicker than a lorry it seems.” The man smiled at the last part. Everyone in the freight division was very pleased that this “hare-brained, half-baked, absolutely ridiculous” concept (as some “industry observers” had remarked) was proving successful.

Emma watched as the jet engine was craned onto a flatcar behind Thomas. “Oh great!” He scoffed as it was chained down to the car. “Not only am I getting shuttled around this Island like a piece of lost mail, but now it’s air mail at that?”

“Oh shush!” Pip said, somewhat bemused by the whole situation. “We’ll get you to Barrow double quick!”

“Barrow?! I’m going to the works!” Thomas was irate.

“If you ever listened,” The low-loader started. “You’d know that they don’t stop there, so we’re going to Barrow, and then back to Crovan’s on the pick-up goods.”

“Oh! Wonderful! I am a lost parcel! This is all Toby’s fault, the square-”

“Thomas,” Emma cut him off kindly. “It’ll be fine. Think about it this way - you can say that you went there on the Express! Won’t that be fun?”

“I’ve been on the express before…” Thomas said darkly.

“See? Then you know how fun it is!”

Thomas looked like he wanted to say something else, but before he could, the shunters allowed Pip and Emma to back down onto the train, and connected the coupling chains and air hoses.

Emma winked at him reassuringly, something which he felt was only unintentionally patronizing.

And then the train set off for the mainland.

Leaving the port was a slow affair - the container yard was off to one side, and they had to dodge Marina and Salty as they shunted cars into the bulk terminals by the yard throat. There were a lot of low-speed switches to navigate as well, and the train rocked from side to side as they crossed over. Thomas thought about saying he was getting seasick, but chose not to tempt fate after the seventh such switch made him actually feel a little nauseous.

After reaching the end of the harbour tracks, they came to a complete stop, and waited for several trains to leave the big station.

First came Gordon, who stormed out of the station canopy with the mid-day semi-fast behind him. His expression was thunderous, as were his clouds of smoke and steam. He passed by with a roar and a clatter and vanished into the tunnel towards Knapford.

Edward was a few minutes behind, with a train of ballast from the Little Western. The expression on his face was neutral, almost intentionally so - a clear sign to anyone that knew him that he was blisteringly furious.

“Oh no…” Emma sighed.

“What?” Thomas asked, watching Edward’s brake van disappear into the tunnel.

“Not what, who.” She said, resigned. “And you’ll find out soon enough.”

Up front, Pip grit her teeth and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long - another minute, and an unusual signal dropped into place: an up-bound train cleared for the down slow line. A very familiar two-note honk-honk sounded from inside the station, and then Murgatroyd appeared, a self-satisfied sneer on his face.

He roared out of the station, New Measurement Train shining brightly behind him, John on the tail end calling apologies to someone. It would have been a rather splendid sight, had there not been a massive cloud of sooty clag hovering over the station entrance, and trailing in his wake.

Pip smirked with a hint of schadenfreude - John wasn’t trailing any sooty exhaust smoke, and five empty coaches were not that heavy, so somebody was ignoring his fitters it seemed…

She would have been content to sit there smugly, her well-tuned engine firing cleanly on all cylinders saying more than she ever could with words, but naturally Murgatroyd had to make things worse.

“Oh good god!” He bellowed in mean-spirited mirth, his mouth twisting into a cheshire-cat smile. “Look at that! They really are Valenta freighters now! And they’re slumming it with a tea kettle! I thought that I had seen it all!”

He vanished out of sight before he could say anything else, the coaches streaming by in a yellow blur.

Pip could just see her reflection in the passing windows - they moved so fast it looked like a solid mirror - and it was not a pretty sight.

Emma, who’d heard everything, reckoned that if he’d gone on for one more sentence, her sister would be spitting fire and roaring loud enough to be heard in Cornwall.

Thomas, who had said worse to Toby and Daisy just this morning, suddenly felt a great sense of unease…

A few tense minutes later, and the signal finally raised, giving the train access to the main line. Pip set off with a roar, Emma reluctantly following her lead through the multiple unit connection. Thomas choked and spluttered from the wave of hot exhaust gases going right into his face, and barely noticed as the train rocked and rolled onto the Up Fast line.

Blinking and tearing up, his vision finally cleared just in time to see Pip’s cab roof disappear into the darkness of the tunnel to Knapford. It was much closer than it usually was, and with the train rapidly increasing in speed, Thomas yelped as it cleared his funnel by mere inches. “YIKES!”

Emma laughed, eyes shining in the darkness, and Thomas knew that the sooner he got off this train, the better!

After that, for a little while, the trip continued smoothly. Knapford, Crosby, and Wellsworth stations all slid past without issue. Traffic was extremely light, and they didn’t pass any down-bound trains in the entire period. In fact, if it weren’t for the occasional blot of Gordon’s smoke on the horizon, it would have seemed that they had the entire main line to themselves.

It was just past Maron station when the trouble began.

As they crested Gordon’s hill, the first signal past the summit had fallen to “approach” almost as they passed it, and some quick shouting at “control” on the radio had revealed that the last of the permanent way crews were taking longer than usual to clear the main line near Kellsthorpe Road station.

This meant that Pip and Emma were practically at a crawl as they reached Maron, and the train eased to a stop at the signal bridge just past the platforms.

Pip, still hot under the buffers from her encounter with Murgatroyd, was not exactly thrilled at the idea of “dawdling” in stations, and audibly fussed as they came to a halt.

Her poor temper didn’t help her train handling skills any, and the train lurched inelegantly to a halt, causing the slack in the couplings to run in, and the entire train banged against her and Emma.

There was much shouting and complaining from the trucks and Thomas at this, and Pip growled menacingly.

“Oh, well.” Emma said quickly, trying to put a positive spin on things. “At least it’s a nice day out-”

CLONK

Before she could even say anything, the signals rose to the “approach slow, expect stop” aspect. This meant that they were getting moved forward exactly one signal block, to the Cronk home signals near the Hawin Ab Viaduct.

“Oh come on!” Emma cried in frustration.

It was abundantly clear what was happening now: they were going to be yo-yo-ed up and down the main line. Yo-yo-ing was what happened when a fast train was stuck behind a slow one, and had to constantly stop at each signal and wait for it to clear. It was hard on an engine’s brakes, worse on their buffers and couplings, and worst of all, was annoying as sin. This was exactly the sort of constant, low-grade irritation that she (and Pip) did not need right now.

Pip’s driver was entirely unaware of this, though, and so he increased the throttle and watched with some bemusement as Pip let her engine furiously rev all the way to the top of the tachometer right from the jump.

She and Emma lurched forwards, and the entire train crashed into motion, each car yanking the one behind it as they all set off.

Thomas rocked back and forth against his tie-down chains. “Careful!” he shouted.

“Shut up!” Pip and Emma scowled.

Thomas frowned, ready to give them a piece of his mind.

“It’s no use,” tThe low-loader sighed. “They’re in a strop right now - best you can do is make them forget that you’re here, til they calm down.”

“When will that happen?”

“That, lad, is something that the smartest trucks in all the land have been searching for an answer to for many years.”

To add insult to perceived injury, Pip’s driver didn’t bother accelerating to any real speed, since they were only going one signal down the line. Pip and Emma stewed in their own irritation at twenty-five miles an hour as they rolled up the line towards the next signal. There was very little that could be done to make them more upset, but of course when there’s a will, (and a Murgatroyd) there’s a way.

“Oh, no…” John murmured to himself.

The New Measurement Train had been caught at a signal for almost thirty minutes, as the Island’s P-Way team cleared out in front of them. The positioning of this particular signal was not ideal, as it left the tail of the train caught on the exposed tracks of a windy viaduct. Furthermore, the signal, like all signals on Sodor, was a relatively vintage semaphore design that still used colored filters over a white light. He knew this from experience, having been all over this island for the last day, however he was hearing all of it now because his royal Murgitude had been griping and whinging about it literally since the moment they stopped.

And now, look at who was coming up to the signals on the fast line…

“Hi Pip, Hi Emma,.” he said weakly.

He almost wanted to tell them to stop further back, and be near him - away from the irritating mass at the front of the train - but looking at Pip’s enraged visage gave him pause. He stilled his tongue, and let them roll up to the signal mast next to Murg.

Judging from the way that the train screeched and bashed to a halt, Emma wasn’t happy either. A smart engine (or one with a functioning self-preservation instinct) would have kept quiet at that stage, however Murgatroyd was neither self-preserving nor intelligent, and John could hear his mocking tone from five coaches back.

Pip said nothing, and at first neither did Emma, but as Moron-a-troyd went on and on and on, John could feel a shift in the container wagons next to him. It was almost like they were cringing, trying to keep themselves as far away from whatever was about to happen next.

Finally, he could take the suspense no more. “Is it bad?” he asked the nearest truck.

“SHUT UP. I AM TIRED OF HEARING YOU SPEAK,” Emma bellowed, loud enough to be heard clearly at the other end of the train.

“It’s awful bad,” the truck whispered. “You can tell he’s never dealt with real engines before. One of us acts like that and we’d be the next Scruffey within a month!”

John didn’t know who “Scruffey” was, but he understood the sentiment regardless.

Silence reigned after that… for all of ten seconds, before Murgatroyd said something about “decorum” that set off a screaming row between all three of them.

It was bad enough that the Network Rail crew inside the coaches started making a fuss on the radio, and within a minute, the container train roared away, leaving the New Measurement Train in windy silence yet again.

After a few short seconds, John felt a “poke” over the multiple unit connection. Clearly Murgatroyd wanted to say something.

“Well,” he said, voice warbling from some damage in the connection that John hadn’t ever told anyone about. “I think they said their piece didn’t they? I tell you what John-old-boy, but this island produces some of the worst examples of engine-kind that I have ever seen. I think that one was breathing fire!”

At Cronk station, Pip and Emma were idling so loud and so roughly that the stationmaster radioed the crew to ask if something was wrong.

“That damned flying banana got them in a state, that’s what’s wrong,” The driver snapped over the radio. That awful measurement train had been nothing but problems since it showed up on the island, and he was willing to do anything to see them gone. Heck, if it wasn’t likely to make his engines even angrier, he’d give that train his path to the mainland, just so it’d be gone faster.

What they really needed was a good fast run, to get them back into their usual state, but with the P-Way team taking their sweet bloody time of it, it didn’t seem likely.

“If they keep going like this, they’re going to burst a manifold somewhere,” the guard poked his head into the cab. “We’ve got to calm them down.”

“I would love to see you try!” the driver retorted. “They’re not gonna stop until they’re good and ready.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Pip huffed.

“And? Are you going to calm down?”

A slow growl that shook the entire cab was his only answer.

“Go put the radio on,” he said to the wide-eyed guard. “They need something to keep their minds occupied.”

“Radio? Like, to control?”

“No, you nit! Like the radio radio! With music! There’s a circuit breaker on the electrical panel. Bottom row.”

Confused, the guard retreated from the cab and made his way to Pip’s electrical cabinet. Opening up the “low voltage” door, he traced his finger down the rows of breakers until he found what should have been immediately obvious: a handwritten label on some sellotape next to the last of the breakers. It said “TUNES” in shaky handwriting, and was one of the only ones not turned on. Hesitantly, he reached out and switched it on.

“-and that was “No Diggity,” by Blackstreet, here on ManxPirate, the eternally annoying voice of the Sudrian Sea. Catch our sound wherever you are, on 107.9 FM, 927 AM, 13.68 Shortwave, DAB, DAB+, and online at ManxPirate.co.im.

“Oh come on!” Pip groused. “Now they’re gonna do the adverts! This isn’t any better than listening to the moron!”

“And now that brings us up to about five minutes til’ the top of the hour, so we’re gonna run some adverts so we can keep the lights on. We’ll see ya on the flipside with DJ Geordie Poppers, who’s gonna run a very special block of music for us, right here on ManxPirate.”

“How often do they listen to this?” the guard asked with some astonishment.

“Too much, if I had any say in it…” the driver mumbled.

“Are you tired of your washing up smelling like mildew? Are you sick of having to pull down the drying lines at the first sign of rain? Then the new automatic clothes dryers at B&Q are just for you…”

The radio continued on with an inane advertisement about tumble dryers, and the driver put his head in his hands. “We’ve just got to make it to a song… I hope.”

Pip and Emma continued to stew in their own irritation.

-----

Far away, at Kellsthorpe Road station, the last of the P-Way Gang hauled their equipment off of the line, sharing a celebratory high-five as they did so. There was due cause for celebration: once the NMT traveled over this section of line, their yearslong work of relaying the entire main line would be finally over. In the station’s car park, a champagne bottle was popped, and the foreman revealed that he’d brought real crystal stemware for the occasion, instead of plastic.

Presently, a radio handset buzzed. “Is that the lot of you off, then?”

It was Control, sounding less than pleased with the delay…

----

At Cronk, the signals for the down slow line rose into the “all clear” position, while the up fast signals remained red.

Pip ground her teeth noisily.

“HI, I’M BARRY SCOTT, AND I’M HERE TO TALK ABOUT THE ALL NEW CILLIT BANG UNIVERSAL DEGREASER! NOW WITH NEW FORMULATION! SAY GOODBYE TO LIMESCALE AND RUST STAINS…”

The radio continued to play adverts.

Thomas was growing increasingly fearful of the look on Emma’s face.

A few minutes later, as an insufferably bad advertisement about comparing your car insurance provider finally faded out, a two tone honk-honk sounded behind them, and the New Measurement Train roared past in a cloud of exhaust and dust. Pip and Emma didn’t say anything, or even look in the general direction, but the raucous laughter that trailed in its wake said enough.

Mercifully, the radio had begun playing something else. “All right then, got those ads out of the way. So what’s up listeners? It’s DJ Geordie Poppers in the hooo-use, coming to you LIVE from our studios on the ever so beautiful radio ship Tharos out here in the Sudrian Sea. We’ve got a very special bit of music for you coming up now in the upcoming hour - it’s a rare daylight sighting of our After-Dark Eurobeat Power Hour! I’m gonna be spinning some CDs and MP3s with the most pulse-pounding beats this side of Mount Akina - so if you’re driving right now, sorry about this.”

As John got smaller and smaller in the distance, the music began to fade in, very gradually.

“And a bit of housekeeping here - we’ve heard from the artist and they’ve had a bit of a name change. Out goes Ken, and in comes Kendra. This is the extended version of “The Top,” by Ken (short for Kendra) Blast.”

Slowly, a piano track began to fill in.

Pip raised an eyebrow, irritation momentarily sidetracked. “Is this really the Eurobeat block, Emma?”

“I think it is,” she said, starting to go along with the intro.

Thomas, who couldn’t hear Pip or the radio, had no idea what she was talking about. He didn’t like the look on her face.

The trucks didn’t either.

“Lads,” the lead container wagon said with gravitas. “We may not make it through today unchanged. It has been an honor serving with you.”

“What?” The low loader that carried the jet engine coughed as the container wagons murmured about honor. He was relatively new, and this was not how he expected his day to be going.

“Laddie,” Thomas’ low loader said gravely, understanding at once what was about to happen. “You’re about to experience something that you’ve never been through before. I’d recommend preparing yourself.”

“What?!” Thomas yelped.

---

Back in Tidmouth, the people in “Control” were staring at the “big board.” For weeks now, the section of line near Kellsthorpe road had been a mess of green, yellow, and red lights, as the P-Way gang slowly finished the banked curve on the station’s east end. Trains, represented by little markers on the computer screen, waited for a free path, oftentimes with large delays, which showed up in flashing red and white boxes.

Now, though, their frustration was finally at an end. The last of the yellow was disappearing, section by section, as the P-Way gang reported that they were clear. Three of the four lines were bright red - clear but with no train signaled through - while the down slow line was a green and yellow stripe. It was getting shorter and shorter, as the little marker labeled 1Q01 moved steadily eastward. That was the New Measurement Train, finishing its final pass of the system.

Behind it, with the box flashing red and white from the delay, was 1B07 - the “Container Express,” already twenty minutes late. More trains were lined up behind it and the NMT, and others were queuing in a line that started at Kellsthorpe Road and went all the way to the mainland.

The yellow segments were almost entirely gone, with just one signal block outside of Kellsthorpe Road left.

There was a five minute safety delay coded into the signal control computers, specifically for when crews were working on the line.

It had been four minutes and fifty six seconds since they’d reported that they were clear.

Four minutes and fifty seven seconds.

Four minutes and fifty eight.

Four minutes and fifty nine.

---

The signal in front of Pip raised with a clonk.

There was still a slight haze to the air from Murgatroyd’s exhaust. In the distance, the plume of sooty white smoke he was making stood out against the clear blue sky like a signal fire.

“Emma?” Anyone with sense would recognize the danger in her tone.

“Yeah?” Unfortunately for everyone else on the train, they couldn’t do anything about it.

“I think we should catch him.”

“I think you’re right.”

In the cab, the driver looked nervously at the rev counter, which had started to climb rapidly.

“Here goes nuthin’,” he said quietly to himself, before advancing the throttle.

The music, which had been slowly building over the last twenty seconds or so, abruptly kicked into a high gear, with a frenetic electronic beat that belted along at 160 beats per minute.

White exhaust belched from the twins’ exhaust, before quickly turning black under the load. Their engines ramped up to an ear-piercing howl, obliterating any sense of quiet at Cronk station.

Thomas once again got a face full of noxious choking clag, and his eyes watered while his hearing was momentarily deafened by the noise of it all.

The train began to pick up speed, and the container wagons groaned in fatalistic anticipation. “It’s all downhill from here!” one of them shouted.

“What?” Thomas hacked from inside the cloud. He couldn’t see anything, and his hearing was ringing like a church bell.

In front, Pip could feel the unrelenting wave of horsepower and diesel surging through her system. She laughed joyously, with Emma soon joining in.

To everyone else, it seemed somewhat maniacal.

🎶 Final lap I'm on top of the world

And I will never rest for second again!

One more time I have beaten them out

The scent of gasoline announces the end! 🎶

The train vanished from sight, on its way towards Killdane. The stationmaster poked his head out of the station door.

“There goes trouble…”

The New Measurement Train rolled through Killdane with fleetfooted ease. The rails were clear and the light train was aided by the downhill gradient. From his position on the rear, John felt like the entire consist was weightless, with barely any effort required to keep the train at speed.

“You think we should go any faster?” he called up the multiple unit connection to Murg. They usually ran at well over 120, but today they’d barely crested 90.

There was a cough over the connection. “Oh, not today. We’re still the fastest train on this backwards island!”

Ah yes. A sudden excuse. Surely that was completely unrelated to the plume of smoke trailing in their wake.

“So, how’s cylinder four feeling today?”

“Shut up.”

John smiled pettily to himself.

In the distance, Killdane got smaller and smaller. A small dot of yellow could just be seen…

---

🎶 They all said I'd best give it up

What a fool to believe their lies!

Now they've fallen and I'm at the top

Are you ready now to die-ie-ie?! 🎶

---

At Killdane, the sounds of the NMT had scarcely faded before the sound of howling diesel engines filled the air. Heads turned to the east just in time to see Pip and Emma hammering around the curve into the station at full throttle.

The curve was banked, but not nearly as steeply as the ones to the west, and there was a piercing screeeeeech of steel on steel as the train whipped past.

“Slowdownslowdownslowdownslowdownslowdown!” There was also a piercing screech coming from the train’s cargo, as Thomas the Tank Engine felt himself rock back and forth atop the low loader. It really did feel like he was going to fall off!

Pip had a very determined look on her face, eyes focused well into the distance, but those who saw Emma in the brief moment she was in view noted an almost demented smile on her face. She was laughing.

All this happened in just a moment, and then the train was gone, roaring off into the distance at just below the line speed limit. The wind from the train’s passage rattled a lineside sign. It was a white circle with several thin diagonal slashes through it.

It was an “end of speed limit” sign.

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top?🎶

John noticed that the small yellow dot in the distance was getting bigger. Squinting, he couldn’t quite see what it was.

Whatever it was, it was slowly gaining on them.

Hang on…He thought.

The cameras that were blanketing his sides were supposed to be recording the lineside for defects, but nobody ever cared about the “going away” view. Very quietly, he “looked” through the lens mounted just above his eyes. It had a nice zoom, and could see much further than he could.

What he saw made him blink and look again. Then a third time. Then a fourth. After looking for a fifth and final time. He finally wrapped his mind around what exactly he was seeing.

“Hey Murg?” he said innocently.

“Yes? What is it?” Murg sounded far more irritated than he should be.

“Think you can get us into the triple digits? Some of the boffins are worried about their readings not being calibrated right.”

“Oh damn them all.” Murg cut the connection with a pained cough. John had a distinct feeling that the Infallible and Most Invulnerable King Murgatroyd was hiding exactly how bad cylinder four really was from everyone, lest he be seen as “weak” or “mortal” by his inferiors.

Well, he thought to himself with a hint of smugness as the train slowly began to increase speed. If he wants to play the perfect king, he’ll have to deal with the locals.

Behind them, Pip and Emma continued to get closer and closer…

---

James and his coaches had been waiting on the dratted P-Way gangers for over half an hour at Kellsthorpe Road, and set off with a will when the signal changed.

Of course, the signaling was all out of sorts, and he was running “wrong main” on the Up Slow line, but he didn’t much care. There wasn’t anyone in front of him, and was making “good” time on his way to Killdane. “Maybe we’ll still make it to Tidmouth before tomorrow!” he joked to his driver, who had long since given up on making light of the situation.

They leaned into the curve heading towards Killdane, and that awful banana of a measurement train streaked by in the other direction. James whistled derisively at it out of reflex more than anything else, and was quietly grateful that the unpleasant train had nothing to say in return.

In the distance, a giddy-sounding honk-honk drew his attention back to the line ahead, and he had just enough time to make out something streaking on the next line over before something-

Honk-Honk! Honk-Honk!

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

-ripped past them with a honk, a roar, and a scream.

“What was that?!” He yelped as the wind buffeted him.

“I think that was Pip and Emma!” his driver said, looking backward. “With a container train!”

“What?!”

---

🎶 One more turn and I'll settle the score

A rubber fire screams into the night

Crash and burn is what you're gonna do

I am the master of the asphalt fight 🎶

---

John watched as Pip and Emma got closer and closer. In a macabre way, he felt giddy about it. At their current speed, they were going to eat Murgatroyd for lunch and still have room for tea afterwards.

He had been paying such close attention to the rapidly-closing distance between the two trains that he completely missed the start of the banked curve until he was leaning into it. The rails bent underneath him and the ties whipped past at an odd angle as the whole world tilted a few degrees. They weren’t going slow, by any means, but the sensitive equipment in the coaches (and his years of experience) told him that they could have been going much faster.

“Oh Murg… you might want to speed up…” he sing-songed. “They’re gaining on us…”

“Who’s gaining on us? What?!” Murgatroyd was oblivious, as was his wont.

John wanted to say something else, but his voice failed him as he watched the container train, with low-loaders on the front, rocket through the curve at speeds that he didn’t even want to contemplate.

A train passed on one of the other lines, and he watched the smoke from its stack get whipped and roiled by air currents of the two trains passing each other.

Seconds later, Pip and Emma passed the train, streaking through the remaining smoke, and the force of their passage tore the cloud to ribbons.

---

🎶They all said I'd best give it up

What a fool, to believe their lie-ie-ies!

Now they've fallen, I'm at the top

Are you ready now to die-ie-ie?🎶

---

Pip was high on speed, and she was loving every second of it.

Emma was right behind her, literally and metaphorically; the sensation of pure motion and velocity was coursing through their systems like a drug.

In front of them, so close one could almost reach out and touch it, was the New Measurement Train. John was watching with restrained giddiness as they started to draw abreast of him. He said something, but the wind whipping by erased all sound. There was just speed, and that was more than enough.

Slowly, they pulled even with the coaches, and with each window they passed, another Network Rail employee could be seen looking up in astonishment.

In Pip’s cab, the driver was holding onto the controls with a white knuckle grip. Officially, he was the driver, he was in control of the train. Realistically, he was nothing more than a rider on a bucking bronco. He surveyed the line ahead, and gulped.

Behind Pip and Emma, Thomas’s eyes were right in the most turbulent part of the wake that followed the diesels. Air, superheated and filled with grit and soot from twin exhausts, poured into his eyes and swirled around his face. He couldn’t hear, he could barely see.

Behind him, the wind whipped through the turbine blades of the jet engine on the next low-loader. It had been secured for transport, so the blades didn’t move, but the wind rushing through it created a high-pitched howling noise that simply added to the cacophony.

Lost in the chaos of the wind and the noise and the exhaust, the container wagons and the low-loaders were holding onto each other for dear life.

“I’m not designed for thiiiiis!” one of them shrieked.

“None of us are!” the wagon ahead of him bellowed. “Just keep holding on a little longer!”

At the head of the NMT, Murgatroyd was trying very hard to ignore the slight off-beat throbbing coming from cylinder four. Something was amiss with it - what it was, he didn’t know for certain. Driver didn’t know either - blasted man hadn’t turned a wrench a day in his life; wouldn’t know the difference between an allen key and the keys to a house!

Of course there weren’t any fitters on board - “economic savings” kept them at home base - so he just had to deal with it.

Just so long as the underlings didn’t notice, everything would be fine-

“Oh Murgatroyd…”

“Yes, John?”

“You might want to look around...”

He looked off towards the Up lines, and was rendered momentarily speechless by the sight of Pip smiling wickedly at him.

“T-that’s not possible,” he said once he found his tongue. “That isn’t possible!”

---

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive...

I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top?🎶

----

Moments earlier

“So how late do you think we’re going to be?” Percy asked as the train rumbled through Kellsthorpe Road station.

“Oh,” Henry pondered. “We’re only allowed to do 45, and we’ve got to drop off the aluminium at Killdane, so probably two or three hours if we lose our path at all. Which we will.”

“Thomas is going to be absolutely livid when I get back.” Percy said from atop his low loader. “He was supposed to go in for his new cylinder block today, so if I’m not back, they’re going to have him stay in steam all day.”

“Oh, he won’t be thrilled about that.” Henry chortled. “I swear, he’s the only engine who likes going to the works.”

“They treat him the same way James treats himself. Of course he likes going there!”

“Hah! I hadn't considered that-oh dear…” Henry trailed off mid-sentence.

“What?”

“It appears that we’re about to go down the middle between Pip and Emma, and their favorite siblings.”

“What? The banana? Oh great.”

“Yes, they- oh goodness they’re quick-”

Anything else Henry said was lost to the deafening thunderclap made as the New Measurement Train and the Container Express roared past on the opposing lines. The wind felt like it was going to knock him clean off the rails, and Percy yelped in surprise as debris and exhaust fumes swirled around him like a hurricane. His boiler, a stout construction that could hold hundreds of pounds of pressure, felt like it was flexing and bowing from the vibrations in the air. He watched in open-mouthed shock as Henry’s cab windows were sucked out of their frames from the differential pressure, and were hurled through the air followed by every loose object in the cab, from hats and coats, to papers and even a coal shovel!

Behind and in front of Percy, open wagons of stone, and the coal from Henry’s tender sent huge plumes of dust and debris into the air, swirling and mixing into a funnel cloud that wrapped around the rear of the train. It danced in the tornadic airflow for a few seconds, before dissipating as the trains parted once more.

The silence afterwards was deafening.

“DID I LOSE A WINDOW?” Henry asked, almost unable to hear himself speak, as his driver applied the brakes and stopped the train.

Percy tried to make the ringing in his smokebox cease. Closing his eyes, he suddenly remembered seeing something in the fraction of a second before the world went topsy-turvy. “Wait a tic. Was that Thomas?”

“WHAT?”

---

🎶 What were you thinking, telling me to change my game?

This style wasn't going anywhere; it was kaput!

You want to see what I've done with this place; this whole thing?

You want to see that I changed the game?

No, I AM the game!

Before I knew where this was going, I would've listened to you

Right now, I distance myself from what you have to say!

I made this something way bigger than you're ever gonna be

I made it this far; and I'm taking it to the top 🎶

----

Pip and Emma laughed gaily as they overtook the NMT, and powered on towards Kellsthorpe Road like they weren’t towing several hundred tonnes of freight train behind them.

Murgatroyd gaped in shock as he was passed by the steam engine they were carrying as cargo.

The shock quickly turned into outrage, and he felt the red-hot sting of being one-upped surge through his system. His engine began to rev higher, urging the train to move faster damn it.

“Whoa there,” his driver exclaimed, laying a firm hand on the controls. “We want to make it to the mainland, right?”

“I don’t care!” Murgatroyd ground his teeth, watching as the container wagons slipped past him. “They can’t win!”

But no matter how he tried, his driver wouldn’t let him speed up.

He howled and roared impotently as Pip and Emma got further and further ahead.

---

On the platforms of Kellsthorpe Road station, several surveyors were getting measurements of the newly-relaid line.

Looking down the magnified optics of a theodolite, the true character of the railway could be seen. What appeared to be a straight and flat section of line was actually a ribbon of steel that undulated and flowed over the terrain. While certain sections had just been flattened and graded, it was impossible to fully eliminate the contours of the earth without starting from scratch, and so the line rolled with the small hills and invisible valleys instead of cutting right through them.

“Hey, look at that.” One of the other surveyors said from behind an optical level. “You can see the NMT from here.”

“Can you?” asked his coworker, who quickly pointed his theodolite down the line. “I don’t see it.”

“It’s just gone behind the dip. Should be back in a moment.”

He fixed his eyes on the dip in the terrain. It was actually visible to the naked eye, but its height differential - deemed to be “within acceptable limits” - and its presence directly under a road bridge - meant that it had survived the recent track relaying unscathed.

The surveyors waited for the train to reappear, the optics of their measurement devices making things appear much larger than they really were.

With that in mind, it was something of a surprise to see an HST appear two tracks over from where the NMT had been. They both looked to that line just in time for the train to crest the hill.

There was a brief moment, no longer than a breath, where both men could see daylight shine underneath the train as all the wheels left the ground.

----

Pip and Emma hooted and hollered with glee as they roared through the approach to Kellsthorpe Road station. High speed crossovers and the new banked curve meant they didn’t have to check their speed in the slightest as they charged onwards.

The station came and went in a flash, and they leaned into the new corner at unprecedented speeds. Behind them, Thomas wailed loud enough to be heard over their motors, but they paid him little mind; they didn’t realize - or understand - exactly what he was experiencing.

Behind them, now far into the distance, the New Measurement Train was just rolling into the station.

They had won.

---

🎶 I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive...

I came up from the bottom

And into the top

For the first time I feel alive!

I can fly like an eagle

And strike like a hawk

Do you think you can survive... the top? 🎶

----

Further up the line, Bertie the bus was pulling up to a level crossing, just as the gates went down.

“That was a great song on the radio, wasn’t it?” he said to his driver, who was thoroughly regretting turning on ManxPirate, thanks very much. “I feel like I should be racing something! Ooh! I know! The next train that comes by, we’ll try and chase it, huh? Just like the old times with Thomas!”

Honk-Honk

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Whooooooooooooooooooooosh

The train passed in just a few seconds.

“Nevermind.”

-----

The song wound down to a stop, but Pip and Emma continued charging on.

The guard went so far as to pull the fuse on the radio, hoping that it would calm them down, but they were too far gone to consider dropping their speed until they reached Crovan’s Gate station. There, the speed limit dropped to 90; normally a mild inconvenience, but today it felt like they’d dropped an anchor behind them.

Still, they continued merrily along through the station as fast as was allowed (much to Thomas’s dismay) and continued east along the line.

As they cleared the station and began to speed up again, they noticed a cloud of smoke on the horizon.

There was still one more train they could catch…

-----

Compared to everyone else in this story, Gordon was having a blissfully uneventful day. He’d managed to put that vulgar measurement train almost totally out of his mind, and was making excellent time to the mainland when one considered the workmen-caused delay at Kellsthorpe Road.

There was a farm lane that crossed the tracks near Henry’s tunnel, and he whistled for it.

Honk-Honk

He was most surprised to hear a horn respond to him, and was flabbergasted to see Pip, then Emma, and then Thomas pass him like he was standing still!

“HiGordonByeGordon!” “HiGordonByeGordon!” “GORDON HELP ME!”

The train raced into the tunnel and vanished from sight.

Gordon could not believe what he had seen!

----

Eventually, the speed limits dropped, and the four track main line merged into two just after Vicarstown. Rolling over the lift bridge at a sedate twenty miles an hour Pip and Emma finally began to come down off their “runner’s really high.”

“That was great!” Pip gushed. “Just the sort of run we needed to clear everything out, am I right?”

“Uh, Pip?” Emma began to notice the state of Thomas. “I think we miiiiight have overdone this a little.”

Thomas could only whimper in agreement!

----

By the time the New Measurement Train rolled into Barrow station some thirty minutes later, Pip, Emma, and Gordon were all trying to console Thomas, to limited success.

“...Ahem!” Murgatroyd tried to slink into the station totally unnoticed, but John had no compunctions about making sure they were seen. “So, I assume that you two will be conducting all of this railway’s freight services from now on?”

“Oh,” Pip’s smile was very guilty looking as she turned away from the still shell-shocked Thomas. “Yeah. About that…” She swallowed deeply. “I’m… sorry about… y’know. All of that. The overtake.”

“What, me? Overtaken?” Murgatroyd tried and failed to play dumb. Well, a different kind of dumb from usual. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Pip’s smile grew much harder edged, and Gordon took the moment to intercede. “Look, Pip. You don’t owe that any apology of any form.”

Murgatroyd looked aggrieved. Gordon turned on him next. “And you. You are an uncouth abomination who have done nothing useful at all. Take the apology, cause no more trouble, and find yourself a better attitude elsewhere.”

Murgatroyd puffed himself up with self-righteous fury, and John regretted being an instigator.

“WELL, I-” He started.

“Oh shut up!” Thomas bellowed. “Stop talking before I come down there and peel you, you great useless banana! Everything that’s happened to me today is all your fault!”

Murgatroyd quailed under the impressive amount of vitriol Thomas was spewing, and he left in a chastised burst of soot and clag. John followed in his wake, not sure what, if anything to say. “Bye Pip. Bye Emma.”

Once the NMT had vanished from sight, Pip, Emma, and Gordon turned their attention back to Thomas.

“Great useless banana?” Gordon raised an eyebrow.

Thomas didn’t have the energy for a proper comeback, and simply stared at him knowingly.

“Fine, fine,” Gordon acknowledged the unsaid. “For an off-the-buffer moment after the day you’ve had, it was a fine jab. I’m just glad that you’re beginning to feel more like yourself.” He began to steam off towards the shed. “As such, I’ll be off.”

“Wait!” Thomas called. “Where are you going? Who’s taking me on the pick-up goods?”

“Thomas, I don’t take the pick-up goods,” Gordon called regally. “That’s what we have diesels for. I believe there’s two of them right in front of you!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

---------------------------------------------------------------

Post script: Low-loaders were subsequently banned from Pip and Emma's trains

#ttte #sodor #sodor shenangians #fic #trains #traintober #ttte gordon #ttte james #ttte boco #ttte henry #ttte edward #ttte thomas #ttte pip&emma #music #eurobeat #ttte percy #and just to make something clear #every aspect of this story has some kind of IRL basis #even that one

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